Age: 3 Years Old
Being a baby was humiliating. Being a toddler was only marginally better.
Kael sat on the rough-hewn floorboards of the cabin, staring at a wooden block. In his previous life, he had been a twenty-eight-year-old man who paid taxes (mostly), drove a car, and understood the geopolitical complexities of the One Pieceworld. Now, his biggest challenge was motor control.
He looked at his hands. They were small, bronze-skinned, and chubby. He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons move. It was surreal. He felt the phantom sensation of holding a smartphone, but instead, he reached out and crushed the wooden block.
Crack.
The solid oak toy splintered into dust in his grip.
Kael blinked. Right. Lunarian strength.
Even at three years old, his physical stats were absurd. He wasn't just "strong for a baby"; he could probably arm-wrestle a grown human man and win. But the real problem wasn't his arms. It was his back.
He shifted his shoulders, and the massive, downy black wings behind him rustled. They were heavy. Incredibly heavy. It felt like walking around with a backpack filled with stones strapped to his spine 24/7. In the manga, King had flown with the grace of a jet fighter. But Kael was learning the hard way that gravity was a cruel mistress.
"Kael?"
The voice came from the kitchen. It was his mother, Elara.
She stepped into the room, wiping her hands on an apron. She was breathtaking—tall, with the same bronze skin and white hair Kael now possessed. Her wings were fully grown, spanning nearly ten feet when unfurled, though she kept them tucked tight in the small cabin. She wore a simple dress, but Kael knew better. He had seen the scars on her arms. She was a survivor.
"Did you break another toy?" she asked, her voice gentle but tired.
Kael looked down at the sawdust in his palm. "Sowy," he lisped. He hated his lisp. His adult mind screamed 'I apologize, Mother, my grip strength is unregulated,' but his toddler tongue couldn't form the syllables.
Elara smiled sadly and scooped him up. As she lifted him, Kael felt the heat radiating from her back. It resonated with the heat on his own back. The eternal Lunarian flame. It was a comforting, biological connection, like a heartbeat shared between them.
"You are growing too fast, little firebird," she whispered, walking him to the window.
Outside, the island of Oakhaven was lush and green. It was an uninhabited rock in the North Blue, surrounded by treacherous currents that usually kept ships away. Usually.
"Dada?" Kael asked, pointing to the beach.
"He's fishing," Elara said, her eyes scanning the horizon. She did that constantly. Scanning for sails. Scanning for the Marines. "We stay inside, Kael. Remember the rule."
Rule #1: The Sky is Death.
Kael nodded. He understood. If anyone saw a child with black wings, the Buster Call wouldn't be far behind. He was sitting on a biological goldmine.
Age: 5 Years Old
By the time Kael turned five, the cabin felt like a prison cell.
His previous life as Kenji—the "broke bum"—had made him lazy. But Kael? Kael was terrified. He knew the timeline. He knew that somewhere in the East Blue, Monkey D. Luffy was probably running around Windmill Village with a bandage on his face. The gears of fate were turning, and if Kael didn't get strong, he would be crushed by them.
He needed to figure out his body.
It was early morning. The sun hadn't crested the horizon yet. His father, Jarek, was asleep, snoring loudly. Jarek was a human, a former bounty hunter who had fallen in love with a fugitive "God." He was strong, scruffy, and kind, but he didn't have the blood of the Red Line in his veins.
Kael crept out the back window.
The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and salt. Kael sprinted into the dense forest behind their cabin. He moved fast. His legs were longer now, his agility shocking for a five-year-old.
He stopped in a small clearing surrounded by ancient pine trees. This was his secret dojo.
"Okay," Kael muttered, his voice no longer lisping. He spoke with the diction of an adult when no one was around. "Let's test the hypothesis."
He stripped off his shirt. The cool air hit his skin, but he didn't feel cold. The fire burning between his shoulder blades kept him perpetually warm.
He recalled the fight between Zoro and King.
Lunarians have two modes, Kael analyzed, closing his eyes. Fire On: Invincibility. Fire Off: Speed.
Right now, his fire was on. It was always on. It was his default state.
Kael walked over to a jagged rock the size of a watermelon. He didn't punch it; he headbutted it.
CLACK.
The rock split down the middle. Kael rubbed his forehead. Not even a scratch. No pain. It felt like headbutting a pillow.
"Durability is checked," Kael whispered. "I'm a tank. But a slow tank is just a target."
He took a deep breath. He needed to turn the fire off.
He focused on the sensation of heat on his back. He visualized a gas valve, a dial, anything to dampen the output. He squeezed his shoulder blades together, gritting his teeth.
Turn off. Extinguish. Suppress.
He pushed his will against his biology. It felt like trying to hold his breath while running a marathon. His body panicked. The fire was his life force; suppressing it felt unnatural.
"Hnnngh!"
Kael fell to his knees, sweat beading on his brow. The fire flickered. For a split second, the heat vanished.
WHOOSH.
In that micro-second, Kael felt the weight of his wings disappear. He felt light. Weightless.
He lunged forward.
SMACK.
He face-planted into a tree on the other side of the clearing.
Kael slid down the bark, groaning. He hadn't meant to cross the clearing. He had just meant to take a step. But without the fire weighing him down, his leg muscles—conditioned to carry his heavy frame—had launched him like a cannonball.
"Too fast," Kael wheezed, wiping dirt off his face. "I have zero control."
"And zero stealth," a voice said from the trees.
Kael froze. The fire on his back roared to life instantly, his defense mechanism kicking in.
Jarek stepped out from the shadows, a wooden practice sword resting on his shoulder. He looked at his son—the bruised forehead, the dirt, the intensity in the five-year-old's eyes that didn't belong to a child.
"Dada," Kael said, reverting to a childish tone. "I was just playing."
Jarek chuckled, but his eyes were sharp. He walked over and knelt, placing a large, calloused hand on Kael's head.
"You weren't playing, Kael. You were training."
Kael stayed silent. There was no point lying to a former bounty hunter.
"You're smart," Jarek said quietly. "Smarter than any five-year-old I've ever met. Sometimes... sometimes you look at me like you've lived a whole life already."
Kael's heart skipped a beat. Intuition?
"Your mother wants to keep you safe," Jarek continued, standing up and tossing the wooden sword to Kael. It was heavy, made of ironwood. Kael caught it easily. "She wants to hide you from the world. But I know the world. Hiding doesn't work forever."
Jarek drew his own sword—a real steel blade, chipped and worn.
"If you're going to be a monster, Kael, you need to learn how to control it. You have the body of a God, but you swing your arms like a drunkard."
Kael gripped the wooden sword. It felt good. "Will you teach me?"
"I'll teach you the sword," Jarek said, settling into a stance. "I don't know anything about that magic fire on your back. But I can teach you how to move. How to step. How to kill if you have to."
Kael nodded, his eyes hardening.
"Good," Jarek grinned. "Now, try to hit me. Don't hold back."
Kael didn't hesitate. He lunged, using his natural Lunarian strength.
Jarek didn't even use his sword. He simply stepped to the side, stuck out a foot, and tripped Kael.
Kael hit the dirt hard.
"Strength is nothing without footing," Jarek lectured. "Again."
Later that Evening
Kael sat on the roof of the cabin, nursing a dozen bruises. His Lunarian durability stopped his skin from breaking, but the impact force still rattled his brain. Jarek hadn't gone easy on him.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in purples and oranges. It was beautiful.
Elara flew up to join him. Her wings beat silently against the air, a stark contrast to Kael's clumsy movements. She landed gracefully beside him.
She didn't scold him for training. She just handed him a piece of roasted meat.
"Your father thinks you are ready for war," Elara murmured, staring at the moon. "He forgets you are five."
"I want to be strong," Kael said, taking a bite. "Like you. Like the stories."
Elara looked at him, her golden eyes shimmering. "Our people... the Lunarians... we were strong. We lived atop the Red Line. We were considered Gods because nature could not kill us. Fire, ice, lightning—we endured it all."
She reached out and touched the flame on Kael's back.
"But arrogance was our downfall, Kael. We thought we were untouchable. And then the Twenty Kings came. They didn't beat us with strength. They beat us with numbers, with treachery, and with science."
She turned Kael's face toward her.
"Promise me something."
"What?"
"Never reveal your face and your wings at the same time," she said, her voice stern. "If you must fight, wear a mask. If you show your face, hide your wings. The World Government has a memory that spans eight hundred years. They will recognize you."
Kael nodded. This was practical advice. This was why King wore the gimp suit. It wasn't a fashion choice; it was survival.
"I promise," Kael said.
"Good." Elara pulled a bundle of cloth from her pocket. "I made this for you."
She unfolded it. It wasn't a mask, not yet. It was a thick, hooded cowl made of dark wool, designed to drape over his shoulders and obscure the shape of his wings.
"It will get harder as you grow," she said. "Your wings will get massive. But for now, this will hide you."
Kael pulled the cowl over his head. It was itchy, but it made him feel secure. He looked like a small grim reaper.
He looked out at the ocean. Somewhere out there, the Great Pirate Era was raging. The Four Emperors were solidifying their territories. The Warlords were being chosen.
Kael squeezed the wooden sword his father had given him.
I have twelve years until I turn seventeen, he thought. Twelve years to master the sword. Twelve years to master the fire.
And I'm going to need every second of it.