He asked because he couldn't possibly know what I knew. Through the eyes of someone who had once enjoyed this world as nothing more than a story, I carried scraps of knowledge—small details tucked between the grand events. One of them was that, someday, a certain fish-man—his name slipping my mind—would storm this place, tear it apart, and free every last slave.
"Yes," I said without hesitation. "We can. Maybe you think I'm just another delusional fool, but we will escape… and it won't be because of me." I wanted to tell him the truth—that I knew the future, that his reality was fiction in mine—but the words refused to leave my mouth.
"What's that supposed to mean, kid? Don't talk circles around me." His brow furrowed, confusion laced in his voice.
What could I say? I couldn't tell him I was a reincarnator. So I gave him the only answer I could. "You'll understand in a few years, old man. For now, I'm going to sleep."
His mouth fell open, hand halfway raised toward me before stopping in the air. "Wha—wait—"
I rolled onto my side, the cold ground seeping into my bones, turning my back to him and facing the wall. His voice trailed behind me, half-wailing, half-bewildered, as I shut my eyes and let the darkness swallow me.
--
The day to come just as usual, a back-breaking labour filled with training in between, then chatting with boa sister at night before falling asleep, then comes the end of the week, the time I test myself in the colosseum once again.
"Looks like you're ready, kid." Darius gave me a half-smirk, the kind a man wears when he's trying not to look too proud.
"Always," I replied.
This past week had been nothing but sweat, bruises, and stubborn persistence. Darius drilled me in technique until my muscles screamed, and on one occasion, Draven tried to teach me Haki—though I still couldn't feel a damn thing. Still… ready or not, I felt sharper than ever.
I stepped into the arena, tuning out the roar of the crowd. Their cheers and jeers blurred into meaningless noise as I walked straight to the center.
From the opposite gate emerged a lean man, dressed in the same tattered rags as me. His head hung low, hiding his face. On the surface, he looked painfully ordinary—yet something about him prickled at my instincts.
The commentator's shout to begin hadn't even faded when the stranger bent backward—at an angle so unnatural I half-expected his spine to snap. Then, like a spring recoiling, he snapped forward and charged with impossible speed.
Before my brain could catch up, he was already in front of me. His hand darted for my face, and pure instinct threw me into a desperate roll to the right. I scrambled back to my feet, fingers brushing my left cheek—warm, wet, and bleeding.
At this rate, I'm going to end up looking like the Joker.
I glanced at him again. His right hand was streaked with fresh blood, and when I looked closer… I realized his weapon wasn't a blade. It was his nails.
He came at me again, a blur of ragged cloth and inhuman speed. But this time, I was ready. I rolled hard to the left, dirt spraying beneath me, and lifted my head—only to see his hand already inches from my chest. His aim had shifted; he wasn't going for my face this time.
With every ounce of strength I could muster, I threw my right arm across my chest to block him. His nails—jagged, sharpened to a cruel point—bit deep into my forearm. I felt the skin tear as he dragged them across, carving a line of fire into my flesh. The pain was sharp, raw, but there was no time to cry out.
I ignored the burning in my arm, twisted my hips, and threw a punch with my left hand. It wasn't perfect—my form was sloppy, my weight off-balance—but it connected just enough to make him stagger back, buying me precious space.
He didn't slow for long. The way he moved was terrifying—he wasn't just fast in a straight line. He flowed, weaving and swerving mid-charge like water finding the quickest path downhill. Every step he took was calculated, every shift in direction precise. I realized then that dodging him head-on wouldn't be enough. This wasn't a fight I could win by simply getting out of the way. This man was built to hunt in close quarters, and every second I stayed within reach of those claws was another chance for him to peel me apart.
But before I could plan a counter against this guy, he charged at me for the third time. My brain scrambled because I didn't know what to do, but I dodged again, and when I lifted my head, his hand was already in front of me again. Without much thought, I scream and shift my body a little just so his nail doesn't connect to my heart, and I lean forward with my right arm still bleeding and punch this guy in the face. But his nail connected to my left arm, which made me unable to continue punching him further.
And again, he stood just a few meters away, shoulders low, eyes burning with that same predatory focus. Every exchange so far had ended in my loss. My last punch had smashed into his jaw, but not before his claws tore across my side, raking deep enough that blood now poured freely down my ribs. The pain was bad, but it was the dizziness creeping in that scared me. My legs felt heavy. My breaths came shallow. Each heartbeat sounded like a drum inside my skull.
He started running again—light on his feet, like a beast that had hunted its prey a thousand times before. My vision wavered, tunneling in and out. My mind screamed to move, to dodge, but my body lagged behind the command.
Then, something shifted. The moment he entered striking distance, the world… slowed. Not just him—everything. The swirl of sand kicked up by his feet hung in the air like drifting smoke. I could make out individual grains glinting in the light. Faces in the crowd became distinct—eyes wide, mouths frozen mid-cheer or mid-gasp. I saw the arc of his arm swinging toward me, fingers curved into claws meant to pierce my heart.
I didn't think. My hand shot up, clamping around his wrist before it reached me. His eyes went wide—shock, maybe even fear—at the sudden halt in his killing motion. The realization on his face was almost comical, though my head was too foggy to savor it. All that mattered was simple: his arm was mine, and he wasn't breaking free.
I dragged him in and drove my fist into his face. Bone crunched under my knuckles. He reeled, but I didn't let go. I punched again. And again. Each strike drew more blood, his head jerking back, teeth snapping shut with each blow. My knuckles split, skin peeling from the repeated impact, but I didn't stop. His blood mixed with mine, warm and slick between my fingers.
By the time I finally let him drop, his face was a swollen, leaking ruin. Blood ran from his nose, his mouth, even his ears. He lay twitching, breath ragged but still present. I'd made sure of that.
I didn't know what had just happened—why the world had slowed to a crawl—but whatever it was, it had saved my life. That fleeting thought was all I had time for before my knees gave way and I collapsed onto the scorching sand. Heat and pain swallowed me whole, and darkness closed in without mercy.
When my eyes finally opened again, the first thing I felt was the stiff weight of bandages pulling at my skin. I was back in my cell. The damp stone walls, the rusted bars—same as always. In the corner sat Darius, leaning lazily against the wall, staring off into nothing while absentmindedly digging his nose with his pinky.
"Ah, still alive, kid?" he chuckled, his voice gravelly with amusement. "Hahaha, you look like half a mummy right now."
I glanced down and realized he wasn't wrong—my entire upper body was swaddled in layers of rough bandages, tight enough to make every breath and movement a chore. Still, I could move… barely. Better than being dead, I suppose.
A single oversized bandage stretched across my left cheek—good. At least they hadn't wrapped my whole face like some grotesque head-turnip, leaving me mute and miserable.
"Shut up, old man," I muttered, shooting Darius a sharp glare that carried a clear message: try mocking me again, and see what happens.
He chuckled, raising both hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright—my bad." His grin didn't fade, though, and his eyes held that irritating glint of amusement. "But I'll give you this, kid—your last move out there… that was something else."
"Yeah, I don't know what happened either," I admitted, leaning back against the cell wall. "The world just… slowed down for a moment, and it's like I could feel everything—the sand, the crowd, even the air between us." I laid it all out for Darius, hoping maybe he'd recognize whatever that was.
"Sounds like Haki," he said after a pause. "Even though I don't have it, I've met plenty who do."
…Wait, what? He doesn't have Haki? All this time I thought he was just terrible at teaching and pawned me off to some friend to handle the Haki stuff.
"You don't know Haki?" I asked, baffled.
"Yeah. Never learned what it even was before I got turned into a slave," he said with a shrug. "My country's just a small speck in the first half of the Grand Line, and, well… you know how it is."
That was new—a piece of Darius's past I'd never heard before.
"And after becoming a slave, I never saw any reason to get stronger," Darius said flatly. "I mean, what's the point?" When I thought about it, he wasn't wrong. In here, you didn't train to grow stronger—you learned to live another day. Strength without freedom was just a heavier shackle.
"Anyway," he went on, waving a hand as if brushing his own story aside, "enough about me. You've got talent for Haki—at least for Observation Haki. That's good news."
Good news indeed. I couldn't see my own stats, but if I had to put a number based on my progress, it had to be over ninety.
"Rest well, kid. Remember—Draven's your teacher tomorrow."
The moment he said it, I could already picture that muscle-bound maniac grinning as he made me run blindfolded while hurling rocks at me with full force. Painful? Absolutely. Effective? Unfortunately, yes—so I couldn't really complain.
I stretched out on the cold stone floor, trying to steal as much sleep as possible before tomorrow turned into another hellish day. I'd even skip chatting with the Boa sisters tonight—apparently, Darius had already told them not to bother me on match days. Fine by me.
Thinking about the Boa sisters stirs an unsettling realization—I haven't seen Hancock since the day I got this stitched wire scar across my right cheek. It's strange, but her face has started to blur in my memory. Her sisters, too, are fading shapes in the back of my mind. Life here leaves no room for nostalgia; the days are heavy, filled with pain, training, hunger, and the constant awareness that any moment could be my last.
The more time passes, the more my past slips through my fingers. I've begun to forget things I thought were unshakable—who used to sit beside me at my work desk, the sound of their laugh, the little quirks in their voice. I can't even recall my own cat's gender anymore. It's as if every memory that isn't tied to survival is being pushed out to make space for the instincts I need to stay alive.
I know this is just the beginning. Soon I'll forget more—faces, names, the warmth of certain moments. And that thought terrifies me. But what can I do? I have no photos, no videos, no notes, nothing to anchor myself to who I was. All I can do is cling to the fragments that remain, hoping they don't crumble away too fast.
As I drift into sleep, the cold stone beneath me fades, replaced by the warm glow of a familiar scene. I'm back home, seated at the dinner table with my mom, Martha, my dad, Silas, and my little sister, Rosa. In the corner, curled up on his usual spot, is my cat—John-cat—watching us with lazy, half-lidded eyes.
Mom has made pasta with plump meatballs, the rich scent filling the air, mingling with the sound of our laughter. We're teasing each other about the silly thing John-cat did that morning, the kind of harmless mischief only he could pull off. Conversation drifts to school—Rosa recounting with a mix of embarrassment and pride how someone asked her out while still in junior high, and me grumbling in mock outrage that I never managed to get a girlfriend, not even in my final year of senior high.
It's warm. It's safe. And for a moment, I almost forget where I really am.