"Honestly? Worst damn fishing trip ever." Kaido spat rogue seawater onto the weathered dock planks beneath his bare feet. The taste lingered, sharp and metallic. Below, treacherous currents churned ink-black waves against barnacle-crusted pylons, indifferent to the colossal man glaring at them. His oversized kimono clung uncomfortably to unfamiliar, impossibly dense muscles – a garment better suited to mountains than men. Hunger gnawed like a trapped beast inside his ribs. Yesterday, he'd been… someone else. Someone smaller. Someone who didn't snap an oar clean in half trying to paddle a leaky skiff. Today? Today was scales under his fingernails and the unsettling awareness his throat could likely swallow a tuna whole. The memory of his violent arrival – a blinding tear in a crimson sky, plummeting like a meteorite into freezing depths – felt absurd as the lone, bruised sardine flopping weakly in his bamboo creel.
A tremor vibrated through the dock timbers, subtle but distinct. Kaido's head snapped up, massive hand instinctively curling into a fist that felt capable of shattering granite. The tremor wasn't the sea. Something more deliberate. Footfalls. Through the mist curling off the water, two figures materialized on the forest path leading to his lonely pier. One walked with a lumbering gait, broad-shouldered, wearing rumpled browns, radiating a stubbornly cheerful energy despite his youth. The other moved with predatory silence, dark hair framing sharp, assessing eyes that scanned Kaido's immense form and the snapped oar fragments with unnerving intensity. Their homespun clothes were patched, faces youthful yet hardened beneath streaks of dried mud and fading bruises. Kids? Dangerous kids. The air itself seemed to hum faintly where they stood – one vibrant like unfurling leaves, the other crackling like static before a storm.
"Oi! Big guy!" The cheerful youth called, his voice ricocheting louder than intended off the damp cliffs. He pointed excitedly at Kaido's meagre catch. "You fishin' for minnows?" His companion stayed silent, thumbs hooked loosely into his belt sash, gaze unwavering. Kaido's immense brow furrowed. Their language was… distorted. Sharp vowels twisting into cadences he somehow understood yet knew weren't his own. A visceral dissonance scraped inside his skull – the fragmented, furious roar of a Beast Pirate captain named Kaido drowning beneath the mundane memories of a Tokyo salaryman who once worried about train schedules. Both were *him*. Neither felt real. Where *was* this godforsaken pier? Where were the Marines? The Grand Line? This damp, pine-scented wilderness felt suffocatingly alien.
The silent youth finally spoke, voice low and measuring, slicing through the cheerful one's chatter. "You don't wear a clan mark." He gestured vaguely towards the dense, hostile mountains looming behind Kaido. "That timber you broke… Shinobi wouldn't struggle like that." His companion blinked, hastily adding, "We're Hashirama and Madara! Senju and Uchiha!" The names landed like unfamiliar stones. Clan? Shinobi? Warring whispers echoed in Kaido's fractured mind – pirate kings and shinobi wars, emperors and Hokages – a chaotic tapestry knitted from impossibly tangled threads. He stared at the sardine gasping its last breaths. Maybe answers, however incomprehensible, smelled less like fish guts and defeat. He raised his raw-knuckled hand, palm open towards them, mimicking a gesture he faintly recalled meant peace. Or surrender. Right now, he wasn't entirely sure. "Kaido," his voice rumbled, unnaturally deep, tasting the name afresh. "Just... Kaido." The mist thickened around the pier, swallowing the startled expression on Hashirama's face and the sharpening focus in Madara's eyes.
Silence stretched taut. Inside Kaido's skull, a hurricane raged. Uchiha. Senju. The fragmented roar of the Beast Pirate captain clawed at the edges of his salaryman's sanity:*Konoha? Leaf Village? Hokage? First Hokage?!* Hashirama – the grinning idiot on the dock radiating bizarrely potent life-force? Madara – the cold-eyed observer whose gaze prickled Kaido's skin worse than sea-spray? *The Madara? Who nearly ended everything?* A phantom tremor vibrated through his bones, remembering pirate crews screaming about Infinite Tsukuyomi across countless worlds. Tremors *here* weren't mere dockside vibrations. They were continent-shakers born. Recognition struck like cannon fire: he wasn't just shipwrecked in space, but in *time*. Pre-Konoha. Before the villages. Before peace treaties. Just endless warring clans – and he'd landed next to the two boys destined to define it all. His breath hitched, knuckles paling against the iron-hard density of his own flesh.
Hashirama took Kaido's silence as confusion – understandable, given the stranger's sheer size and bewildered expression. "You hungry?" he asked brightly, ignoring Madara's subtle shake of the head. Patting his stomach through worn fabric, Hashirama smiled. "We know the best spots for wild potatoes! Much better than sardines!" Madara's eyes narrowed further, scrutinizing Kaido's unnatural musculature, the sheer impossibility of snapping an oar shaft meant for three men, the faint, palpable heat radiating from him like sun-warmed stone. He shifted his weight fractionally, ready. This 'Kaido' wasn't clanless refuse. He was… something else. A potential asset? Or a threat demanding immediate removal? Madara's fingers twitched near his belt pouch, where kunai likely rested. Kaido watched them both: the future symbol of life, jovially inviting him for potatoes, and the future architect of nightmares, sizing him up like prey. The scent of damp pine sharpened suddenly, mixed with ozone crackling unseen under Madara's skin. The air grew heavy, charged with unspoken tension – the quiet before thunder.
Kaido forced a deep, anchoring breath, the sharp scent of ozone flooding his sinuses. The absurdity was crushing: pirates wouldn't fear civilizations, civilizations feared pirates! Yet here *he* stood, monstrously strong, instincts screaming danger from a teenage boy whose eyes mirrored the coldest depths of New World whirlpools. Peace? He snorted, a sound like grinding boulders. With these two? Impossible. They were fire and flood destined to consume the world. Escape flickered – vanish into the mountains, let history unfold untouched. But hunger gnawed deeper than caution. That cheerful idiot mentioned potatoes. A strand of seaweed clung stubbornly to his forearm. Grunting, Kaido ripped it free, flicking it towards the churning water below. "Potatoes," he echoed, the word thick and foreign. His massive hand flexed. "Fine." He took a heavy step towards them, the dock groaning ominously. Madara tensed instantly. Hashirama beamed. Kaido saw only paths splitting before him – paths paved with warring clans, unimaginable power, and the terrifying weight of knowing exactly how far these boys would fall before they rose.
A low, rumbling chuckle escaped Kaido's lips, deep and disbelieving, vibrating in his barrel chest. It started as a tremor, building into a full-throated laugh that echoed off the cliffs louder than the crashing waves – a laugh that held the jagged edge of hysteria and the profound fatigue of impossible truths. He laughed at the shattered oar that mocked his strength, laughed at the gossamer-thin memory of deadlines and stale coffee, laughed hardest at the sheer, cosmic joke: Kaido the King of Beasts, shipwrecked beside seedlings destined to become gods of ash and leaf. Were they mad? Was he mad? Dust motes danced wildly in the sudden puff of his breath near Hashirama's face. One boy radiated sunlit forests, the other crackled with nascent thunderclouds. He'd battled Emperors! Yet this tiny Uchiha's glare alone prickled his skin like a thousand unseen needles. *He* was Kaido. He would *define* this madness too. The laughter abruptly cut off, replaced by the sharp intake of damp air. Fate? He spat internally. Pirates made their own.
Hashirama blinked, bewildered but undaunted by the colossal stranger's sudden, unnerving laughter. "See? Potatoes solve everything!" he declared brightly, turning to lead the way up the narrow forest path, utterly oblivious to Madara's sharp "Hashirama!" or Kaido's lingering, world-weary gaze. Madara fell into step behind Hashirama, silent as a shadow, his dark eyes flicking back constantly to ensure Kaido followed – not walking beside him, but placing Hashirama deliberately between himself and the potential threat. The path wound sharply upwards, pine needles crunching softly underfoot, thick roots snaking across the dirt. Kaido instinctively dwarfed them, his bare feet displacing earth with each heavy tread. A strange, primal awareness stirred within him now, past the hunger and confusion: the faint scent of blood carried on the breeze, old and metallic; the distant cry of a hunting hawk; the deep hum of ancient trees. This world vibrated with hidden chakra, potent and wild. His own body instinctively thrummed in response – not chakra, but something denser, older. Dragon scales? A phantom memory brushed his mind: soaring skies, vaporizing islands… vaporizing islands *here*? He clenched his fist, crushing a small stone underfoot to powder without breaking stride. Madara noted it silently. Hashirama chattered about tuber varieties.
They reached a small, hidden clearing carpeted in moss. Hashirama knelt eagerly, plunging his hands into soft earth near a gnarled oak root. "Ah! Fat ones!" he exclaimed, pulling up fist-sized tubers crusted with dirt. Madara leaned casually against a tree trunk, eyes never leaving Kaido, one hand still resting lightly near his waist pouch. The air hung thick and quiet now, the mist muffling distant sounds, amplifying the rustle of Hashirama digging and Kaido's slow, measured breaths. He watched Hashirama's effortless earth-shaping, the dirt parting like water. He sensed Madara's coiled readiness, a serpent poised to strike. Hunger warred with caution. *Observation Haki,* the Beast Pirate captain's instinct whispered. *See the intent.* Saliva flooded Kaido's mouth as Hashirama tossed him a muddy tuber. He caught it on reflex, the simple act feeling alien in hands that could crush steel.
Kaido sank onto a moss-covered boulder, the rock groaning beneath his immense weight. He stared at the potato. Mud oozed between his thick fingers. He didn't peel it. Didn't cook it. He just lifted it slowly. *Focus,* he willed himself, reaching inward past the salaryman's ingrained manners. He needed to *see*. As he raised the tuber towards his mouth, he pushed his awareness outward, deliberately ignoring the physical act of eating. His Observation Haki flared – not the instinctive burst he'd used sensing threats on the Grand Line, but a controlled expansion. He focused on Hashirama first: the cheerful chatter muffled, replaced by an overwhelming, pulsing *greenness* blooming around the boy, warm and bright as summer sunlight soaking into fertile ground. It felt vital, optimistic… relentless. Then he shifted his focus fractionally to Madara. Instantly, a sharp, chilling blue energy crackled at his periphery, intricate and precise as fractured ice, radiating wary calculation and simmering, barely-contained power. It prickled against Kaido's skin, cold and electric. He could feel Madara tracing his every micro-movement – the flex of Kaido's jaw muscles, the shift of his shoulders as he leaned forward.
Kaido took a massive bite. The raw potato was gritty, earthy, and surprisingly sweet beneath the dirt. He chewed slowly, mechanically, his senses divided. Through Observation Haki, the forest came alive in terrifying detail: the frantic flutter of a sparrow high in the canopy, its tiny heartbeat a frantic drum; the slow, rhythmic pulse of ancient sap deep within the oak nearby; the subtle tremor in Madara's index finger as it rested near that concealed pouch. He *heard* Hashirama planning aloud about roasted chestnuts next, his voice layered over the vibrant hum of his life-force – a sound like deep forests breathing. Madara remained silent, but Kaido could *feel* his intense scrutiny hardening into focused analysis, dissecting Kaido's unnatural stillness, weighing potential vulnerabilities. Then, suddenly, Kaido sensed it: a flicker of predatory intent, sharp as shuriken, aimed not at him, but arcing *past* him, towards the dense thicket behind them. It came from Madara.
Kaido swallowed the gritty mouthful, his Haki snapping tighter. He didn't turn his head. He kept staring blankly at the half-eaten potato, but his awareness arrowed towards the thicket. Through the Haki haze, he pinpointed the source: four pinpoints of cold, coordinated malice, masked chakra signatures moving with practiced stealth – assassins closing in. Madara had sensed them first. His flicker of intent wasn't hostility towards Kaido, but a hunter identifying prey encroaching on his territory. A grim smile touched Kaido's lips. *Warring clans,* indeed. The potato tasted suddenly like ash and inevitability. He crushed the remaining half in his fist, muddy pulp squeezing through his fingers. "Enough," his voice rumbled, unnaturally deep, drawing both boys' startled gazes. He didn't look at the assassins hidden in the brush. He looked directly at Madara, whose dark eyes widened almost imperceptibly in surprise – surprise that Kaido knew. "Food," Kaido growled, rising from the boulder, his shadow swallowing the clearing. "Is done." The air crackled, thick with ozone and imminent violence. Trees seemed to lean away unconsciously. Madara's fingers closed definitively around a hidden kunai hilt. Hashirama scrambled to his feet, dirt falling from his hands.
Kaido inhaled deeply, the scent of pine resin sharpening to needle-points. The instinct pulsed deep – not Observation now, but the crushing weight of the Beast King's *will*. His fractured memories screamed: *Conqueror's Haki, idiot! Scatter the weaklings!* He fixed his glare not on the hidden killers, but on the space above the thicket where the air shimmered faintly. He remembered Emperor Shanks halting admirals with a glance. He remembered cracking islands with a roar. Here? Now? His soul felt like shattered glass ground against itself. He pushed anyway. A wave of pure, unadulterated domination surged outwards – not a ripple, but a seismic shift in reality itself. Silence slammed down. Birdsong ceased mid-chirp. The wind died instantly. Even the faint rustle of Hashirama shifting ceased frozen. For a heartbeat, the forest held its breath, suffocated by the sheer, crushing pressure emanating from the colossal stranger. Not chakra. Something primal. Something *older*.
Then, sound returned. Not birdsong, but four dull, wet thuds hitting the forest floor beyond the thicket. Bodies collapsing bonelessly, eyes rolled white, mouths agape in silent terror. Not unconscious. Empty. Minds shattered like cheap pottery. The oppressive silence settled deeper now, thick with the stench of voided bowels and sudden death carried on the unmoving air. Dust motes drifted untouched in the sudden stillness. Kaido swayed slightly, a cold sweat breaking out beneath his kimono. Using it here, against fragile humans… it felt different. Filthy. Drained. But effective. He met Madara's eyes again. The Uchiha stood rigid, knuckles white on his kunai hilt, his face bone-pale beneath the fading mud streaks. No trace of his earlier calculation remained. Only raw, unguarded shock – the look of a predator encountering something utterly beyond its understanding. Hashirama stared past Kaido towards the thicket, mouth slightly open, the vibrant green aura around him flickering wildly like a wind-buffered flame. His cheerful energy evaporated, replaced by wide-eyed horror. "Wh-what...?" he stammered, voice barely a whisper, instinctively reaching towards Madara's arm for grounding.
Kaido ignored them. He breathed deep, the coppery stench of blood mixing with ozone and damp earth. His ribs ached. He glanced down at his mud-caked hand, flecked with pulped potato and unseen psychic residue. A single sardine flopped weakly in his memory. Now this. The assassin's kunai – distinctive twin blades etched with a curling viper sigil – lay visible near one limp hand protruding from the brush. *Senju counter-assassins?* The Beast Pirate captain's mind snarled. *Or Uchiha? Doesn't matter.* He spat forcefully onto the moss, the sound loud in the suffocating quiet. History screamed these boys were fire and carnage waiting to ignite. He'd thrown fuel on the pyre. Laughter bubbled low in his chest again, harsh and brittle this time. Pirates didn't sail *around* storms. They sailed *through* them. He straightened, the massive muscles in his back rolling like tectonic plates, the momentary fatigue burned away by the familiar furnace of battle-lust. He turned his immense frame fully towards Madara and Hashirama, his crimson eyes – sharpening, pupils slitting unnaturally – locking onto theirs. "Lesson," Kaido rumbled, the word thick with predatory finality. "First of many." The path forward felt scorched earth, paved with fury and the terrifying knowledge he'd just irrevocably altered the timeline. He stepped towards them, crushing the discarded kunai beneath his bare foot with a crunch of splintered steel. Madara flinched. Hashirama froze. Kaido saw only war. And potatoes were long forgotten.