Year 1494 of the Sea Calendar, Arkas Island – New World
Deep in the mountains, an eight-meter tiger prowled through the trees. The scent of blood lured it forward.
In a clearing ahead, it saw its prey; a thin boy standing beside the fresh corpse of a bear.
The tiger's instincts prickled. Something about the boy felt dangerous but only faintly. Circling slowly, it drew closer. The boy didn't move. His breathing was shallow, his stance heavy, as if exhaustion had drained him during the fight with the bear.
The tiger grew bolder. One step. Two. The distance closed.
Then, with a roar that shook the clearing, it lunged.
"Zehahaha! Finally!"
The boy's lips twisted into a grin. His eyes flashed as his legs kicked off the ground. The earth cratered beneath his feet, stones scattering as he burst forward.
In an instant, he was in the tiger's face.
"Zehahaha! Eight Maidens!"
His fingers curled into claws. Muscles surged, and ten crimson arcs slashed through the air. A heartbeat later, his figure landed lightly on the earth—while the giant tiger's body collapsed behind him with a thunderous crash, lifeless.
Blood dripped from his hands. The beast's abdomen bore ten gaping claw marks, a mirror to the wounds carved into the bear that had fallen before it.
That night, a bonfire crackled in the forest clearing. The boy sat cross-legged, roasting a massive bear paw. His gaze lingered on the flames, his thoughts drifting.
"Twelve already… it should be soon."
He hadn't expected this second life. No truck accident, no 'system,' no golden finger. He had simply gone to sleep and awoke six years earlier, in the body of Marshall D. Teach; the man who would one day be known as Blackbeard.
And with Teach's memories came something else; the body. A body with terrifying vitality, monstrous strength, and the strange curse of never being able to sleep.
For Teach, that 'curse' was a gift. Endless hours meant endless training.
So he trained.
Six long years of grinding his body against the limits of pain, of clawing for strength in a world where monsters walked as men. He couldn't practice Haki yet, so he built his body, his reflexes, his blade.
And when he found a failing dojo clinging to past glory, he 'borrowed' their treasures; a manual of the Thunder Current Sword Style and the founder's notes.
Thunder Current, once famed alongside the Fire Current school, fused swordsmanship with elemental force. Its breathing technique generated electricity within the body at the cost of shortening its user's life.
A deadly art. But to Teach, with his freakish vitality, it was perfect.
He devoured the manual, trained the Thunder Breathing, and bent its side effects into strength. Electricity tempered his muscles, hardened his organs, sharpened his movements. Combined with the Flame Current basics taught to him by Hael, an old master on Arkas, his body became a forge.
Pain became routine. His hands plunged into bonfires to build resistance. Sparks danced across his arms as heat and lightning fused within him. Every day he clawed closer to a new ideal; not just a swordsman, not just a brawler, but a man whose body itself could cut like a blade.
Arkas Town – The Infirmary.
"Teach! Didn't I tell you to be careful last time? How are you hurt again?"
The voice was sharp but worried. Monica, a girl of fifteen, worked quickly as her hands wrapped bandages around Teach's burned arm.
"Zehahaha! Don't be mad, Monica. I only set a tree on fire while cooking. Nearly lost the whole mountain! I almost roasted myself alive... Zehahahaha!"
His carefree laugh made her tighten the bandage deliberately.
"Ssshhht...ow! Easy, easy! Monica, go softer!" Teach hissed, eyes bulging.
Her stern look cracked into a smile. Shaking her head, she dabbed herbs on his burns and finished the wrap.
"Thanks. If it weren't for you, I'd lose this hand. And without hands, how could I sail out and become a great pirate?"
Teach stood, turning toward the window. The vast ocean gleamed beyond the town's rooftops. He spread his arms wide, voice booming:
"A man's dream will never die!"
Monica froze. For a moment, the boy before her didn't seem twelve. His back was broad, his voice carried weight, his arms stretched as if they could embrace the whole sea. Her heart skipped before she caught herself.
"Idiot!"
Teach flinched as pain lanced through his chest. His earlier theatrics had torn the bandage. Monica clicked her tongue, grabbed his ear, and twisted.
"Gentle! G-gently, Monica! Ow ow ow! Be a lady, won't you? At this rate you'll scare off any chance at marriage!"
Her face reddened. She let go, crossing her arms with a huff. "Serves you right."
Teach chuckled, easing back onto the chair. Despite his teasing, he softened. "Sorry. Won't happen again."
For a second, he caught her gaze. His dark eyes lingered, mischievous but strangely magnetic. Though still boyish, his frame stretched tall, muscles already shaping from relentless training.
The grin at his lips carried mystery, promise, and danger.
Monica's cheeks heated. She shoved him away. "Fine. I forgive you."
Teach grinned wider. "Zehahaha! Monica, medicine must be expensive, huh? I can't even afford the bandages. If Uncle Modie finds out, he'll beat me senseless."
"Don't talk about Father like that! He's gentle when he wants to be."
"I owe you more than I can pay back. Guess I'll just have to sell myself to you. Zehahaha...no choice but to offer myself, right?"
Monica's face went crimson. Her heart raced at the bold words.
But before she could speak, a chill stabbed through the room.
"Killing intent—!"
"TEACH!"
The roar came from upstairs. A blur of golden hair and white cloth flashed down the staircase. A massive fist shot forward, slipping past Teach's guard to slam into his chest.
"GUHHH!"
Air blasted from his lungs. His body shot through the doorway, smashing into the courtyard wall. Stone cracked and rubble tumbled as he slumped in the crater.
"Teach!" Monica screamed. She turned to the man now standing where Teach had been.
He was towering, over two meters tall with square glasses, a white coat fluttering around his broad frame, and golden hair cropped short. His expression was thunderous.
"Dad! You hit too hard Teach is still injured!"
"Hmph." Modie, Monica's father, glared toward the broken wall. His voice was a low growl. "You underestimate that brat. And I won't watch while he toys with my daughter."