The world dissolved into a blinding white. Kenji's last coherent thought was a fleeting, almost absurd image: Monkey D. Luffy, that irrepressible grin plastered across his face, a beacon of pure, unadulterated joy. Then, an echoing silence, a void where the familiar hum of his apartment should have been.
He gasped, a ragged intake of air that felt alien in his lungs. His eyelids fluttered open, greeted by a harsh, unfiltered sunlight that stung his eyes. The light bled through gaps in rough-hewn wooden shutters, painting stripes across a sparsely furnished room. A straw mattress lay on the floor, its stuffing lumpy and uneven. A crudely carved wooden table stood nearby, bearing the faint scent of stale fish. Kenji pushed himself up, his limbs feeling heavy, uncoordinated, as if they belonged to someone else. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes.
Panic began to coil in his gut. This wasn't his apartment. The air was thick with the smell of salt and something vaguely metallic, like old blood. He looked down at his hands. They were calloused, roughened by work, but they were also… different. The fingers seemed longer, the nails thicker. He flexed them experimentally. A strange, instinctive grace moved them.
His gaze swept the room again, searching for any clue, any anchor to reality. His eyes landed on a small, tarnished hand mirror lying on the table. Hesitantly, he reached for it. The metal felt cool against his skin. He lifted it, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The face staring back was a shock that stole his breath. It was a face he knew, a face etched into his consciousness from countless hours of escapism, from a world he had devoured with an almost religious fervor. It was Shanks. Red-haired Shanks, the Yonko, the Emperor of the Sea. But this Shanks was younger, his eyes not yet holding the weary wisdom of years spent at the apex of the pirate world. Instead, they were wide, filled with a raw, unadulterated fear that mirrored Kenji's own. A faint scar, barely visible, traced a line across his left eyebrow, a scar Kenji didn't recall from the manga or anime.
Kenji dropped the mirror with a clatter. It skittered across the wooden floor, coming to rest near a pile of discarded ropes. His mind reeled. This was impossible. A dream, a hallucination, a cruel joke played by whatever had caused that blinding flash. He pinched himself, hard. The sting was sharp, real.
He scrambled to his feet, his legs unsteady. He needed to understand. He needed to make sense of this nightmare. He stumbled towards the door, a roughly made plank affair that looked like it would splinter at the slightest push. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the crude latch. What lay beyond? Another impossible reality? A trap?
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he pulled the door open. The sunlight intensified, forcing him to squint. He found himself on a narrow wooden walkway, overlooking a bustling port. Ships of all shapes and sizes bobbed in the turquoise water, their sails billowing in the salty breeze. The air vibrated with the cacophony of a busy marketplace: the shouts of vendors, the squawking of gulls, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. People bustled about, their clothing a riot of colors and styles, some bearing the unmistakable marks of pirates.
And they were all looking at him.
Not with curiosity, but with a peculiar mixture of awe and apprehension. Whispers rippled through the crowd as he stepped out, his movements still clumsy, his mind a chaotic storm. He could feel their eyes on him, dissecting him, judging him.
"It's him," a gruff voice muttered from nearby.
"Look at his eyes," another whispered. "They're so… lost."
Kenji's blood ran cold. They recognized him. They knew Shanks. He was Shanks. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He wasn't Kenji Tanaka, a graphic designer who spent his evenings lost in fantastical worlds. He was Shanks. A pirate. A legendary figure. But this Shanks, this younger, fear-stricken version, was clearly in trouble.
He retreated back into the dim room, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He leaned against the rough wooden wall, trying to process the impossible. His memories, the memories of Kenji Tanaka, were still intact. He remembered his apartment, his job, his friends, the taste of instant ramen, the thrill of a well-drawn panel. But layered on top of that, a new consciousness was awakening, a phantom limb of a life he had never lived. Instincts he didn't understand, emotions that felt both familiar and foreign, were beginning to surface.
He remembered the pirate life, the camaraderie, the thrill of adventure, the weight of responsibility. He remembered sailing the seas, fighting battles, making allies and enemies. He remembered the taste of sake, the sting of betrayal, the ache of loss. These weren't his memories, yet they felt as real as his own. It was as if two lives were crashing together, a collision of identities that threatened to shatter his very being.
He looked at his hands again. They flexed, not with the uncertainty of Kenji, but with the practiced ease of a swordsman. He could feel the phantom weight of a saber at his hip, the worn leather of its grip. His senses seemed sharper. He could smell the brine on the wind with an acuity he'd never possessed, hear the distant cry of a ship's horn as if it were right beside him.
A wave of nausea washed over him. He stumbled to the straw mattress and collapsed onto it, burying his face in the musty material. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to right itself, willing himself back to his own reality. But the scent of salt, the rough texture of the straw, the phantom ache in his muscles – they were all too real.
He needed to know what had happened. How had he, Kenji Tanaka, ended up in the body of Shanks? Was this some kind of reincarnation? A fluke of the universe? Or something far more sinister?
He remembered the flash of light, the sudden, violent end to his ordinary life. Had that been the catalyst? Had he somehow been transported into this world, into this body? The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. He had always dreamed of worlds like this, worlds of adventure and magic. But he had never imagined he would become a part of them, let alone inhabit the skin of one of its most iconic figures.
He sat up again, determination hardening his resolve. He couldn't afford to be paralyzed by fear. He had to find out what was going on. He had to understand this new reality. He looked at his reflection in the tarnished mirror once more. The haunted eyes of Shanks stared back. This was his face now. This was his life.
He stood and walked back to the door, the whispers of the port now a distant hum. He needed information. He needed to find someone who could explain. He needed to understand the context of this Shanks, this younger, fear-stricken version. What was he running from? What was haunting him?
As he stepped out onto the walkway, the sunlight felt less harsh, more like a challenge. The cacophony of the port no longer seemed overwhelming, but a source of potential answers. He took a deep breath, the salty air filling his lungs. He was Shanks. Or he was Kenji Tanaka trapped as Shanks. Either way, he was here. And he had a whole new world to navigate.
He walked down the wooden steps, his gait still a little awkward, a little uncertain. The people in the port parted for him, murmuring amongst themselves. He could feel their gazes, a mixture of reverence and unease. He kept his head held high, trying to project an air of confidence he didn't feel. His mind raced, trying to recall anything from the manga that might explain this. Was there a timeline where Shanks was this young and desperate? He couldn't remember anything of the sort.
He reached the edge of the dock, the wooden planks groaning under his weight. The smell of fish was stronger here, mingled with the scent of tar and sea. He looked out at the vast expanse of the ocean, its surface shimmering under the sun. The Grand Line. He was on the Grand Line.
A burly man with a scarred face and a bandana tied around his head approached him, bowing his head slightly. "Captain," he rumbled, his voice gruff but respectful. "Ready to set sail?"
Captain. The word echoed in Kenji's mind. He was a captain. Of course, he was. He was Shanks. He forced a nod, his throat tight. "Aye," he managed to croak out, his voice sounding unfamiliar, deeper than Kenji's had been.
The man grinned, revealing a missing tooth. "The crew's eager. We've a score to settle."
A score to settle? Kenji's mind whirred. What score? Who was he supposed to be settling it with? He had no context, no knowledge of this Shanks's immediate past or present conflicts. He was flying blind.
He followed the man towards a ship docked at the far end of the port. It was a modest vessel, not a grand warship, but sturdy and well-maintained. Its sails were a deep crimson, bearing a symbol Kenji recognized instantly: a skull with three horizontal slashes across its eyes. The Jolly Roger of the Red-Haired Pirates.
As he boarded, a group of pirates turned to greet him. Their faces were weathered, their eyes sharp, but there was a warmth in their expressions as they looked at him. They were his crew. His nakama. The word resonated deep within him, a feeling of belonging that was both alien and comforting.
"Welcome back, Captain!" a cheerful voice called out. A young man with bright red hair, not unlike his own, rushed forward, a wide grin on his face. He looked like a younger, more boisterous version of Yasopp.
Kenji's heart gave a strange lurch. Yasopp. He knew Yasopp. The sharpshooter, the father of Usopp. This was his crew. His crew. He forced a smile, trying to mimic the carefree demeanor he imagined Shanks would possess. "Good to be back," he said, his voice still a little rough.
He walked across the deck, his eyes taking in his surroundings. The ship was alive with activity. Pirates were securing cargo, coiling ropes, checking the rigging. Their movements were efficient, practiced. This was their life. This was his life.
He reached the helm, the polished wood smooth beneath his fingertips. He looked out at the open sea, the horizon beckoning. He had no idea where he was going, or why. But he had a crew, a ship, and a destiny he was only beginning to comprehend.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to reconcile the two lives warring within him. Kenji Tanaka, the quiet graphic designer who found solace in fictional worlds. And Shanks, the legendary pirate, now a younger, more vulnerable version of himself. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now tempered with a burgeoning sense of purpose.
He opened his eyes, and this time, when he looked out at the sea, he saw not an impossible dream, but a terrifying, exhilarating reality. He was Shanks. And he had a journey to begin. He turned to his crew, a small, genuine smile finally gracing his lips. "Alright," he said, his voice gaining strength. "Let's set sail."
The pirates cheered, their voices echoing across the water. The anchor was raised, the sails unfurled, and the ship, the Red Force, began to move, slicing through the waves, carrying its new, bewildered captain towards an unknown future. Kenji, or rather, Shanks, stood at the helm, the wind whipping through his red hair, the vast ocean stretching before him. He was no longer just Kenji Tanaka, a man lost in a flash of light. He was a pirate captain, with a past he didn't remember and a future he had to forge. The deception of the mirror had led him to this moment, a moment where his old life had ended, and a new, terrifying, and potentially epic one had begun. He could feel the weight of it all, the responsibility, the danger, the sheer, overwhelming impossibility of it. But beneath it all, a spark of something new was igniting. A spark of adventure. A spark of defiance. A spark of Shanks.