I vividly recall the peculiar fruit I had consumed, its appearance reminiscent of some gnarled creation straight out of an anime I once cherished during my middle school years. Its twisted, vibrant colors sparked a fleeting memory, yet as I transitioned into adulthood, the weight of reality overshadowed that joy. The exuberance I once felt for watching endless episodes dwindled, crushed under the pressures of college life, which had proven to be an arduous journey filled with sleepless nights and overwhelming deadlines. The expansive universe of *One Piece*, once a thrilling escapade bursting with adventure, lay dormant in the shadowy recesses of my mind, relegated to a mere relic of my past—a frivolous distraction I could no longer afford.
In my younger days, I would have bounded through life's challenges with boundless energy, my imagination ignited by the thought of being whisked away to fantastical realms, much like the characters in an "isekai" narrative. But adulthood felt like a relentless cycle of fatigue. The prospect of entering the world of *One Piece* no longer seemed like an exhilarating dream. Instead, it became a labyrinth of uncertainty. Where would I land in this sprawling saga? Would I find myself before Luffy's legendary journey even began? Memories of the series were hazy; I could barely recall the vibrant banter of the boisterous Luffy, who gathered an eclectic crew as if selecting cabbages at a bustling market. Their quests for the elusive One Piece were filled with encounters against bizarre villains, each more deranged than the last, as well as morally ambiguous figures masquerading as agents of justice.
On the other hand, whatever I was currently nestled into was not just comfortable—it was luxuriously soft, enveloping me in a warm embrace that felt like being wrapped in clouds. The fabric was so inviting, with a gentle texture that caressed my skin, making it exceptionally hard to think of anything else. Did I mention how breathtakingly cozy it was? Each moment spent in this snug haven felt like a delightful indulgence, pulling me deeper into its soothing warmth.
"Are you awake?" A tall man with dirty blond hair and a scar above his left eye looked at me.
"Who…?" I barely had the energy to whisper; only a soft mutter escaped my lips before my eyes fell shut again.
"Hey now, don't go back to sleep," the man grumbled, a light note of exasperation in his voice.
"Not… sleeping," I struggled to respond.
"At least eat something before you go back to sleep."
"Food?" I asked, intrigued. Food did sound tempting.
"Yeah, food," he huffed with a laugh.
"Mkay, food." Somehow, I managed to push myself to sit up from the nest of blankets. My eyes felt bleary as I tried to rub the sleep away.
"Just a moment, I'll find you something light," the kind man said, his voice warm and soothing as he prepared to offer me food. I felt a weight of fatigue pressing on me, and though sitting up had jolted me awake, I struggled to shake off the drowsiness clinging to my eyelids. In that fleeting moment, I was caught in a haze of uncertainty, acutely aware that my memories were tangled and frayed. There was a name—[Khali D. Kouya]—that resonated deeply within me, as if it were carved into the very fabric of my being. Yet, beyond that name, the contours of my past were murky.
I couldn't recall what my original name had been or what I looked like; a strange familiarity wrapped around my features, but a nagging discontent with my appearance overshadowed them. My sense of identity felt like a faint whisper, nearly obliterated by the overwhelming void of missing memories. Friends, family, and acquaintances drifted like shadows on the edge of my consciousness, recognizable yet elusively out of reach. I knew, with a painful certainty, that I had parents, yet their faces were mere flashes of light in the dark corners of my mind, and I grasped at memories of their names, their lives, their laughter, but they slipped away like grains of sand through my fingers.
It was troubling to realize, as I sat in a fog of lost recollections, that I was aware of this absence—my memories were draining away, one by one, yet curiously, I felt no emotional tug at the loss. It was as if the act of forgetting had left me in a state of numb detachment, where the significance of my past ebbed away like a tide retreating into the night.
"Glad you're still awake. Here you go! I had Lucky whip up a light soup for you earlier; it took a second to reheat," the man said as he placed a tray—miraculously with legs—beside me. Its glorious convenience made it possible to eat in bed, and I found it almost worship-worthy. "You can call me Hongo. What's your name, kid?"
"Hongo?" I asked, absentmindedly taking a sip of the soup.
"Yeah, I'm Hongo."
"Kouya. Khali D. Kouya," I declared, the name spilling from my lips with an unsettling familiarity, as if it had been etched into my memory long before this moment. "Not… kid." I blinked, and time seemed to stretch around me, wrapping my thoughts in a thick fog. My mind operated in slow motion, methodically filtering out all superfluous words, gestures, and feelings—stripping away anything that might drain my energy as I braced myself for what lay ahead.
"Sure, kid," Hongo laughed.
"Twenty. Not 'kid,'" I grumbled. Hongo snickered at my response.
"Okay, Kouya, finish up that soup, and I'll bring you out to meet the others."
"Others?" I asked.
"Yeah, Shanks stumbled upon you face-first, nestled against the grainy sand of that deserted island. It was quite a peculiar sight; it felt as if some unseen force was beckoning him closer," Hongo explained, his eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and intrigue..
"Shanks?" The name felt faintly familiar, like a whisper from the past.
"Yeah, Shanks. He's our captain," Hongo replied, grinning widely, as if being associated with Shanks was one of his greatest prides.
"Shanks…?" The name rolled off my tongue with a sense of ease. "Oh… Yonko." It clicked. Red-Haired Shanks of the Red-Haired Pirates—the man, the myth, the one-armed legend who entrusted the will of the Pirate King to Luffy.
"Yonko? Shanks is strong, but he's not a Yonko," Hongo said, bemused.
"Future," I blurted out without thinking.
"Future?" Hongo's amusement shifted to a look that was hard to interpret. I wasn't sure how to respond as I went back to sipping my soup; even though the soup was delightful, the spoon in my hand felt unusually heavy after just a few sips.
As I lifted the spoon, I found myself daydreaming, flashes of a scene flooding my mind: a Sea King and a red-haired man protecting a young boy. I didn't notice the heavy silence enveloping the room until it became nearly tangible, pressing against my skin like a thick fog. It created an atmosphere that felt both eerie and charged. In that stillness, my mind conjured an image that blurred the lines between a real person and an anime character, their features merging in a vivid blend of vivid colors and sharp angles, as if they were two entities fusing into a singular, fantastical being. Absentmindedly, I felt an unusual pull; it was as if the spoon had suddenly left my hand, floating in the air, scooping up soup and bringing it to my lips with no discernible effort.
"It seems you've finished," Hongo muttered, pulling me from my trance.
"Oh." I nodded, trying to blink myself back to reality. "Done," I replied.