A blast sounded behind me like thunder cracking from a clear sky.
I didn't flinch.
Usopp screamed—not in pain, more like in comedic panic—as his latest invention misfired and sent him hurtling toward me like a human cannonball. I stepped aside without looking. It wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last.
He struck the tree with comedic precision, arms splayed out, his back flattened against the bark. Stars and birds circled around his head, real or imagined—I couldn't tell anymore.
"Watashi wa daijōbudesu." I am okay. he wheezed, peeling himself off the tree like a sticky poster. "Hoshi ga watashi o kami to shite taikan suru no o mite iru nodarou ka?" Am I watching the stars crown me as god?
He muttered to himself, checking the half-burnt remains of what was supposed to be a mini smoke grenade. His fingers moved fast, dirty from powder and resin, but his eyes stayed focused.
That's the thing about Usopp.
People mistake him for a coward or a clown. But what they miss is his resilience. Even after countless failures, he always picks up the scraps and tries again. His workshop was built on smoke and setbacks, but his will? That was forged in something stronger.
He was the wildcard. And wildcard only mattered in the end.
I let him do his thing.
My boots crunched against the leaf-covered path as I made my way deeper into the jungle clearing—the makeshift training ground I'd carved out one afternoon when I realized something important: peace was dulling me.
It was hidden from the village. A quiet patch, rimmed by thick trees and vines. Sunlight filtered through in scattered beams, lighting up the worn patches of earth where my boots had pressed over and over again.
In the middle stood the puppets—our crude, battle-worn soldiers.
Three mini ones for the kids. Usopp had carved them, each with their own exaggerated noses and cartoonish expressions. Then two mid-sized ones for him, though he didn't hit them much—more like used them for target practice. Sling bullets. Pebble bombs. Experimental mini-dials.
And then there were mine.
Seven in total. Three bamboo torsos. Four solid oak. Each one built like a wall. Worn smooth where my knuckles had cracked against them again and again. Wrapped in rags for a while, until I stopped caring about cushioning. Now they were worse.
We'd gone scrap hunting through the junkyards around the coast a month back. Hauled bags of old metal pieces, discarded boat parts, rusted screws. I hammered the shards into my puppets by hand.
Why?
Because wood wasn't enough anymore.
My bones had stopped breaking months ago. My skin got soft. The nerves… they'd stopped caring. But lately, I started feeling pain again.
And hesitation.
And in this world, hesitation was a death sentence.
This was One Piece. A world where power dictated survival. And in that hierarchy, Haki ruled all—an invisible force of will that could flatten armies, sense killing intent, or harden the body beyond steel. Then came Devil Fruits, magical anomalies that granted godlike abilities at the cost of swimming. The sea became a grave if you had one, but the trade-off? Power that could twist the very rules of reality.
And me?
I had neither.
No inner Haki blooming within me. No Devil Fruit curse. Just skin, bone, blood, and desperation.
So all I could do was focus on fighting skills.
Technique. Timing. Endurance. Pain tolerance. I couldn't cheat my way into power—I had to build it one bruise, one broken knuckle at a time. If the world gave me no blessings, then I'd make war with what it did give me: grit, stubbornness, and the unwillingness to stay weak.
I wasn't aiming to become a legend.
I just didn't want to be prey.
So now, each punch struck metal. Some pieces were dull and flat. Others had jagged tips or rusted corners. It wasn't smart. It wasn't safe. But neither was the sea.
I took a deep breath. Let it settle in my chest. Closed my eyes for half a second.
Then opened them again, fists clenched.
My stance wasn't perfect. It never was. I had no sensei, no scroll, no ancestral style. Just fragments of MMA videos, blurry sparring clips, and martial arts forums I used to binge back home.
But instinct filled the gaps. That, and stubbornness.
I stepped in, twisted my hips, and struck.
Pain exploded across my knuckles. A cut opened instantly on the middle finger. Warm blood traced a line down to my wrist.
I didn't stop.
I punched again.
Then again.
Rhythm formed—not from technique, but from need.
The puppets rattled slightly with every impact. Metal clinked against wood. My teeth clenched tighter with each hit. I welcomed the sting, the slice, the throb in my bones.
That was progress.
Pain meant I wasn't numb. Not yet.
Behind me, I heard another small explosion—less powerful this time. A hiss of smoke followed.
Usopp was working on it.
I kept punching.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. I lost count.
My breath came heavy. My shirt clung to me with sweat, my muscles buzzing like power lines.
Pain slowed me down. Made me hesitate.
I can't have that.
Not in this waters.
Fist met metal.
----------
"Yatta! Shuryūdan o tsukutta yo." he shouted. I did it. I made a grenade.
I heard him before I saw him. Even at a distance, Usopp's voice carried like cannonfire. His boots pounded the dirt as he came running across the field, a grenade the size of a pineapple clutched in his hand like it was his golden ticket to infamy.
Good news, no doubt.
But I didn't stop.
The puppet in front of me lurched forward with a mechanical groan, arms lined with jagged metal, glowing faintly at the joints. I met it with a punch—not clean, not pretty, just raw and direct. Bone collided with steel. I felt something snap. Might've been its jaw. Might've been mine.
Didn't matter.
I hit it again. And again.
Blood burst from my knuckles, then sealed, only to break open once more as I kept going. The thing creaked and cracked under the blows, splinters of steel flying with each hit. I kept punching until I couldn't feel my arms anymore. I knew the signs: nerves overloaded, muscles torn in microscopic shreds, pain signals burnt out.
But I kept going.
Usopp had stopped sprinting. He stood at the edge of the field now, close enough to see the expression on my face. His mouth was half open like he wanted to yell something but didn't know what. Maybe he didn't want to interrupt. Maybe he was afraid to.
His eyes were wide. Not scared. Not exactly. He had seen me do this time and time again. Yet he winced every time blood dripped as metal met flesh.
I wanted that.
I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at the impossible.
When my arms gave out, I didn't stop. I shifted. Ducked low, pivoted on my heel, and drove a kick into the puppet's side hard enough to send shockwaves through my spine. The shards lining its frame sliced into my legs, tearing through skin like paper. I didn't slow down. Couldn't. Wouldn't.
I kicked again. From another angle. Then another. Angles no one should be able to move through. Joints bending wrong. Muscles stretching past their limits. I used the pain like a lever. Pulled against it. Pushed deeper.
Every time I tore something, my blood went to work, knitting me back together. That was the deal. Hurt. Heal. Hurt more.
I'd been doing this for two months.
And I was getting better.
Stronger. Faster. More flexible. My body learned. Adapted. Pain wasn't a warning anymore. It was permission.
Usopp watched silently as I slammed a spinning heel into the puppet's chest.
I was doing a suicide exercise. I knew it. He knew it. That's what made it work.
I mostly did these when Usopp was around. It wasn't coincidence. It wasn't convenience.
It was design.
I wanted him to see me. To admire me. No—revere me.
I did the things he believed a brave man of the sea would do. Then I pushed further. Went harder. Made the impossible feel inevitable. I didn't just match his stories—I outpaced them. Subtly. Quietly. Enough to leave a mark in his memory.
I didn't want to be just another fighter. I wanted to be legend.
And I knew the trick to that: be part of Usopp's lies. Because the lies Usopp told had a funny habit of coming true.
If he believed I was untouchable—if he said it enough times—maybe someday, the world would believe it too. Maybe it'd become real.
So I invested.
Heavily.
Every cracked rib, every burned nerve, every drop of blood was a coin I tossed into a future where I was more than just a name. 71 was the time I could heal, resurrect.
I didn't flinch at the number. I knew the cost. Knew it was worth it.
I ducked, twisted, and lunged, ramming my shoulder into the puppet's midsection, lifting it off the ground. Metal groaned. Blades dug into my skin. I didn't care. I roared, hoisted it higher, then slammed it down with enough force to crack the earth beneath us.
It twitched.
I mounted it.
And I punched.
Again.
And again.
Until the puppet was nothing but splinters and slag.
Silence followed.
My breathing was ragged. Blood dripped from my chin. My eyes stung from the shards embedded in my brow, but I didn't wipe them away. I turned my head slowly and looked at Usopp.
He shrieked—just a little. A nervous, high-pitched sound that escaped before he could swallow it down. He looked like he'd just watched a man die and come back to life in the span of a heartbeat. And he had seen it multiple of times.
Good.
I straightened—or tried to. My spine cracked like a snapped bowstring. My legs buckled. I forced my arms up. They felt like meat wrapped in fire. I plucked out the metal shard in my eye.
I whispered the command.
The blood inside me stirred. A thousand tiny threads moved beneath the skin, weaving torn muscle, sealing cuts, restoring mobility piece by piece. I could feel it—the slow, aching reassembly of my body.
Usopp was still watching me.
His hand had loosened around the grenade. He wasn't holding it like a weapon anymore. More like a question. Something uncertain.
I took a step toward him.
He didn't run.
Didn't flinch.
He just looked up at me with something between awe and concern.
And that was enough.
I didn't need praise. Didn't need applause.
I needed that look.
Because it meant I was already in the story.
And once Usopp started telling lies, they would turn to realities.
Resurrection count: 69.