A certain Monday, some Day, some Month — New York.
"Ugh, work… where are you hiding?"
Mark let out a long, defeated sigh as he stepped out of yet another office building. He looked out at the bustling crowd and endless traffic, feeling utterly drained by life.
Wearing an unbranded white long-sleeve shirt, some no-name black skinny jeans, and a pair of discounted 361° sneakers, Mark looked every bit the picture of working-class exhaustion. His entire outfit, including underwear, probably didn't even break 30 dollar—and the priciest item? The 361° shoes he'd snagged on special for 12.
Over a year out of college and he'd already cycled through more than ten jobs. Not one lasted more than three months. Either the pay was trash, the hours brutal, or the workload was absolutely inhumane. And with his not-even-170cm height, skinny build, and severe nearsightedness, not even construction crews wanted him. Heavy lifting was out. Chill jobs didn't pay. Surviving in a megacity like New York? Practically impossible.
Sure, he wasn't hideous or anything, but he wasn't winning any modeling gigs either. No real skills. A diploma from a forgettable college after three years of barely coasting. He had a girlfriend once—she dumped him before graduation. The only thing he could remotely brag about was his imagination and halfway-decent writing. He'd penned a few low-traffic web novels. That was it.
He scratched his head in frustration, fingering the last hundred 10 dollar or so in his pocket. It wasn't even the end of the month yet.
There was still about 100 left in his bank account… but that was rent money. And this month had thirty-one days. Great. Just great.
"I just wanna go home and cry in peace…" he groaned, clutching his head and ruffling his hair like a madman. People on the street gave him weird looks as he trudged toward the subway.
82 cents for a ticket—every coin spent was a silent scream. Once onboard and the train started rumbling forward, Mark pulled out his pride and joy: a battered iPhone 5 he'd bought using a mix of private stash and leftover salary. He flicked through his Facebook… nothing interesting. Same with Twitter. Boring.
Then—
"Wait, is that... One Piece? Looks like the new episode. I missed it yesterday!"
The guy next to him—clearly a high school senior in uniform—was watching anime on his phone. Mark scooted closer, eyes lighting up with curiosity.
The student glanced at him sideways but didn't say anything.
"This plot's dragging. But if Luffy and Fujitora throw down, that'd be awesome," the kid muttered.
"Totally agree. Fujitora's Press-Press Fruit is insane. If they really fight, he could crush Luffy without even touching him. Wonder how Luffy's gonna counter it…" Mark chimed in.
"Exactly! Zoro already got flattened by Fujitora once," the student nodded, warming up to the conversation.
They went back and forth, debating Luffy vs. Fujitora with increasing excitement. The chat lifted Mark's spirits—after the crap morning he'd had, this was actually fun.
About ten minutes later, Mark got off the train, reluctant to end the convo.
His apartment wasn't far from the station—just one street over, a five-minute walk.
He was halfway across the road when he spotted it—something gray with a line of blue shimmering under the sun lying on the ground.
"A hundred dollar bill? Jackpot!"
His heart leapt. The last time he'd randomly found money was in high school at an internet café—ten dollar, if he remembered right.
Blinded by money signs, Mark completely forgot he was in the middle of a busy street. Eyes locked on the prize—an eye-catching hundred dollar bill—he bent down to grab it.
"Son of a—!" The second his fingers brushed the rough texture, one word popped into his brain: counterfeit.
WHAM!
Everything blurred. Pain exploded through his body. Then he realized—he was flying.
And then, blackness.
...
Year 1500 of the Sea Circle Calendar — East Blue, on a deserted island.
Under the shade of a palm tree on a lonely beach, a small child in an oversized adult outfit lay motionless on the sand.
"Cough—cough!"
Suddenly, the child stirred. Eyes fluttered open, and he slowly sat up.
A cloudless sky stretched overhead. Waves lapped gently on the shore. For a moment, everything felt dreamlike.
He rubbed his eyes. Blinked.
"What the hell? Where am I?!"
It was Mark. And he was very, very confused.
All he'd done was pick up what looked like a fake bill—and now the whole damn map had changed on him?!
(Not that he even realized yet that he'd died in a car accident.)
He looked down at his tiny, pale hands. His clothes hung off him like bedsheets. And then it hit him—
He'd become a kid again.
No… this couldn't be real.
He rushed to the water's edge and stared at his reflection. Sure enough, the face staring back was his own… just five or six years old.
He felt like crying.
He had just become old enough to legally flirt with girls… and now he was back to square one?! The universe was playing the cruelest joke.
Rolling up his baggy sleeves and pants, Mark waddled barefoot along the beach, dragging his comically oversized sneakers behind him.
"This environment… this body… shit. Don't tell me this is one of those isekai scenarios?"
He swallowed hard, eyes darting around.
To his left: the vast, endless ocean.
To his right: jungle.
"Holy crap, this is terrifying."
Not a hundred meters from the shoreline, an impossibly dense forest loomed. Towering trees. Jagged peaks. Unfamiliar, alien flora.
Mark took several instinctive steps back.
Then, one of the massive red flowers—easily the size of a bathtub—twitched. It unfurled to reveal rows of razor-sharp fangs. In a split second, it snapped shut around a giant toad—nearly the size of a washbasin—that had just hopped out of the dense underbrush, swallowing it whole.
"OH HELL NO. That's a damn man-eating flower!"
Mark nearly peed himself. "What the actual hell is this place? I'm not even five minutes into the jungle and it's already boss-level hostile!"
The sun was high and blazing, yet he stood there trembling like it was the dead of winter.
"This is bad. Real bad. I'm a damn five-year-old in a survival game set on hard mode. How the hell am I supposed to make it through the night?"
He clutched his oversized sneakers and scanned the horizon again.
"What is this place… a Western fantasy world? A Xianxia realm? A TV drama universe? A novel? An anime…?"
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T/N: This is a translation from Chinese. All references specific to China—including place names, terms, and currency—have been removed or adapted for localization. In particular, the currency mentioned in this chapter has been converted to U.S. dollars for clarity.
Please note: I'm not familiar with the cost of living or economic conditions in New York, so the dollar amounts reflect a direct conversion rather than real-world accuracy. Not that this mattered in this whole fic, anyway.
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