The taste of blood and dirt filled my mouth before consciousness fully returned.
My ribs felt like they'd been used as a drum set by a gorilla. Each breath sent lightning through my chest, and something warm and sticky was trickling down from my nose. The world swam in and out of focus—gray stone, scuffed boots, jeering faces that blurred together like watercolors in rain.
"Look at him! Can't even take a proper beating!"
A boot connected with my stomach. I curled inward, retching, but nothing came out except a pathetic wheeze. My hands scraped against the rough training yard stones as I tried to push myself up, only to collapse again. The impact sent fresh waves of agony through my already battered torso.
"Pathetic. How did trash like you even make it through basic training?"
"Maybe they felt sorry for him!"
"Or maybe the instructors were drunk that day!"
Their laughter felt like nails on a chalkboard. I wanted to scream, to fight back, to do something—but my body wouldn't obey. Every nerve ending felt raw and overloaded, like I'd been electrocuted and then run over by a truck.
Through the haze of pain, one thought cut through everything else like a blade:
This isn't my body.
The beating continued for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. My tormentors took turns—some using fists, others preferring kicks. One particularly creative sadist grabbed a handful of my hair and slammed my face into the stone wall bordering the training yard. The impact left me seeing stars and tasting copper.
"Come on, Kael! Fight back! Or are you just gonna lie there like a dead fish?"
Kael? The name echoed in my skull like a foreign word. Who the hell is Kael?
"I heard he's been bottom of every drill for three months straight!"
"Three months? Try six! Remember when he passed out during morning calisthenics?"
"And that time he threw up just from watching combat practice!"
Each revelation hit me like another punch. These weren't random insults—they knew this person. They knew me. But I had no memory of any of it. The last clear thing I remembered was falling asleep at my computer after a marathon One Piece reading session, neck cramped from hunching over fan theories about Haki mastery.
Eventually, the entertainment value wore off, and my tormentors wandered away, leaving me crumpled on the stones like discarded trash. Their voices faded into the distance, replaced by the sound of my own labored breathing and the distant crash of waves against stone.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that reminded me of blood. I lay there until the training yard emptied completely, too weak to move, too confused to think straight. My body felt foreign—smaller, frailer, like wearing clothes that didn't fit. When I finally managed to sit up, the world tilted dangerously.
What the hell happened to me?
It took three attempts to get to my feet. Each time I tried to stand, my legs buckled like they were made of wet noodles. The fourth time, I managed to stay upright by leaning against the wall, though black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
The training yard around me was unmistakably military—regulation obstacle courses, practice targets, weapon racks secured behind chain-link fencing. But it wasn't any military I recognized from my world. The architecture was wrong, too blocky and utilitarian. The weapons were outdated—swords and rifles that looked like they belonged in the 18th century, not the 21st.
And then there was the smell. Salt air, thick and heavy, carrying hints of seaweed and fish. We were near the ocean. Very near.
I stumbled toward the barracks, my reflection catching in a window as I passed. The face staring back at me wasn't mine. This person was younger, maybe nineteen, with dirty blonde hair and hollow cheeks that spoke of poor nutrition. Dark circles ringed eyes that were gray instead of my familiar brown. The Marine uniform hung loose on a frame that was all angles and no muscle.
Windhelm Kael. The name surfaced in my mind like a bubble rising from deep water, along with fragments of memories that felt like watching someone else's life through frosted glass. A nobody from nowhere, shipped off to Marine Island 17 after washing out of every other assignment. No family, no friends, no talents worth noting. The kind of person who disappeared into the background of history without leaving so much as a footnote.
The barracks were a study in institutional neglect. Cracked plaster walls, rusted bed frames, and the persistent smell of mildew that suggested poor ventilation and cheaper construction. My bunk was in the far corner—the worst spot, naturally, where the roof leaked and the heating barely reached. My few possessions were scattered on the floor, apparently kicked around during my absence.
I collapsed onto the thin mattress, every joint protesting. The springs creaked ominously under even my meager weight. Above me, a water stain on the ceiling had grown into an abstract pattern that looked like a skull if you squinted.
My hands were shaking. Not from pain—though there was plenty of that—but from the growing realization of what had happened to me.
I'm dead, I thought with crystalline clarity. Hayato Okabe is dead, and somehow I'm... here.
But where was here, exactly?
The answer came when I noticed the bulletin board at the far end of the barracks. Someone had pinned up fresh news clippings, and one headline made my blood freeze:
"PIRATE ALVIDA DEFEATED NEAR FOOSHA VILLAGE - ATTACKER IDENTIFIED AS 'STRAW HAT' LUFFY"
I stared at those words until they burned into my retinas. Foosha Village. Luffy. Straw Hat.
No. No way. This can't be...
With trembling hands, I pulled myself off the bunk and stumbled to the board. The newspaper was real—I could feel the cheap pulp paper, smell the ink. The photograph was grainy but unmistakable: a young man in a straw hat grinning at the camera, fist raised in victory.
Monkey D. Luffy. Age 17. Bounty: Not yet assigned.
My legs gave out. I hit the floor hard, but barely felt it through the tsunami of realization crashing over me.
This wasn't some generic fantasy world or historical setting. This was One Piece. The actual, honest-to-god world of One Piece, and I was living through the canon timeline in real time.
Which meant...
Pirates. Sea Kings. Devil Fruits. The Grand Line.
All of it was real. All of it was happening. And I was trapped in the body of the weakest, most pathetic Marine in the East Blue.
"Oh god," I whispered to the empty barracks. "Oh god, I'm gonna die."
I don't know how long I sat there on the floor, staring at that newspaper clipping. Long enough for the sun to set completely and the barracks to fill with the sounds of other Marines returning from evening duties. Long enough for the reality of my situation to sink in like lead weights in my stomach.
This world was a death trap for anyone without power. Pirates who could split mountains with their bare hands. Marines who could move faster than the eye could follow. Sea Kings the size of skyscrapers lurking beneath every wave. And I was stuck in a body that couldn't even survive basic training without getting beaten to a pulp.
In my old life, I'd spent countless hours debating power levels, theorizing about Haki, analyzing fighting techniques. I knew this world inside and out—every major player, every significant event, every hidden danger. But knowledge meant nothing if you didn't have the strength to act on it.
And right now, I had the strength of a malnourished teenager with all the combat instincts of a goldfish.
Focus, I told myself, forcing down the rising panic. Think. What do you know about this timeline?
If Luffy had just defeated Alvida, that meant he'd barely started his journey. Zoro was probably still tied to that cross in Shells Town. Nami was still working for Arlong. The entire East Blue saga was just beginning.
Which gave me... what? A few months before things started getting really dangerous? Maybe a year before the timeline reached the Grand Line, where even the weakest pirates could snap me in half without breaking a sweat?
It wasn't much time. But it might be enough.
If I can get stronger. If I can figure out how to survive in this world.
But how? I had no Devil Fruit, no special bloodline, no mysterious mentor waiting to unlock my hidden potential. I was starting from less than zero—negative stats across the board.
That's when it happened.
As I sat there on the cold barracks floor, wallowing in despair and trying to figure out how to not die horribly, something shifted in my vision. Not physically—the room stayed the same. But suddenly there were words floating in front of me, transparent blue text that seemed to exist somewhere between my eyes and the wall.
Combat Insight System – Initializing...
I blinked hard, rubbing my eyes. The text didn't go away.
Reincarnation Confirmed: Identity Match Hayato Okabe → Windhelm Kael
Physical Assessment: Critical deficiencies detected across all parameters
System Type: Adaptive Training Interface
Primary Function: Combat Analysis & Stat Development
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Then, like a slap to the face, a detailed breakdown of my current physical condition materialized:
Windhelm Kael - Baseline Assessment
🏋️ Physical Stats
Strength:12Barely able to carry gear; struggles with sustained effort.
Endurance:10Easily fatigued; constant weakness from malnutrition.
Agility:14Slow footwork; struggles with quick direction changes.
Coordination:13Clumsy; often drops things or misses grabs.
Flexibility:11Limited range of motion; stiff hips and shoulders.
⚔️ Combat Stats
Martial Arts:0No combat experience or knowledge.
Weapon Proficiency:3Only touched a rifle during training; can't reload under stress.
Combat Instinct:5Frozen in fights; reacts a few seconds too late.
Pain Tolerance:9Low; flinches hard even when hit lightly.
Tactical Awareness:22Understands theory, but can't use it practically.
🧠 Mental Stats
Focus:15Easily distracted; mind wanders during drills.
Stress Management:8Panics easily; heart races under scrutiny.
Learning Rate:28Quick to pick up patterns but forgets under pressure.
Strategic Thinking:30Can plan ahead, but lacks confidence to commit.
🩺 Special Conditions
Malnutrition:Major penalty to Strength, Endurance, and Pain Tolerance.
Sleep Deprivation:Reduces Focus, Stress Management, and Reflexes.
Healing Injuries:All physical activities are taxing; Recovery is slow.
Psychological Block (Low Self-Worth):Prevents him from acting boldly or trusting his own judgment.
The numbers stared back at me like a medical diagnosis written in spreadsheet form. Seeing my entire existence reduced to cold statistics was somehow worse than the beating I'd just received.
This is pathetic. I'm pathetic.
But then another window appeared:
Analysis Complete. Generating Improvement Protocol...
Training Regimen: Foundation Phase
Daily Requirements:
Cardiovascular Training: 1km running (target: complete without stopping) Strength Building: 30 push-ups, 50 sit-ups, 20 pull-ups (build up gradually) Flexibility: 20 minutes stretching routine Combat Basics: 45 minutes form practice Nutrition: Caloric surplus of 500+ calories daily
Estimated Timeline for Phase 1 Completion: 30-45 days Projected Stat Improvements:
Strength: +12-18 points
Endurance: +18-25 points
Agility: +8-12 points
Combat Instinct: +5-8 points
Warning: This system provides guidance only. Success depends entirely on user commitment and effort.
I stared at the training plan for a long time, absorbing every detail. It was brutally honest—no promises of instant strength or hidden abilities. Just hard work, day after day, with incremental improvements that might add up to something meaningful over time.
One kilometer. I probably couldn't run half that distance without collapsing.
Thirty push-ups. I'd be lucky to manage five.
Combat training. What combat? I'd never thrown a real punch in either of my lives.
But what choice did I have? Stay weak and die when the first real threat showed up? Let some random pirate crew use me for target practice?
No. I'd been given a second chance in a world I'd only dreamed about. I wasn't going to waste it wallowing in self-pity.
That night, I barely slept. My body ached from the beating, but my mind was racing with plans and possibilities. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that newspaper headline: Straw Hat Luffy. Out there right now, beginning the journey that would shake the world to its foundations.
And I was here, on some forgotten Marine outpost, starting from zero.
But everyone started from zero once. Even Luffy was just a rubber boy with a dream when he left Foosha Village. Even Zoro was just a swordsman with no direction until he found his crew.
The difference was, they had natural talent. They had plot armor. They had the advantage of being main characters in their own story.
I had none of that. But I had something they didn't—complete knowledge of what was coming. Every major threat, every critical moment, every opportunity that would arise in the years ahead.
If I could get strong enough to survive until then... if I could position myself in the right place at the right time...
Maybe being a background character didn't have to mean being powerless.
The system window flickered back into view:
User shows signs of determination. Beginning passive monitoring.
First training session recommended for tomorrow at 0500 hours
I almost smiled at that last line. Almost.
Tomorrow, I would start running. Tomorrow, I would begin the long, painful process of transforming this pathetic body into something that could survive in a world of monsters.
Tomorrow, Windhelm Kael would take his first real step toward becoming someone who mattered.
But tonight, I had to sleep. And dream of straw hats and Grand Lines and adventures I might actually live to see.