The year was 1493.
Grand Line, Island of Jaya
Dawn painted the sky. A gentle sea breeze swept across the island, carrying the salty tang of the ocean. The sun crested the horizon, its golden rays piercing the fading darkness, stretching out in every direction. The island began to stir.
Waves crashed against the golden sands, their rhythmic roar a counterpoint to the cries of seagulls welcoming the new day.
Near the shore sat a modest village, nestled beside jagged, sea-battered rocks that jutted out from the island's edge.
In one of the larger rocks, nature had carved a shallow cave, barely large enough for one person. This is where a young boy had been sound asleep.
He was no older than thirteen.
The seagulls' cries were insistent. They finally roused him.
"Morning already..." Arthur mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
He rubbed his eyes, yawned widely, and tossed aside the makeshift blanket fashioned from animal hide. Stretching languidly, he crawled out of the cramped cave and stood on the smooth, sun-warmed rock.
Arthur was a striking lad, with sharp, handsome features, jet-black hair, and eyes the color of midnight. Yet, his appearance was marred by tattered clothes, dirty from long wear, a testament to his harsh life.
Sunlight, sand, and surf—a scene to inspire a poet. But Arthur found no joy in the picturesque view. This wasn't the world he belonged to.
Have you ever seen fish the size of a house, capable of swallowing a ship whole? Or beasts in the forest that towered over buildings?
Behind him, the sea mist swirled. Countless pirate ships moved across the water, their silhouettes barely visible.
This wasn't Earth. This was the world of—One Piece.
It was Jaya, an island in the first half of the Grand Line—a lawless place beyond the reach of the Marines, a haven for outlaws, pirates, and bounty hunters.
...
The thirteen-year-old was Arthur, Seabury D. Arthur. He was not of this world.
Before, back in his old life, he'd been a solitary soul, a bachelor for over two decades. No house, no car, no girlfriend. He was a man with nothing.
After graduating from university, he'd taken up welding, figuring it was a practical skill that would at least keep him fed.
Life had been decent. He earned enough to get by, with a little extra for weekend drinks. He would dance at the local bars.
Then, one day, it happened. A faulty connection in his welding equipment sent a jolt of electricity through him, ending his life in an instant.
He awoke, surrounded by blackness, filled with a single man's lingering resentment. He found himself in a new world, and in a new body – that of an eight-year-old boy.
The boy was the descendant of a merchant family of some renown, with a trade route spanning from the Grand Line to the West Blue, navigating between the World Government and the pirate factions.
The thrill of it helped Arthur quickly adapt. He was in the world of his favorite manga, One Piece.
He was now a member of the "D" clan—the "Natural Enemy of God." Excitement surged through him, banishing sleep for three days. He dreamt of fighting the strongest Marines, of kicking the Yonko off their thrones.
But his fantasies were short-lived. The unpredictable weather of the Grand Line, coupled with the incompetence of the ship's navigator, delivered a harsh dose of reality.
A torrential downpour and monstrous waves had struck. They smashed the merchant vessel, sending it and most of its crew to a watery grave.
Clinging to a piece of shattered deck, Arthur drifted for days. He finally washed ashore on Jaya.
As a newcomer, he was met with suspicion. Islanders were hostile to him. He found refuge in the sea cave, surviving by scavenging for shellfish, fishing, and setting small traps in the forest.
This harsh existence had continued for five long years.
...
Arthur sighed, staring out at the boundless ocean, lost in thought. Then, he began his daily training.
In the world of One Piece, power was everything. You could live without authority, without a single Beli to your name. But you could not live freely without strength.
Only the strong could carve their own path. The weak lived in constant fear, never knowing if they would see the sun rise again.
His training regimen was simple: Push-ups to Strengthen his Arms and Core, frog jumps and squats to build leg power, and weight training to enhance his overall physique.
He dropped to the ground, his hands and feet finding their positions. A large rock was placed on his back, adding weight. He began his push-ups.
"One, two, three, four..."
With each repetition, he focused on his breathing, striving for a steady rhythm.
In this strange world, human limits were pushed. Effort yielded results. The food here was packed with energy.
This was a world of Great Swordsmen, men who could cleave islands in half with a single swing. Powerful warriors could unleash shockwaves with their fists, shatter ships with a kick.
"One hundred and ninety-eight, one hundred and ninety-nine, two hundred..."
Sweat dripped from Arthur's brow, falling onto the sand. Two hundred push-ups with added weight was hard, especially for a thirteen-year-old.
An ordinary person would be gasping for air, muscles screaming in protest. But Arthur's breathing was only slightly heavier. His limbs were still steady.
Minutes later, he reached five hundred. His arms finally gave out. The rock tumbled to the ground as he collapsed onto the sand, panting.
Brushing the sand from his tattered clothes, he stood up. His exhausted body had already recovered. His breathing returned to normal, as if he hadn't just undergone intense exertion.
He attributed this incredible recovery to a perk from his transmigration. Who else could recover from such a workout so fast?
After push-ups, Arthur moved on to frog jumps, hands clasped behind his head. This further developed his leg muscles.
An hour later, he stopped, drenched in sweat. He sat down, enjoying the gentle sea breeze as he contemplated his future.