One Piece: Marine Pirates

James sighed the next morning. His mother had scooped him up in a warm, crushing hug the moment she saw him, and for a second he thought maybe—just maybe—he was off the hook.

He wasn't.

Once she found out he'd snuck off on his own, that he'd done it willingly and without a word, the mood shifted. The warmth didn't leave her, but it sharpened. That night had been a long one.

By morning, both his parents sat him down. They told him they loved him. That they trusted him. That trust meant being honest, even when he thought he had good reason. They reminded him he was smart—sharper than most kids his age—and if he'd asked, they would've let him stay to see the execution.

But sneaking off? That came with consequences.

He'd be walking home. Behind the wagon.

James's jaw dropped. That road stretched forever. And with his three-year-old legs, it'd be an all-day march. Maybe longer. He wasn't even sure he could do it before sundown.

He groaned, dropped onto the floorboards, and flopped onto his back. They still had one more day in town.

James woke early, before the estate stirred. The sky was still pale, streaked with soft spring light. A cool breeze moved through the grass behind the house as he stepped outside.

He didn't pretend to be "playing Marine" this time.

His parents already knew he was smart. If that was the case, there wasn't any need to hide behind games anymore. So he dropped the act.

He went through a structured sprint and push-up workout. Perfect for his three-year-old body—which still struggled. Nothing dramatic—just clean form, steady effort, counting to himself as he moved between trees and down into the dirt. The cold ground pressed into his palms, and his breath came fast but even. His body ached a little, but it was a good kind of ache.

There were strange people in this world. Odd powers. Unusual bodies. James figured he was just another anomaly in a world that already had plenty. That worked fine for him.

James sighed as he lay back on the bed, the wooden frame giving a faint creak beneath him. Pale morning light filtered through the shutters, striping the ceiling above. He watched the lines shift slightly with the breeze.

He was in his own room—finally. The main house had several rooms, especially with the estate's size and a couple of guest houses for visiting family. There had been plenty of space to go around. Still, after spending his early years in the one-room cabin beside his parents, he'd begged for his own the moment they arrived. The memory made him smirk a little.

His thoughts drifted—first to the sounds outside, the bustle of people getting ready for the festival, then inward, to something that crossed his mind from time to time.

When would the training system activate?

More importantly—when would he receive the vivre card?

After a few minutes, he sat up and reached for the cloth left in the basin. He pressed the cold, damp rag to his face, then wiped himself down—neck, chest, arms. The chill clung to his skin, but he didn't flinch. There were servants who could've heated water for him, but he didn't want to be waited on. His parents weren't frivolous, and neither was he. If it could be done by hand, he'd do it.

As he dried his hands, that thought stuck with him. If the vivre card was tied to strength, maybe he simply hadn't earned it yet.

Another sigh slipped out as he got dressed. Outside, he could already hear the shuffle of boots and distant chatter—family heading into town for the last day of the gathering.

James stepped out to meet them.

As he was walking, his grandfather joined him, their steps falling into rhythm as they made their way toward the town square. The streets ahead buzzed with life—merchants shouting prices, children darting through gaps in the crowd, music drifting through the morning air. You could feel it—the energy, the cheer. It was quite the gathering.

James glanced up at his grandfather, who walked beside him, slightly hunched but steady. Despite the cane in his hand and the bend in his back, he kept the pace with ease. His thick gray hair was swept back, revealing a weathered face and sharp emerald green eyes that mirrored James's own.

"Excited for the games and food?" the old man asked, voice warm with amusement.

"Umm, yep!" James said, trying to sound like a regular kid excited for something he had never done. He flashed a grin and stuffed his hands into the sleeves of his coat, glancing around like the question hadn't made him pause.

His grandfather nodded slowly beside him, hunched but steady. The cane tapped with a practiced rhythm on the stone path, and despite his age, he kept up with the family just fine. James walked near the middle of the group, cousins bouncing ahead while uncles and aunts trailed behind, chatting and laughing. The sun peeked through wisps of morning cloud cover, throwing soft light over the crowd.

James had barely exchanged more than greetings with his grandfather before—mostly "hi" or "good morning"—so hearing the man talk now, directly, felt a little strange. He peeked up, curious.

"I saw you running this morning," his grandfather said without turning his head. "And doing push-ups."

James blinked. The old man had noticed? He swallowed and kept his pace steady.

"Why?" the man asked after a pause, emerald eyes turning to him. They looked just like his mother's.

James hesitated, then decided to go with the truth. "To be strong like Dad. And to become a Marine."

His grandfather's eyes lingered. He nodded once, slow and thoughtful. "A Marine, huh? That's noble…" Another pause. Then, more pointedly, "Why?"

James blinked again. His mind went still for a second. He wanted to say a lot—but instead he gave the simple answer. The one that was true while being simple af the same time.

"To wear the white coat of justice," he said, voice picking up as he punched a small fist into the air like a kid might when pretending to be a hero.

"You know, though…" his grandfather said, glancing sideways as they walked. "You're a smart kid."

His cane tapped the cobblestones, his voice low but clear beneath the hum of the festival crowd ahead. "You like the house? The servants?"

James blinked at the question. "It's fine, I guess," he said, shoulders lifting in a small shrug.

His grandfather chuckled and reached into the inside of his coat, fingers brushing past a leather pouch. "You know you could buy things. I think you're a smart lad," he said, pulling out a small stack of folded bills—ten crisp 1,000-berrie notes—and held them out to James.

James stared at the money as it was pressed into his palm.

"I want you to enjoy the festival," his grandfather said, his tone light but with a certain weight. "Use this to have some fun. You're a grandson of mine, after all. But more than that…" He gave a knowing look. "I think you're a smarter lad than you let on. If the Navy doesn't work out, you could always worm your way into the family business."

James blinked again. Why did people keep saying he was smart? Was he a terrible actor? Was it that obvious?

James blinked. Why did people keep saying he was smart? Maybe he was a terrible actor? And why make this offer?

His grandfather winked when he noticed James watching him.

As they walked, his grandfather did something similar to all his cousins—passing out bills with a few kind words, and telling them they could be part of the family business instead after listening to what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Except Ralphi- his grandfather didn't ask what Ralphi wanted to do…

Ralphi, who stood out even more than usual in the middle of the crowd, was thirteen and tall for his age. He wore his full pink bunny costume again—fluffy ears bobbing with every step, the oversized feet squeaking faintly on the packed dirt path. James had no idea where he'd found the thing, but the boy loved it. He was sweet, always polite, with a strange edge that gave people pause. That wide grin didn't fade, and he kept asking for a rifle—his parents refused, warning he'd shoot his eye out. Weird kid who was very dumb

James watched as their grandfather reached Ralphi. The old man skipped the speech and skipped the advice. Just a gentle pat on the head and a wad of bills handed over without fanfare.

It looked like his grandfather was building goodwill with all his grandchildren. A thoughtful gesture. But to James, it felt like more than just generosity.

What a businessman, he thought.

The festival had gone well. James spent part of the money he'd been given, trading berries for meat and stuffing the leftovers into a cloth pouch his mother had sewn into his coat. The pouch hung just above his waist, its rough stitching easy to feel when he pressed it. The meat still held warmth when he tucked it away, juices soaking faintly through the cloth, leaving a rich, savory scent in its wake. When he moved, the pouch bumped softly against his hip, a small reminder of his earlier indulgence.

He stayed away from sugar entirely. It just didn't interest him. Maybe since he'd never started, his body never craved it. He'd seen how people gobbled it down, how their moods shifted after. He figured it was easier to avoid something from the start.

Mostly, he lingered near his parents, moving between their sides and occasionally wandering off to look at things, but never far. The sounds of the square buzzed all around—laughs, music, stomping boots, voices raised in cheer or song. Smoke from open grills hung in the air, carried by the cold breeze that blew in from the coast. The smell of cooking fat and wood mixed with the crisp sea wind, clinging to his clothes and hair. The kegs had come out early, and he realized something else: people here could drink. A lot. And his father? He led the charge—loud, full of cheer, surrounded by others, and hardly slowed by the alcohol. Tomas's voice rang out above the others more than once, booming with laughter as he slapped shoulders and downed mug after mug like they were nothing. His wide grin stayed in place through it all, flushed slightly from the drink, but clear-eyed and steady.

The party lasted deep into the night. Children hadn't been sent to bed. No one had the heart to ruin the mood, and James, despite his energy, finally reached his limit. Around two in the morning, he slumped against his father's shoulder—half-awake, then asleep. The warmth of Tomas's coat, thick and worn, was comforting. The fabric smelled of pine smoke and salt and something faintly metallic, maybe from the tools his father carried. His voice, once thunderous, became distant and steady like a drum fading down a long road. Each step Tomas took carried James gently, his breathing evening out without him even realizing.

He never even changed. Just like that, he was laid in bed still in his clothes, tucked under a fur-lined blanket, and drifted into a deep, dream-heavy sleep. The furs pressed heavy on him, warm and familiar, and his limbs sank into the mattress like the weight of the day had finally caught up. The muffled noise of laughter and distant music slipped through the walls, fading into the quiet as his eyes shut fully. The warmth of the room, the scent of smoke still on his clothes, and the comfort of knowing his parents were close—everything settled over him like a thick quilt, and he didn't stir again.

Then—

Berries detected. Stealth mode: deactivated.

Green letters—glowing like matrix code—cascaded across his vision. They shimmered faintly, humming in the dark behind his eyes. For a moment, James assumed it was a vivid dream. But his thoughts felt sharp, too sharp for something imagined. The air around him didn't feel like air. It felt like data.

Parameters met. Host possesses 5000 berries.

He blinked.

The words didn't fade like dream fragments. They remained suspended until the space around him began to shift. Slowly, a room took shape—a square, 15 by 15 feet, lit evenly from nowhere. The walls were smooth and white, almost sterile, with no seams or shadowed corners. The floor matched, soft underfoot like polished stone without a hint of texture. There was no door, no window—just one simple wooden chair and a man seated in it, facing a stretch of blank wall ahead.

The silence pressed in gently. It wasn't cold or warm, just… blank.

The man from before.

He hadn't changed. That long white beard was parted neatly at the chin. His hair fell straight to his shoulders, tucked behind his ears. Pale skin, dry and worn, stretched across a face shaped by time. His lined brow and downturned mouth made him look like a weathered monk. The robe he wore looked rough, like it had been spun from old sackcloth. Nothing flashy—just worn practicality.

And those eyes—deep, unearthly blue, though dulled now—still fixed with eerie clarity on the wall in front of him. The section of wall he stared at looked different somehow—shinier than the rest, like it had just been painted. The light in the room gave his pupils a strange gleam, a shimmer like frost under moonlight.

James stood quietly for a moment, watching him. The old man didn't move. His posture was too still, like he'd been sitting there for a while. The room echoed faintly, the kind of echo that came from thinking out loud and hearing it bounce off bare walls.

"…What are you doing?" James finally asked.

Without turning, the man answered dryly, "Watching paint dry."

James blinked again.

"Your life is a drag and snooze fest," the man added, still staring at the wall.

James frowned. "Well that was rude."

James sighed. Maybe he should've declined the man's offer.