One Piece: My Crew is from Other World

The little girl—Kshia—folded her arms as she finished her rant. The other figures gathered in the shadowy chamber exchanged glances and gave subtle nods. None of them had ever agreed with Roy's decision, even back when it was made. But the circumstances then had left them no choice.

That war… that cataclysmic battle had shattered everything. They were barely alive afterward—wounded, shaken, scattered. Even if they had objections, they had no strength to resist Roy's will at the time.

But now? They had recovered.

And Roy's so-called World Government—a splintered faction he carved out—had nearly been obliterated by a rising pirate crew: the Dragon Hunter Pirates.

Under such circumstances, their frustration bubbled over.

"Since Roy's choice has clearly failed…" one of them muttered, "then why should we keep pretending that damned agreement matters?"

"I've had enough of this hole!" Kshia snapped. "I'm going out!"

She turned on her heel.

"Kshia," a man with a tired voice called out—Wade, an older fighter with a calm temperament. "I won't stop you. But don't take the Dragon Hunter Pirates lightly. Anyone strong enough to threaten Roy's organization isn't some back-alley thief."

Kshia scoffed. "Hmph! You always say that."

"Besides," Wade added, "you'll probably challenge them the moment you see them. You think beating them proves Roy was wrong."

Her eyes flashed. He wasn't wrong.

Kshia's pride wouldn't let her stand down, not when a group like the Dragon Hunter Pirates had thrown Roy's legacy into chaos.

Still, Wade continued softly, "That crew... isn't normal. Be careful."

"Tch. Don't lecture me."

She waved him off. "You supported Roy, didn't you? Mind your own business. I'm leaving."

But just as she reached the threshold, a bitter cold swept into the room like a deathly breeze.

Kshia froze, then narrowed her eyes. "Krulu Busulud... What the hell are you doing?"

From the darkness, a man cloaked in shadows stepped forward—Krulu Busulud, the elusive figure who had once appeared in the Holy Land of Marijoa. His presence was like winter incarnate, quiet but oppressive.

"You cannot confront the Dragon Hunter Pirates," Krulu said flatly.

"What?" Kshia snapped, stepping forward. "Are you going to stop me?"

She raised her arm, ready to summon her power. "Try me!"

But Krulu said nothing. He simply held out a crystal sphere.

Images flickered to life within it—battlefields drenched in destruction, the cries of clashing Haki, figures moving like shadows and storms. The recent battle between the Dragon Hunter Pirates and the remnants of Roy's faction played in stark, brutal detail.

Kshia's expression shifted.

"Wait… they're dead?" she muttered. "But those guys just resurfaced recently—how…"

She had heard whispers of the clash, but seeing it—feeling the will to fight emanating from those warriors—it chilled even her bold heart.

Their enemies hadn't simply fought to win. They fought as if death didn't matter. As if the only thing worth living for was the battle itself.

For the first time, Kshia hesitated.

"…Hmph. I'm not scared," she muttered, though her voice had lost its edge. "But if you're already watching them, fine. I'll wait."

She turned, her cloak billowing as she vanished from the hall.

One by one, the others began to disperse. The urgency had passed. No reason to stay.

"Krulu," Wade called out as the cloaked man turned to leave. "You've made contact with the Dragon Hunter Pirates before, haven't you? Can you… get more information?"

Krulu paused. His eyes shimmered beneath the hood.

"I'll try. But the Dragon Hunter Pirates…" He trailed off, then added with quiet weight, "They're deeper than the sea."

And with that, he vanished like mist.

—

Five Days Later

Ryuunosuke and his crew had already passed the Twin Capes and crossed Reverse Mountain. The Grand Line stretched before them like a promise—and a challenge.

Their first destination was Whiskey Peak, where they'd arranged to hand Carlos over to the Red Hair Pirates.

If he wasn't dropped off soon, the man might not survive from sheer mental exhaustion.

"Mr. Carlos, you don't look too good," Tatsumi said with a grin, placing a tray of steaming food and bottles of sake in front of him. "Eat something. Also… you didn't fight at full strength last round. You holding back on me?"

"We're generous here," he added. "Even prisoners eat well."

Carlos sat stiffly, eyes sunken, bruises dark and fresh. His hands trembled as he lifted the sake bottle.

Tears nearly welled in his eyes.

He was sane again—no longer consumed by the chaotic energy of the Infinite White Stone. But the past few days had been a blur of beatdowns and "training sessions."

At first, he held his own. Despite his madness, he was no weakling. Even after being wrecked by Ryuunosuke, he retained formidable strength.

But the Dragon Hunter Pirates… they were monsters.

One after another, they challenged him. No rest. No mercy. Each crew member fought like it was their final battle.

And even more terrifying—they recovered absurdly fast.

Carlos would crawl off the training mat black and blue, only to see the person who beat him already eating, laughing, and sparring again. His wounds throbbed. Their wounds vanished.

It was madness.

"I… I'm not even sure if I'm a prisoner," Carlos mumbled, gulping his drink. "Or just… an unwilling sparring partner in hell."

He wanted to file a complaint—honestly, he did—but he had no grounds to.

The Dragon Hunter Pirates had shown him hospitality, patched his wounds, and fed him the best meals he'd ever eaten.

While kicking the ever-living hell out of him.

Tatsumi cracked his knuckles and smiled. "Done eating? Let's go another round. I think I've leveled up since yesterday."

Carlos wept internally.

Forget Shanks scolding him. At this point, he'd happily crawl into the nearest crate labeled Return to Sender.

—

Three Days Later – Whiskey Peak

The ship docked at the port of Whiskey Peak under the golden afternoon sun. The town shimmered with heat and dust, but for Carlos… it was paradise.

He staggered off the ship like a man returning from war.

His expression was blank. His posture was robotic.

But when he spotted the Red Hair Pirates' ship anchored at the harbor—when he saw familiar faces waving from the deck—a flicker of hope sparked in his eyes.

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