Pain was the first thing he felt.
A dull, throbbing ache in his head, like he'd been sucker-punched by a heavyweight boxer. His body was stiff, his limbs half-buried in warm sand, and as his mind slowly crawled toward wakefulness, he became aware of the rhythmic crashing of waves nearby.
The salty tang of the ocean filled his nose, mixing with the earthy scent of damp wood and seaweed.
He groaned, blinking against the harsh sunlight. His vision blurred, then cleared, revealing an endless expanse of deep blue stretching to the horizon. A beach. He was lying on a beach.
Why the hell was he on a beach?
His heart rate spiked. He pushed himself up on shaky arms, sand clinging to his skin as he sat up and scanned his surroundings. A dense jungle loomed behind him, the foliage swaying in the warm breeze. Towering palm trees, thick green vines, vibrant tropical flowers, and most importantly a colossal tree towering over the horizon—definitely not anywhere he recognized.
This wasn't right. This wasn't home.
A sense of unease settled in his gut. He struggled to piece together how he got here, but his mind was a complete blank. No memories of a plane ride, a shipwreck, or even a drunken bender gone wrong. Just... nothing.
He glanced down at himself, and his stomach twisted in confusion.
His body was different.
Gone was the soft, slightly chubby frame of a guy who spent too much time sitting at a desk working from home. Instead, his skin was tanned, his arms were lean and toned, and his stomach—he hesitantly prodded it—was firm. Not shredded, but definitely not what he remembered.
And then there were the tattoos.
Black, wave-like markings stretched across his chest in intricate patterns, like ocean currents frozen mid-motion. They weren't the kind of tattoos he'd ever get, and yet... there they were, inked onto his skin like they'd always been there.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, inhaling deeply.
"Okay. Okay. Either I got kidnapped by a fitness cult, or I'm hallucinating. Maybe both."
He pinched his cheek. Hard.
Nope, still here.
A sharp growl rumbled through the air, and for a brief, horrifying moment, he thought some kind of wild animal was about to leap from the bushes and maul him. Then he realized the sound came from his own stomach.
Hunger. Right. He was starving. And now that he was paying attention, his throat was dry too—his body screaming for food and water.
Survival first. Existential crisis later.
With a determined huff, he dusted off his pants—loose, dark, and slightly ragged but functional—and started toward the jungle. If there was anything edible on this island, it'd be in there.
The search was a disaster.
For the last hour (or maybe longer—he had no way of knowing), he'd scoured the forest, looking for anything remotely edible. Fruit, berries, nuts, hell, even a small critter he could—reluctantly—hunt.
Nothing.
Just weird plants, towering trees, and the occasional rustling that made him question if he was being watched.
Then he saw it.
Nestled at the base of a gnarled tree was a single, bizarre-looking fruit.
It was round, slightly larger than a grapefruit, with dark red skin covered in swirling black patterns. The second he laid eyes on it, his breath hitched.
That design—it was familiar. Too familiar.
He crouched beside it, heart pounding.
A Devil Fruit.
That wasn't possible. Devil Fruits were from One Piece, an anime. A fictional thing from a fictional world.
And yet, here it was.
His rational mind fought against the idea. He'd been through enough sci-fi and fantasy media to know better than to assume he was in some kind of anime world. Maybe he was just delirious, or maybe this was some kind of rare, unknown fruit that looked like a Devil Fruit.
Still… if this was real, then that meant—
He shook his head violently. No. Not happening. He wasn't about to entertain the idea that he'd somehow landed in One Piece.
But even if it was real, he wasn't stupid enough to just eat it.
Devil Fruits gave incredible powers, sure, but they also came with the permanent drawback of being unable to swim. And since he was currently stranded on an island, losing the ability to stay afloat seemed like a death sentence.
If that wasn't enough, then the prospect of getting a useless power like summoning snails or shooting acorns out of his hand would serve as a deterrent on its own.
His stomach growled again, reminding him that he was no closer to finding food.
With a sigh, he left the fruit where it was and continued searching.
An hour later, he was no better off than before.
Nothing but trees, rocks, and his own mounting frustration. His throat was parched, his limbs felt heavy, and the thought of drinking seawater was starting to sound dangerously reasonable.
With no other options, he trudged back to the beach, hoping—praying—he could at least catch a fish.
Fishing without equipment was impossible.
After thirty minutes of flailing around like an idiot, he had nothing to show for it but wet clothes and wounded pride.
Then, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature dropped. Fast.
The warmth of the day faded into a sharp, biting chill. He needed fire. He needed shelter. He needed something.
He tried to make a fire.
That was also a disaster.
No lighter, no matches, not even a water bottle conveniently washing ashore. Just a fool rubbing sticks together until his hands were raw and full of splinters, who failed to appreciate what a marvelous thing pollution was.
Finally, shivering and frustrated, he accepted the inevitable truth that men would deny all their lives; he had no survival skills.
If he wanted to survive the night, he had to go back into the jungle. And if he wanted the energy to keep moving…
He had to eat the fruit.
With reluctance, he returned to where he found the fruit and picked it up.
It felt… strange. The texture was firm yet slightly soft, like an overripe peach. The swirling patterns seemed to shift under the dim moonlight.
He hesitated. He really didn't want to do this.
With a deep breath, he brought it to his mouth and took a bite.
Immediately, he gagged.
The taste was indescribably awful—like rotten fish, moldy cheese, and week-old garbage had a cursed lovechild.
He coughed, spitting out the pulp. "Oh, that's nasty. What the hell?"
He nearly threw the fruit away in disgust, but a strange warmth spread through his body. His limbs tingled, his stomach churned, and for a brief moment, it felt like something was… changing.
And then, just as suddenly as it came, the sensation vanished.
He glanced at his hands.
Nothing looked different.
Did it work? Did he just gain a Devil Fruit power?
There was only one way to find out.
But that could wait until morning.
Right now, he needed to find a place to sleep before he froze to death.
After wandering deeper into the forest, he found his salvation—a large, hollowed-out tree trunk.
It wasn't much, but it would keep the wind off him for the night.
Curling up inside, he let exhaustion drag him into unconsciousness.
...
He woke to the sound of birds and the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the trees.
Blinking away sleep, he sat up, stretching out his sore limbs.
Then he remembered. The fruit.
Had it really worked?
Testing it was simple enough. He picked up a small rock and tried… something. Willing it to change.
At first, nothing happened. Then—
Thud.
The rock suddenly became as heavy as a boulder, dropping from his grasp like a lead weight.
His eyes widened.
No way.
He grabbed another stone, focusing harder this time.
This time, when he threw it, it shot off like a bullet, vanishing into the distance with a whizz.
A moment later, a loud yelp echoed from beyond the trees.
His stomach dropped.
Before he could process what just happened, rustling filled the air, and suddenly, he was surrounded.
Pear-shaped men with strangely advanced-looking spears glared at him, their small, round bodies tense. Their tribal tattoos and strange garments were unmistakable.
The Torino Kingdom people.
His mind caught up with the realization, and an overwhelming thought filled his brain.
Oh crap.
He had definitely hit one of them.
And judging by the way they were looking at him… he had a lot of explaining to do.
The tribesmen leveled their spears at the young man, their expressions wary yet curious. One of them, a stocky figure with a feathered headdress, stepped forward. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
The castaway raised his hands, palms open in a gesture of peace. "I'm just a castaway. I have no idea how I got here. I was searching for food and shelter, and I spent the night inside that tree over there."
The tribesmen exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Then, for some reason, they turned back to him with a look that could only be described as… pity? No, disappointment? No, actually—it was something much worse. It was the way someone might look at a complete and utter idiot.
One of them pointed an accusing finger at him. "Then why did you assault one of us with a rock?"
The young man blinked, processing the question. Only now did he notice one of the tribesmen standing slightly behind the others, rubbing a large, angry red bump on his forehead. The man's glare was downright venomous.
Raising one hand in surrender, the castaway offered a sheepish grin. "Honest mistake."
The tribesman with the bump scowled. "A mistake?!"
"I had no idea anyone was there when I threw it," he clarified quickly.
The injured man crossed his arms. "Why did you throw it in the first place?"
"Well," the castaway began, "I found this weird-looking fruit, and since I had nothing else to eat, I took a bite of it." He paused, then decided to be upfront. "It was a Devil Fruit. And I was trying to test what ability it gave me when I threw the rock."
Silence. The spears lowered slightly. The tribesmen looked at each other, their expressions puzzled. One of them, a taller man with a thick mustache, slowly blinked and then asked, "So you ate a strange fruit because you had no food… and slept in a tree because you had no shelter?"
The castaway, just as confused by their confusion, nodded. "Yeah?"
That was apparently the funniest thing they had ever heard. The tribesmen burst into laughter, some doubling over, others slapping their knees.
The castaway frowned. "What's so funny?"
A tribesman wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. "Our village is just beyond the shrubs. If you had taken a few more steps, we would have fed and sheltered you."
He stared at them. Then, hesitantly, he turned to where the man was pointing.
Past the dense foliage, barely hidden from view, rooftops peeked through the trees. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. The faint murmur of voices and everyday activity reached his ears—signs of civilization that he had somehow completely missed in the darkness of the night before.
He turned back to the tribesmen, his brain processing the information at the speed of a snail wading through molasses.
"...Oh."
The laughter only grew louder.
One of the tribesmen clapped him on the back, grinning. "You're a funny guy! What's your name?"
The young man snapped out of his daze. "Oh, it's—" He stopped mid-sentence, the words dying in his throat.
A new world. A new body. Why not a new cool name to go with it?
A smirk tugged at his lips as he made his decision.
"Call me Harlow. Harlow Gale."
...
The fire crackled, sending flickering shadows dancing across the faces of the gathered tribesmen. Harlow Gale sat cross-legged near the bonfire, absently chewing on a chunk of roasted meat. The warmth of the fire did little to ease the lingering embarrassment gnawing at him.
A devil fruit. He had eaten a devil fruit to stave off hunger—when an entire village full of kind, welcoming people had been a stone's throw away. He still couldn't wrap his head around it. The sheer absurdity made him want to laugh and groan at the same time.
Across from him, one of the tribesmen, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and an easy grin, cleared his throat. "So… you ate a devil fruit, huh?"
Gale turned to him with a twitching eyebrow. "Go ahead and laugh, why don't you? I already feel like a jackass."
Shanba chuckled. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." His grin said otherwise. "But I gotta admit, I'm curious. What kind of ability did it give you?"
Gale let out a long sigh and shifted his gaze toward the fire. "Not sure," he muttered. "But I think I can make things heavier or lighter."
Curious murmurs spread among the tribesmen. A few leaned in, watching as Gale scanned the ground for something to test his theory on. His gaze landed on a fresh green leaf lying near his foot. He picked it up, frowning in concentration.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, he let it go.
THUD.
The leaf hit the ground like a dropped anvil, instantly sinking into the mud. The gathered tribesmen gawked at the sight.
One of them muttered, "No way…"
Gale wasn't done. He picked up a small rock next, rolling it between his fingers. He exhaled, focused, then gently flicked his wrist upward.
The rock shot into the sky, vanishing into the night like a bullet.
A stunned silence followed.
Shanba's wide eyes slowly tracked upward, as if half-expecting the rock to come plummeting back down at any moment. "That's… strange." He trailed off, then seemed to remember something. "You know, Kiwanu has always been interested in devil fruits. Maybe you should pay him a visit—see if he can tell you more about yours."
Gale raised an eyebrow. "Kiwanu?"
Shanba nodded. "He's one of our village eldesr. Knows a lot of weird stuff about a lot of weird stuff. If anyone can help you figure out what you've got, it's him."
Gale looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. He had power now—real power. And yet, he had no idea how to wield it.
Maybe this Kiwanu guy could change that.
...
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