The dawn broke over Cocoyashi Village with a brilliance I hadn't seen since arriving in this world. Not that the sun shone any differently, but everything seemed more vibrant now that Arlong's shadow no longer loomed over the island. I stood outside Nami's home, watching villagers embrace the day with renewed purpose—fishermen preparing their boats without fear of tribute collectors, shopkeepers opening without dread in their eyes.
"You're up early," came Nami's voice from behind me. She joined me at the railing, her orange hair catching the morning light.
"Force of habit," I replied. "I always had a strict schedule for training."
Nami leaned against my shoulder casually, our physical boundaries having dissolved over the past few days. The kiss on the beach had changed something between us, creating a comfortable intimacy neither of us felt the need to define yet.
"Nojiko wants to show me something at the tangerine grove," she said. "Want to come?"
I nodded, following her through the winding paths of the village. Everywhere we walked, villagers stopped to bow or offer thanks. Nami accepted their gratitude with grace, though I could see it made her uncomfortable. She didn't see herself as a hero—just a girl who'd done what was necessary for her home.
Nojiko was waiting at the grove, her blue hair visible among the tangerine trees. Beside her stood Genzo, the village leader, his pinwheel hat spinning gently in the morning breeze.
"There she is," Nojiko called, smiling. "Our liberator."
Nami rolled her eyes. "We did it together," she said, glancing at me.
"That's not why we asked you here," Genzo said, his gruff exterior softening. "We have something to show you."
He led us to a small clearing where a simple stone marker stood. On it was the name "Bell-mère" and fresh flowers had been placed before it.
"Your mother would be proud," Genzo said, placing a hand on Nami's shoulder. "She always said you'd change the world someday."
I stepped back, giving them space for this moment. The bond between them was palpable—a found family forged in hardship and resilience. Nami knelt before the grave, her fingers tracing the engraved name.
"I did it, Mom," she whispered. "We're free."
Nojiko joined her sister, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "And she has something else to show you," she said, looking at Nami expectantly.
With a deep breath, Nami pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, revealing her left shoulder. Where Arlong's mark had once branded her, there was now a new tattoo—a pinwheel tangerine design that incorporated parts of the old mark but transformed it into something beautiful.
"When did you do this?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
"Last night," she admitted. "The village doctor helped. I couldn't carry that mark anymore, not after everything we did."
Genzo nodded approvingly. "A new beginning deserves a new mark."
The celebration that followed lasted seven days—longer than I thought prudent, but I couldn't deny these people their joy after eight years of oppression. The square overflowed with music, food, and laughter. Children who had grown up under Arlong's shadow now played freely, their games stretching late into evenings their parents no longer feared.
On the third day, I found Nami at the village bank, counting out a substantial pile of berries.
"One hundred million," she said without looking up. "Every berry I collected over eight years."
"You're leaving it all?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She nodded, pushing the money across the counter to the stunned banker. "For rebuilding. I don't need blood money where I'm going."
I raised an eyebrow. "And where exactly are you going?"
Nami turned to me with that mischievous smile I'd grown so fond of. "With you and that rubber idiot, of course. Someone needs to keep you both alive."
Later that evening, as villagers danced around a massive bonfire, Luffy, Nami, and I sat apart, planning our next move.
"I promised Grandpa I'd wait until I was eighteen to set sail officially," Luffy explained, his face unusually serious. "That's still six months away."
"I thought you'd ignore that promise the moment you had a crew," I said.
Luffy shook his head. "I break lots of rules, but not promises. Especially not to Gramps."
The implication was clear—we had six months before the Straw Hat Pirates would officially form. My mind worked through the timeline adjustments this would require. Originally, Luffy had set out at seventeen without us, encountering each crew member along his journey. Now, the sequence had changed completely.
"So we train," I suggested. "Six months to prepare for the Grand Line."
Nami nodded. "I could use that time to map more of East Blue."
"Perfect!" Luffy grinned. "I'll go back to Dawn Island and get stronger. Then we'll meet up and become the greatest pirate crew ever!"
"Where should we meet?" Nami asked.
I didn't hesitate. "Loguetown. It's where Gold Roger was executed. Seems fitting to begin our journey properly there."
"Six months from now," Luffy agreed, extending his hand. "It's a promise!"
We clasped hands, the three of us forming a circle that sealed our pact. Looking at their faces in the firelight, I felt an unexpected surge of emotion—I wasn't just altering a timeline anymore; I was becoming part of a story I'd once only read about.
Three days later, we stood at the docks as Luffy prepared to depart in a small boat bound for Dawn Island.
"Remember to use the training gear I gave you," I said, handing him a small package. "The gravity bracelet especially—start at level one and work your way up."
"And don't lose that weather predictor!" Nami added, adjusting his trademark straw hat. "I won't be there to warn you about storms."
Luffy laughed, untroubled by our concerns. "I'll be fine! Just don't have too many adventures without me!"
As his small boat disappeared over the horizon, Nami turned to me. "So, are we staying on the ship, or do you have something else in mind?"
I smiled, retrieving my portable nano-forge from my storage ring. "I was thinking we might continue our treasure hunting. After all, a future Pirate King's navigator deserves to be properly funded."
Her eyes lit up at the prospect. "I like the way you think, Mystery boy."
The following three months passed in a pleasant rhythm of adventure and discovery. With the modified treasure map I'd created using my wish power, we located sunken ships, hidden coves, and ancient ruins that had been forgotten by time. Each expedition filled our coffers and Nami's charts with new details.
By our second month together, Nami's personal fortune had grown to over 300 million berries—a fact she celebrated by purchasing rare navigation equipment and commissioning special waterproof paper for her maps.
"You know," she commented one evening as we counted our latest haul from a sunken merchant vessel, "I used to think money was the most important thing in the world."
"And now?" I asked, setting aside a particularly valuable emerald.
She looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the lantern light. "Now I know it's just a tool. Freedom is what matters—the freedom to choose your own path."
I nodded, understanding her perspective in a way few could. After all, I'd crossed galaxies and realities to find my own path.
Our routine settled into comfortable patterns. Mornings were for training—I maintained my rigorous physical regimen while teaching Nami combat techniques that would serve her well in the dangers ahead. Afternoons were spent exploring whatever island we'd anchored near, with evenings reserved for charting, planning, and increasingly, conversation that stretched late into the night.
One rainy evening, while sheltered in a cave on a small unnamed island, I revealed one of my most personal projects to her. From my storage ring, I removed a large canvas wrapped in protective cloth.
"What's this?" Nami asked, setting aside her maps.
"Something I've been working on," I said, suddenly feeling unexpectedly nervous. I carefully unrolled the canvas to reveal a painting—created with my wish-enhanced brush—depicting my journey from the moment I'd awakened in the crashed UFO.
Nami leaned forward, her eyes widening as she took in the detailed images—the desert planet, the Star Raven being repaired, Bleep hovering above my shoulder, the vast emptiness of space, and finally, the One Piece world as seen from orbit. The only elements missing were any references to my past life on Earth or my reincarnation.
"Kai..." she whispered, tracing the painted stars with her fingertip. "This is..."
"My story," I finished for her. "At least, the parts I can share."
She studied the images with the careful eye of a cartographer, noting details that others might miss. "The stars are wrong," she said finally. "These constellations don't exist in our sky."
"No," I admitted. "They don't."
Her eyes met mine, searching. "You're really not from this world at all, are you? Not just from another island or sea. You're from...somewhere else entirely."
"Yes."
"And you knew about this world before you came here," she continued, her quick mind connecting dots I'd carefully scattered. "You knew about Arlong, about Luffy...about me."
I took a deep breath. "Yes. But not everything. And things are changing now that I'm here."
She was quiet for a long moment, processing this confirmation of suspicions she'd harbored since our first meeting. Then, to my surprise, she simply nodded.
"I think I've always known you were keeping secrets," she said. "But after everything we've been through...after seeing how you've helped us...I don't think it matters where you came from. What matters is what you do now that you're here."
With that, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against mine—not the brief, impulsive kiss from the beach, but something deliberate and meaningful. When she pulled away, her smile contained no uncertainty.
"No more secrets between us," she said. "Alien boy."
That night marked a shift in our relationship. What had been building between us crystallized into something definite—we were no longer just allies or friends, but something more. We spent the night together, our conversation turning to whispers and eventually silence as we discovered new ways to communicate.
The next morning, I showed her more of what my wish-created paintbrush could do, manifesting small objects directly from imagination onto canvas, then pulling them into reality—a perfect rose, a miniature working compass, a music box that played a melody from my homeland.
"That's incredible," she breathed, examining the delicate rose. "What are the limits?"
"Size, mainly," I explained. "One cubic meter per day at most. And only non-living objects—nothing sentient."
"Still," she grinned, "that's one hell of an ability for a pirate crew to have."