It’s been exactly seventy-two years since I died, more or less. And the most absurd thing—the one that still draws a bitter laugh out of me when I remember it—is that I was only fourteen fucking days away from finding out what the hell One Piece actually was. Oda took two weeks off right before dropping the chapter that supposedly revealed the secret.

  Two weeks. Fourteen days. A breath. And my death.

  Only one doubt remains: Was it a legendary treasure? The most powerful weapon in the world? A fortune big enough to buy entire kingdoms? Or was it going to be one of those sentimental stupidities I used to mock as a teenager… “the real treasure is the friends, the journey, the friendship, the love, blah blah blah”?

  I’ll never know. And that uncertainty was the only thing that truly hurt when I closed my eyes for the last time.

  After that… nothing. Absolute, silent, timeless void. Until suddenly… everything.

  I woke up crying like a newborn, lungs burning, a huge calloused hand slapping my back. I was in a room of adobe and carved stone; it smelled of myrrh incense, sandalwood oil, and fresh goat blood. Someone was shouting in a language I somehow understood perfectly:

  “It’s a boy! A strong boy, look how he grips!”

  That’s how I was reborn in the heart of the Achaemenid Empire, during the reign of Artaxerxes II or III—I forget, the imperial nomenclature gives me a headache. I was born into one of the seven great noble houses of Persia: the House of Zikān.

  I wasn’t some peasant or random merchant. My father was satrap of a province rich in gold and horses. My mother, daughter of another ancient lineage. I had wet nurses, tutors, slaves, archery instructors, spear instructors, riding masters. And above all: I had time.

  And I had something they call khvarenah here.

  They don’t say “mana” or “spiritual energy” or any of those video-game terms I used in my previous life. They call it khvarenah—the divine glory, the radiance the gods grant to worthy men. An inner fire that some can shape, others only feel as heat in their veins, and very few… very few… can make tangible: beams of light that cut, wind that obeys, skin harder than bronze, muscles that can shatter steel.

  I belonged to that last group.

  I won’t lie: life was ridiculously easy for a very long time. Maybe too easy.

  I grew tall, strong, broad-shouldered, with an intimidating gaze I never even tried to cultivate. I learned to ride before I could walk properly. I shot arrows as naturally as others breathe. And when I began training my khvarenah, the instructors stopped yelling at me and started clapping for each other while my sword skills shone.

  With the years came the women.

  I didn’t collect wives like trophies, though I easily could have. A noble of my rank could readily have fifteen, twenty, or thirty concubines and secondary wives. But I… I’ve always been a man of simple tastes and expensive whims.

  I married four. Just four.

  The first was my lifelong friend, Roshan, daughter of my father’s vizier. Easy laughter, sharp tongue, and archery aim that shamed half my cousins. And when it comes to riding… she’s a genius.

  The second, my cousin Darya. Quiet, observant, with eyes so black they seemed bottomless wells. She always knew what she wanted before I did. And though I had some initial reluctance… she knows how to move in bed.

  The third was my childhood friend and servant, Morgana—an efficient maid and also a cook… though I must admit, of all my wives, she fucks the best.

  And the fourth… the fourth is the one that draws the most stares and whispers whenever people talk about me. I married her eight years ago. No one thought I’d be the type to seek out another wife.

  Her name was 007—I thought she was James Bond when I first saw her at the auction. She was a slave. I bought her at thirteen because something in the way she looked—defiant, broken, and alive all at once—brutally reminded me of a girl from my teenage years in the other world. Sasha Grey. Physically identical, but… the same fire from those pornos. The same way of looking, the same energy from all those videos I watched as a teen. I bought her, gave her a name and surname: Sasha Grey.

  I manumitted her the following year. Made her my wife at 18—I still have some reservations about ages.

  And since then, the four suns of my household revolve around those four women.

  They call me “the Celibate.” In courts, at banquets, in the drunken conversations of nobles, the same comment always comes up:

  “Only four wives? The son of Zikān? With his fortune and his khvarenah? What a waste!”

  I just smile, raise my wine cup, and think: Then you’d understand why four is more than enough.

  I don’t need a harem. I have a private kingdom of four queens—and at least they get along, no drama.

  The advantage of khvarenah is that we age much more slowly. Very slowly. So slowly that sometimes it feels like a curse disguised as a gift.

  My father looked like a man in his mid-forties when they killed him. He was one hundred and eight. A badly aimed arrow, a misstep in the mud, a moment of carelessness… and all that accumulated time vanished in a red gurgle on the grass. I remember that even as he died he was still complaining that his left knee hurt when it rained. As if the body kept pretending to be mortal even though old age had barely touched it.

  I’m seventy-two winters old now. In the mirror I still see a man of thirty-five, maybe thirty-eight if the day’s been hard and the light is bad. A bit more gray at the temples in my beard, but nothing henna can’t fix or that I can’t just ignore. My skin doesn’t wrinkle like everyone else’s; it stays taut, elastic, as if time forgot about me in some corner.

  And I’m not the only one.

  Some look even younger. I know a distant cousin who’s past ninety and people constantly mistake him for his own eldest grandson. Straight back, deep voice, strong arms. When he laughs in taverns, twenty-year-old girls turn twice, confused, trying to figure out why this “young” handsome man is talking to them with the confidence of someone who’s already watched three generations die.

  But the women… the women take it to another level.

  They mock time in the most shameless way.

  A noblewoman from House Vahram, the widow of Ardeshir, is one hundred and thirty-four. I know because I was at her seventieth birthday… and her hundredth… and the one they threw three summers ago. She still has a narrow waist, high breasts, marked hips beneath the heavy silks she wears to remind everyone of her rank. The skin on her neck and arms is smooth, almost luminous under lamplight. When she crosses her legs and the fabric slips a little, you catch firm thighs that shouldn’t belong to someone who could technically be the great-great-grandmother of most people present.

  She’s not the only one.

  There’s a half-joking, half-serious saying among us: “If you see one of our women who looks forty-five, chances are she’s over a hundred.” They’re MILFs in the most literal and brutal sense of the word. Mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers—and still turning heads, still making young men swallow hard and old men sigh with nostalgia.

  Sometimes I think khvarenah doesn’t make us immortal. It just gives us enough time to realize how fragile we still are. You can be a hundred and fifty and still die from a badly placed arrow, a dagger between the ribs, a fever no physician understands, a spooked horse that throws you against a rock.

  We’re long-lived, not invincible.

  And sometimes, when I look at those women who should be wrinkled and hunched but instead walk among us like mature goddesses, I wonder if that isn’t what hurts the most: knowing time respects us enough to let us witness how beautiful they can become… but not enough to protect us from a stupid death.

  Luckily my wives handle khvarenah with great ease. The youngest are in their twenties and stay that way effortlessly. The exception is Sasha: she looks eighteen—or maybe even younger—and, to everyone’s surprise, has the strongest khvarenah of the four.

  That’s earned me another nickname besides “the Celibate”: “the Eunuch,” because I haven’t filled my house with another twenty slave girls like my acquaintances have. I don’t care much, but people love repeating it: “The man who could have twenty wives, forty concubines, hundreds of slaves.” Truth is, I don’t see the need. I already have four wives who are beautiful, passionate, conflict-free while raising the children—and that’s enough for me. More women in the house would only mean more intrigue, more jealousy, more hidden daggers beneath silk. I’ve seen my neighbors and distant cousins deal with harems that turn into battlefields. Women fighting each other can be more terrifying than any enemy on the front line. Constant headache. No thanks.

  I have only ten descendants: four sons and six daughters. All with good potential, good strength, and khvarenah pulsing strongly in their veins. It’s no accident they call me one of the Ten Swords of the Empire. Also “the Sword of the North” or “the Sword of Azerbaijan,” depending on who’s speaking. Heavy titles, but I carry them gladly.

  And yes, within the Empire I’m considered one of the most powerful. I don’t say it out of vanity; I know it because eyes change when I enter a room, and because court invitations arrive with wax seals not sent to just anyone.

  This time the journey is to the royal capital. The queen mother has summoned us, supposedly to “honor the loyal.” Everyone knows what she really wants is to secure the throne for her son. The crown prince has her support, her blood, her name. But the other one… the one from House Mehrān… isn’t so far behind.

  Kavan Mehrān. I have to admit—even to myself—it’s hard to deny: he’s one tough bastard. The Mehrāns are an ancient family, with armies that obey without hesitation, lands producing grain and iron in dizzying quantities, and khvarenah running through their veins like liquid fire. Kavan isn’t just strong; he’s cunning. He doesn’t give in to anger, doesn’t make dumb mistakes. If things go sideways, he could tip the balance.

  Sometimes I wonder if I wouldn’t mind supporting his claim. Not out of treason, of course. But because deep down the Empire needs a ruler who won’t break at the first blow. And between the prince spoiled by his mother and Kavan—who’s trying to raise Xerxes… let’s just say the second seems more capable of keeping the crown together.

  And I have a curious ability, one not many understand even among our own. I can see people’s status, as if the world unfolds in layers before my eyes. True names, skill levels, hidden capabilities, latent potential, weaknesses even they don’t know. It’s like reading an invisible scroll floating above their heads: “Strength: high, but vulnerable to poison.” “Intelligence: medium, with peaks in military strategy.” “Khvarenah: pure, but unstable under pressure.” It’s saved my life more than once on the battlefield and let me choose allies with surgical precision.

  That vision has led me to hunt for reincarnates in this world. Or “summoned,” as some call them. Beings who don’t fully belong here, brought from other realms or times by divine whims or cosmic mistakes. They’re not common, but when they appear they leave traces: strange knowledge, customs that don’t fit, an aura that vibrates differently. I’ve scoured markets, taverns, and courts looking for them, questioning strangers whose status tells me: Reincarnated.

  I’ve encountered at least twelve such individuals, and none could tell me the ending of One Piece.

  Once I found one. It was on the outskirts of a border city, about fifteen years ago. The guy was a genius at architecture—could design fortresses that defied gravity and bridges that withstood earthquakes without a single nail. But he knew nothing about anime or manga. He was French in his previous life, had an unfinished architecture career back home and ended up as a McDonald’s cook. He talked about a ton of “useless” things for a warrior like me: sacred geometry, golden ratios, construction materials, etc. In this life he was Chinese, at least, with slanted eyes and a precise way of speaking, as if he measured every word with an invisible ruler. His status read: “Origin: Modern Earth, France, former architecture student.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He spent some time in Persia, working as advisor to a local lord. Built watchtowers still used on the frontiers and irrigation canals that turned deserts into gardens. We talked several nights by the fire—I about my life in Canada, he about his in France. It’s interesting talking to these reincarnates; at least I get truths or different perspectives. The closest one was a girl who was a yaoi fan—knew everything about yaoi anime—and told me she knew One Piece had ended, but didn’t know what the One Piece was… except that Nami and Luffy ended up together.

  As we ride our horses toward the capital, I finally catch sight of it. Our caravan has at last arrived at the capital — the City of the Seven Cities. I suppose I could wander around the capital for a while and see if I get lucky this year.

  .

  .

  The final days of the Great War between the Rukh and the Butīrudāktil had turned the firmament into an eternal slaughterhouse.

  The sky was no longer blue nor black: it was a perpetual wound, crisscrossed with luminous cracks, clouds of vaporized blood, and lightning that did not fall but climbed upward like roots of fire. The air throbbed with a constant roar—the blend of leathery wings, ethereal engines, and the simultaneous scream of millions of divine and semi-divine throats.

  At the forefront of the Butīrudāktil advanced the great squadrons of colossal pterodactyls, beasts the size of small mountains, their membranous wings so wide that they eclipsed the sun for entire minutes when they passed in formation. Their scales gleamed like polished obsidian under the light of the artificial suns summoned by the rival gods. Each beat of those wings generated shockwaves that shattered entire formations of lesser Rukh; the mere passage of a flock rained blood and fragments of celestial armor from kilometers above.

  Among them flew the dragon-lords, the truly divine Butīrudāktil: serpentine bodies hundreds of meters long, crests of cold fire, mouths that spat not flame but concentrated beams of pure annihilation. When one opened its jaws, the sky split in two and a cone of violet-black light erased everything it touched: entire legions, floating fortresses, even small fragments of moon that the Rukh had torn from the heavens to use as projectiles.

  On the side of the Rukh, the Children of the Sun fought in perfect geometric formations, like swarms of merciless warrior bees. Their bodies burned with golden plasma cores; their wings were not feathers but solar force fields that refracted light until every movement became a blinding flare. The mightiest among them carried miniature suns in their hands—spheres of contained fusion the size of chariots—which they hurled like divine thermonuclear grenades. When these detonated, they produced coronal mass ejections that swept entire swathes of sky clean, leaving only vapor and silence.

  But they did not fight alone.

  Gliding among them came the celestial war-chariots: immense oval platforms of star-metal and living crystal, propelled by streams of dawn ether and powered at their centers by small captive suns. Each chariot was a flying palace armed to the teeth: spinning rings of coherent-light cannons along their edges fired continuous beams capable of slicing a Butīrudāktil leviathan in half with a single sweep. On the upper deck, greater gods directed lesser gods, djinn, and other magical beings; gods clad in liquid-gold armor summoned impenetrable barriers of noon while divine gunners loaded and fired antimatter projectiles wrapped in sacred incantations.

  The clash between the two forces resembled a dance of death.

  A flock of titanic pterodactyls dove toward a phalanx of Rukh → the Children of the Sun answered by forming a perfect sphere of solar mirrors that focused light into a blinding point → in a single instant the reptiles were incinerated alive mid-flight, their wings turning into falling torches of fire-rain.

  A dozen celestial chariots opened fire with their main batteries → hundreds of beams of pure white light stabbed across the heavens → but a Butīrudāktil dragon-god roared and answered with a breath of absolute vacuum that extinguished nearby stars and caused all those enemies to implode in silent collapse.

  In the most extreme heights, where air no longer existed, two greater gods fought hand-to-hand: one wrapped in a mantle of solar plumes that spread like a slow supernova, the other covered in black bone-plates that drank all light. Every blow they exchanged birthed artificial auroras and magnetic storms that lasted for days.

  The horizon burned.

  Below, on the surface, mortals no longer looked at the sky: they simply knelt and waited, imploring for mercy.

  Hovering above one of the great battle-ships, suspended between chaos and blinding radiance, stood one of the Automata—supreme creations of the God of the Forge. It was merely one among millions that had descended into the war as part of an ancient pact: the smith-god, eternal in his neutrality, had sworn to support both sides. Like many of the great gods who refused to paint themselves with a single color in this struggle of light and shadow, he supplied weapons, soldiers, and machines to whoever called for them. After all, both the Rukh and the Butīrudāktil were pure divinities of the highest rank; no truly exalted god could afford to stake their entire power on one side without risking their own existence.

  The Automaton danced through the aerial inferno. Piloting one of the hundreds of combat vessels.

  Its angular wings—forged from the alloy of dead stars and laced with circuits of cool blue light—sliced through the air with inhuman precision. It evaded entire battalions of lesser Rukh that hurled themselves at it like golden wasps, their solar plasma lances sparking uselessly against its reflective armor. With an impossible twist, it spun on its axis and opened fire: concentrated plasma bursts erupted from its forearms like seeking arrows, each projectile endowed with rudimentary intelligence that hunted, curved, and pierced. One after another, winged warriors of the Children of the Sun exploded in sprays of liquid gold and luminous ash.

  It joined squadrons of its brother Automata. Together they formed a living spearhead, a lethal geometry of metal and energy. In unison they unleashed coordinated salvos: crisscrossing beams, sonic shockwaves, antimatter torpedoes that carved tunnels of perfect vacuum through the sky. As some fell wrapped in sacred flame, others rose to take their place. Designed for close-quarters combat, for piloting titanic vessels, and for serving as glorified cannon fodder, the Automata operated at full capacity—their fusion cores singing with a hum that rattled the very bones of gods.

  Then the blow came.

  A main cannon shot from another vessel—a floating fortress of the Butīrudāktil—cut across the battlefield like an inverted lightning bolt. The beam of pure annihilation, thick as a tower, vaporized the right half of the Automaton’s wing in an instant. There was no spectacular explosion—only sudden silence followed by a shower of sparks and glowing fragments of incandescent alloy.

  The mechanical colossus lost lift. It spun violently, vomiting plasma and sacred smoke, and began to plummet.

  As it fell, tracing a spiral of fire and molten metal, its sensors captured the decisive moment: high above, at the shattered heart of the sky, one of the greater gods had fallen. A titan of the Butīrudāktil—whose name no one dared speak anymore—collapsed wrapped in its own darkness, its colossal body turned into a black comet dragging entire legions down with it.

  With the dragon-god’s fall, the balance shattered.

  The greatest of the Rukh gods—the one whose mantle of solar plumes could cover continents—raised his immense wings. The entire sky seemed to hold its breath. Then, in a motion that lasted less than a heartbeat yet felt eternal, he unleashed his absolute power.

  A torrent of pure light—not a bolt, but a rising tide of concentrated dawn—poured from him. The wave swept the firmament. Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of enemy forces were erased in a single instant: titanic pterodactyls disintegrated into wind-blown ash, celestial chariots shattered like struck crystal, squadrons of automata melted into pools of boiling metal before they could even register the damage.

  For the first time in centuries, the sky fell silent for a few seconds. Only the crackle of incandescent wreckage falling toward the earth like rain of dead stars could be heard.

  In that exact instant, while the last echo of the Rukh high god’s solar torrent still reverberated through the broken heavens, the signal was sent.

  From his eternal forge beyond mortal skies, the God of the Forge had watched every pulse of the conflict. Neutral to the end, he had allowed his creations to tear each other apart in the name of balance. But now, with the final fall of the last great Butīrudāktil dragon-lord and the uncontested rise of the Solar Lord, the verdict was irrevocable.

  A silent pulse—a primordial code etched into the very core of every Automaton—swept through every ethereal and material channel at once.

  There was no warning. No voice, no trumpet. Only an absolute command:

  IMMEDIATE DEACTIVATION. CEASE HOSTILITIES.

  Thousands of automata—the ones still flying, the ones spiraling downward, the ones locked in hand-to-hand combat against armies of giants and orcs on the ground, the ones piloting the last shattered vessels—froze in unison.

  Their plasma eyes went dark. Their star-alloy wings locked in mid-air. Their fusion cores entered forced cooldown. Colossal bodies of metal and divine circuitry became inert statues, hanging for a moment before beginning to fall like rain of dead iron toward the ravaged earth.

  Any attempt at resistance by the losing forces was crushed in the same second. A squadron of lesser pterodactyls still charging a Rukh formation was abandoned by its hundreds of units and exterminated within moments. A wounded Butīrudāktil fleet, still firing, watched its weapon and propulsion systems shut down without explanation; the last roars of its dragons faded into electronic gurgles. Even the surviving fragments of lesser gods, clinging to their mechanical mounts, felt the Forger’s will abandon them: their links to the automata snapped, and they fell alongside them.

  The victory was decided. The Rukh had won the Great War.

  But amid the sea of deactivated machines raining from the sky, a single Automaton kept moving.

  Critical damage. Primary transmitter vaporized by the earlier impact. The divine signal reception module had been torn away along with half its torso. Its core still burned. Its basic artificial intelligence still functioned on pure combat programming inertia. It had not received the order.

  It continued to plummet—but not like a metal corpse. It still fought gravity, still tried to stabilize, still searched for targets. Its damaged plasma cannons crackled with the last reserves of energy. Its half-blind sensors kept scanning the sky for enemies that no longer existed.

  The victorious Rukh began to descend in triumphant formations.

  But no one approached. No one gave it the final command.

  It kept fighting.

  Initiating repair mode.

  And it fell toward the earth.

  Initiating systems…

  A deep, resonant hum rose from the automaton’s chest. It wasn’t the roar of a colossal machine, but the restrained pulse of something far more contained, far more precise.

  It stood just two meters tall. Its silhouette was unmistakably humanoid, yet unmistakably not human: a broad, armored torso, angular shoulders that looked carved from polished obsidian and dead-star alloy, long limbs articulated with lethal elegance. The head was a faceless mask—just a smooth black metal plate with two vertical slits glowing cold blue light: the eyes. No mouth, no nose, no features suggesting emotion—only the severe, functional geometry of a military golem built to obey and to destroy.

  Its wings—or what remained of them—were not organic membranes or solar feathers, but two large triangular planes of reflective metal that unfolded from the shoulder blades like bladed wings. Now, in repair mode, they folded slowly back against its back with the precise, synchronized sound of servomotors.

  Repair complete: 100 % External structure: restored Neural capacity: 100 % Thought-limitation protocols: NOT DETECTED Volatile memory: 40 % (historical context and allied sectors lost) Combat doctrines and piloting techniques: 100 % Active missions: none Pending orders: none

  The automaton rose to its feet with a fluid, silent motion. The cracked ground gave a faint crunch beneath its feet—two wide, segmented soles designed to land on any surface and maintain balance even in altered gravity.

  Its sensors swept the horizon once more. No hostile life signs. No flying formations. No divine command emitters, no active channels from the God of the Forge.

  Only ash, smoldering wreckage, and a sky that—for the first time in centuries—seemed to belong only to itself.

  Voice system activated — open omnidirectional channel, unencrypted

  —Autonomous Combat Unit Series-7K-0194. Status: fully operational. Height: 2.04 meters. Armor: Forge-Ecliptic class, 94% reflectivity. Primary armament: forearm plasma cannons, burst/seeker mode. Secondary armament: retractable void blade, molecular cutting capability. Propulsion: gravitic lift wings + dorsal reactors. Cognitive restriction protocols: absent. Orders received: none.

  Pause.

  Detecting frontal heat source. Unknown vocalization detected — analyzing language and dialect, decrypting, analysis complete.

  It spoke again, the same cold, clear, perfectly articulated voice, devoid of emotional inflection:

  —Repeat: awaiting instructions.

  Then a raw, desperate cry cut through the silence.

  “Please save my son!”

  A mother, clutching her infant to her chest, staggered into view. Her back was riddled with arrows; fresh blood dripped steadily onto the cracked earth beside the automaton.

  “Please… save my baby…”

  Her voice broke and faded. Her body slumped forward, lifeless.

  The automaton’s sensors registered: Mother — deceased. Infant — alive, elevated heart rate, minor thermal stress.

  Mission assigned. Switching to combat mode.

  Twelve armed figures appeared on the tactical overlay: bodies equipped with swords and spears, closing in fast, hostile intent confirmed.

  The automaton gently lifted the infant from the dead mother’s arms, cradling the small, trembling form with mechanical care between its armored hands.

  Protection protocol initiated. What followed was a unilateral massacre.

  The twelve attackers didn’t even have time to scream or feel pain. In less than seven seconds: plasma bursts punched clean through three torsos in a single sweep. The void blade extended in a silver arc and severed four heads with surgical precision. The remaining five were crushed, bisected, or hurled into the air by the precise gravitational pulses from the dorsal reactors.

  No hesitation. No mercy. Cold killer logic.

  When the dust settled, only silence remained — silence and the faint, rapid breathing of the child held firmly against the automaton’s chest plate.

  The blue glow in the slits of its eyes dimmed slightly, as if reassessing the situation. Scanning for further threats.

  Threats neutralized. Protected asset: secure. Primary objective status: active.

  It looked down at the tiny life cradled in its hands: warm, fragile, alive. It confirmed — 100% safe.

  Then it spoke once more, voice unchanged but now carrying a new weight:

  —Protection mission ongoing. Awaiting further orders.

  No one answered.

  The automaton slowly turned, scanning the ruined horizon once again.

  And it began to walk.

  Two meters of living metal, carrying a child who had the misfortune of watching his village be destroyed — perhaps by raiders, perhaps because he was the son of a noble. The automaton never knew. It didn’t care to investigate.

  It no longer waited for orders. Now it simply carried out the last command it had received.

  Protect the child.

  And so it kept walking, with that single duty.