Morning came gently to Greyshore.
Joe woke to the sound of waves and distant voices, the village already stirring to life. For a brief moment, he lay still, staring at the wooden ceiling above him, half-expecting to wake up back in his old world—back in that cramped room, back to shouting and broken glass.
But the straw mattress beneath him was real.
So was the faint ache in his small body.
"…Still here," he whispered.
He sat up slowly, stretching his arms. His muscles protested immediately. A weak smile crossed his face.
Good.
Pain meant he was alive.
As he stepped outside, cool sea air brushed against his face. The village was already awake. Fishermen hauled in nets heavy with the night's catch, women sorted fish with practiced hands, and children ran barefoot along the dirt paths, laughing without a care.
No one paid him much attention anymore.
Not like before.
Joe noticed the change.
Rook stood near the well, lifting two water buckets that looked far too heavy for a normal man.
"You're up early," Rook said without turning.
"I'm used to it," Joe replied.
Rook glanced down at him, then nodded toward the buckets. "Think you can help?"
Joe stepped forward without hesitation.
He wrapped both hands around the handle and pulled.
The bucket barely moved.
His arms trembled. Water sloshed dangerously close to the rim.
Joe clenched his teeth and adjusted his stance, copying what he had seen others do. Slowly—painfully—the bucket lifted an inch, then another.
Three steps.
Four.
His strength gave out, and the bucket thudded back down.
Joe bent forward, breathing hard.
Rook didn't laugh.
Didn't scold him either.
"That enough?" Rook asked.
"For now," Joe said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Rook smirked. "Good answer. Strength comes later. Trying comes first."
Joe nodded.
Over the next several days, Joe fell into a routine.
Mornings were for work—carrying water, cleaning fish, gathering firewood under watchful eyes. His small body struggled, but his mind stayed sharp. He learned quickly, memorizing movements, conserving energy.
Afternoons were quieter.
Sometimes he helped mend fishing nets. Other times, he sat near the shore, watching distant ships pass like shadows against the horizon.
At night, his thoughts grew loud.
He often found himself lying outside the hut, staring at the stars scattered across the dark sky.
His fingers would drift, almost unconsciously, to the locket around his neck.
One night, he opened it again.
Monkey D. Joe.
He had thought about the D before. Anyone who had watched One Piece would. The mystery. The will. The legends.
But lately…
His eyes lingered on the first word.
Monkey.
"…Monkey," he whispered.
That name wasn't just rare.
It was heavy.
An image surfaced in his mind—an old man with iron fists, a dog mask pulled over his head, and laughter loud enough to shake the sky.
Monkey D. Garp.
The Hero of the Marines.
The man who fought the Pirate King.
The grandfather of Monkey D. Luffy.
Joe swallowed.
"Am I… related to him?"
The thought sent a chill down his spine.
If that were true, then this life wasn't just a second chance.
It was a dangerous inheritance.
Marines. Expectations. A legacy built on battles and blood.
Joe closed the locket tightly in his palm.
"I don't want to be chained by a name," he muttered.
Not to Marines.
Not to pirates.
Not even to destiny.
"If I really am a Monkey," he said quietly, "then I'll decide what kind."
A breeze passed through the village, rustling nets and wooden roofs. For a brief moment, Joe felt a strange pressure—like unseen eyes had turned toward him.
Then it vanished.
Joe exhaled slowly.
"…Yeah."
The next day, Rook tossed him a small wooden knife.
"Training tool," Rook said. "Not a toy."
Joe caught it clumsily.
"What do I do with it?"
"Learn how not to hurt yourself."
Rook taught him the basics—how to hold it, how to move his feet, how to keep balance. No techniques. No names. Just fundamentals.
Joe struggled.
His body didn't always respond the way his mind wanted it to. Sometimes he tripped. Sometimes he fell flat on his back.
But every time—
He got up.
Rook noticed.
"You don't quit," Rook said one evening.
Joe shrugged. "I already know what quitting leads to."
Rook didn't press him.
Weeks passed.
Greyshore slowly accepted Joe.
Children challenged him to races—he lost every one. An old fisherman taught him knots. A woman showed him how to gut fish without ruining the meat.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Joe felt it before he heard it.
A cold unease.
The village headman called everyone to the docks. Joe stood near the back, small and silent.
"Pirate ship sighted," the headman announced. "Black sail. Skull with crossed spears."
Fear spread instantly.
"The Red Maw crew…"
"They're back already?"
"They took tribute last year."
Joe's chest tightened.
"When?" someone asked.
"Two days. Maybe three."
That night, Joe couldn't sleep.
He sat near the shore, staring at the dark sea, fists clenched.
This is how it starts, he thought. The strong deciding the fate of the weak.
His nails dug into his palms.
Not this time.
Something warm stirred in his chest—not explosive, not violent.
Steady.
Focused.
The world sharpened.
The sound of waves. The creak of wood. Even distant footsteps.
Then—
"Joe."
Rook's voice snapped him out of it.
The feeling vanished instantly.
Rook sat beside him.
"You thinking about the pirates?" he asked.
Joe nodded.
"You scared?"
"Yes," Joe answered honestly.
Rook smiled faintly. "Good. Fear keeps you alive."
He looked out at the sea.
"But fear shouldn't chain you."
Joe stared at the horizon.
"I don't want to live quietly," he said. "Not if it means bowing my head forever."
Rook studied him for a long moment.
"I don't know what you are," he said slowly. "But that look in your eyes—it's not normal for a kid."
Joe didn't deny it.
Rook placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Then grow strong," he said. "This world doesn't forgive the weak."
Joe nodded.
"I will."
Far beyond the village's sight, a ship cut through the waves, its black sail fluttering like a bad omen.
On its deck, a man grinned.
"Greyshore," he said. "Looks like payday."
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