Chapter 1
Sea Circle Calendar Year 1498, Grand Line (Paradise), Water 7
In a narrow alley of the city, a young boy lay unconscious on the ground, his head covered in blood.
Three thugs dressed in gaudy, colorful clothes surrounded a small girl who had fallen nearby. One of them kicked her viciously with his leather shoe.
The girl struggled to crawl out from under their feet, dragging herself over to the boy. She shielded him with her thin body, her eyes filled with stubborn determination as she tried to protect her "little brother."
...
My name is Qitian. I was an overworked corporate drone on Earth—working brutal 996 shifts every day. In my twenties, I was already losing hair rapidly (you could count the strands on one hand), suffering from cervical spondylosis, frozen shoulder, and all sorts of chronic ailments.
Endless work, endless overtime. My greatest dream was simple: freedom. But the burdens of life forced me to bow my proud head time and again.
The only bright spot in my exhausting days was sneaking in an episode of One Piece after work. That world of adventure on the high seas was where I longed to be—full of freedom, excitement, and escape.
Drained, I dragged myself home one night and, as usual, fired up the latest episode. As a die-hard fan, I'd rewatched the entire series over ten times.
I loved everything about it: the freedom, the beautiful women, the vast ocean, the bizarre adventures.
Suddenly, the room's lights dimmed. Electricity surged from my phone into my body. I twitched twice... and then nothing.
...
When I opened my eyes again, everything felt unfamiliar. My face was smothered in something soft and suffocating—a pair of full, warm mounds pressing against me.
Struggling to breathe, I pushed away the darkness with my hands. They sank into what felt like water-filled balloons, incredibly elastic. In my daze, it was almost comforting.
Finally clearing my vision, I saw a pair of snow-white peaks.
My hands were squarely on a girl's chest. She had long, curly blonde hair, big blue eyes that looked a bit airheaded, and an exquisitely beautiful face that drew the eye.
She wore an oversized, low-cut T-shirt, revealing a deep cleavage. The shirt was filthy and stained, turning it a dingy yellow. Below the waist, she wore nothing—exposing long, pale legs and delicate, bare feet dusted with dirt.
I was stunned. She felt familiar, but I couldn't place her.
Joy flashed in the girl's blue eyes, and she smiled brightly. "Carola, you're okay?"
Confusion washed over me. The modern skyscrapers were gone, replaced by buildings made of stacked blue bricks—no glass in sight.
Carola? Is she calling me?
Looking at my hands: slender fingers, distinct knuckles—nothing like my old chubby ones. I touched my head: smooth, full hair. No more bald programmer life.
Overwhelmed, I opened my mouth in shock, touching it again. Tears of joy welled up. After years of coding and hair loss, I finally had a full head again.
The girl—Kalifa—gently stroked my face, her eyes tearing up as she looked at my head wound with heartache.
Orphaned and without parents, her only family was this "little brother" they'd relied on each other for survival. Now, he was nearly killed by local thugs, and she feared losing her only support.
At sixteen, Kalifa had grown into a stunning beauty, catching the eye of a local gang who wanted to kidnap and sell her.
The original owner of this body had fought desperately to protect her but, as a malnourished teenager, was no match for grown men. They cracked his skull, leaving blood everywhere.
Suddenly, intense pain surged in my mind—like giant hands kneading my soul.
Memories not my own flooded in.
The pain faded quickly. I realized I'd transmigrated into the One Piece world, soul-replacing Kalifa's "brother," Carola.
Understanding my situation, I inwardly complained: This body was way too weak—no wonder the name "Carola" sounded so fragile. One hit and it's over.
It wasn't surprising. Street orphans like us rarely ate properly; staying alive was miracle enough.
Kalifa and Carola weren't blood siblings—just two homeless kids who'd stuck together and formed a brother-sister bond over time. Closer than many real families.
...
Merging with the original memories, I naturally felt affection for the girl. I held her soft hand on my cheek.
Looking at her deeply, I said, "I'm fine now, big sister."
Borrowing this body, I wanted to protect what the original boy cherished. Especially since Kalifa was one of my favorite characters from the series.
This was before Roger's execution—Kalifa hadn't joined the Marines or CP9 yet. She was still a teenage girl, though her figure had already developed perfectly.
Seeing my intense gaze, Kalifa blushed deeply, her fair cheeks turning rosy like ripe apples.
They shared a tender, affectionate moment—until the thugs behind them interrupted.
"Heh heh heh heh!"
One thug let out a classic villain laugh, drawing his sword with a cruel grin.
The blade rang out. My pupils contracted. In the One Piece world, beyond freedom, there was brutal violence. Death here was permanent—no respawns.
Kalifa spread her arms, standing bravely in front of me like a mother hen guarding her chick.
"You can't hurt my brother anymore! Or I'll... I'll..."
She racked her brain but couldn't come up with a scary threat.
The colorful thugs ignored her, pressing a cold sword to her neck. The chill froze her in place.