"Allen. Starting tomorrow, you'll be base commander of the West Blue's 179th Branch."
...
The Western Blue.
Two figures sat on a weathered bench at the end of a quiet street, bathed in the dim orange glow of flickering streetlamps. Smoke curled around them like ghostly ribbons.
The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with short, silvery-white hair and two cigars clamped between his teeth, exhaling twin streams of gray into the night.
This was Smoker—former Grand Line officer, current commander of the 179th Marine Branch in the West Blue, and a Logia-type Devil Fruit user of the Moku Moku no Mi, the Smoke-Smoke Fruit.
He took a long drag, then let the smoke drift from his nostrils as his sharp eyes tracked the hurried passersby. A bitter sneer twisted his lips.
"I know what those bastards at HQ are playing at," he growled. "They took their cut from the syndicate, and now they don't want me chasing that crew anymore. Cowards!"
His voice dropped, edged with contempt:
"'We made you deputy because we thought you were easy to control!'"
...
It was the year 1510 of the Sea Calendar—roughly a decade since the execution of Gol D. Roger and the dawn of the Great Pirate Era.
Piracy had surged to unprecedented levels. Now, any Marine aspiring to command a branch had to undergo training at Headquarters and earn an official rank before taking office.
...
On the other end of the bench, a young man lounged with lazy elegance, arms draped along the backrest, his posture relaxed yet radiating quiet confidence.
His features were sharp and refined—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that glinted like polished obsidian. Black hair, tied in a high ponytail, framed a face that was striking without being delicate. Fair skin only accentuated his aristocratic air—a stark contrast to Smoker's rough-hewn intensity.
From Smoker's words, it was clear: this was Allen, his adjutant.
A cigarette dangled from his lips, rising and falling with each slow breath.
"Well," Allen said, voice smooth as silk, "what does it matter? It's a promotion. My salary's going up quite a bit."
He exhaled a thin plume of smoke and turned his head.
"Commander Smoker… where are you headed next?"
"Loguetown."
The name hung in the air like a blade.
Loguetown—the crossroads of the East Blue and the Grand Line. Birthplace and execution site of the Pirate King. The town of beginnings… and endings.
Allen's brow twitched almost imperceptibly. He folded his hands slowly, fingers interlacing.
"That's quite a place…"
But his mind was already racing.
According to the timeline, Smoker's been stationed in Loguetown for eight years.
Despite being a Logia user—and having close ties to Admiral candidate Kuzan—he'd seen no promotion.
Of course not.
Smoker wasn't just stubborn—he questioned the World Government's so-called "Absolute Justice." He followed his own code. And men in power hated that.
...
Allen wasn't from this world.
More precisely, he was a time traveler who'd landed in the wrong timeline entirely.
Name: Uchiha Allen
Age: 18
Gender: Male
Origin: Orphan of the West Blue's Flower Kingdom
Current Position: Deputy Base Chief, 179th Branch (as of today—Commander tomorrow)
Rank: Marine Lieutenant Commander (to be promoted to Colonel upon transfer)
Yes—Uchiha.
A name as infamous in another world as the "D." was here.
When Allen calmed his thoughts, a translucent interface—familiar yet alien—flickered into view:
[MISSION PANEL ACTIVATED]
Operation: "Motherly Love, Filial Piety, and the Dream of Peace"
The Uchiha are known as the Cursed Clan—haunted by tragedy, betrayal, and cyclical bloodshed.
You will break the chain.
Born of an Uchiha father and a Yuki clan mother, you wield both the Sharingan and Ice Release. Your destiny: to fuse fire and ice, sever the karmic ties binding Kaguya Ōtsutsuki to her sons, and end the millennium-long feud between Indra and Asura.
Return to the Uchiha from the Land of Water… and rewrite fate itself.
(The dossier includes profiles on nearly every named Uchiha—even a white-haired, masked infiltrator.)
[TIMELINE ERROR DETECTED]
Location miscalculation: Target world misaligned.
Temporary revision enacted.
NEW PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: "Purge Protocol"
—Eliminate all Celestial Dragons.
[USER FEEDBACK]
"Seriously? This is blatant discrimination!"
"As a mission panel, your bias is way too obvious!"
"At least give us clear rewards, penalties—something concrete!"
[SYSTEM RESPONSE]
"Rewards and penalties: TBD."
"Fundamental distinction: The Uchiha would burn themselves to save the world. The Celestial Dragons… would burn the world to save themselves."
"Interpret as you will. The math is self-evident."
What a jerk.
Allen had arrived in the Flower Kingdom as an infant. He remembered nothing of the journey—only that he'd died in his teens in his original life.
Since he'd been given a second chance at life—and there'd been no warning of punishment for failing his original mission—he decided not to obsess over it.
Luckily, he awakened Ice Release at the age of four. With that ability, he carved out a modest living by crafting ice for markets and fishing villages, just enough to scrape through his childhood in the West Blue.
By twelve, he'd saved every Berry he could. He bought a tiny skiff, stitched together a crude Jolly Roger from scavenged fabric, and dreamed of becoming a free pirate—just like the legends sung in taverns.
After all… this was the world of One Piece. What could be more natural?
…Unfortunately, natural didn't mean easy.
Before his boat even cleared the harbor, he was intercepted by a Marine with smoke curling from his fingertips.
Logia users were in another league entirely. Allen barely lasted two minutes before Smoker pinned him to the dock, ripped the fifty-Berry pirate flag from his mast, and tossed it into the sea.
He didn't die—thankfully—but his pirate career did.
Instead, Smoker offered him a choice: rot in a cell… or serve aboard his ship.
So began Allen's unexpected internship in the Marines.
Years passed. He proved himself—not through blind obedience, but through sharp judgment, tactical cunning, and a surprising knack for administration. Eventually, Smoker promoted him to first mate.
And honestly? The pay wasn't bad. Naval officers earned steady salaries, and there were… creative ways to supplement income in the West Blue.
Most importantly—
Allen didn't mind the secret directive he'd once been given: eliminate the Celestial Dragons.
Those inbred tyrants were despicable. But unlike Luffy, he had no legendary grandfather or pirate king for a brother. If he shouted "I'll kill every Celestial Dragon!" from a rooftop…
…his grave wouldn't just be dug by afternoon—it'd be watered, landscaped, and have a commemorative plaque by dinner.
(Not that there'd be a grave. The World Government doesn't leave bodies.)
…
His original plan had been simple: sail to Wano, seek out Kaido, and learn under the Beast King until he was strong enough to strike from the shadows.
But over the years, he realized something.
Kaido's strength wasn't something you learned—it was something you survived. Without a rock-solid foundation, you'd be crushed before your first lesson ended.
And where better to build that foundation than within the very institution meant to oppose pirates?
Besides…
Being a Marine didn't mean he couldn't fulfill his mission. If anything, it gave him access, authority, and plausible deniability.
Sometimes, the best way to burn down a system… is from the inside.
Later that evening…
"Allen," Smoker said, ash falling from his cigar as he gestured toward the shadows along the waterfront. "You usually handle base logistics, so I'll keep this brief."
His eyes narrowed. "That's Capone Bege. Rising fast in the underworld. They say this town belongs to the Navy by day… and to him by night."
The West Blue had always been lawless—the birthplace of mafia clans, private armies, and shadow economies. Ten years ago, it had also been home to Ohara…
…a name now erased from every official map.
Allen's expression darkened. "Outrageous."
Smoker took a slow drag. "He's dangerous. But arrogance makes even strong men sloppy."
He snapped his cigar in half.
"Tonight, we remind him—this port answers to the World Government. Not pirates."
Allen stood, brushing dust from his coat. He turned with a lazy half-smile, eyes glinting with mischief.
"It's a bit theatrical, don't you think?"
He shoved his hands into his pockets, voice light but edged with steel.
"You're transferring out tomorrow. Go rest. Shower. Sleep."
He glanced over his shoulder, smile widening just enough to be called charmingly wicked—thanks entirely to his unfairly sharp jawline.
"I've been meaning to say this for a while, Commander…"
"You're too soft on pirates."
"I'll show Bege exactly what the new base commander is capable of."
And with that, Allen stepped into the night—coat fluttering, ice crystals faintly shimmering in his wake.