Chapter 1: I Was One Chapter Away [1]
Read Advanced chapter at Patreon.com/ Otaku_Reader
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The harsh, artificial glow of the computer monitor was the only thing cutting through the darkness of the room.
3:47 AM.
Alex Walker hadn't moved a muscle in four hours. His back was hunched into a question mark, his neck craned forward, and his bloodshot eyes were locked onto the countdown timer on the screen.
[ONE PIECE FINAL CHAPTER RELEASE: 00:15:32]
To his left, a mug of black coffee had long since turned into cold, bitter sludge. The desk was a chaotic warzone of creative debris: scraps of high-density EVA foam, a half-sanded prop sword, and a pair of white goggles he had meticulously weathered by hand. The Gojo Satoru cosplay he was building for next week's convention still needed the wig styled, but right now, Alex couldn't bring himself to care about glue guns or hairspray.
He had been chasing this story for ten years.
From high school through college, and now into the grind of his 9-to-5 corporate job. He remembered reading the tankōbon volumes under his desk in math class while the teacher droned on about calculus. He remembered locking himself in his dorm bathroom, sobbing silently into a towel when Ace died at Marineford. He remembered landing his first real job just as the Wano arc began.
Ten years. Over three thousand, six hundred days of theory crafting, forum arguments, and anticipation.
The timer ticked down into the final five minutes.
Alex felt his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed in his ears. His fingertips were ice cold. He took a deep, shaky breath and reached for the bag of chips he'd saved specifically for this moment—a ritual. You didn't read the end of an era without snacks.
04:30.
He thought of the Going Merry sinking into the sea, flames licking the sky.
03:15.
He thought of Robin screaming, "I want to live!" at Enies Lobby.
02:00.
He thought of Whitebeard, standing tall even in death, declaring that the One Piece is real.
01:00.
He thought of Luffy's grin—that wide, infectious, missing-tooth smile that promised absolute freedom.
00:30.
His hand tightened around the mouse, his knuckles turning white.
Ten. Nine. Eight...
The edges of his vision began to blur. The black spots were creeping in. The consequences of staying awake for three straight days to finish his cosplay and work projects were finally collecting their debt. His temples throbbed with a violent, jagged pain.
He shook his head, trying to force his eyes to focus. Just stay awake. Just a little longer.
Three. Two. One...
The page refreshed.
The loading circle spun halfway.
And then—darkness.
"Alex? Alex!"
The slap wasn't malicious, but it was heavy, delivered by a hand roughened from years of hard labor.
Alex gasped, his eyes flying open. Instead of his dual-monitor setup, his vision was filled with the weathered, sun-beaten face of a middle-aged woman. Deep crow's feet radiated from her eyes, and her graying hair was pulled back in a messy, practical bun.
"For heaven's sake, boy!" The woman grabbed his arm, hauling him up from a pile of dry hay. She began aggressively dusting off the straw clinging to his flannel shirt. "Sleeping in the barn again? Do you want to catch pneumonia? It's freezing out here!"
Alex didn't speak. He couldn't. His brain was trying to process the sensory overload crashing into him.
He was standing in a wooden structure. The air was thick—heavy with the smell of dry hay, the musk of livestock, and the sharp, undeniable tang of manure. Behind a wooden railing, several dairy cows were chewing their cud with rhythmic indifference, occasionally flicking their tails. Shafts of morning sunlight pierced through the gaps in the timber walls, illuminating dancing motes of dust.
This was not his apartment.
This was not his "nerd cave."
Where were his glass display cabinets filled with imported figures? Where were his framed Jujutsu Kaisen posters? Where was the unfinished foam armor in the corner?
There were no cows in his apartment. Absolutely no cows.
"I..." His voice cracked. It sounded raspier, younger. Stranger.
"Let's get inside." The woman, who his instincts screamed was his mother—half-guided, half-dragged him toward the barn doors. "Up all night reading those books again, I bet. How many times have I told you? Early to bed, early to rise..."
Alex stumbled after her, his legs feeling like jelly.
As they stepped out of the barn, the cool morning wind hit him, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh grass.
A vast pasture unfolded before his eyes. Rolling green hills stretched out to meet a clear blue sky, broken only by the distant silhouette of a mountain range. Wooden fences partitioned the land, containing flock of sheep that looked like cotton balls drifting across the green. A few rustic farmhouses dotted the landscape, thin pillars of smoke rising lazily from their chimneys.
Blue sky. White clouds. Green grass. Cows.
It looked like the default Windows XP wallpaper, but in high definition.
Yet, as the majestic beauty of nature washed over him, Alex Walker had only one thought screaming in his mind:
I didn't see the last chapter.
I was one chapter away. ONE.
My life was about to be complete!
Oh god, what did I do to deserve this? Was I Hitler in a past life?
The grief was so profound he wanted to drop to his knees and scream at the heavens.
It took three days for the denial to fade and the reality to set in.
He had spent the last seventy-two hours quietly gathering intel. He was still Alex or "Al" to his parents, seventeen years old, the only son of this ranch's owners. His father was John Walker, a man of few words and broad shoulders. His mother was Sarah Walker.
They owned about forty head of cattle, a flock of sheep, and a couple of horses. It wasn't a massive corporate operation, but it was enough to sustain the family.
The world seemed to be stuck in a technological limbo resembling the late 90s. There was electricity and running water. There was a TV—a heavy, boxy CRT model with a convex screen. The town had telephone lines, but out here on the ranch, they were cut off from immediate communication.
The most critical piece of information, however, came during dinner on the fourth night.
"Dad," Alex asked, pushing his peas around his plate with a fork, trying to sound casual. "Do we have any comics around? You know... graphic novels?"
John looked up from his steak, raising a bushy eyebrow. "Funny papers? The general store in town might have a rack. Mostly stuff for little kids, though."
"What about... cartoons on TV?"
"Cartoons?" Sarah chimed in, pouring gravy. "Sure, the Kids' Channel comes on at six. But aren't you a little old for that, Al?"
Alex fell silent and shoveled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.
Later that night, he snuck into the living room. The TV hummed with static before the picture snapped into focus. He turned the dial to the channel Sarah had mentioned.
He froze.
The animation was stiff. The colors were garishly bright. On the screen, a hero in generic silver armor raised a sword and shouted, "Halt, evildoer!" before swinging at a purple blob monster. The monster fell over and vanished in a puff of sparkles.
Alex watched for ten minutes.
The hero killed three monsters.
(To be Continued)