One Piece: Reborn as Satoru Gojo

I closed my eyes. But the universe, being a troll, decided I didn't deserve sleep.

A rough shake yanked me out of my blissful near-coma.

"Oi! We're docking," the boy's voice said.

I opened an eye and blinked at him, my vision still hazy. The lantern lit his face. It showed his eager intensity in the dark of this ungodly hour.

"…Are you serious?" My voice came out scratchy. "Didn't you tell me that, like, five minutes ago?"

"That was 30 minutes ago."

"Same thing."

I exhaled with a deep breath and tried to sit up. Bad idea. The second I moved, my body reminded me of what I was like after facing Sukuna's domain. My arms, stomach, and legs were throbbing as if they were taking revenge on me personally. Just lifting my torso made me feel like I was being stabbed over and over again.

How did I even make it onto this ship with these wounds? Oh, yeah—pure desperation and a refusal to die like a soggy piece of driftwood.

"Kid, go get someone," I muttered, wincing as I tried to shift my weight. "I might be able to stand, but there's no way I'm getting up on deck by myself."

"Okay!" He nodded and bolted up the stairs.

A couple of minutes later, two men clomped down into the cabin. They looked exhausted.

One of them crouched next to me, scanning my injuries with a look that screamed, Yep, this guy's a mess.

"So, where does it hurt the most?" he asked.

"Arms, stomach, legs," I listed, then sighed. "But mostly my arms."

"Alright. You'll live."

Not exactly a comforting diagnosis, but I would take it.

One of them grabbed my legs, the other my torso, and together they hauled me upright. I gritted my teeth so hard I was surprised they didn't crack. My body screamed in protest, every muscle making it very clear that this was a horrible plan.

The whole time, I kept my face twisted in pain, trying very hard not to yell something unflattering.

They hooked my arms over their shoulders. Then, they began the slow, torturous process of getting me to the stairs. If I'd been much shorter, they probably could've just carried me. But nope, I had to walk.

Each step was its own personal nightmare. My body protested every movement. By the time we reached the ladder, I was pretty sure my entire nervous system had filed a formal complaint.

One of the fishermen climbed up ahead of me and grabbed me under the armpits. The other stayed below. They held my legs like I was an overgrown sack of very uncooperative potatoes. Inch by inch, they hauled me onto the deck.

Evening had settled in. The sky had that deep orange hue that made everything look strangely peaceful.

No time to admire the view, though. My two assistants lifted me again. They half-dragged and half-hauled me to a wooden plank that led down to solid ground.

I don't think I need to describe the agony of each step. You get the idea. But let's just say if my body were a person, it would have slapped me across the face for putting it through this.

And then—finally. Land. Solid, unmoving, blessed land.

A couple of hours ago, I'd have been like Denji from Chainsaw Man. I'd have been ready to be someone's footstool if it meant getting pulled onto a dry surface. But now? Now I just want to survive the next five minutes without collapsing.

While the rest of the crew unloaded the ship, two men dragged my sorry self through the village. This wasn't a land of luxury—more like a peaceful village where people lived their modest but happy days.

And then we finally turned toward a house.

It was a simple wooden home, painted white with red patterns along the edges. Not fancy, but cozy in a way that suggested the people inside actually cared about it.

The guy on my left let go of me (which, ow, thanks for that) and banged on the door.

"Carol! Open up!"

Silence.

He knocked four more times, each bang more impatient than the last.

Finally, the door creaked open. Instead of the middle-aged woman I'd expected, a girl stood there—probably no older than eighteen.

She has striking pink hair that cascades past her shoulders, styled with straight bangs that frame her delicate face. Long lashes accentuate her piercing blue eyes. Her expression is calm yet slightly aloof, exuding an effortless coolness.

She had the kind of expression people get when they open the door to find a stray dog on their porch. Except in this case, the dog was I.

"Hi, En," she said. Her voice was just normal. "Mom's not home. She went out to get groceries."

"Your brother and father will be here soon," the man said. "Just get a bed ready while we get him inside."

"What!? Who's that?"

"Fished the kid out of the sea," he said. "Didn't think he'd last another hour in the water. Your dad decided to keep an eye on him for now."

She hesitated, eyes narrowing at me like she was debating whether I was some kind of con artist.

"Uh… okay," she said.

While the girl went to prepare a bed, the guy returned to me and helped me with another one to get into the house.

The walls were white with sky-blue striped wallpaper. On them were paintings, furniture, and various other things. It was clear they had lived here a long time.

They guided me through the doorway, and I barely managed to duck before my forehead made an unfortunate acquaintance with the doorframe.

As I waddled inside (graceful as a wounded penguin, mind you), the girl zipped from room to room like she was on a speed run. Every time she reappeared, she was carrying something different—boxes, blankets, what looked suspiciously like a dead rat. Meanwhile, from somewhere down the hall, I heard the sound of furniture scraping against the wooden floor, way too heavy for her scrawny frame to be moving alone. Either she was stronger than she looked, or ghosts were helping. 

About two minutes later, I found myself in what I'd been thought was "my room." Ha. Nice joke. It was technically a pantry—emphasis on technically—but one that had long since declared war on cleanliness and organization. She had cleared a space against the right wall, just big enough to shove me out of the way in case anyone needed emergency access to, I don't know, a moldy can of cucumbers. My "bed" was a shaggy rug. My "blanket" was a suspiciously tapestry-like piece of fabric. The only thing that could be considered an actual bed item was the pillow, and even that looked like it had survived some sort of disaster, and clearly provided free housing services to my future pest neighbors.

They sat me down on my makeshift nest, and the moment I dared to rest my head, the pillow let out a puff of dust. A whole cloud of it. My lungs immediately filed a complaint, and my throat took matters into its own hands by trying to evict the invader with a hacking cough that made my ribs regret their life choices. Great. Even my sleeping arrangements wanted me dead.

"Well, we're off," the guy to my left said, dusting off his hands like he'd just finished some grand construction project. "We've got more work to do, but you rest for now."

"Yes, Hana. Father will be here soon," the other added. "If anything happens, call for help. And be careful."

The girl—Hana, apparently—nodded but kept watching me like I was a feral raccoon that might start foaming at the mouth any second.

"Okay," she said, carefully neutral.

The two men left, shutting the door behind them.

I exhaled and let my aching body sag into the world's worst bedding. Maybe this wasn't ideal, but hey, I'd finally gotten a moment of peace. Naturally deserved, if you asked me.

Yeah. No. That was a mistake.

"So," Hana said, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes full of suspicion. "Who are you?"