I died like a peasant.
No epic battle. No betrayal. No romance. Just a sudden stop. A breath that didn't come. A flicker, and then nothing. The last thing I remember was my own body slumping to the ground, consciousness blinking out like a candle under cold wind. No fanfare. No regret. No gods. No justice.
Then light.
My eyes opened to silk.
I didn't recognize the ceiling above me. Ornate carvings coiled in gold leaf, marble filigree framing angelic figures locked in a serene eternal gaze. The sheets were so soft I thought I was sinking into cloud-stuffed velvet. The scent in the air was warm, powdered, floral. Perfume and power.
My fingers twitched.
They were smooth. Soft. Unscarred. I turned my hand over and stared at it like it belonged to someone else. It did. Long, slim digits adorned in rings—gold, silver, gems inlaid like museum trophies. I sat up slowly, and the silken robe I wore slid down my shoulder like a whisper. Pale skin. Slender body. Younger.
Younger than I'd ever been in my previous life.
Panic didn't hit right away. Confusion held the door closed. I looked around the chamber—massive, immaculate, absurd in its luxury. An entire wall was a mirror. The chandelier above me glittered with actual diamonds. I saw a large arched door with golden trim, and next to it, a servant—no, a slave—kneeling silently on the floor, hands bound behind her back, eyes lowered to the polished tile.
This wasn't a hospital.This wasn't a dream.This was the Holy Land.
Mariejois.
The realization struck like a slap. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew. Somewhere inside this borrowed brain, or perhaps just through instinct, I recognized where I was. I had been reborn—transmigrated, reincarnated, whatever the term—and not just anywhere, but into One Piece.
That anime world with superpowers, talking animals, walking volcanoes—and pirates with fists that break mountains.
And I wasn't a pirate. I wasn't a marine. I wasn't some noble swordsman or tragic hero with a hidden power.
I was a Celestial Dragon.
One of them.
I spent the first hour pretending I had amnesia. Which wasn't hard. I didn't even know this body's name yet.
Two maids helped me dress. They bowed so low I thought they'd snap their necks. They didn't look me in the eye. Their collars were engraved with the symbol of my noble house—Figarland.
That one word changed everything. The Figarland family. Rarely mentioned in canon, but whispered in the fandom. Possibly connected to Shanks. Old blood. Royal beyond royal. A top branch of the World Nobility.
I wasn't just a Celestial Dragon. I was a prized one.
While they laced my boots, I examined myself in the mirror. My reflection stared back—blue eyes, ash-blond hair neatly combed to the side, a face as cold and empty as porcelain. I could pass for eighteen. Lean frame, narrow shoulders. Delicate. Effeminate, even.
"You look well today, Young Lord," one of the servants said, her voice shaking.
I didn't respond. I didn't know how this person normally behaved, and saying the wrong thing could destroy the fragile illusion.
For now, I let them believe whatever they wanted.
A knock echoed from the chamber door.
A second later, a Marine officer stepped in—tall, crisp uniform, sweat pooling under his collar from nervous tension. He didn't salute. He didn't even speak until I slowly turned my head.
"Good morning, Saint Figarland. I've come to inform you… your father's body has been prepared. The wake is in two hours."
I blinked.
My father had died.
That explained the silence. The ceremonial clothes. The sudden vacancy of status.
"Very well," I said softly, testing my voice. It came out calm, clipped, elegant.
The officer bowed again and left, practically sprinting.
I walked to the window.
Mariejois spread before me like a white marble cancer. Palaces stacked on palaces, roads of ivory, and glass gardens where people too rich to matter walked in their own shadows. Far below, the Red Line dropped into clouds.
This was the world capital.
The seat of power.
And I was at the top of it.
The wake was grotesque.
Nobles in gold-rimmed suits and parasitic gowns arrived in droves, riding on the backs of slaves. They drank wine aged longer than most lifespans. They gossiped. Laughed. Not a tear was shed for my "father."
Apparently, he'd been old. Cruel. Traditional. One of the more extreme Celestial Dragons, if that meant anything. He died in his sleep—peacefully, but alone. The kind of death cowards and kings share.
And now I, his heir, had inherited everything.
No siblings. No surviving spouse. Just me.
They circled like vultures. Thinly veiled condolences followed by thickly veiled threats. Everyone wanted to know what kind of man I was going to be.
Was I soft? A reformist? A boy-prince they could manipulate?
I gave them nothing.
I wore the bubble helmet. I kept my gaze empty. I spoke rarely and when I did, with a tone so cold and formal it made the other dragons fidget.
Inside, I was calculating.
Every conversation was a file. Every name, a flag. I watched who bowed too low, who didn't bow at all, who drank the red wine but avoided the white, who whispered into whose ear.
I was not a saint.
I was a survivor.
And the wolves were already sniffing.
Three days after the wake, I began consolidating.
First, the estate. My father's vaults were catalogued under my fingerprint now. I personally oversaw the inventory. Gold beyond counting. Artifacts from every sea. Beli in denominations the average man would never even imagine.
More importantly: Devil Fruits. At least 18 confirmed, stored in reinforced glass cubes, sealed in vacuum.
I had them reclassified under fake serials and moved them under armed guard to a secondary chamber. Only two people knew of the transfer—and I had them followed.
No leaks.
Second: the staff. I replaced the head steward with a man who owed me his son's life. Reassigned servants with wandering eyes to guest houses. Installed secret compartments in my private chambers. Began hiring my own guards—discreetly, not marines, but professionals from the shadows. Mercs who answered to coin, not law.
I didn't trust anyone.
This world wasn't run by goodness. It was run by power and timing. And right now, I had one and no need for the other.
Not yet.
That's when I first saw her.
I visited the auction house in Sabaody on a whim. Not because I enjoyed the spectacle, but because I needed to be seen.
Celestial Dragons are expected to do certain things. Ride slaves. Buy humans. Show the world that their divine right meant everything belonged to them.
I needed to act the part until I controlled it.
The auction house reeked of perfume and blood. The announcer barked out values like they were selling horses. Most were already broken—blank-eyed, silent, half-dead.
Then they brought her out.
Small. Pale. Hair like snow. Dirt smudged on her cheeks. Shackled hands and bare feet. She couldn't have been older than ten.
The announcer sneered. "Caught her in the North Blue. Parents froze to death. She survived two weeks on her own. Malnourished. No name. No records. A survivor, perhaps."
The crowd murmured.
"Do I hear 200,000 beli?"
No one bid.
I raised my hand.
"Five million," I said.
Gasps echoed.
The announcer stuttered. "S-Saint Figarland, sir, surely you—"
"Ten million, if she walks out of here unharmed."
They didn't question me after that.
I stepped down myself, walked past the guards, and lifted her chin with one gloved finger.
Her eyes met mine. Cold. Sharp. Not broken. Just frozen.
"You have a name?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
"Then I'll give you one," I said. "Winter. You belong to me now."