It began with silence.Not peace — but the kind of silence that comes just before a storm.
A grand, high-ceilinged chamber rested within one of the ancestral palaces of Mariejois, its walls etched in ancient platinum and coral limestone. Velvet curtains, thick enough to block cannonfire, gently fluttered in the sea breeze slipping through a cracked stained-glass window. Chandeliers of sapphire and pearl hung overhead like floating constellations.
This was no ordinary room.It belonged to a god, or so the world would say.
And then — the silence broke.
A gasp.Sharp. Violent.A child bolted upright in a sea of silk and shadow.
His lungs burned like fire.Sweat soaked through his ivory nightgown.His eyes — a brilliant, glowing shade of blue, too unnatural to be human — darted around, wild and disoriented.
Where was he?
He threw the covers aside and stumbled out of bed. His bare feet slapped against the cold marble floor as he looked around, panic creeping like vines through his skull.
This isn't my room. This isn't my house. These aren't my—
He caught sight of a tall silver mirror across the room.
And he froze.
There was a boy in the mirror.Ten, maybe eleven. Thin. Fragile. Skin pale as starlight.Hair white as bleached bone.And those eyes… those haunting, luminescent blue eyes.
He touched his cheek.So did the boy.He blinked.The boy blinked too.
"No... no, no, no..."
He turned away from the mirror, stumbling to the nearest wall, gripping the polished frame of a portrait for balance. The painting was ancient — a noblewoman with the same moonlit eyes, staring out over a garden of bloodred roses.
"What the hell is this? Where am I?!"
Pain surged in his skull.
A memory.No — not his.
A cold banquet hall.A silver platter with two strange fruits, served ceremonially by masked priests.The taste — bitter, wet, wrong.Then fire. Then darkness.
He dropped to his knees.
"That dream... that wasn't a dream."
The great oak doors creaked open.
He flinched and looked up.
A woman in her thirties entered with a silver tray, head bowed. Her maid uniform was flawless, not a wrinkle out of place. She glanced up to greet him — and immediately dropped the tray.
Clang. Porcelain shattered. Silver rolled across the floor.
Then she collapsed to her knees.
"S-Saint Rakdre…! You're awake…!"
Her voice cracked. Tears rolled down her face, unbidden.
The boy stared at her, trembling.
"Grace…"
She gasped. "You… remember me, my lord?"
He didn't answer.
How did he know her name?
He could see fragments — her smile during his childhood, her trembling hands as she nursed him through fevers, the way she bowed her head every time his cursed eyes met hers. Not his memories. The boy's.
"I'm in someone else's body."
He rose to his feet slowly. Unsteady.And then, calm washing over him like a storm receding.
"Grace."
She bowed even lower. "Yes, Saint Rakdre?"
"Slap me."
She looked up, horrified. "W-what…?"
"You heard me. Do it. Don't hold back."
"...My lord, I couldn't possibly—"
"Do it."
SLAP.
His head jerked sideways. His cheek stung.He didn't flinch.
He ran his fingers along his skin, feeling the sharp sting of reality.
"Shit," he whispered. "It's not a dream."
He moved to the window. Beyond it, the divine city of Mariejois stretched like a painting — pristine white towers, sprawling courtyards, waterfalls running through artificial sky bridges. Below it all, the world: clouds drifting beneath the Red Line, kingdoms far below unaware of their invisible puppetmasters.
"So I really am here..."
"Grace," he said over his shoulder. "Bring me all the newspapers you can find. National, international. I want everything from the last two weeks."
She nodded and rushed out, dress fluttering behind her.
Alone again, he returned to the mirror. The face staring back was still foreign. Still young. But it was his now. And it held something that hadn't been there minutes ago:
Focus.
Grace returned within ten minutes, struggling under the weight of two thick stacks of folded newspapers.
"As you asked, Saint Rakdre."
He sat in a padded armchair and spread them across the floor. The first one bore the seal of the World Economic Journal. The next, a regional paper from the North Blue. The next, a Mariejois social gazette.
He read.
One by one, page by page.
Headlines about noble marriages. A skirmish between Vice Admirals and pirates in the New World. A cover story on the rising popularity of Den Den Mushi couture among the Holy Maidens. Nothing unusual. No world-breaking news. No mention of his name, or death, or anything supernatural.
"No headlines about me? No crisis? No one's even noticed?"
He frowned, flipping faster.
And then — as if thunder rolled inside his skull — he remembered.
The memory from the banquet.
The fruits. Two of them. Or at least… pieces of two.
"Why would they feed a child pieces of two Devil Fruits…?"
He stood up, walking in circles, eyes sharp now.
"The flavor. That horrible flavor. And the pain that came afterward…"
He knew enough. Devil Fruits weren't served on platters.This wasn't tradition.It was an assassination.
"They wanted him dead."
He closed his eyes. Felt the truth settling like iron in his chest.
"They poisoned him with Devil Fruit fragments. Maybe to trigger a curse. Maybe to overload his body. Either way... they knew he wouldn't survive."
He looked down at his hands.
"But I did."
The boy who had once been Rakdre was dead.And in his place stood something far more dangerous.
The Celestial Dragons didn't want the cursed heir.They wanted a power vacuum.A weakened bloodline.One less rival to threaten their shares in heaven.
They would come to regret that.
Deeply.
"You tried to erase a child."
He stepped toward the mirror again, staring into his new eyes — luminous and terrifying.
"But you woke up a dragon."