The last thing Khusanov remembered was the lightning.
It was strange, really. A bolt from a clearing sky of a fading storm, no heavy clouds—just one instant of blinding light and a searing, unimaginable heat. Then nothing. Not pain, not darkness—just… nothing.
And then, he awoke.
The world smelled different. The air was lighter, thinner. His body felt odd, lighter as well, yet powerful in a way that unnerved him. It didn't take long to understand why. As he stumbled to a small pond and caught his reflection, he saw the truth staring back: long ears, lean muscles, tan skin, and most shockingly—wings. Large, white wings that stretched from his back like something torn from mythology. Angelic. He was no longer Khusanov.
He was Enel. Or, at least, he was now. He was familiar with this man.
Khusanov—now Enel—had awoken in a new world, one far above the Blue Sea, on the Sky Islands. It didn't take him long to realize he was in a world not his own. A world of floating islands, dials, and strange technology. A world where people lived in the clouds and spoke of gods and prophecies.
He laughed at the irony. He had died from lightning, only to wake up in the body of a man who, in another timeline, would become the "God" of Skypiea wielding lightning itself.
At first, he searched for a way back. Days passed. Then weeks. But it became clear: there was no going back. He was dead. His life—the one where he was Khusanov, just a former soldier who had seen too much—was over. That Khusanov died on Earth. The one who lived now was something… more.
And so he made a choice.
Khusanov died with that lightning strike. He buried his old name with it.
He was Enel now.
---
At first, the Sky Islanders treated him with reverence. Even without the Goro Goro no Mi, Enel's natural strength, combat instincts honed from a previous lifetime of war, and sharp mind made him stand out. He did not flaunt his power. Instead, he trained. Day and night. He pushed his body to the brink, tested his limits in the harsh skies. He trained in Observation Haki, learning to feel the world through instinct and sensation, until the heartbeat of the world echoed in his ears. He studied Armament Haki, trying to will invisible armor onto his skin, and turn his blows into weapons of pure will.
Eighteen months passed.
Then, as if destiny had taken notice of his discipline, he stumbled upon it.
The Goro Goro no Mi.
It lay hidden beneath an ancient, crumbling temple near the borderlands of Shandia and Skypiea territory. A pineapple of blue and yellow, crackling faintly with static. He recognized it at once. The fruit that turned Enel into a tyrant.
He held it in his hands for a long time. He thought of his old world. Of how power corrupted. Of how a man like the Enel of this world used it to enslave, to reign and stagnate.
He would do no such thing.
And then he ate it.
It tasted like rotted copper and ozone.
Power surged through him like a thousand storms. The sky responded. The air vibrated around him, bent to him. He was lightning. The storm had a will—and it was his.
---
Soon after, he flew, streaking through the clouds in a bolt of divine fury, until he hovered over the battlefield between the Skypieans and the Shandians.
He had seen it before. The endless struggle. Skypiea claimed divine rule. The Shandians fought to reclaim their homeland. A war of tradition, pride, and pain.
He descended between them like a comet, the sound of thunder echoing as he landed.
"No more," he said, his voice layered with static, amplified by will and electricity alike.
They gawked at him—an angel with glowing eyes, lightning sparking from his body, and matching thunder clouds behind him.
He met with both sides. The elders. The warriors. The self-proclaimed "God" of the Skypieans, Gan Fall.
"You fight over stone and sky, over titles and blood. But it means nothing. You are all children squabbling over clouds," Enel said to them. "Share the land. Live. Enough blood has stained this sky."
Gan Fall stood tall, armored in his traditional garb, lance in hand. "I am the God of Skypiea. I will not bow to threats. This is tradition."
Enel narrowed his eyes.
"Presumptuous," he muttered.
He raised his hand.
Lightning gathered into a sphere the size of a man's chest. The sky darkened further. The cloudy ground trembled. The hum of energy buzzed in the air like the moment before a downpour. They watched, breathless, as he crushed the ball of energy in his palm, then pointed it away—toward an empty patch of sky—and opened his hand.
A pillar of lightning extending from his hand screamed into the distance, carving the clouds apart, shaking the island to its roots.
"Projected Burst," Enel named it silently.
The people stared in stunned silence.
He floated into the air, wings outstretched, voice thunderous.
"Even with this power, I dare not call myself a god."
He looked directly at Gan Fall, at every man and woman watching him.
"A god is omnipotent. Omniscient. Omnipresent. No person can ever claim such. Not you. Not me. No one."
He let the silence stretch.
"You cling to titles and traditions because they give you comfort. But tradition and desire are what create war. Some must be discarded. They serve no good. No future."
Gan Fall stepped forward, wounded pride in his voice. "It is not merely tradition! Our leader is called God!"
"And that tradition has brought you endless war," Enel disregarded him coldly. "Think. Reflect. Wake up. I will return in a few months. If this sky is still at war when I return…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
With a flash of light and a clap of thunder, he launched down from the sky.
---
His wings carried him lower. Farther. He looked down at the ocean below, at the vast expanse of the Blue Sea. His destination was Jaya Island. A place not spoken of on Skypiea. A place connected to dreams and pirates and the great Pirate King himself. A place connected to the memories of old he held.
But he wasn't here to chase dreams of thrones or gold -he knew where to get plenty of that-.
He wasn't a "D." He didn't carry that Will.
But he had one of his own.
He had fought in wars, killed and bled for flags that lied and leaders who played games with lives. He had watched tyrants rule with words dipped in honey and hands soaked in blood. He had once been a pawn in someone else's vision. Russia's dream. Ukraine's Nightmare. Khusanov was born to parents who were natives of both lands.
The war had torn his family apart before a bullet had been fired. Khusanov had to choose who to fight for. He joined the war simply because his fellow soldiers provided more warmth than his divided family.
Never again.
He would build a crew—not of full warriors or killers, but of free people. Free people willing to choose their own path and bear the burdens. He wouldn't start an era of peace, nor one of chaos. He would not be king, god, or savior.
He would start an era of freedom.
True freedom.
And if fate brought him to cross paths with a certain straw-hatted fool—if that rubber idiot with a dream to be King of Pirates needed help—then Enel wouldn't bat an eye.
Because the world didn't need Gods.
It needed will. Of what kind? He didn't know, but he knew what he had.
Enel had lightning, strength, and the unbreakable will of a man who had seen heaven in a new world and hell in the old.
The storm was coming.
And this time, it would bring freedom.