Akaba slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurred at first, then the rough wooden ceiling filled the world above him.
His nostrils were flooded with the salty, fishy sting of sea wind, mixed with a smell like rust and sweat. He blinked, tried to shift his body.
A wave of violent soreness and pain slammed into him so suddenly that a muffled groan escaped his throat.
This isn't my body.
The thought was terrifyingly clear.
His last memory was nothing more than overtime exhaustion, that heavy, sinking drowsiness, and the dim glow of a computer screen. But now he was lying somewhere that was obviously a ship's cabin, on a hard, crude bunk that gave no comfort at all.
He raised his hand and stared.
The knuckles were large, the fingers scarred. The palm was thick with calluses. The skin was bronzed, and the muscle lines were so taut they looked almost savage, packed with a sense of explosive strength.
Then the dam broke.
Fragments of memory came roaring into his mind like a flood, brutal and unstoppable.
Douglas Bullet.
Fourteen years old.
An orphan, born in a nation of war, a devil's descendant…
Defeated by Gol D. Roger and taken aboard his ship…
At the same time, an ancient brand, carrying the scent of sulfur and distant stars, began to stir from the deepest layers of this body's soul. It forced itself awake, fusing with the consciousness of a soul that did not belong to this world.
"Ghh…"
Akaba, or rather Bullet now, clutched his head and let out a low, animal snarl.
Two lives. Two histories. One cautious, rational modern mind. One ferocious, violent will forged in war and hunger. And beneath both, a third presence, cold and ancient, born from something beyond time.
The three slammed into each other in his consciousness, ripping, grinding, shattering… then were forcibly kneaded together, centered around his will, until they became one.
He panted hard, sweat soaking through the thin cloth on his body, feeling the horrifying strength inside this young frame, far beyond anything he had ever imagined.
Not just muscle.
There was also something lurking deeper, something that wanted to destroy and devour, a predatory instinct that quivered like a beast half-asleep.
...
And then, the shattered memories belonging to this body's original owner became fully clear within his fused awareness.
Before joining the Roger Pirates, Bullet had once discovered an ancient ruin deep within an unnamed island in the New World.
The ruin was broken and crumbling. At its heart stood a central altar carved with mysterious totems.
At the core of the carving was a hideous black dragon, coiled around a colossal tree, head thrown back in a sky-splitting roar.
When Bullet, driven by curiosity, touched the totem…
A torrent of will, cold, violent, like it had poured from the world's edge, surged into his body in an instant.
It wasn't a Devil Fruit.
At least, not in the usual sense.
There was no physical fruit, no taste, no moment of swallowing. Only an ancient "inheritance," a brand of legacy that forcibly embedded itself into the source of his life.
Along with it came fragments of knowledge about an ultimate lifeform.
A monster that soared over the abyss of the underworld, fed upon the roots of the World Tree, carried stars upon its body, and exhaled annihilation that erased all things…
Its name was Nidhogg.
The black dragon of extinction and despair.
That power was simply too vast, too ancient. With Bullet's mind and body at the time, he could not possibly bear it, much less awaken it.
So it slept.
Yet even asleep, it quietly reforged him, strengthening his physique, granting him recovery far beyond normal humans, sharpening his combat instincts until they were almost monstrous.
Until now.
Until the arrival of a soul from another world shattered the balance and truly ignited the slumbering inheritance.
Bullet understood.
He understood everything.
"Mythical Zoan… Model: Nidhogg…"
He murmured, voice raw and hoarse.
It carried the low resonance of this body's owner, yet laced with Akaba's cold, measured scrutiny.
He closed his eyes and tried to sense the force roaring inside him.
With a thought, he could almost "see" fine dark-golden dragon patterns crawling across his bones.
He could almost "hear" the rush of blood in his veins carrying a faint sound like wind and thunder.
Beneath his skin, countless scales seemed to yearn to pierce through, to spread and cover his entire body.
And most of all, in the center of his chest, a spinning core of black energy was slowly taking shape.
That was the central gift of the Nidhogg inheritance.
Not merely swallowing matter, but something closer to plundering essence, dissecting rules, and feeding the self at the source.
He forcibly suppressed the urge to transform into a black dragon on the spot, or to test that power immediately.
This was Roger's ship. Outside was the perilous world of pirates. He needed to adapt first, observe first.
...
That was when it happened.
"Bang!"
A heavy crash came from outside the cabin door, followed by noisy shouting and rough, ugly laughter.
"Hey! The new brat in there!"
"Heard you can fight, yeah?"
A coarse, grating voice barked right against the door, packed with undisguised provocation.
"Captain Roger took pity on you, but I don't buy it!"
"Stop playing dead in there!"
"Kent boss, forget it… Vice Captain Rayleigh said not to bother him…"
Another voice, hesitant, tried to dissuade him.
"Shut it!"
"I'm 'Big Axe' Kent. I've been on this ship for years. You think there's any monster I haven't seen?"
"A little brat like you thinks you deserve the captain's special attention?"
"Today I'm going to teach you something. On the Oro Jackson, fists are the only law!"
The yelling grew louder, mixed with the pounding of hands against the door.
Clearly, plenty of crewmates had gathered outside to watch the show.
Bullet slowly sat up. The soreness in his body faded rapidly as the newborn power coursed through him like a cleansing tide.
He lowered his gaze, stared at his hands, at palms that looked like they could rip apart any obstacle.
The fused memories told him this was a "tradition" aboard pirate ships.
Or rather, a warning shot.
Win respect with strength, or be trampled underfoot.
That Kent outside wasn't weak. His presence was solid, one of the ship's fighters, infamous for brute force and a violent temper.
Bullet drew in a slow breath.
The cabin air was thick and stale as it entered his lungs, yet it made him feel more alive than he had ever been.
Akaba's fear, his hesitation, melted away inside this body built for battle. Under the stirring pressure of that ancient dragon might, it vanished like frost under a flame.
In its place came a cold calm.
And beneath that calm, the thrill of a predator newly armed, eager to test its fangs.
He needed to establish himself.
Among the monsters of the Roger Pirates, he needed to carve out a place of his own.
And he needed to truly feel it, to see what kind of world this power called "Nidhogg" could open before him.
Bullet stood, rolled his neck. His joints cracked in a clean chain of sharp pops.
He walked to the cabin door but did not open it immediately. Instead, he listened, catching every movement outside.
Cursing. Jeers. A few steady breaths, too calm to be ordinary crewmates…
It seemed this "welcome ceremony" had drawn more than just spectators.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a thin, icy curve.
Good.
Then let this "Big Axe" Kent be the first whetstone.
Let him be the first step in carving Bullet's legend in this world.
The legend of the "Black Dragon" begins the moment this door opens.