The first thing he felt was pain.
Not the sharp, explosive kind that ended quickly, but a slow, creeping agony that spread through his chest and lungs like liquid fire. Every breath burned. Every heartbeat felt wrong—uneven, strained, unnatural.
He tried to inhale.
His lungs screamed.
Air refused to come.
'I can't breathe.'
Panic surged instantly, raw and instinctive. His vision blurred as dark spots crept in from the edges, his body desperately clawing for oxygen that simply wasn't there.
Then came the smell.
Acrid.
Metallic.
Chemical.
His throat tightened violently, as if something corrosive had been poured straight into his lungs. He coughed—hard and wet—but it only made things worse. His chest convulsed as his body rejected the poison invading it.
'This… this isn't right.'
Memories surfaced in fragments.
The factory floor.
The constant, deafening hum of machines.
Warning alarms screaming—too late.
A pipe bursting.
Greenish vapor flooding the room.
He remembered shouting. Someone grabbing his arm. Someone else collapsing before they could even reach the exit.
His legs had given out first.
Then his lungs.
Then—
Death.
The pain peaked.
Then vanished.
Silence followed.
No pain.
No breath.
No body.
He floated in nothingness.
There was no up or down, no light or darkness—only awareness, thin and detached. Thoughts came slowly, as if his mind were moving through thick liquid.
'Am I… dead?'
The thought didn't terrify him.
If anything, there was a hollow acceptance to it. He had known the moment his lungs failed that there was no saving him.
Chemical poisoning didn't give second chances.
Or at least—it wasn't supposed to.
A strange pulling sensation wrapped around him.
Not physical.
Something deeper.
As if his very essence—whatever defined him—was being seized and dragged forward.
'What's happening…?'
The void twisted.
Pressure built from all sides, compressing his awareness tighter and tighter until he thought he might shatter completely.
Then—
Impact.
He gasped violently.
Air flooded into his lungs, harsh and unfiltered, burning as if he had inhaled fire. His body convulsed as he sucked in breath after breath, each one scraping painfully down his throat.
He collapsed forward, retching.
The ground beneath him was cold.
Stone.
Rough.
Chains clinked nearby.
"Gah—!"
He coughed again, spitting onto the floor as his vision slowly stabilized. His head pounded as if it had been split open and stitched back together poorly.
It took several long seconds before realization set in.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
The air smelled different.
Not chemicals.
Not metal and oil.
It was damp.
Salty.
Old.
Like mouldy stone soaked in seawater.
He lifted his head weakly.
Dim light filtered through iron bars.
Stone walls stretched endlessly, stained with age and something darker—blood, perhaps. The floor was cracked and uneven, etched with countless scratches as if generations of desperate hands had clawed at it.
A prison cell.
"No…" he croaked.
His voice sounded unfamiliar—rougher, deeper than he remembered.
His heart skipped.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands in front of his face.
They weren't his.
The skin was darker, tanned. His fingers were longer, calloused, marked with old scars. His arms were lean but solid, muscle packed densely beneath the skin.
He swallowed.
'This isn't my body.'
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he slumped back against the cold stone wall as foreign memories surfaced—disjointed flashes without context.
A pirate flag flapping in the wind.
Laughter soaked in rum.
The clash of steel.
Screams.
Chains.
Darkness.
Endless darkness.
"…Clinton Black," he whispered.
The name surfaced naturally, as if it had always been there.
His breathing grew shallow.
Clinton Black.
A pirate.
Not a legend. Not infamous.
But not weak.
Above average looks. Sharp features. Dark hair. A body honed by years at sea.
And most importantly—
Dead.
He knew it with absolute certainty.
This body had died here.
In Impel Down.
A chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold stone.
'Only my soul transmigrated…'
The original Clinton Black was gone. Whatever consciousness had once occupied this body had been erased, leaving behind an empty shell.
And somehow—
He had been placed inside it.
A sharp pain stabbed behind his eyes.
He groaned, clutching his head as something unfamiliar forced its way into his perception.
A translucent blue screen flickered into existence before him.
[System Initialization Complete][Soul Compatibility: Confirmed][Host Body: Clinton Black — Status: Revived]
He froze.
"…A system?"
The screen remained steady.
[Welcome, Host][Unique Evolutionary Authority Detected][Undying Evolution — Activated]
His pulse quickened.
Undying Evolution.
The words carried weight.
The interface shifted.
[Undying Evolution]Description: A unique evolutionary authority bound to the host's soul.Effect: Permanent death is impossible. Each instance of death will trigger forced adaptation.
Below it, a list unfolded.
[Evolution Parameters]• Physical Structure• Cellular Resilience• Environmental Resistance• Energy Adaptation• Mental Stability
"So… this shows how I evolve?" he murmured.
[Correct][Evolution is influenced by the cause of death][Adaptation is permanent]
His throat went dry.
"Permanent…"
A chill slid down his spine.
Another line appeared.
[Notice]Pain reception is not disabledStrain is recorded between deaths
He exhaled slowly.
'Of course it isn't simple.'
Nothing ever was.
He leaned back against the wall, eyes closing briefly as he organized his thoughts.
He had died on Earth.
Chemical poisoning.
His soul had been transplanted into a dead pirate inside Impel Down—the most infamous prison in the One Piece world.
And he now possessed a system that ensured he could not die permanently.
Absurd.
Terrifying.
"…One Piece," he whispered.
He forced himself to stand.
His legs trembled as he adjusted to the unfamiliar body, movements slightly delayed as his mind synced with Clinton Black's physical form.
He flexed his fingers.
Strength came easily—far more than he'd ever had on Earth.
Yet weakness lingered.
Malnutrition.
Old injuries.
Lingering damage from torture and neglect.
"This body…" he muttered. "It's been through hell."
[Host Body Analysis]Condition: PoorMalnutrition: ModerateInternal Damage: Minor (Healed)Cause of Previous Death: Systemic failure due to prolonged torture and starvation
His jaw tightened.
Clinton Black hadn't died fighting.
He had simply wasted away.
He opened the evolution interface again.
Only one parameter glowed faintly.
[Physical Structure] — Minor Reinforcement (Active)
"So the evolution already started…"
It must have triggered upon revival.
Not a miracle.
Just enough.
He exhaled.
"I understand now."
This system wasn't here to save him.
It was here to force him forward.
Chains.
Stone.
Darkness.
Impel Down didn't care about cheats.
It erased people.
And yet—
A dangerous resolve settled in his chest.
If he truly couldn't die…
Then death was no longer an end.
It was a process.
A resource.
"I need to learn this body," he said quietly."Learn the system.""Learn the limits."
Survival came first.
Understanding came second.
Evolution came last.
As distant screams echoed through the prison halls, Clinton Black's eyes hardened.
"This world already killed me once."
He clenched his fists.
"And it failed."