Of Sand and Sovereigns

[Vine_sama]

Was craving a specific meal so I decided to try cooking it.

Read, review, rant and all that jazz. Constructive criticism is highly welcome.

Huge thanks to Wrighteous and Forzarismo for helping out with this chapter.

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Alubarna, Alabasta Kingdom, Grand Line



In a lavish room on the fourth floor of a luxury hotel, a certain man of 30 years was seated in front of the dresser mirror, attempting to bore a hole through his reflection. His expression was impassive, mouth opened slightly to clench the lit cigar between his teeth. Slicked back nape-length black hair crowned his head, and the golden hoop on his right ear caught the sunlight filtering through the curtains of the balcony archway and glinted ominously.

There was a presence to the man even as he just sat there like a statue in silence. His half-lidded gaze and relaxed posture spoke of power, of self-assuredness and confidence, of a certainty that some types of men carried themselves with.

The ceiling fan above whirred, cutting through the air quietly like a phantom, and continuously shifting the rays of light ever so slightly with every revolution.

The man raised a hand to his face slowly, as if in a daze, and the oppressive aura he exuded fractured immediately as he muttered a single word.

"Fuck."

​

---

I drew in a lungful of cigar smoke- wild, isn't it?- while counting the number of stitches on the scar that ran across my face. I breathed it out, watching my new hazel eyes regard themselves dully through the reflection of the mirror.

Sixteen stitches. I'm glad it wasn't thirteen. That would have been unlucky.

I never thought reincarnation would be this… inconvenient. You'd think if fate- or whatever cosmic HR department handles this- would at least ask for my input before dropping me in a world of super pirates. Give me a questionnaire: preferred time period, desired power level, please check this box if you'd rather not be dropped into the body of a man destined to suffer a humiliating defeat from a certain monkey-themed rubber idiot. But no. They just had to yoink a sleeping dude from his bed, didn't they?

Imagine my surprise when, out of the blue, I woke up as Sir Crocodile. Yes, that Crocodile. The one with a hook for a hand, a penchant for cigars, and a résumé that includes "camping for noobs and getting bitchslapped by Whitebeard," I would know; I inherited his memories.

Ugghh. Hurts to even think of it.

Let's be honest. If I were to evaluate Crocodile's performance as a villain of the series, then the one thing that came to mind would be "Discount Doflamingo". It wasn't even a joke. It was a literal situation of 'everything you can do, I can do better' between us. A criminal syndicate, plans to usurp a kingdom. Hell! Even the members of the Organization were just weaker versions of Doflamingo's Familia.

I was supposed to be the Big Bad of an entire saga. The final boss in a series of adventures for the protagonist who forced the main cast to recognize that they were heading into dangerous waters. To let it sink in that they were completely out of their depth.

And to be fair, Crocodile did do an excellent job at being a menace. That scene in the desert? Absolute peak, completely edit worthy, 10/10. But let us get to the crux of the matter. He lost. Lost to a rookie. A rookie so green, his defeat was what propelled him to Supernova status. And Kuma had the privilege of being the one to impart that lesson instead.

He had years of experience, resources, a literal country under his thumb, and still managed to get knocked into the dirt by a kid whose solution to anything was 'punch harder'. Said kid was the protagonist, sure, but still… C'mon man.

I groaned into my palm. The hotel room smelled faintly of cinnamon, cloves and expensive tobacco- my expensive tobacco, apparently. Alubarna's skyline stretched outside the balcony: sandstone buildings, domes glinting in the sunlight, streets bustling with merchants and camels. And here I was, "Sir Crocodile"- a Royal Warlord five years running, lounging in a five-star suite, smoking away my second chance at life before I'd even decided what to do with it.

Excellent.

The truth is, I didn't ask for this. In my old life, I was just another manga reader, sitting in my room devouring One Piece chapters and raving theories that bordered on lunacy on forums. I remember the catharsis I felt upon watching Luffy defeat him in the anime. I remember thinking, perhaps a bit sadly: This guy is cool, but he peaked too early. I remember the skeptic 'let's wait and see' attitude I had when Oda brought him back into prominence with that Guild of his. And now here I am- literally in his shoes, or more accurately, his ridiculously polished crocodile-skin boots.

Man, talk about karmic irony.

Standing up from the mirror, I paced around the room for a while before collapsing onto a couch.

"Okay," I muttered aloud, dragging on one of those fat cigars, and took a glance at the newspaper on the stool at my side. The issue date read September 1508, which, cross-referencing the memories I'd received upon entering this body, meant…

"I'm before canon." 14 years early, even. Gold Roger was executed in his hometown eight years ago. The protagonist was still a toddler in the East Blue. He probably hadn't even eaten his fruit yet. I still had a bit of time. That was good, right? That had to be a good thing.

The smoke emerged in lazy spirals, scratching my throat. Crocodile's lungs apparently had a nicotine tolerance built like an ox, because I wasn't hacking them out like I should. "So I'm Crocodile. Fourteen years before canon. Haven't started Baroque Works yet. Haven't launched Utopia. No Robin on my side. Just me, a disoriented fan, and foreknowledge that the world is heading straight for a cataclysmic train wreck."

Because here's the kicker: I know what's coming. Not just Luffy punching my face in and spiriting away my waifu. No, I know about the big stuff. The rising sea levels. The Five Elders' abilities. I knew that what I was fairly certain to be Uranus, an ancient weapon, was in the World Government's hands, just waiting for a proper power source.

You'd think having this knowledge would be empowering, like holding the answer sheet to an impossible exam. But it's not. It's terrifying. Because if Oda's hints were right, this entire world is basically one cracked dam waiting to burst. Islands will drown, and entire civilizations will vanish beneath the waves. And that's not even considering the world-destroying battles that were certain to start occurring now that the story approached its endgame.

And me? I'm sitting here wondering if I should even bother starting a criminal organization. Why build sandcastles when the tide's already coming?

I let my head fall back against the couch, exhaling smoke through my nose like some disillusioned mob boss. "What now?" I whispered to myself.

​

---

The first problem was determining what my goal was. What it was that I wanted to do with this new chance I was given. Either in the short term or a more lasting resolution. And I was mildly surprised when I answered that question without much thought.

Safety.

I knew what was out there. I knew what was coming. And I most definitely had no idea of the real ground breaking knowledge and game changers that would have been revealed in the later chapters, but I knew it would be scary. Shonen tended to escalate when nearing the end of the story. And One Piece was a founding father of shonen. I was absolutely certain that the endgame was going to escalate quickly and violently. Hell, just between Wano and Egghead, several lore dumps that completely reworked the narrative of the story and the reader's understanding of certain events had been released.

This meant I had to gather enough power to be able to protect myself when fecal matter inevitably hit the rapidly rotating device. A means of both surviving the world-spanning deluge and defending against any of the monstrous means the final bosses of the world might deign to employ.

"I need power," I muttered to myself, idly setting down my glass of whiskey. Both personal and otherwise, I needed staunch friends, allies, and subordinates to support me; I needed a fortress. I needed a base. My base.

I sighed, flicking ash into a gold-plated ashtray shaped like a camel. Alabasta's king, Cobra, was still alive and well, and Crocodile hadn't even started making moves to topple him yet. Which left me with options. Dangerous, morally questionable options. Should I go full villain again, play my part, and set up Baroque Works like canon? Or should I go off-script, use my knowledge to play "hero"? Maybe grab some glory, some girls, and avoid the humiliation of being punked by a rubber teenager in front of a whole kingdom.

The first path has an obvious conclusion. I could build Baroque Works, recruit Mr. 1 through Miss Valentine, manipulate Alabasta, launch Project Utopia, and aim for "desert kingdom overlord" status.

But did I want to? "Hell, no."

That path had a 100% chance of ending in humiliation. Luffy shows up, smashes me into the dirt, steals Robin, and suddenly I'm cooling my heels in Impel Down until Marineford. Not exactly an inspiring destiny.

The second path would be to flip the script. Use my foreknowledge to mess with the story. But in what meaningful way? Ally with the Strawhats? I couldn't exactly wait the better part of the decade for their crew to form before approaching them and going, "Hey, I'm the guy who canonically almost destroyed a kingdom, but I've had a change of heart. Want to be friends?" Could I? Yeah, that would go well.

Or maybe I could build a better Baroque Works? Find stronger members than the original roster. Get rid of threats like Vivi way earlier? That left a sour taste in my mouth. And I immediately dismissed the idea. I did not want to become some evil mastermind tyrant archetype.

My leg began to bounce restlessly as my mind went through the options.

"Alternatively, I could just forge my own way," I mused, running my hand down silky smooth hair so different from my original coarse curls. "Forget Baroque Works, forget Utopia, forget canon. Strike out on my lonesome and use my knowledge of the world, the players, the coming upheavals, and attempt to carve out something new. Something better."

I stood from the couch and began pacing again. The idea had merit. It appealed to me in the way it would to every fan once given such a chance.

I could play everybody until I got to the top. After all, the World Government, the Yonko, the Revolutionary Army- they're all sharks in the water- threatening, but ultimately still visible. If I play it right, I could be the crocodile lurking in the mud, waiting for the right moment to snap.

I slowed my footsteps and paused to stare at the world beyond the balcony. The sun beat down on the golden city, and I could hear the distant din of people milling around and eking out a life for themselves. The sound of life travelled from all around and drifted into my room, and all of a sudden, I realized- understood- that this was real. I was in a real world, not some play. People moved and reacted to situations. Their choices shaping and being shaped by the circumstances surrounding them.

Even if I knew the broad strokes of future events, did that mean I was suddenly omniscient? People would react and adjust accordingly to whatever moves I made, and things would continue to spin away from what I knew. Could I also adjust to their adjustments? Make big-brained moves to outwit all the big-time schemers regardless?

Pfft, yeah right. I chuckled self-deprecatingly, the sound seeming to echo endlessly through the room. I can grandstand and posture like I'm plotting some grand destiny, but truthfully? I wasn't hot shit. And unfortunately, I knew enough to know I don't know nearly enough of this world. Deliberately throwing away something I had some level of familiarity with for a grand adventure wasn't something I could bring myself to do. Not at this moment. I was still too new, too naïve to go out to sea and build up something from scratch.

I mean, of course, the sea was a wide, wide place, and with just half the meta knowledge I could recall off the top of my head, I could make some serious profit and headway by positioning myself at the right places and times. But it would still be a massive undertaking with real chances that I wouldn't be able to take advantage of said opportunities and would just be wasting my time.

I sighed before dropping myself to the couch again and downing the rest of my whiskey, enjoying the burn down my throat.

No, it was better to stay in Alabasta. At least for the time being, while I get things sorted out. After all, Crocodile thrived here in the series; it stood to reason that employing some of his plans would net the same result for me, or perhaps even better results if I didn't turn myself into some sort of back-stabbing villain and primed myself to be just a stepping stone for the protagonist.

Hmmm. Choices, choices.

Regardless, if I intended to follow any of the latter paths, I would have to reach out to people in a trustworthy capacity.

Which brings us to another problem. And that was the issue of my fame, or rather, my infamy. I was "Sir Crocodile", the Desert King. A dangerous pirate who dared to attack even Whitebeard. Someone so powerful, the Government decided keeping me as an asset was preferable to wasting resources attempting to take my head.

My name was whispered in the same leagues as Dracule Mihawk and Gecko Moria. Certainly, that was a real ego boost and polisher, but the caveat was that that same reputation I had gathered made it difficult to do a few things inconspicuously- my face was too well known, and my name preceded me. It colored every interaction I could possibly have. This severely limited my choice of options to pursue going forward.

"I can see now why Crocodile spent more than a decade changing his public image to a 'good pirate'. That title gives me a tad more freedom for delicate movements." I mused aloud, pouring myself another glass of the amber liquid.

So, how did I go about that? Well, I suppose the original Crocodile had the real idea of it. I just needed to cultivate a new public image. A changed man. A warrior putting down the sword and picking up the hoe, so to speak. I could lean into the guardian role he had played in the original story. The Hero of Alabasta wasn't he? Had a nice ring to it. And this time, I'd do it for real with no intent to sabotage and overthrow the royal family.

This method was already shown to have worked and only fell through because Crocodile was, well, Crocodile. Faction building was certain to go better if the country wasn't undergoing a civil war.

I swirled the glass before sipping. Plus, they are from the Clan of D. after all. Can't go wrong with them as allies.

I took a larger sip before exhaling harshly through my nose.

That was settled then. I had a vague idea of the direction I wanted to follow. All that was left to do was walk it. I could make more intricate plans as I went. Get used to the extent of abilities I was aware I could use, refine them, and even develop them further. I did like the sound of pulling a Great Tomb Buri-.

My eyes snapped to the door moments before a knock sounded, and I could feel the presence of the woman behind it.

"Room service, honored guest."

I grunted and let her in, the woman's hesitation flaring like a sudden candle I didn't need to look at to see. The Color of Observation whispering its presence beneath my ribs.

Yes. I was definitely rediscovering all I was capable of before running anywhere.

​

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The next few days bled together in a haze of desert sun and smoke. Experimentation gave way to demonstration.

There's only so long you can sit in a room dissecting your nature before instinct demands to be exercised. So I took to the streets- quietly at first, then with purpose…

"Desert Spada."

A crescent of pressurized sand bisected the pirate captain mid-boast, and I watched the man fall over dead with dull eyes, his blood splattering over the sandstone walls of the alley in patterns that would have made for a decent punk rock album cover back in my old world.

His tongue really wasn't a good choice of weapon, was it?

I turned to regard the gathering of terrified subordinates surrounding me, and raised my eyebrow when the majority of them charged forward. They had usually scattered by now.

A small Sables swatted them aside like the annoying pests they were, leaving behind the three men who had not moved to engage me, and I blew out a billow of smoke. It'd taken me a couple of tries to be able to easily manipulate the size and effect of the technique.

I lifted my hand to hold onto my cigar, and one of them let out a scared yelp before all three jolted and scrambled away from me in different directions.

I let them go. I'd been doing the same for every group of pirates and criminals I came across over the last four days. Let them spread the news. I had been really tempted to pull a 'how many messengers are needed to send a message?' multiple times, but had ultimately been able to contain the impulse. Mainly because that routine needed two people to be executed perfectly, and I had no one to play off of.

I also needed more people to talk to achieve my goal faster. I wanted my presence to be established on the island, and rumors from countless witnesses in the form of civilians and these escaped pirates would kickstart that mill for me.

A Warlord was here, and he was doing clean-up. Why? Was it a government-sanctioned mission? Was he marking territory? Blowing off steam?

Let them whisper it in the taverns, and stammer it in market alleys. "Crocodile protects this city."

I rolled my eyes at the perplexed eep responding to my muttering, before throwing a glance at the small-time spice merchant I had just saved.

Correction. I did have someone to try that routine with. He was just so obviously not fit for the role, I couldn't even bother.

I nodded at him- a barely noticeable dip of my head- before stepping past his cart and turning to the thoroughfare, cigar clamped between my teeth, hook gleaming in the sunlight, coat dragging behind me, and ignoring the stammered and panicked words of thanks he hurried to send my way.

This was a performance after all, I had to keep up the act till exit, stage left.

Even though I really wanted to pull off that 'waving while walking away' move.

Back on the main avenue, the city throbbed with life. Alubarna wasn't just a capital; it was the beating heart of Alabasta, arteries pulsing with trade and ambition. Caravans of spices rolled in from Nanohana, silk merchants hawked their wares beneath broad awnings, and jewel traders from Yuba flashed rings on every finger. I caught the scent of roasted lamb drifting on the breeze, mixed with dust and camel sweat.

And the sound- always the sound. The rhythmic thump of tabla drums from a side street, the shout of hawkers extolling miracle perfumes, the clink of dice cups in gambling dens tucked between respectable shops.

I strolled at an unhurried pace, boots crunching over sandstone. My eyes skimmed everything: the way gold chains gleamed in the sun; the way caravan masters haggled with voices like drawn swords; the growing cluster of taverns and gambling houses sprouting like weeds along the main road.

Children darted between stalls, barefoot and laughing, weaving through the crowd like minnows. A mother yanked her daughter out of the way as my shadow loomed past, eyes wide when she realized who I was. I gave her the faintest tilt of my head. She stammered a thank you that made no sense and pulled the child along.

Ah, yes, the other side of reputation. Fear. It curled around me like a cloak, uninvited but useful.

Still, I wondered how long the royal family would tolerate me walking their streets, dispensing my own brand of justice. Cobra was no fool. He was sure to have eyes all over his capital city. Word of my demonstrations would have reached him by now. Would he see me as an ally reinforcing order? Or a threat marking territory?

I turned my head to look at the giant structure in the distance, even as I pictured the throne room, all sandstone columns and velvet banners. King Cobra, dignified but weary, frowning as his advisors whispered poison in his ears. They'd call me opportunist, usurper, wolf in camel's clothing. And they wouldn't be wrong.

The capital was thriving, for now. Merchants shouted from stalls piled with fruit imported from islands far less cursed by the climate. Carpets rolled out across the dusty streets, their patterns hypnotic enough to almost make one forget the sand grinding underfoot. Jewelers sparkled their wares at nobles, while thieves hung back in the alleys, hands twitching at the thought of an easy purse. Alubarna wasn't quite the heart of luxury, but it had the steady beat of commerce- a rhythm built on taxes, caravans, and the eternal trade of survival in a desert kingdom.

But I wasn't interested in staking my claim here. Not yet.

No, Alubarna was too governmental, too drenched in the presence of Cobra's bureaucrats. The royals had their watchful eyes everywhere, and while they tolerated me now- because the Marines demanded it, because the title of Shichibukai still meant something- they'd never let me build unchecked power right under their palace balcony. No, a man like me needed a freer city. Somewhere already bent toward vice, or at least more negotiable in its loyalties.

I stopped beneath the shade provided by the awning of a stall and pulled another cigar from my coat pocket, lighting it against the hot wind. The smoke mingled with the dry air, curling lazily as I continued my stroll.

Two places come to mind.

Rainbase. The so-called City of Dreams. Built on gambling, its name alone conjured decadence. A haven where coins clinked like rain against stone, where caravans stopped just long enough to lose their fortunes before trudging back into the desert. It was already half the Vegas I envisioned- tables loaded with cards, women wrapped in silks, liquor flowing like a mirage that never ended. The city's commerce thrived not on necessity, but on indulgence. If I were to plant my flag there, the soil would already be fertile.

But fertile soil draws scavengers. Rainbase crawled with underworld parasites- conmen, smugglers, fixers, all pretending they held the city's pulse. That meant I would have to break more bones, silence more whispers. And though violence has its place, too much draws attention, the kind of attention Cobra couldn't ignore forever. Rainbase was profitable, but it was volatile. Setting up base there appealed to the edgy kid in me that still wanted to play at being a Casino Tycoon.

Then there was Nanohana. The harbor city. The gateway to Alabasta. Where ships came and went in an endless tide of trade, carrying spices, silks, arms, and rumors. It wasn't glamorous, not like Rainbase. No glitter of dice, no painted courtesans at every corner. But Nanohana thrummed with something more valuable than luxury: access. Whoever controlled Nanohana controlled Alabasta's arteries. Every foreign good, every whisper from the seas beyond, flowed first through that port before it reached the desert's heart.

But Nanohana had its own drawbacks. The Navy watched the port with hawk eyes- after all, smuggling and piracy thrived there as easily as honest trade. Establishing myself in Nanohana would mean dancing closer with Marine oversight, and while I wear the Warlord title like a shield, even shields can crack under enough pressure. Politically, Nanohana was trickier. Economically, it was a gold mine.

I exhaled smoke, watching it twist into the wind as the debate rolled through my head. Rainbase versus Nanohana. Decadence versus access. Dice versus ships.

Well… when I put it that way, it's hardly a debate, is it? The choice was obvious.

Both. Both were good.

Heh… A certain pair of gold-seeking friends would have been proud.

I flicked the ash from my cigar, the ember glowing briefly before the desert breeze devoured it. There was still time to truly decide. For now, let the survivors spread their tales, let the whispers of the Warlord weave themselves into rumor and myth. Let the people cling to whatever version suited them best. In the end, it would all serve the same purpose: my name would carry.

I smiled thinly, squinting at the glint of the sun in my eye, and the sudden urge to laugh suffused my guts.

"Ku-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…"

Let the people of the desert whisper. I'll answer soon enough.

​

---

"This is interesting."

I hummed the words under my breath, taking my finger out of the glass of water and watching the surface ripple. The towel napkin came up on the hook before I realized what I was doing, the motion smooth and precise, like muscle memory that wasn't mine. I paused.

The dexterity still surprised me. The ease with which I performed tasks that should've been awkward or clumsy. It crept up on me sometimes- the reminder that I was, in truth, maimed. Unimaginably proficient at using his crude prosthetic, yes. But a cripple nonetheless.

By the time I had shaken myself out of the thought, all the moisture had been absorbed by my index finger.

I smirked.

"Well, that's neat."

The suite was quiet except for the wind pushing faintly at the balcony drapes. Alabasta never truly slept- even the night air carried the scent of heat long spent. I pushed the glass aside, leaned back in the chair, and let my fingers drum against the armrest. Grains of sand fell from my knuckles like desert wind slipping through fingers, catching the glow of the lantern like flecks of gold dust before vanishing into the carpet.

What was interesting, you ask? Well, the answer to that question would be: a lot!

You see, I had been discovering, or re-discovering, the extent of my abilities granted to me by the Sand-Sand Logia, and I have to say, I am impressed.

It's a strange thing, realizing your body isn't entirely yours anymore.

I learned that thanks to a falling teacup. The porcelain shattered against the heavy glass table, and the shards leapt up like shrapnel toward my hand. I didn't think, didn't even flinch, and yet, my fingers were gone before the pieces struck. They dissolved, scattering into a puff of sand that clattered harmlessly to the tiles.

That was the first time I understood what true reflex meant.

My intangibility isn't something I command. It's instinct. The moment danger even brushes against me, my body unravels of its own accord, faster than thought, faster than will. I don't choose to dissolve; I simply do. Self-preservation baked into every grain.

After that little accident, curiosity got the better of me. I started to test it. The boundaries of that reflex. How far did it go? How absolute was it?

I tried a myriad of experiments, from jabbing a knife suddenly into my thigh to snuffing out a lit cigar on the back of my hand. Each time, the transformation came first, thought second. My body shattered into sand before the blade could pierce or the heat could sear, as if it anticipated harm. The response was instantaneous, mechanical. Like a struck nerve jerking a limb.

Odd, really. For all my control, all my effort to master this ability, the truth was that it obeyed itself more faithfully than it ever obeyed me.

And, rather funnily, it was the opposite that demanded discipline.

Flesh wasn't my natural state anymore. It's a choice. Every time I uncrossed my arms or stretched my legs or flinched at the glare of reflected sunlight, I had to consciously stop myself from dissolving into granules of dirt.

To be sand was safety, to be human was dangerous.

The irony doesn't escape me.

I stood, letting the towel fall away, and walked toward the balcony window. The desert stretched beyond the city, silver under the moonlight, patient and endless. Alabasta glistened faintly from the rain that had passed earlier, rare and reluctant. I stepped onto the balcony. The smell of wet sand still clung to everything.

I ran the curve of my hook across the wet railing, watching it collect the droplets.

Rain.

The embodiment of my weakness.

I'd always known, of course, back when all of this was fiction, I knew that water was Crocodile's undoing. But knowing something and living it are two entirely different beasts.

It's one thing to watch a man crumble on a screen; it's another to feel your own body rebel under the feel of water. I hadn't expected the instinct- that deep, primal tension that ripples through me whenever a stray droplet lands on my skin. A lifetime of enjoying the rain, of letting showers wash fatigue from my body, was replaced in an instant by a visceral revulsion.

It's jarring.

Unnatural.

Like being rewritten at the marrow.

That discomfort was what pushed my latest round of experiments. If I were to coexist with this curse, I had to understand its edges; its rules, its exceptions.

Tonight's test was simple enough: could I turn my finger to sand while it was submerged in water?

A foolish question on the surface. Every scrap of knowledge I had, both from the source material and my own growing familiarity, said no. Water should nullify my ability entirely; locking the grains together and strangling the flow that lets me come apart. By all logic, I shouldn't have registered any feedback from it once submerged- the command to unravel should've met dead resistance.

And yet… I did.

The feedback was faint, but undeniable. My finger responded. The command to disintegrate reached it. It didn't complete the transformation, didn't even start, but it tried. And that alone was enough to make my pulse quicken.

The sensation was unlike anything else. If transforming into sand under normal conditions is as effortless as breathing, then doing so underwater feels like trying to laugh after a brutal core workout; painful, sluggish, strained. Every grain of will dragged through resistance that shouldn't exist.

But it was still possible.

Slow. Torturous. But not impossible.

That realization lingered in the air like the aftertaste of smoke. The implications were... fascinating.

If water didn't render me helpless, only restricted, then perhaps the limits of my weakness weren't as absolute as the world assumed.

And in a world where information was power, a misunderstood weakness was the sharpest weapon of all.

I turned my hand over, flexing the fingers as if expecting them to crumble on command. A few stray grains of sand flaked from my palm and drifted down to the balcony floor, clinging briefly before the night breeze scattered them into the desert air.

I watched them go, tiny specks of myself returning to the greater whole.

And that's when the thought struck me.

I reached out, stretching my awareness toward the dunes that glimmered faintly beyond the city's edge, silvered under the moonlight. They seemed close enough to touch. The wind whispered across them, sculpting ridges and valleys in slow motion. I could see them. I could smell the faint, metallic tang of wet sand drying. But when I reached for them- really reached, the way one might stretch their fingers and toes in an attempt to grasp the invisible- I felt nothing.

No response.

No resonance.

The grains out there were deaf to me. Alien.

I focused, fingers spread wide, will extending like invisible tendrils. I imagined pulling them toward me, commanding them to rise. To answer. To become part of me.

Nothing.

The desert remained still, indifferent.

I crouched, running my palm along the balcony floor. The texture was slick from rain but rough underneath, a thin layer of grit the storm had blown in. I pressed my fingers into it, urging it to lift. To swirl. To obey.

It didn't.

Frowning, I let my own body unravel, my hand dissolving into fine, dry dust that hissed softly against the wet surface. That sand stirred, alive under my will, coiling upward like smoke. It danced obediently in the air, wrapping around my wrist before reforming into flesh again.

My own sand answered me like a loyal hound. The world's sand ignored me like a stubborn mule.

I stood from my crouch and leaned against the railing, exhaling a thin plume of smoke from the cigar I hadn't realized I'd relit. The ember glowed briefly against the darkness.

"So that's how it is," I murmured to no one.

It made sense, in a way. My sand wasn't truly sand, not geological, not born of stone and time. It was an extension of myself, an expression of my body and will. To command the desert would be like ordering another man's blood to flow.

Still… it rankled.

The desert stretched endlessly before me, silent and vast, a kingdom of dust that refused to kneel. It felt almost mocking- an empire that should have been mine, denying its rightful ruler.

I scraped my hook across the railing again, drawing a harsh metallic rasp that cut through the quiet.

"You'll bow eventually," I muttered, half to the sand, half to myself.

The wind shifted. For a fleeting instant, the dunes in the distance seemed to ripple- just a trick of the moonlight, surely- but the illusion was enough to make me grin.

Perhaps the sand wouldn't bend to me. But I could still become something greater than it.

After all, control wasn't always about domination. Sometimes, it was about making the world believe you already owned it. Tricking it into submission.

"One day", I said to myself, "this entire kingdom- desert, sand, and all- will answer when I call."

But for now, I would settle for mastering the piece of it that lived within me.

I turned back toward the room, the faint sound of rain still dripping from the eaves, and flexed my fingers. A few more grains fell away and vanished into the floorboards.

I rolled my shoulders once, feeling the stiffness of the long day settle into the seams of muscle and scar tissue I never earned. My gaze drifted down to my hand again. I watched the veins move under my skin, the faint tremor of life pulsing through flesh that no longer felt entirely mine. And a thought struck me.

What if?

I had never attempted it before. But now was as good a time as any.

I took a single breath.

Then I let go.

It began at the fingertips- a shimmer, a tremor, then dissolution. Flesh peeled away in silence, replaced by rippling streams of gold and beige. The transformation spread, rolling up my arm like an unraveling bandage. My torso followed, shoulders, legs, until the last fragment of my human form- the line of my jaw, the curl of my cigar smoke- dissolved into a thousand grains.

And I was.

Sand.

The world fractured into a thousand perspectives. Every grain a sliver of awareness. My body ceased to be a singular thing; it was a storm on a patio, a cloud of myself drifting, shifting, alive. I could feel the air pressure against each particle, the faint tug of gravity, the pull of the wind breezing all around me.

There was no heartbeat. No breath. No weakness.

Only awareness.

And movement.

I drifted forward, a living cloud sliding across the floor. The sensation was intoxicating; frictionless, free. Where a man would walk, I flowed; where a hand would reach, I enveloped.

A laugh escaped me. A low, rumbling thing that vibrated through the air rather than a throat. It was absurd, this ability. Terrifying in its simplicity. Every molecule under my control, every grain obeying a single thought.

With a twist of will, I surged past the railing, my form splitting into ribbons of sand that coiled through the bars like smoke.

The air caught me and carried me past the balcony rail, a stream of gold and beige flowing outward into the city below.

I spread thin over the sandstone streets, trailing through alleyways and rooftops, a living haze careening above Alubarna. The world felt different like this- sharper, broader. Every current of air brushed against me, every vibration through the stone walls hummed through the sand that was me. I could taste the remnants of rain in the wind, faint and mineral, clinging stubbornly to the city's skin.

Far below, the lamps burned like stars half-drowned in mist, their light catching on the grains that composed my being, scattering reflections in quiet defiance of the night. The city pulsed with life- muffled laughter from a tavern, the groan of a distant wagon, the rhythmic beat of hooves echoing against wet stone. Alubarna breathed, and I was that breath- a whisper of sand carried on the wind.

So this… this is what they feel.

That serene arrogance every Logia carried- it wasn't delusion. It was truth. To unmake yourself, to dissolve until you're everywhere at once, until your body ceases to be a prison, but a force of nature- that's a level of freedom that most people would ever experience. It was beyond just freedom. It was almost divine.

The desert was beneath me now, shimmering blue and endless in the night light.

I drew myself together again. The wind thickened over a dune, sand swirling into a vortex before collapsing back into shape. Limbs reformed, body knitting seamlessly from the swirl, and when I exhaled, it was as though I'd been holding my breath for minutes.

My feet touched the soft sand. The transition was so smooth it barely disturbed the dust.

A few stray grains slipped from my coat and vanished into the night. I looked out across the endless desert and couldn't help the small smirk that formed.

"So this," I spread my arms wide, as if to hug the entire world, "is what it means to be untouchable."

​

---

I sat on my couch, half-turned to the rays of budding light seeping through the curtain, watching the smoke curl from my cigar. It rose, languid and sure of itself, a line of grey ambition.

My eyes drifted back to the creature on the small table in front of me and I blew twin thin trails out of my nostrils.

I raised my hand- the scarred one- and flexed the fingers that weren't there. Gold glinted where flesh should have been. A ridiculous symbol, really. Power and ruin, bound in the same gesture.

It should have scared me. A dead man's empire. A body carved from arrogance and loss. And me, the undeserving guest wearing his sins like a tailored suit. It didn't.

I took another drag. The taste burned, harsh and honest. Somewhere deep in my chest, something old- something Crocodile- stirred in recognition.

A laugh escaped me, low and deliberate. "Well then…"

The mirror across the room caught the smirk before I did- sharp, knowing, and entirely too familiar.

Whatever I had been before, whoever I'd been, it didn't matter. The world would only ever remember him.

The Den Den Mushi on the table clicked its eyes open, waiting. Its shell reflected my new face. My new truth.

"…Let's make this name worth keeping."

 

[Twigtree]

If its "nsfw maybe" you should move it to nsfw for a "just in case"
Anyway. Cheers and good work

 

[Vine_sama]

If its "nsfw maybe" you should move it to nsfw for a "just in case"
Anyway. Cheers and good work

Click to shrink...

Ah! I thought I was there already. My bad.

 

[Ahtu]

Interesting start. Hope he takes in Robin eventually. Perhaps best not to seek her out openly, as that would get the World Government on his back. But he could probably ferry her away in secret, and offer her safety, a job, and a chance to study and learn about poneglyphs from him.

Another thing to consider, is that that he is perhaps in time to save Bellemere, and so recruit Nami.

 

[Vine_sama]

Interesting start. Hope he takes in Robin eventually. Perhaps best not to seek her out openly, as that would get the World Government on his back. But he could probably ferry her away in secret, and offer her safety, a job, and a chance to study and learn about poneglyphs from him.

Another thing to consider, is that that he is perhaps in time to save Bellemere, and so recruit Nami.

Click to shrink...

Never thought of Bellemere and Nami. That's interesting