Reincarnated in the world of One Piece

While the seas of the Grand Line boiled with unrest, the winds of war igniting conflicts from one corner to the next, there existed a rare pocket of stillness—a secluded haven, suspended in time and untouched by the chaos that engulfed the rest of the world.

The Corrupted Serpent sailed through an ocean unlike any other—a place where the sea and the jungle melded together, creating a surreal and almost otherworldly beauty. Towering trees, like colossal sentinels, rose from the water, their massive roots sprawling beneath the surface like unseen tendrils, reaching into the depths as if guarding the very heart of the ocean. The trunks of these trees twisted and gnarled, their thick bark covered in strange moss that seemed to shimmer with a faint, otherworldly glow.

Above them, the emerald canopies stretched out in an almost impenetrable blanket, filtering the sunlight into golden beams that flickered through the dense foliage. The light danced across the shimmering water below, casting intricate patterns that seemed to move with the subtle rhythm of the sea. Between the trees, massive vines as thick as ship masts hung like serpents from the heavens, some dipping down into the water like lifelines, others curling around the trunks in endless spirals, their surfaces slick with dew.

The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and blooming flora, a stark contrast to the salty tang of the sea beyond. Flowers of impossible colors bloomed along the branches, their petals shifting in the light, some pulsing faintly as though alive, casting an eerie but captivating glow in the shaded depths of the jungle.

Yet despite its beauty, this place was no paradise. The still water beneath the ship reflected the world above with unnatural clarity, an obsidian mirror that hid more than it revealed. Shadows slithered beneath the surface—whether fish, roots, or something far more sinister was impossible to tell. The jungle around them thrummed with the pulse of life—creatures of every shape and size, some barely noticeable, others nearly impossible to miss.

Giant, lumbering beasts, their bodies covered in thick, moss-like fur, clung to the branches high above, their enormous claws gently scraping against the bark as they rested, seemingly unbothered by the passing ship. Smaller, more nimble creatures skittered across the vines, their iridescent scales gleaming in the dappled light, their bright eyes darting in every direction, keeping watch for predators. And then, there were the strange, serpentine creatures—long, twisting forms coiled among the vines, their scaly bodies blending seamlessly with the jungle's verdant hues. They didn't attack, simply watched, their eyes glowing faintly as they observed the ship's passing with quiet curiosity.

Every now and then, a distant screech or a guttural roar echoed through the jungle—a reminder that life in this place was anything but tame. But the beasts, though large and imposing, seemed to exist in perfect harmony with the environment, never showing signs of aggression, only keeping to their business among the trees and vines.

The Corrupted Serpent moved with eerie grace through the labyrinth of trees. Its dark sails stood in stark contrast to the lush greenery around it, the sound of the ship's creaking wood punctuating the otherwise hushed atmosphere. The deck was quiet, the crew momentarily entranced by the strange beauty surrounding them. The thick, humid air hung heavy with anticipation as the crew eyed the surroundings, each one of them keeping their hands close to their weapons, wary of the unknown dangers hidden in the shadows.

Laffitte stood near the helm, his pale features ghostly in the flickering light cast by the ship's lanterns. His long white hair fluttered gently in the breeze, but his eyes remained fixed on the treasure they had just accumulated. After carefully counting and organizing the spoils, he muttered to himself, "Everything added together... 300 million berries." His fingers brushed over the piles of gold, gems, and precious artifacts, all of it gleaming under the dim light of the lanterns. The wealth was substantial, yet his expression remained impassive, as though the sum itself was insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he twirled his cane absently. "Not a bad fetch at all," he remarked, his voice smooth and calm, but with a hint of satisfaction buried beneath his words.

Nixon sits at a small, elegantly crafted table near the ship's railing, its surface smooth and glistening like frozen crystal under the sunlight. The table, a creation of his own making, is sculpted entirely from ice—a subtle display of his devil fruit powers Frost curls delicately along its edges, and the surface is so polished it reflects the sunlight in dazzling patterns. Atop it rests a delicate porcelain teacup, a matching saucer, and a silver teapot that gleams with understated opulence. He raises the teacup with practiced grace, taking a slow, deliberate sip, his pinky finger slightly extended. His tailored coat is immaculate, his boots polished to a mirror shine, and his posture exudes an air of effortless refinement. His gaze drifts from one crewmate to the next, his calm demeanor barely masking the faint smirk playing on his lips.

"Not a bad fetch at all," he remarks, his voice smooth and clipped, carrying the faintest hint of an aristocratic accent. He sets the cup down on the saucer with a soft clink, the sound crisp and precise. Tapping a finger against his chin in mock contemplation, he continues, "It's all thanks to Corbin and Violet—such good adventurers, so generous. They just willingly handed it all over. Too bad I shan't t be able to thank them properly." His tone is dripping with sarcasm, though his expression remains perfectly composed, as if he were discussing the weather rather than a recent act of betrayal.

Guzen, leaning against the ship's railing with his back to the wind, is the loudest and most animated of the group. His wide grin is almost unnerving as he stares out into the distance, clearly reveling in the spoils of their recent endeavors. He turns to face the crew, his grin widening even further, his voice taking on a dark, almost sing-song tone. "But that can be arranged," he says, eyes glinting with malice. "I can definitely make you meet them." The darkness in his words is matched only by the eerie grin that spreads across his face as he licks his blade, the hint of bloodlust unmistakable. It's a promise of trouble ahead, his excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

Nixon raises an eyebrow, looking mildly amused as he lowers his tea cup. "that thought is much appreciate Guzen but I'm quite fine actually," he responds, his voice laced with a hint of smugness. The faintest of smiles tugs at the corner of his lips, but it's clear that he's not as excited as Guzen about the idea of 'thanking' Corbin and Violet.

"I see," Guzan mutters, slumping down as he shakes his head in disappointment. He laments the missed opportunity, clearly frustrated that he won't be able to send Nixon to the afterlife—at least, not yet.

Laffitte twirls his cane with casual amusement, his pale face breaking into a smile. "Well, I suppose those Black Seraph Pirates will be the ones coming after us now," he muses, his voice light and teasing. "They'll want to thank us on their behalf." His words are playful, but there's an unmistakable edge to them, a reminder of the ever-present danger that comes with being in the Grand Line.

Guzan chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating across the ship. "How touching," he says, the mockery clear in his tone. It's as though he finds the idea of the Black Seraph Pirates seeking revenge more amusing than intimidating.

Nixon nods mockingly, the sarcasm thick in his voice. "How wonderful."

The crew, though aware of the impending threat, does not seem bothered by it. The Black Seraph Pirates, after all, are nothing more than another obstacle to be crushed under the weight of their strength. Two of Ashen Typhoon's lieutenants had already met their end at their hands—yet the Black Flame Pirates remain unbothered, indifferent to the idea of facing the full force of powerful Black Seraph crew.

Joshua, standing near the wheel with a calm gaze, breaks the silence with a voice as sharp as a knife. "Anyways, this is not bad indeed. With this amount, our wealth has elevated to another level," he remarks, his words measured and precise, the satisfaction of the moment clear in his tone.

Guzan, his grin shifting to something more sinister, taps his right fist into his left palm with a light, deliberate tap. "Oh, that's right," he adds, his voice dripping with feigned sorrow. "We might be thanking our dear adventurers who are no longer with us. May their souls rest in agony and torment…" He sighs dramatically, a mock hand placed over his chest in exaggerated grief.

"But we can thank someone who is with us now for that, isn't that right, Enel?" Guzan's voice is laced with a dark delight, his expression sharp as he turns toward the storm cloud seated god.

Enel, still lounging on his cloud cushion with an air of supreme detachment, doesn't even look at Guzan. "Don't test me, mortal," he mutters, his tone cold and unyielding, a deep, dangerous growl lurking beneath the surface. His glare could freeze anyone in their tracks, but it only seems to amuse the rest of the crew.

Motoa, his usual sickly tone rising above the quiet tension, coughs twice—dry, rattling sounds that punctuate his words. "Cough…cough… What do you guys mean?" he asks, his voice devoid of understanding, as if the chaos around him is just another part of his routine.

Guzan, ever the showman, explains with an air of satisfaction, his voice reveling in the suspense of the moment. The realization dawns on both Motoa and Nixon, their expressions shifting as they come to understand what's happening. The air grows heavier with the knowledge that Enel's anger is no longer something they can afford to ignore.

Nixon sighs with mock sympathy, his voice dripping with false concern. "How tragic," he says, the words designed to provoke more than comfort.

Joshua smirks, his amusement clear in his voice. "How tragic indeed. His anger issues have only gotten worse since then."

Guzan, adding fuel to the fire, nods with a grin. "It's no wonder his anger issues have increased since…"

Motoa, coughing again, nods as if in agreement. "I do feel your pain, Enel," he says, his tone dry and weary, as if this conversation is little more than a passing inconvenience.

Enel, veins popping on his forehead, scoffs in disdain. "This god does not need your mortal pity," he sneers, his tone bitter and sharp. His body crackles with barely contained power, but his posture remains relaxed, almost lazily defiant.

Laffitte, his eerie chuckle breaking the tension, steps in with a calm but amused voice. "Now, now, gentlemen. Don't provoke him. I cannot bear to deal with the wrath of a god." His words are light, but his eyes flicker with genuine concern as he watches Enel, knowing just how volatile the god's temper can be.

The crew laughs together, a collective moment of tension breaking into something more sinister. Beneath the laughter, though, they all know that it's Enel's fury that has built much of their wealth—along with the brutal beatings he's taken from Joshua in the past.

Joshua sat casually on the deck of The Corrupted Serpent, his legs stretched out in front of him, the breeze ruffling his clothes as it whispered through the air. He shifted his gaze from the lush environment around him to the pile of sorted gold. With a calm smirk playing at the corners of his lips, he spoke, "Well, now that we've handled the gold, let's take a look at our next agenda—the fruits we gathered from our dear friends."

As he spoke, the crew gathered around, curiosity flickering in their eyes. The first fruit was presented—its skin a deep crimson, flame-like patterns curling across its surface as if the fruit itself had been set alight. The second was a bluish-purple orb, shimmering with mythical markings, swirling with iridescent patterns.

The crew, momentarily distracted by the beauty of the environment around them, turned their attention to Joshua. He laid the two fruits down before him, placing them carefully on the ship's deck. Most of the crew watched curiously, except for Enel, who was still floating lazily on his cloud, his gaze fixed far off into the distance. . His eyes, however, seemed to naturally drift toward the fruits, and for a moment, he stared at them intently. His thoughts were a storm of confusion and disbelief but aloud. Why do these fruits look so much like... 

Laffitte, ever observant, smirked and leaned casually against the ship's railing. "Looks like the fruits you ate," he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "Obviously, they're Devil Fruits. The only real difference is that you ate a Logia-type—the Thunder-Thunder Fruit. Just like the captain ate the Black Flame Fruit, which grants intangibility as well. These fruits are all Devil Fruits, of course. Different types—Logia, Paramecia, Zoan, and Mythical Zoan—but still, they share some similarities."

Enel's expression darkened. "How is that possible?" he muttered under his breath, still staring at Joshua's calm face.

Inside, his thoughts were a storm. The sight of the Devil Fruits—so similar to his own, yet undeniably different—sent a ripple of unease through his very core. These are others like mine... but how could that be? The question gnawed at him, relentless and insidious. He had always believed himself to be unique, a being beyond the comprehension of mortals. The Thunder-Thunder Fruit had been his divine right, a symbol of his supremacy, a gift from the heavens themselves. But now, faced with the undeniable existence of other fruits, that belief began to crack.

Am I not supposed to be the only one, the supreme deity of this land? The thought was a blade, cutting through the carefully constructed facade of his godhood. For a moment, he felt something he hadn't felt in years—doubt. It was a foreign sensation, unwelcome and unsettling, like a storm cloud obscuring the sun. He clenched his fists, the crackle of electricity dancing across his skin, as if to remind himself of his power. But even that felt hollow now.

Memories surged unbidden—his rise to power, the awe and fear in the eyes of those who had worshipped him, the countless battles he had won without breaking a sweat. He had been untouchable, invincible, a force of nature. But here, in this strange and twisted jungle-sea, surrounded by mortals who dared to mock him, that invincibility felt like a distant dream.

How many others are out there? The question lingered, dark and unrelenting. If there were others like him, others who wielded powers that rivaled his own, then what did that make him? Just another mortal with a lucky break? The thought was unbearable. He was Enel, the god of thunder, the ruler of the skies. He was not meant to share his throne with anyone.

Yet, the evidence was right in front of him. The crimson fruit with its flame-like patterns, the bluish-purple orb shimmering with mythical markings—they were undeniable. And if these fruits existed, then so did others who had eaten them. Others who might challenge him, who might even surpass him. 

Guzan, who had been leaning casually against the mast, let out a mocking chuckle. "God, huh? You really thought you were the only one with power like that?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I guess even gods don't know the basics of the world around them."