The immediate aftermath of the blue screen's pronouncements left Regulus reeling—a strange cocktail of disbelief and a burgeoning, almost desperate, sense of purpose. He was in the world of One Piece, inhabiting the body of a child with a potentially significant lineage. More than that, he had a system that promised the power of Monkey D. Garp. The sheer absurdity of it all threatened to overwhelm him, but the gnawing emptiness in his stomach and the growing heat of the morning sun quickly forced him to focus on the immediate reality: survival.
His first instinct was to assess the capabilities of his new, smaller body. He wiggled his fingers, flexed his arms, and tentatively jumped up and down. He felt… light. Fragile, even. Compared to the adult strength he was accustomed to, this five-year-old frame seemed like it could snap with minimal effort. Yet, there was something else—a subtle undercurrent of potential, a latent energy thrumming beneath his skin. Was this the nascent influence of the Garp Template?
He decided to test it. A few yards away, smooth, gray stones lay scattered near the waterline. He approached the largest one—a rock roughly the size of a small melon—and bent down, his small hands wrapping around its cool surface. In his previous life, this would have been nothing, barely worth noticing. Now, as he attempted to lift it, a tremor ran through his arms, his muscles straining with surprising effort. He grunted, pushing with all his might, and the rock barely lifted a few inches before his arms shook uncontrollably, forcing him to drop it with a dull thud.
A wave of frustration washed over him. Pathetic. Even a child his age should be able to lift more than that, shouldn't they? Unless… the original Regulus had been particularly weak. Or perhaps the Garp Template hadn't integrated enough to make a real difference. He tried again, focusing his will, imagining the raw power of the legendary Marine Vice Admiral flowing through him. This time, he managed to lift the rock a little higher, holding it for a few shaky seconds before his grip gave way. A marginal improvement—but enough to spark a flicker of hope. The potential was there, however faint.
Next came the urgent matter of food. His stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder that understanding his bizarre new circumstances wouldn't mean much if he starved. He scanned the beach, searching for anything edible. No fruit trees, no washed-up coconuts—just scavenging seagulls and the occasional scurrying crab. Not helpful.
Lush vegetation sat just beyond the beach. Maybe edible plants or fruit grew deeper inland. With a hesitant step, he ventured into the dense foliage. The air immediately grew cooler, thick with the scent of damp earth and unfamiliar blossoms. The undergrowth was dense, thorny vines snagging at his oversized robe. He pushed through, senses on high alert, ears straining for any sounds that might indicate food or danger. He spotted a few brightly colored berries, but something deep in his gut warned him against them. Poisonous? He couldn't risk it. He needed something more substantial.
Time passed—how long, he wasn't sure. His initial optimism slowly gave way to a gnawing hunger and a creeping sense of desperation. He racked his brain for survival tips, things he might've picked up from movies or documentaries, but nothing useful came to mind. He wasn't a survivalist. He had been… someone who relied on convenience stores and takeout. This new reality was a stark, unforgiving teacher.
By midday, the brutal truth settled in: he needed shelter. The thought of spending the night exposed on this deserted island sent a shiver down his spine. Eventually, he found a relatively sheltered spot beneath a cluster of broad-leafed plants, near the jungle's edge. Using fallen branches and large leaves, he began constructing a rudimentary lean-to. His small hands struggled with the unwieldy materials, his muscles aching with exertion. The end result was crude—flimsy, even—but it was something. A barrier, however weak, between him and the unknown dangers of the night.
With shelter handled, his thoughts returned to food. Hunger clawed at him, growing worse by the hour. He spent time watching crabs scuttle along the sand, their hard shells an obvious problem. He tried catching one, but they were too quick, vanishing into sandy burrows before he got close. Frustration mounted.
Driven by desperation, he noticed a small rocky outcrop jutting into the shallows. Maybe there are shellfish clinging to the rocks. He carefully made his way over the slippery stones, peering into the clear water. Sure enough, a few small clams clung tightly to the submerged rocks. Using a sharp piece of driftwood, he tried to pry one loose. The clam held firm. He grunted, straining, and with a sudden pop, it came free.
Small. Hardly enough to satisfy his hunger. But it was food. He gathered a few more, spirits lifting slightly with each success. It wasn't sustainable, but it was proof—proof that he could survive, at least for now.
Exhaustion crept up on him. The unaccustomed physical effort, the hunger, the constant stress of his situation—it all weighed him down. He retreated to his makeshift shelter, letting the shade offer a small respite from the relentless sun. He lay down on the sandy floor, stomach still rumbling, but a sliver of hope remained. He had survived his first day.
He closed his eyes, mind drifting back to the blue screen and the promise of the Garp Template. He didn't know how long it would take for its power to truly manifest, but he clung to the hope that it would make survival easier. He was in the world of One Piece—a world teeming with both danger and opportunity.
Right now, he was just a five-year-old child with no real skills, no knowledge of this world.
But he had potential.
He had the blood of the Figarland family, however distant, and the promise of a legend's strength.
He wouldn't just survive.
He would thrive.
As the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, casting their faint light upon the deserted shore, Regulus drifted into a fitful sleep, his dreams filled with images of blue screens and the booming laughter of a certain legendary Marine.