John wick in one piece

---

Michael Cross didn't expect much from death. He'd always imagined it would be like a long, dreamless sleep. No bright lights, no pearly gates, just… nothingness. Instead, he found himself standing in a void so vast and oppressive that his mind could barely comprehend its dimensions. The blackness stretched infinitely, yet there was a presence—a being unlike anything he'd ever seen or imagined.

It wasn't human. It wasn't even mortal. Its form shifted constantly, shimmering between monstrous and serene, its voice simultaneously booming and whispering. This was the ROB—the Random Omnipotent Being.

"You lived an unremarkable life," the ROB said, its tone dripping with amusement. "But I'll admit, there's something intriguing about you."

Michael blinked, still struggling to process his surroundings. He remembered dying—a car accident on a rainy night, his sedan crumpling like paper. Then… this.

"Who—what are you?" he stammered.

"I am everything and nothing," the ROB replied, waving a limb—or was it a tentacle? "And you, my dear Michael, have been selected for a… proposition."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "A proposition?"

"Yes. Consider it a second chance. A new life in a different world."

Michael crossed his arms. "What's the catch?"

The ROB chuckled, a sound that rattled the space around him. "No catch, really. You'll be reborn in the world of One Piece. Familiar with it?"

Michael's eyes widened. "The manga? The anime? With pirates and Devil Fruits and crazy superpowers?"

"The very same. However, you won't be granted any of the flashy gifts most would beg for. No Devil Fruits, no supernatural abilities. Instead, I'll give you the body and skills of John Wick—the endurance, the martial prowess, the lethal precision. The rest? You'll have to earn through your own blood, sweat, and tears."

Michael frowned. He wasn't sure if this was a blessing or a curse. The One Piece world was no joke. Monsters, warlords, marines, and pirates—all of them could kill a regular human without breaking a sweat. Even with John Wick's body, how could he survive in a world where people could split islands with a swing of their sword?

"And if I refuse?" he asked cautiously.

"You'll cease to exist," the ROB said flatly. "No reincarnation, no afterlife. Just… nothing."

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair. "So, it's either die completely or gamble my life in the One Piece world?"

"Precisely."

He hesitated for a moment but then thought about the monotony of his previous life. He'd been a nobody—a desk jockey with no family, no friends, and no legacy. If he was going to take a chance on something, why not this?

"Fine," Michael said. "I accept."

The ROB grinned—or at least, Michael thought it did. "Excellent. I'll drop you off in East Blue. Don't disappoint me, Michael. Or should I say… John?"

Before Michael could respond, the void collapsed around him, and he was falling into a blinding sea of light. The last thing he heard was the ROB's amused laughter echoing in his mind.

---

Michael woke up with a start, his body drenched in sweat. He wasn't sure what he expected, but it wasn't this. He was lying on a worn cot in a small, dingy room. The salty tang of the ocean hung heavy in the air, and the sound of seagulls cawing filled his ears.

Sitting up, he instinctively flexed his fingers and stretched his limbs. His movements felt… different. Fluid. Powerful. His muscles were coiled springs, ready to snap into action at the slightest provocation. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood, testing his balance. The sensation was uncanny; it was as if his body was pre-programmed with years of training and reflexes.

He spotted a cracked mirror on the far wall and moved toward it. The face staring back wasn't entirely his own—it was a mix of his old self and something more. Sharper cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a jawline that could cut steel. His hair was darker, slicked back in a way that screamed confidence.

John Wick's body. The ROB wasn't lying.

---

Michael's room turned out to be part of a run-down inn in a small fishing village. After some awkward conversations with the innkeeper—a gruff old man named Arlo—Michael pieced together his situation. He was in East Blue, on the outskirts of a sleepy little island called Shell Point. The village was unremarkable: a few dozen houses, a marketplace, and a harbor that saw maybe one or two ships a week. It was a place untouched by the chaos of the Grand Line, though not entirely free of danger.

"I've got some work that needs doing if you're planning to stay," Arlo grumbled, wiping down the bar counter. "But if you're looking for an easy life, you're in the wrong world, kid."

Michael's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Don't worry. I've got plans."

---

The "plans" began the next day. Michael's new body came with instincts—John Wick's instincts—but he quickly realized that instincts alone wouldn't be enough to survive this world. His physical condition was impressive, but it wasn't supernatural. He needed to train. Hard.

Each morning, he ran laps around the village until his legs burned. In the afternoons, he practiced hand-to-hand combat, using makeshift dummies he'd fashioned from old barrels and fishing nets. His movements were precise, but he could feel the gap between himself and the monsters this world had to offer.

The real test came a week later, when the bandits arrived.

---

The village had warned him about the Claw Gang—a small group of pirates who made a habit of raiding isolated settlements. Michael had been in the middle of his training routine when they stormed the harbor, their leader barking orders.

"Line up, you worms!" the pirate captain roared, waving a rusty cutlass. "We'll take your food, your money, and anything else we damn well please!"

The villagers scrambled to comply, their fear palpable. Michael, however, didn't move. He stood at the edge of the square, arms crossed, his eyes locked on the captain.

"What's this?" the pirate sneered. "A wannabe hero?"

Michael's response was calm, measured. "You've got ten seconds to leave."

The pirates burst into laughter. The captain stepped forward, towering over Michael. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Too bad you'll be fish food by sundown."

Michael sighed. "Ten seconds are up."

---

The first move was his. Michael surged forward, slipping past the captain's clumsy swing and driving a knee into his gut. The pirate doubled over, gasping for air, as Michael disarmed him with a swift twist of the wrist.

The other bandits hesitated, stunned by the sudden turn of events. Michael capitalized on their confusion, dropping one with a brutal elbow to the jaw and another with a roundhouse kick that sent him sprawling.

Years of John Wick's experience guided his actions. He moved like a shadow, weaving between his opponents with deadly precision. One pirate tried to charge him with a spear, but Michael sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and used it to flip the man onto his back.

Within minutes, the fight was over. The remaining bandits scrambled back to their ship, dragging their unconscious comrades behind them.

Michael stood in the center of the square, his chest heaving. His body ached, his knuckles were bloodied, but he was alive. More than that—he'd won.

---

That night, as he sat alone by the harbor, Michael stared out at the horizon. The fight had been exhilarating, but it also served as a grim reminder. These were just small-time thugs. Out there, in the vast expanse of the Grand Line, there were people capable of splitting mountains and commanding armies. If he wanted to survive—if he wanted to thrive—he'd need to become something more.

The first step was clear: leave Shell Point. He needed to find a crew, a ship, and a way to grow stronger. Haki, physical training, maybe even a Devil Fruit if he got desperate. But for now, he'd take it one step at a time.

Rising to his feet, Michael turned back toward the village. Tomorrow, he'd set sail.

The journey to greatness had begun.

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