John wick in one piece

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Morning broke over Shell Point with the first rays of sunlight dancing across the waves. Michael stood at the edge of the dock, the salty air filling his lungs as he surveyed the small sloop tied to the pier. It was a modest vessel—nothing like the grand ships he'd seen in One Piece—but it was seaworthy. He'd spent what little money he'd scraped together from odd jobs and rewards for dealing with the Claw Gang to purchase it.

The ship wasn't much to look at. Its single mast was patched in places, the deck had seen better days, and the rudder creaked ominously. Still, it was his. A new beginning.

He tightened the straps on his newly acquired backpack, which contained a few essentials: food, water, a map of East Blue, and a revolver with a handful of bullets. The weapon was old but serviceable, a relic he'd acquired from the village blacksmith in exchange for some heavy lifting and repairs around his forge. It was no substitute for a sword or Devil Fruit powers, but Michael would take what he could get.

Arlo, the gruff innkeeper who had begrudgingly taken a liking to Michael, stood nearby. "You sure about this, kid? The seas aren't kind to rookies."

Michael smirked, adjusting the knife sheath on his belt. "Rookies die standing still. I'd rather take my chances."

Arlo huffed and scratched his balding head. "Fair enough. Just don't come crying back here if you get yourself killed."

"I won't," Michael said, climbing aboard his sloop. "Thanks for everything."

The older man waved him off, muttering something under his breath. As the sloop began to drift away from the dock, Michael felt a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. The open sea stretched out before him, vast and full of possibilities. But it also held dangers he couldn't yet comprehend.

The first few days at sea were grueling. Michael quickly realized just how much he didn't know about sailing. Steering the ship was manageable, but maintaining the rigging, navigating currents, and rationing supplies were challenges he hadn't anticipated. He spent hours poring over the map, trying to plot a course to the nearest major island.

On the fourth day, disaster struck. A sudden squall rolled in, tossing the sloop like a toy in a child's bath. The winds tore at the sails, and the waves threatened to capsize the vessel at any moment. Michael's body, honed by John Wick's instincts and discipline, moved on autopilot as he fought to keep the ship afloat.

The storm lasted hours, and by the time it cleared, Michael was soaked to the bone, exhausted, and dangerously low on supplies. But he was alive—and for now, that was enough.

The calm after the storm didn't last long. As Michael worked to patch the torn sails and secure the rigging, a shadow appeared on the horizon. It grew larger as it approached, resolving into the shape of a pirate ship.

Michael's heart sank. The vessel was twice the size of his sloop, its flag bearing a crude skull and crossbones. Through his spyglass, he could see a motley crew of pirates preparing to board him.

He had no intention of surrendering.

"Alright, John," he muttered to himself, slipping the revolver from its holster. "Let's see what you can do."

As the pirate ship pulled alongside his sloop, a plank was lowered, and a dozen scruffy men poured onto his deck. Their leader, a burly man with a patch over one eye, sneered at him.

"Well, what do we have here? A lone sailor? Looks like it's our lucky day, boys!" The crew laughed, their weapons glinting in the sunlight.

Michael raised his revolver, aiming it squarely at the leader's chest. "Turn around and leave. Now."

The laughter died down as the leader's expression hardened. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But you're outnumbered and outgunned. Lower your weapon, and maybe we'll let you live."

Michael didn't respond. Instead, he pulled the trigger.

The revolver roared, the bullet striking the leader squarely in the shoulder. He staggered back with a roar of pain, clutching the wound as his men surged forward in a frenzy.

Michael moved like a man possessed. His body, trained to perfection by John Wick's skills, sprang into action. He ducked under a wild swing from a pirate's cutlass, driving his knife into the man's side before using his body as a shield against an incoming strike.

The deck became a battlefield. Michael weaved between his attackers with precision, using the cramped quarters of the sloop to his advantage. His revolver barked twice more, dropping two pirates before it clicked empty. Tossing it aside, he focused on close combat.

A particularly large pirate lunged at him with an axe, but Michael sidestepped at the last moment, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting until the weapon fell from his grasp. With a swift elbow to the jaw, the pirate crumpled to the deck.

Despite his training, Michael could feel his stamina waning. The pirates were relentless, their attacks forcing him to rely on every ounce of his skill and cunning. When the last pirate fell, clutching his broken ribs, Michael leaned against the mast, panting heavily.

The leader, still nursing his wounded shoulder, glared at him. "You… you'll regret this."

Michael stepped forward, his knife glinting in the sunlight. "No, I won't."

The leader's eyes widened as Michael knocked him out cold with a single blow. He bound the surviving pirates with rope and dumped them back onto their ship before setting it adrift. The East Blue would decide their fate.

As the adrenaline faded, Michael slumped onto the deck, staring up at the sky. He was alive—barely—but the fight had been a wake-up call. John Wick's skills had carried him this far, but he couldn't rely on them alone. The enemies he would face in the future would be faster, stronger, and more dangerous than these common thugs.

He needed to get stronger. Faster. Smarter.

Over the next few days, Michael dedicated himself to training. He practiced his marksmanship, using the few remaining bullets he had left to improve his accuracy. He spent hours shadowboxing and refining his knife techniques, pushing his body to its limits. Every muscle burned, every joint ached, but he welcomed the pain. It was proof of progress.

The storm had left him battered, and the pirate attack had nearly killed him. But each challenge was a step forward, a chance to grow.

As the next island appeared on the horizon, Michael tightened his grip on the sloop's wheel. The journey was just beginning, and he was determined to carve his name into the history of this world.

The Black Requiem had set sail—and he wasn't looking back.

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