Fmes..

  William West slogged through the muddy paths of his Scottish vilge, rain soaking his rough wool tunic.

  The sky was a stormy mess, pouring water on the straw roofs. His boots sank deep into the muck, patched from hauling firewood as a young d.

  He was 17, tall at 6’1”, with wild brown curly hair dripping wet and light blue eyes squinting through the downpour. It was 1198, and he’d spent the day chopping logs, hands tough and callused for a young guy.

  Life here was rough. His little hut sat near the vilge edge, next to old man Fergus who snored like a hog.

  His dad had taught him the axe since he was ten, showing him how to split wood clean and fast. Today, he’d helped the miller fix a cart wheel, who grunted, “Good enough,” and tossed him a stale loaf. William didn’t whine. He stayed quiet, big and strong for his age, but folks still looked past him.

  He’d grown up quickly in this glen. His mom had moved to the next valley after his dad got sick and passed two winters back.

  She’d left him the hut and a few words: “Be steady, Will.” He was—steady and sharp. He’d learned to watch, listen, and figure stuff out. The vilge wasn’t much—just a bunch of huts, a well, and fields that barely grew enough to eat. Rain like this made it worse, turning everything to sludge.

  William wasn’t like the other ds. They wrestled and bragged by the fire, showing off for the girls, but he hung back, eyes on the elders’ tales. He’d heard about battles, cns, and treasures—stories that stuck with him deep. He wasn’t loud, but he wasn’t dumb either. He’d fixed traps for hunters, patched roofs tight, and even tricked a peddler once, trading a bent knife for a good whetstone. People didn’t notice much, but he didn’t need their cps.

  Days dragged slow here. Mornings meant wood, afternoons meant chores—today it was the miller’s cart, yesterday it was hauling water for Widow Meg. She’d patted his arm, saying, “Strong d,” but that was it. No one saw more in him than muscle. He’d sit by the hearth at night, carving sticks into shapes—wolves, swords, wee birds—dreaming of something bigger. The vilge was home, but it felt like a trap closing in.

  He remembered st summer, sneaking to the river with his dad's old fishing spear. He’d caught a fat trout, grinning wide as he hauled it back. The miller’s son, Tam, a loudmouth with a big head, ughed, “Lucky grab!” William just shrugged it off. He didn’t need Tam’s noise. That trout tasted sweet, roasted over his fire, and it proved he could do more than swing an axe. He’d kept that spear sharp, hidden under his cot, waiting for a real shot.

  There was that time with the shepherd too. Old Coll’s flock got loose, and William tracked the sheep through the hills, bringing ‘em back before dark. Coll gave him a nod and a scrap of wool—high praise from a grump. William didn’t boast. He liked figuring things out, like how to find tracks in the mud or fix a busted gate. He wasn’t book-smart—nobody here was—but he had a knack for seeing what others missed.

  He’d watched the vilge shift over the years. The elders griped about harder winters, fewer crops, and Lord Ranald up in his stone hall. Ranald was new, a noble who’d rolled in st spring with guards and greed. He’d taxed the grain heavy, leaving folks thin. William saw how the men grumbled but kept their heads down. He didn’t like Ranald either—the guy strutted like he owned the glen itself. William figured someone oughta stand up, maybe him one day.

  That’s why he’d started listening closer at the fire. The elders spun tales of the old cns—fierce fighters who’d carved this nd. One story stuck: a sword in the forest, glowing and special, left by a warrior long gone. They called it sacred, a gift of strength for the vilge. William didn’t buy the holy part, but he’d seen the stump once, sneaking out with Tam years back. The bde shone even then. He’d been pnning to grab it for weeks, not just to mess around, but to show he could do something bold.

  Tonight, he’d slipped into the forest, eyes peeled, looking for any other visitors that might stop him. Neither did the rain stop him—he knew the paths blind. There, the special sword glowed in that stump, just like the tales. He’d pieced it together over months, listening to the elders argue about its power. It wasn’t cursed; it was a chance. He’d pnned to take it, not for kicks, but to prove he could handle something real—maybe even lead one day.

  He walked into the vilge, sword tucked under his cloak at first. He wasn’t reckless—he knew fshing it too soon would stir trouble. William had dreamed of leading since he was a kid swinging sticks, not just pying. This sword could make them see him for once.

  He waited till dusk, rain still falling, then pulled the sword out near the well. “Behold!” he said, loud but careful, standing clear of the elders’ huts. Kids gawked, and a few folks muttered—some knew the bde, their treasure. He figured they’d talk first, maybe respect him. He’d prove he wasn’t just a woodcutter’s son; he could be their strength, a real fighter.

  Shouts rang out fast—guards, not vilgers, barking orders. “Stop, thief!” they yelled, swords drawn, led by Lord Ranald, a greedy noble in a fancy cloak. William’s gut dropped. He’d misjudged—Ranald had spied him from the hall window, craving the gorgeous sword for himself. “It’s not yours!” William shouted, but the noble smirked, “It's mine now!” and sent the guards charging. He bolted toward the cliffs, sword tight in hand.

  William ran, the forest his only hope, rain blinding him as he fled. Freedom hung so near—he wouldn’t let Ranald cage it. He somberly thought that this was his only way out, but it has been destroyed nonetheless. The guards thundered behind, their cries tangled with Ranald’s snarls about seizing the bde. Branches snagged his tunic, mud cwed at his boots, but he surged on, breath ragged, the sword a lifeline. He broke onto the cliffs, the edge jagged and slick, and whirled to face them—Ranald was steps away, his grin a shackle of its own.

  Darkness hit fast. No spirits, no light, just nothing.

  His mind spun, stuck on one thought. Dead? Already? His body y smashed on the shore, waves washing over, forgotten. The sword nded into the seas as it slowly fell loose of his grip, lost in the muddy sand, buried by the wave. As the sun fell, the quiet stretched, somber and slow.

  A voice sliced in, cold and sharp. “William West. Deceased. System starting.”

  A blue screen fshed up in the dark, glowing with words.

  “System?” William croaked, voice shaky. “What’s that?”

  “Wish received. Transporting now,” the voice barked. “Brace yourself.”

  “Wait—what’s this?” he yelled, but the void shuddered, a jolt ripping through him, fierce and alive. The darkness split, pulling him through.

  [System Activated!]

  [Wish Granted….]

  [Freedom Initiated!]

  Cycle 1

  Next Stop: One Piece World

  Stats: [Locked]

  Stuff: [Locked]

  Tokens: [Locked]

  “System?” William said, voice wobbly. “What’s that?”

  “Loading now,” the voice barked. “Brace up.”

  “Wait—what’s this?” he yelled, but the void shuddered, a jolt ripping through him, fierce and alive. The darkness split, pulling him through

  He tripped onto rough stone, smelling fish and salt. Sun burned his eyes—no rain here. Wood houses lined a dusty road. A tall tower stood on a hill. People hauled nets and crates. He didn’t know this pce—some weird town he’d never heard of.

  Boots stomped close, loud and quick. William froze in surprise.

  —