Reincarnated in the world of One Piece

The Thunderclap Rift – Southwest of the Grandline

There is a place where the world itself writhes in eternal agony. There exists a place so blighted, so violently forsaken, that even the most fearsome legends dare not lay claim to it—the Thunderclap Rift.

The sky here is not merely a sky—it is a realm of chaos, a coliseum where gods wage endless war with fire and fury. Blackened clouds, swollen with malice, convulse like the lungs of a dying beast, wheezing out flashes of jagged, silver-veined wrath. But lightning does not simply flash here—it rules. It descends in endless torrents, an unforgiving plague of celestial fury, lashing the world below with the rage of a universe betrayed.

The air is a battlefield. Lightning does not fall—it hunts, snaking through the heavens in a rabid frenzy, its tendrils howling like starving wolves before sinking their fangs into the earth and sea. Each bolt is not just an attack—it is a proclamation of absolute destruction. They come in volleys, spearing downward in unholy barrages, dozens—hundreds at a time—as if the heavens themselves are at war with existence.

When these divine spears strike the ocean, the sea does not merely take the blow—it screams. Water does not ripple; it erupts. Entire swaths of the sea are blasted into steaming chasms, exploding outward in towering geysers of boiling, vaporized rage. The waves do not rise and fall naturally—not here. They are severed, cleaved apart mid-motion by bolts of lightning so vast, so unrelenting, that the ocean itself seems enslaved to their wrath.

But the sea is not the only victim.

There are islands here, or rather, the scorched skeletons of what once were islands—ruins that stand only to be struck down again. Some are barely more than charred teeth jutting from the water, their peaks blackened and crumbling. Others still resist, defiant in their suffering, only to be broken by the next wave of devastation.

When the lightning chooses an island, its judgment is absolute. The impact is not a strike—it is an execution. A single bolt does not just land—it erupts like a volcanic god's wrath, splintering mountains into molten avalanches, turning forests into blazing skeletons, boiling rivers into columns of scalding mist. Rock does not crumble—it detonates, flung skyward in an explosion of shattered earth and glowing embers.

Some islands are granted swift oblivion. Others are made to suffer. The storm does not forget; it does not forgive. It will strike the same place again, and again, and again, as though punishing the land itself for daring to exist. The very ground convulses beneath the assault, cracks forming, cliffs collapsing into the blackened waves below.

And still, the lightning does not relent. It does not pause. It does not wane. It is ceaseless. It is eternal. The Thunderclap Rift is no mere storm, no passing squall—it is a sentence, a maelstrom of annihilation, a war between sky and sea with no victor, only endless devastation.

And cutting through this madness, defying the storm's fury, sails the harbinger of nightmares—the Ebon Wrath.

She is no ordinary vessel. She is a predator, a black beast with a hull forged from seastone and nightmares. The rain crashes against her as if the storm itself seeks to drown her, but the Ebon Wrath does not bow—she carves through the chaos with the savage grace of a wolf on the hunt. Her body gleams like obsidian, slick with rain, her crimson trim glowing like fresh blood under the storm's erratic flashes.

Her figurehead—a massive wolf's head with glowing, malevolent red eyes— seems to come alive in the flickering lightning, a silent sentinel that dares the sea itself to strike. Her sails, deep crimson and adorned with the crew's sigil—a howling wolf wreathed in unholy flames—snap like war banners in the howling wind.

Cannons line her deck, their blackened steel barrels gleaming like fangs in the darkness. Below, hidden corridors and secret compartments whisper of lethal surprises, weapons of death waiting to be unleashed. The Ebon Wrath is no mere ship—she is a fortress, a beast, a legend in the making.

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And upon her deck stand monsters of the sea.

A mountain of a man, wrapped in muscle and scarred by countless battles, he stood at the ship's railing, his presence as solid as the ship itself. The storm raged, the thunder roared, but the only thing louder was his grin.

"This Chaos bastard…" he rumbled, voice like grinding stone, knuckles cracking like distant gunfire. "He's sure makin' a lotta noise again."

Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the raw, unyielding power in his stance. His fists—wrapped in worn, battle-hardened bandages—radiated menace, as though they carried the memory of every bone they had ever broken. His red headband, soaked and heavy with rain, clung to his forehead like a banner of war, the symbol of a man who did not just survive the Grand Line—he thrived in it. His fists, wrapped in worn bandages, steamed in the cold air, as if his very blood burned with battlelust. Every movement radiated raw, unyielding strength, as if the very ground beneath him trembled at his step.

Reikhan Dar'rok

Fanglord of Fists

413,077,000 million berries

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"Another competitor at sea," she murmured, the words slipping through the storm like a dagger through silk.

A slim pitque female stood like a whisper in the storm, her presence sharp, quiet, and lethal. Rain trailed down her pale green hair, streaking across the intricate tattoos on her arms—dragons and cherry blossoms intertwining in an artful contradiction of beauty and death.

She scanned the soggy newspaper in her hands, her sharp eyes flickering with quiet calculation.Her daggers—twin blades forged in the underbelly of the world—gleamed at her sides, their presence a silent promise of bloodshed. The storm did not touch her—it parted around her, as if knowing it had no dominion over the Silent Blade.

Mina

Fanglord of blades

202,300,000 Berries

Imager here

"What, you scared, Mina?" she teased, a smirk curling at her lips showing dangerous playfulness. 

Near the mast, a warrior clad in gold armor that defied the lightning's wrath, her lavender hair whipping in the storm, chuckled—a sound like a blade unsheathing. Lightning seemed to dance along her armor, each bolt attracted to the sheer presence of her power. She rested her lance against her shoulder, the weapon humming softly as if alive, eager for the next battle.

Kaelira Velshar

Fanglord of the Lance,

199,000,000 Berries

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Mina merely narrowed her eyes. "No, I'm not scared," she said evenly. "Another tricky opponent just means more uncertainty. But I know one person who's thrilled at this."

The ship seemed to breathe as its master turned to his crew.

A towering figure stood at the helm—larger than life, a presence that could split the sky with his will alone. Silver hair, wild and untamed, whipped through the air, rain clinging to the strands like molten steel. His body, a temple of battle-scarred muscle, was wrapped in jagged black armor, crimson accents gleaming like fresh wounds beneath the storm's violent light.

A blindfold covered one eye, but the other—cold, burning, alive—pierced the storm itself.

Then, he laughed. A deep, thunderous boom, raw and untamed, a sound that sent even the sea into a momentary hush.

His voice was thunder given form.

"HAHAHAHA! Another monster out at sea.... another challenge—just for me to devour!"

The storm reeled back as if struck. The rain stopped falling for a fraction of a second. Lightning froze in place, its jagged fingers suspended in time. His shadow expanded, swallowing the deck, consuming the world. The only thing visible in the abyss was the blazing emerald fire of his eyes—two burning suns in the storm's black maw.

"Chaos… I hope we cross fists soon."

BOOM—his aura detonated. His hellish green eyes, deep as the abyss and burning like an unholy necrotic flame, pierced through the darkness, their glow an eerie, supernatural beacon in the churning void. Like the smoldering embers of a forgotten god's fury, they pulsed with a wicked, untamed energy—an emerald wildfire that devoured the night itself.

Ironfang Darius-Supernova

Captain of the Howling Vanguards,

The Deathbringer.

737,560,000 Berries

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.....

The Poisoned Horizon- South of the Grandline

The island, known as Venomspire Isle, was a jagged, foreboding landmass shrouded in a perpetual haze of toxic green mist. The air was thick with the acrid stench of sulfur and decay, a noxious cocktail that burned the lungs and stung the eyes. The sea surrounding the island churned violently, its waters a sickly, semi-green poison that hissed and bubbled as if alive. Jagged rocks jutted out like the teeth of a leviathan, their surfaces slick with a slimy, iridescent sheen. The sky above was a swirling maelstrom of dark clouds, crackling with veins of purple lightning that illuminated the desolation below.

A group stood on the edge of the island's rocky shore, their silhouettes stark against the oppressive gloom. The crew's flagship, the Crimson Tempest, was anchored in the distance, its sails billowing ominously in the toxic wind. The ship was a masterpiece of nautical engineering, its deep scarlet hull gleaming like a bloodstain against the poisoned sea. The sails, painted with streaks of crimson lightning, seemed to pulse with life, while the figurehead of a phoenix rising from stormy waters challenged the heavens themselves. The flag of the Scarlet Wisteria Pirates fluttered in the wind—a black canvas adorned with a crimson wisteria vine, its blossoms dripping like blood, and a skeletal hand grasping a lightning bolt at its center. It was a symbol of defiance, a beacon of rebellion in a world ruled by tyranny.

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The atmosphere was heavy, not just with the poisonous air, but with the weight of the destruction they had just wrought. The remnants of a Marine base lay in ruins behind them, its ships reduced to smoldering wrecks, their hulls cracked and splintered like broken bones. The air was filled with the acrid smell of burning wood and the metallic tang of blood. The sea was littered with debris—shattered masts, torn sails, and the lifeless bodies of Marines floating face-down in the poisoned waters.

Above, grotesque winged creatures circled in the toxic sky, their screeches echoing like the wails of the damned. These were Xyonwings, monstrous birds with feathers that glistened like oil and eyes that glowed a sickly green. They feasted on the dead, their talons tearing into flesh with horrifying precision. The scene was a nightmare given form, a testament to the Scarlet Wisteria Pirates' overwhelming power.

Akari Shikame "The Crimson Petal"

Captain of the Scarlet Wisteria Pirates

Suprnova

Bounty: 618,000,000 Berries

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Akari stood tall, her crimson battle outfit glowing faintly in the dim light. Her long black hair, tied in a high ponytail with a crimson ribbon, swayed in the toxic wind. Her piercing eyes scanned the destruction with a calm, calculating gaze.

Akari is strikingly elegant yet fearsome, embodying the balance between grace and lethality. She wears a tailored black and crimson battle outfit adorned with gold trims, symbolizing her disciplined yet rebellious nature. Her long black hair is tied in a high ponytail with a crimson ribbon, embroidered with kanji that reads "Blossom in Blood." Her piercing eyes carry an intense resolve, and a scar running across her left hand serves as a reminder of her past betrayals.

Akari crushed the skull of a still-breathing Marine under her boot, silencing his final gasps before speaking.

"Well, well… what a surprise from the Black Flame Pirates. These guys are really an interesting bunch, aren't they?" She smiled as she braswed the newspaper that laid atop of a dead nacy corpse.

Dvorak Thalgar ("The Iron Maelstrom")

Bounty: 369,000,000 Berries

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 Dvorak's massive frame of 12 ft loomed over the others, his stormbreaker axe resting on his shoulder. His sapphire-blue skin glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, and his amber eyes glowed with a predator's intensity. His towering form resembling a mountain of steel and fur. His body is covered in deep scars, each marking a battle he survived. He wears a patchwork of armor crafted from the bones of sea kings and the pelts of massive predators, layered with chains and metal plating for additional protection.

Dvorak sat on the corpses which caused blood to splatter and the grong to shake then fold his arms crossed and scooffed. " "The guy's like a bad omen—just when you think he's gone, he comes back swinging."

He slammed the butt of his axe into the ground, sending a shockwave through the ashen earth. 

Zaya Stormfang ("The Tempest Warden")

Bounty: 234,000,000 Berries

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Zaya's platinum-white hair was intricately braided, contrasting sharply with her dark skin. Her amber eyes glowed faintly in the toxic mist, and her twin daggers, Stormfangs, glinted in her hands.

Zaya shook her head, amused. "And here I thought we'd finally have a stretch of peace, at least for a little while. But nope—here comes another shocking piece of news to shake things up."

She glanced at Akari, her expression resolute. 

Nyx "Chaos" Wren ("The Smiling Menace")

150,000,000 Berries

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Nyx leaned casually against a jagged rock, her ink-stained fingers twirling a dagger. Her playful smirk contrasted sharply with the grim atmosphere. Her black-and-crimson outfit was adorned with glowing runes, and her twin braids swayed in the toxic wind.

Nyx leaned against the railing of the ruined Marine base, smirking. "Tch, you should know better by now, Zaya. The sea never stays quiet for long, especially not with people like them stirring the pot."

She flicked her wrist, and a tendril of ink snaked out, forming a mocking caricature of the Black Flame Pirates' jolly roger. 

Kaelus Tidebreaker ("The Abyssal Vanguard")

300,000,000 Berries.

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Kaelus stood at the edge of the group, his trident, Abyssal Fury, glowing faintly with storm energy. His sapphire-blue skin shimmered in the dim light, and his amber eyes gleamed with a predator's intensity. He looked on the newspapar with those intense eyes and said," what a ruthless bunch they are."

Kurojin ("The Stormbreaker")

Bounty: 376,560,600 Berries

Kurojin sat atop a mountain of Marine corpses, blood dripping from the pile and pooling around his feet. His tiger mask glowing faintly in the toxic mist. Kurojin is an imposing figure clad in a sleek yet battle-worn cybernetic exoskeleton. His body is a fusion of man and machine, with armored plating that gleams metallic black, accented by storm-blue energy conduits coursing through his frame. His glowing green eyes pierce through the shadows of his intricately designed tiger mask, a relic from his past life that symbolizes his warrior spirit and predatory instincts. His cybernetic frame hummed with energy, his twin swords, Raikiri and Kagehana, crackling with electricity. He did not comment but digested the information sliently. 

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The air was thick with tension, the toxic mist swirling around the crew like a living thing. The faint glow of the island's veins pulsed rhythmically, casting eerie shadows on the ground. The sea hissed and bubbled in the distance, its acidic waters a constant reminder of the island's deadly nature. The sky above crackled with purple lightning, illuminating the crew's determined faces.

The sound of the wind was a low, mournful wail, carrying with it the faint echoes of distant thunder. The ground beneath their feet was brittle and cracked, crunching softly with every step. The air was alive with the sound of hissing gas and the occasional rumble of distant thunder, creating a symphony of dread that seemed to echo the crew's thoughts.

Akari stepped forward, her crimson ponytail swaying in the toxic wind. Her voice cut through the oppressive silence, calm but filled with resolve.

"The Black Flame Pirates have made their move. Now, it's our turn. We simply cannot lag behind becauase of a impending threat. We must continue to move forward.

The crew nodded, their expressions resolute. The storm was coming, the tides are changing, the unpredicabltily of the grandline will not stop them and neither will they waver because of no one.

The fractured scourges of the Grand Line, the supernovas of the sea, each reacted differently to the growing legend of the Black Flame Pirates. Some were intrigued, their ambitions stirred by the audacity of the feats they had pulled off, viewing them as a challenge to conquer or an opportunity to exploit. Others were wary, their minds calculating how to stay one step ahead of such a dangerous force rising in the ranks. A few seethed with envy, their pride wounded by the spotlight shining on the Black Flame Pirates, ready to prove their own dominance in a brutal clash. Yet, all knew one thing: the balance of power was shifting, and the Black Flame Pirates is among the center of it, drawing the eyes of all who sought to either destroy or take advantage of them.

....

North Nothwest of the grandline. 

The once-mighty pirate vessel was reduced to a shattered wreck, its masts snapped in half, torn sails hanging like the tattered remains of a corpse. Flames crackled across the deck, casting eerie shadows over the blood-drenched wood. The bodies of its crew were strewn everywhere—limbs ripped from sockets, skulls caved in, intestines spilling out like rotting coils of rope. The ocean waves, once a deep blue, had turned into a sickening shade of crimson, corpses bobbing on the surface like discarded refuse.

In the center of the slaughter stood a shadowed figure, radiating a massive, suffocating aura. Blood dripped from his cursed sword, pooling around his feet as he stood atop a few lifeless pirates' bodies, whose face showed nothing but utter despair and horror.

The figure had long, silver-white hair, drenched in the blood of the fallen, clung to his face, framing his glowing crimson eyes—eyes that saw nothing but judgment. His long black coat, soaked in gore, fluttered in the wind, its silver runes pulsing as if alive. His armor, battle-worn yet untouched by the filth of mortality, gleamed with an unnatural darkness. In his right hand, Voidfang, his cursed blade, still dripped with the flesh and fluids of those who had dared stand against him.

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At his feet, the pirate captain—Garrick "Goldstorm—bounty438 000 000 berries crawled backward, clutching his shattered ribs, his once-proud golden hook now trembling. His mouth foamed with blood, his breathing ragged, his body broken.

Garrick's trembling gaze flickered up toward him as he whispered in a horrifed tone, "Its yo...you....bounty hunter....Zarek Duskbane... The Fate Ender... It's you…"

"P-please… I—I don't want to die…" Garrick choked, eyes wide with terror. "If it's gold you want, I—I can give you gold! I have many secret areas filled with treasure! I swear it—please, spare me!"

Zarek gazed down at him, his face unreadable, his crimson eyes cold as death itself.

Then, he spoke,"No. You have to die… for the good of the future."

Before Garrick could even scream, Voidfang moved.

The blade carved through him from shoulder to waist in a single, fluid motion—slicing him in two with such force that his body barely registered what had happened.

For a brief moment, his upper half remained upright, eyes rolling back, mouth gurgling in horror as blood sprayed in a towering crimson geyser. His lower body, split cleanly at the waist, slumped sideways, intestines unraveling like wet ropes. His heart, still twitching, tumbled out of his exposed chest cavity, landing on the deck with a sickening splat.

Then, as if time had caught up, his body collapsed—his torso flopping onto the wood with a sickening wet thud, while his lower half twitched spasmodically before going still.

The air was thick with the iron scent of blood, the deck slick with viscera and bile. The wrecked ship groaned, barely able to hold itself together amidst the carnage.

Zarek turned, his bloodstained coat swirling behind him. He stepped over Garrick's corpse, his boots squelching in the remains of the dead.

As Zarek Duskbane stepped away from the wreckage, his movements deliberate and almost otherworldly, the air around him grew colder—unnaturally so. The dark horizon seemed to bow in submission to his presence, as if the very world held its breath.

With his back to the chaos, Zarek's hand flicked upward, a subtle movement that sent a gust of wind swirling around him. A stray newspaper, torn and fluttering, was caught mid-air. It twirled like a leaf, spinning faster until it landed perfectly in his grasp.

The headline stared up at him, the words Black Flame Pirates: Killing Crococdile, slaughtering the Buster Call, defeating both lieutenants of the Black Seraph pirates Violent and Corbin. glaring in bold black ink. Zarek's expression remained impassive, his body cloaked in shadow as the blood-red streaks of his eyes pierced the darkness like twin crimson stars in a pitch-black sky.

His voice was a mere whisper, carried on the wind, but it held the weight of a thousand storms. "They are my next target."