Chapter 344: Awakening in the Lawless Zone

"He was still very young... What a shame that he died like this!"

"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Keep your voice down!"

"That was a Celestial Dragon's slave. If someone overhears you and reports it, you won't live to see tomorrow."

The hushed whispers of concerned onlookers followed the Marine patrol as they carried Oboro's apparently lifeless body through the crowded streets of Sabaody Archipelago. The soldiers moved with mechanical efficiency, their faces carefully neutral as they transported what they believed to be another casualty of the World Nobles' casual cruelty.

This was standard procedure—Celestial Dragon property couldn't simply be discarded like common refuse. Even in death, the slaves retained a twisted form of value that required proper disposal through official channels.

"His body is covered in scars—burns, cuts, whip marks," one of the Marines observed quietly, his voice tinged with barely suppressed disgust. "I've heard the Celestial Dragons like collecting rare races or powerful individuals as slaves. This poor bastard must have caught someone's eye."

"Look at his face, even with those knife cuts you can tell he was probably handsome once," another soldier added grimly. "That's likely why they picked him up in the first place."

"Would you two shut up already!" The squad leader's harsh whisper carried genuine fear. "I told you—we don't discuss this kind of thing. Ever."

"Come on, Sergeant Bats, don't be so paranoid," one of the junior Marines replied with forced lightness. "It's not like we're the ones wearing collars."

The sergeant was about to deliver a sharp rebuke when one of his men suddenly stopped walking, his face going pale.

"What's wrong now?" Bats demanded impatiently.

"His wound..." The Marine's voice carried a note of uncertainty that made the others focus their attention on the body they carried. "The blood from his head wound—it's stopped flowing. It's starting to coagulate."

"What?" The sergeant leaned in for a closer look, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Indeed, the steady stream of crimson that had been dripping from the apparent bullet wound had slowed to barely a trickle. The blood was beginning to thicken and darken, forming the kind of clotted seal that shouldn't have been possible with such a severe head trauma.

"That's... that's not normal," another soldier whispered, a chill of premonition running down his spine.

The Marines clustered closer, their training warring with disbelief as they tried to make sense of what they were observing. In their collective focus on the medical impossibility before them, none of them noticed the subtle changes occurring beneath their hands—the almost imperceptible warming of flesh that had been growing cold, the barely detectable flutter of a pulse that should have ceased.

Without warning, without the slightest hint of movement to telegraph his actions, the corpse they carried suddenly opened his eyes.

Sergeant Bats opened his mouth to shout an alarm, but the sound died in his throat as Oboro exploded into violent motion. Years of abuse and malnutrition hadn't entirely destroyed the reflexes and combat instincts he'd honed across multiple lifetimes. His hands and feet lashed out with surgical precision, breaking free from their grip as he launched himself into the air.

Time seemed to slow as Oboro's body twisted through space, his movements flowing with the deadly grace of someone who had mastered violence as an art form. His hands crossed in front of him, creating overlapping arcs of force that struck his captors before they could even process what was happening.

Crack.

The sound of snapping vertebrae echoed through the street as four Marine necks twisted at impossible angles, their heads rotating 180 degrees before their bodies crumpled to the cobblestones like discarded marionettes.

Oboro landed in a controlled crouch, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness that had accumulated during his period of feigned death. The chain connecting his slave collar clinked softly as he moved, a metallic reminder of his current circumstances.

Several civilian bystanders who had witnessed the sudden violence scattered in all directions, their terrified screams adding to the chaos of the moment. Some pressed themselves against building walls, others dove into shops and alleyways—anything to distance themselves from the scene of carnage.

"Not bad," Oboro muttered, using his fingertips to brush aside the blood-matted hair that had fallen across his forehead. His voice carried a note of dark satisfaction despite the gravity of his situation.

The movement revealed a striking scar that ran from his left temple back across his scalp—the mark left by Saint Charlos's bullet. At first glance, it appeared to be the kind of devastating wound that should have proven instantly fatal, a groove carved through skull and brain that no human could survive.

The reality was somewhat more complex.

The bullet had indeed struck him, but Oboro's enhanced reflexes had allowed him to shift just enough that the projectile carved along his skull rather than penetrating it. The wound was dramatic and bloody, creating exactly the visual effect he'd needed to convince his captors of his death. Combined with controlled breathing techniques that mimicked cardiac arrest, the deception had been complete.

"Now for the real problem," he said grimly, his fingers tracing the explosive collar that remained locked around his throat.

The device was a masterpiece of cruel engineering—designed to detonate if tampered with, if the wearer strayed too far from their owner, or if vital signs flatlined for an extended period. One wrong move and his head would be reduced to red mist, regardless of any supernatural durability he might possess.

Very perceptive, Oboro thought, remembering the way Admiral Kizaru had paused beside his apparently lifeless form. He noticed something was off but chose not to investigate. Either he doesn't care about Celestial Dragon property... or he suspected I might be more interesting alive.

The encounter had provided valuable intelligence about the fundamental nature of this world's governing will. Unlike his experience in Demon Slayer, where reality's consciousness had been cooperative if sometimes misguided, this dimension was actively hostile to his presence. But its malevolence was constrained by certain rules—it could manipulate circumstances and guide events, but it couldn't directly override free will or violate the basic laws of causality.

Just like the way the little tree had tried to save Muzan through subtle interventions rather than outright resurrection.

This limitation meant he had room to maneuver, opportunities to exploit. The world wanted him dead, but it would have to work within the established framework of its own reality to achieve that goal.

"Being targeted by the world's will means this is going to be anything but easy," Oboro acknowledged with grim amusement. "But at least it won't be boring like Demon Slayer became."

A figure approached from behind—a well-dressed civilian who had been unfortunate enough to remain in the area when the violence erupted. The man's eyes were wide with terror as he took in the scene of carnage surrounding the blood-soaked stranger.

"Your clothes," Oboro said simply, extending one hand in a gesture that brooked no argument.

The civilian needed no further encouragement. He stripped off his jacket and shirt with fumbling fingers, his hands shaking as he handed over the garments. Oboro accepted them without a word, pulling the fresh clothing over his own tattered and stained rags.

"Much better," he said, adjusting the fit of his acquired attire. "My thanks."

The civilian nodded frantically, eager to escape this nightmare scenario. He backed away slowly, then turned and ran once he was certain the dangerous stranger wasn't following.

Oboro set off through the winding streets of Sabaody Archipelago, his destination already clear in his mind. The lawless zones would provide temporary sanctuary while he planned his next moves, and the chaos of the criminal underworld would offer both opportunities and resources.

Not long after his departure, a new Marine patrol arrived at the scene. This group was led by Vice Admiral Dalmatian, whose scarred face and cold eyes spoke of decades spent enforcing the World Government's will through violence and intimidation.

"Four Marines dead," he observed clinically, crouching beside the twisted corpses. "Professional work—precise, efficient, no wasted motion. Whoever did this has serious combat training."

He stood and brushed dust from his uniform, his expression darkening as he processed the implications. "A Celestial Dragon's escaped slave with military-grade killing skills. This could become a significant problem."

"Orders, sir?" one of his subordinates asked.

"Lock down the entire archipelago," Dalmatian commanded. "No ships leave, no one enters or exits without thorough screening. We need this individual back in custody before the situation escalates further."

"Yes, sir!"

The Marines scattered to implement the lockdown, their movements urgent but disciplined. They understood the gravity of the situation—allowing a Celestial Dragon's property to escape was the kind of failure that could end careers and lives with equal efficiency.

The Sabaody Archipelago consisted of seventy-nine massive Yarukiman Mangroves, each tree serving as both landmark and foundation for the communities that had grown around their bases. The numbering system provided a rough organizational structure: areas 50-59 housed the shipyards where vessels were coated for the journey to Fish-Man Island, areas 40-49 catered to tourists and specialty shopping, while areas 1-29 had earned the designation of "lawless zones" where Marine presence was minimal and violence was commonplace.

It was toward this latter region that Oboro made his way, moving through crowds of pirates, bounty hunters, slavers, and other criminal elements who treated Sabaody as both sanctuary and hunting ground. As the final stop before the New World, the archipelago attracted only those pirates strong and cunning enough to survive the first half of the Grand Line—a selection process that had weeded out the weak and left only the most dangerous individuals.

Yet even these "elite" criminals were still considered rookies by the true powers of the sea. The gap between reaching Sabaody and actually thriving in the New World was vast, filled with Emperors and their crews who treated promising newcomers as entertainment at best and obstacles to be removed at worst.

"Interesting," Oboro murmured as he entered Grove 19, one of the most notorious sections of the lawless zone.

The atmosphere shifted immediately upon crossing the invisible boundary that separated civilized Sabaody from its criminal underbelly. Gone were the families and merchants who populated the tourism districts, replaced by hard-faced men and women whose eyes held the cold calculation of professional killers. Weapons were carried openly here—cutlasses, pistols, rifles, and exotic armaments from across the Grand Line.

Two separate pirate crews were engaged in a running battle through the streets, their conflict spilling across vendor stalls and into the doorways of taverns. Civilians had long since learned to give such violence a wide berth, conducting their business around the chaos with practiced indifference.

Oboro pulled up the hood of his acquired jacket, keeping his face in shadow as he navigated the mayhem. Near a pile of discarded newspapers, he paused to retrieve one of the publications, scanning its contents with growing interest.

The front page featured a prominent photograph that confirmed his suspicions about the current timeline. A young man with distinctive freckles raised a tankard in celebration, his infectious grin capturing the exuberance of youth and adventure. The caption identified him as Portgas D. Ace, captain of the Spade Pirates and rising star of the East Blue.

"Morgans' intelligence network really is impressive," Oboro observed with dark amusement. "Getting a photo like this from what should be a secure location shows remarkable reach."

Ace hadn't yet entered the second half of the Grand Line, but his reputation was already spreading throughout the first half. More importantly for the current power dynamics, his activities had likely attracted the attention of certain Yonko—specifically Edward Newgate, better known as Whitebeard.

Flipping through additional pages revealed other familiar names from this era: Cavendish, the narcissistic captain of the Beautiful Pirates who had earned fame through both swordsmanship and his obsession with maintaining his status as the most popular rookie. His presence in the news cycle helped narrow down the timeframe even further.

"So we're about a year out from the Worst Generation's arrival," Oboro calculated, cross-referencing the various reports with his memories of the original timeline. "That puts us well before Luffy's adventure begins, but close enough that the major players are already making their moves."

This timing presented both opportunities and complications. On one hand, the world hadn't yet been destabilized by the events that would follow Luffy's entry into the Grand Line—the war at Marineford, the death of Whitebeard, the reshuffling of global power that created new openings for ambitious individuals. On the other hand, it meant the current order was at its strongest, with the World Government, Marines, and Yonko all maintaining their established territories and influence.

For an escaped slave with no resources, no allies, and a target on his back from the most powerful organizations in the world, it was perhaps the worst possible time to begin building a power base.

Then again, Oboro thought with a predatory smile, the greatest challenges produce the most dramatic growth. If I can survive and thrive in this environment, the skills and connections I develop will serve me well when things really start getting chaotic.

He folded the newspaper and tucked it inside his jacket, already beginning to formulate the basic outline of a survival strategy. The lawless zones of Sabaody offered temporary sanctuary, but they were also filled with individuals who wouldn't hesitate to sell him back to the Celestial Dragons for the right price. Trust would be a luxury he couldn't afford, at least until he'd established his own reputation for lethality.

The explosive collar around his neck remained the most immediate concern. Until he found a way to remove it safely, his movements would be severely constrained. But that challenge also represented an opportunity—anyone with the technical expertise to disable such a device would likely possess other useful skills and connections.

"Time to go shopping," Oboro murmured, setting off deeper into the criminal heart of Sabaody Archipelago.

The game was just beginning, and despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him, he found himself looking forward to the challenge. After the calculated manipulations and predetermined outcomes of Demon Slayer, facing genuine uncertainty and mortal danger felt almost refreshing.

This world wanted him dead? Let it try. He'd survived worse odds before, and he had no intention of making things easy for whatever cosmic forces had arranged his current predicament.

In the shadows of the Yarukiman Mangroves, where pirates and criminals conducted their business away from Marine oversight, an escaped slave began laying the groundwork for what would eventually become one of the most dangerous power plays in the history of the Grand Line.

The World Government had made their opening move by placing him in an impossible situation. Now it was his turn to respond.