The purple fruit sat heavy in Ryoma's hand, its strange hexagonal patterns seeming to writhe under his gaze. The faint, internal light pulsed like a malevolent heartbeat. Around him, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The distant sounds of Whiskey Peak felt both menacingly close and incredibly far away. Survival. That was the primal scream echoing in the back of his mind, overriding the rational fears and the calculated risks.
He stared at the turquoise ocean, the source of life in this world, the very thing this fruit would turn into his potential grave. He thought of the bounty hunters, the Baroque Works agents, the looming threat of Crocodile, and the countless other dangers lurking in the Grand Line.
Without power, he was less than nothing – flotsam waiting to be crushed by the next wave. With power, even a cursed power, he had a chance. A sliver, perhaps, but a chance nonetheless.
Could he truly bet on finding another opportunity like this? On surviving long enough to gain strength through conventional means in a world where monsters roamed the seas? No. Delay was death. Hesitation was suicide.
"Power is better than no power," he murmured, the words feeling gritty and desperate on his tongue. He recalled the countless characters in his beloved manga who had faced similar crossroads, who had grasped thorny bargains for the sake of strength, for survival, for their ambitions.
He wasn't a hero destined for greatness, not yet anyway. He was prey, and prey needed teeth.
Taking a deep, steadying breath that did little to calm the frantic hammering in his chest, Ryoma brought the fruit towards his mouth. The faint hum intensified slightly, the air around it feeling strangely charged. He closed his eyes, steeling himself.
He knew the legends, the anecdotes shared in manga panels and fan forums – Devil Fruits tasted legendarily, universally disgusting. He braced for the worst.
His teeth broke the iridescent purple skin.
Ugh!
An explosion of vileness assaulted his senses. It wasn't just bad; it was an affront to the very concept of edibility. It was like biting into a forgotten gym sock filled with spoiled milk, blended with week-old garbage juice and garnished with rust scrapings.
A gag reflex kicked in instantly, his throat constricting, his stomach churning violently. Bile rose, hot and acidic. He could feel his entire body rejecting the foreign substance, every nerve ending screaming in protest.
One bite. Just one bite is enough.
The mantra repeated in his head, a lifeline in the nauseating storm. He forced his jaw to work, chewing the rubbery, foul flesh just once before swallowing convulsively. The lump slid down his esophagus like sludge, leaving a trail of putrid flavour that seemed to coat his entire inner being.
He dropped the remains of the fruit as if burned, staggering back, clutching his throat. His eyes watered, and he choked back the powerful urge to vomit right there on the sand. He couldn't. He couldn't waste it.
He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing all his willpower on keeping the single, horrific bite down. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with the tears of revulsion. Minutes stretched into an eternity, each second a battle against his own physiology.
Gradually, painstakingly, the urge to purge subsided, leaving him shaky, pale, and feeling utterly defiled.
"Okay... okay..." he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, though the taste lingered, a phantom foulness he suspected would haunt him for days. "It's done."
And then, it happened.
It wasn't a gradual change, but an instantaneous download.
A floodgate opened in his mind, unleashing a torrent of information, instinct, and raw, potent energy. It wasn't just data; it felt like ancient knowledge, complex techniques, and a terrifying understanding of power fused directly into his soul.
Pictures, concepts, names, and feelings crashed through his consciousness – intricate hand signs, words of power, the sensation of shaping and unleashing unseen forces, a deep wellspring of energy now residing within him, linked intrinsically to his own life force.
His breath hitched as the core of the information coalesced, settling into a single, horrifyingly familiar identity. The fruit's name echoed in his mind, not as a guess, but as absolute certainty, implanted alongside the power itself.
Hito Hito no Mi, Model: Ryomen Sukuna.
Ryoma's eyes snapped open, wide with disbelief and a dawning horror that eclipsed even the disgusting taste. Hito Hito no Mi – the Human-Human Fruit. A Zoan type. But Model: Ryomen Sukuna?
Sukuna? That Sukuna? The King of Curses? The undisputed monster from Jujutsu Kaisen? The malevolent entity known for his overwhelming power, sadistic cruelty, and utter disregard for all life but his own?
"No... way..." he breathed, stumbling backwards until his legs hit the sandy bank behind him, causing him to sit down hard. His mind reeled, trying to reconcile the impossible. A power from an entirely different fictional universe, manifesting here, in One Piece, through a Devil Fruit?
How was that even possible? Was this some bizarre cosmic joke? A Hito Hito no Mi made sense, conceptually – there was Sengoku's Buddha model, after all. A Mythical Zoan representing a powerful figure wasn't unprecedented. But Sukuna?
A complicated, deeply unsettling feeling churned within him, mixing with the lingering nausea. On one hand, the power… Sukuna's power was legendary. Even a fraction of it, adapted to this world, would make him immensely formidable.
Cleave, Dismantle, Domain Expansion… the potential was staggering. It was the ultimate cheat, a power far beyond what most Devil Fruits could offer, especially early on.
But Sukuna wasn't just a collection of abilities; he was a personality. A monstrous, irredeemably evil one. Eating this fruit… did it just grant the powers, or did it come with other… baggage?
Would Sukuna's consciousness try to take over? Would Ryoma slowly become like him, finding pleasure in destruction and suffering? The thought sent a tremor of fear through him far colder than the initial shock of being in this world.
He pictured Sukuna's terrifying grin, the extra eyes opening, the casual way he tore people apart. Was that his future? To become a monster to survive in a world of monsters?
He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the chilling thoughts.
"No. Stop it." He had to focus. Panic and existential dread could wait. Right now, he needed to understand what he had gained and how it worked here. Worrying about becoming a genocidal maniac wasn't productive when bounty hunters could ambush him any second.
Positives. Focus on the positives. He had power. He needed to test it, quantify it. The knowledge downloaded into his brain felt instinctively usable. He recalled the simplest, most fundamental of Sukuna's slashing attacks: Dismantle. An invisible blade, adjusted based on the target.
He stood up again, legs still a bit shaky, and faced a moderately sized palm tree a short distance away. He focused, drawing on the energy now thrumming within him. It felt different from the descriptions of Cursed Energy in Jujutsu Kaisen.
There was no negative emotion fueling it, no complex flow from the gut. Instead, it felt like drawing directly from his own physical reserves, his life force, his... stamina.
Of course, he realized. There's no Cursed Energy in this world.
The Devil Fruit must have adapted the mechanics. Sukuna's techniques, born from Cursed Energy, were now fueled by whatever internal energy Devil Fruit users tapped into – stamina, spirit, Haki potential, whatever Oda decided to call it on any given Tuesday.
It made sense. Devil Fruits integrated into the user's body, their lineage factor, as Vegapunk might say. The power source had to come from him. This wasn't necessarily bad news; stamina could be trained, increased.
It put a tangible limit on his abilities for now, preventing him from instantly replicating Sukuna's world-breaking feats, but it also grounded the power within the established rules of One Piece.
He recalled the simple hand gesture associated with the technique – not strictly necessary perhaps, but it helped focus his intent. Extending his index and middle fingers, he aimed at the trunk of the palm tree. He didn't need to shout an attack name; the intent was enough. He focused on the concept: Dismantle.
He drew upon the energy within him, feeling a distinct drain, like he'd just sprinted fifty meters. A flicker, too fast for the eye to truly register, seemed to leap from his fingertips towards the tree.
Schlick!
The sound was clean, sharp. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, with a groan of protesting wood fibers, the top half of the palm tree slid sideways, its fronds rustling in surprise before it crashed heavily onto the sand, leaving behind a perfectly smooth, flat stump.
Ryoma stared, jaw slightly agape. The cut was flawless, almost unnaturally clean, slicing through the thick trunk as if it were butter. There was no explosion, no visible projectile, just a precise, invisible severing.
He lowered his hand, feeling the phantom drain of his energy. It wasn't debilitating, not from a single use of Dismantle on this scale, but it was noticeable. Spamming this technique would clearly tire him out quickly, at least initially.
But the result…
A slow smile spread across Ryoma's face, chasing away the lingering fear and nausea. He looked at the bisected tree, then back at his own hand. The feeling was intoxicating. Moments ago, he was helpless, stranded, terrified.
Now, with a mere thought, a simple gesture, he could effortlessly slice through solid wood. The sheer, casual destructive power was exhilarating.
This was power. Real, tangible power. He finally understood the allure, the reason why so many in this world chased Devil Fruits, why pirates fought and killed for strength. It was the feeling of control, of capability, of shedding the vulnerability that defined normal existence.
was the ability to impose one's will upon the world, to cut down obstacles – literally, in this case.
He felt a surge of confidence, potent and heady. Whiskey Peak no longer seemed quite so insurmountable. Bounty hunters? Baroque Works agents? They were dangerous, yes, but he wasn't defenseless anymore.
He had the power of Ryomen Sukuna, albeit stamina-gated, coursing through his veins.
The smile widened, taking on a sharper edge, a hint of something colder. The addictive rush of power was already working its subtle magic, whispering temptations in his ear. He could do more than just cut trees. He could cut down his enemies. He could carve a path through this world.
The fear of Sukuna's influence hadn't vanished, but it was momentarily eclipsed by the sheer thrill of his newfound abilities. He had survived the fruit, gained incredible power, and adapted it to this world's rules. The first step towards survival, maybe even thriving, had been taken.
Now, he just needed to get the hell away from Whiskey Peak before someone noticed the cleanly halved palm tree. And maybe find something, anything, to wash away the lingering taste of damnation from his mouth.