The clink of silver against fine porcelain pierced through the darkness.
Alcaster Reed blinked rapidly, his consciousness swimming up through what felt like deep water. Voices filtered in—unfamiliar, haughty, distant at first, then suddenly crisp and clear.
"—and then I told Comil, 'A mere Vice Admiral questioning my decisions? How utterly preposterous!'"
Laughter erupted around him. Rich, condescending laughter.
Alcaster froze, fork suspended midway to his mouth. The hand holding it was small, pale, and definitely not his own—at least, not the one he remembered. Childlike fingers gripped utensils clearly crafted for smaller hands, though they were no less ornate than those wielded by the adults at the table.
Where am I?
His eyes darted around the room, taking in the opulence that surrounded him. Crystal chandeliers hung from ceilings so high they disappeared into shadows. The dining table stretched longer than some apartments he remembered, laden with dishes whose aromas made his stomach growl despite his confusion.
"Alcaster? Is something amiss with your sea king steak?"
The voice came from his right—a woman with immaculately coiffed black hair piled atop her head, adorned with jewels that sparkled blindingly under the chandelier light. Her face was powdered white, her expression one of mild curiosity rather than concern. She wore what looked like a space suit—no, a bubble helmet that sat beside her plate—and robes so elaborate they seemed to swallow her thin frame.
A Celestial Dragon. He was sitting at a table with Celestial Dragons.
And based on how they were looking at him—he was one too.
"N-no, Mother," he heard himself say, his voice high and childlike. "I was just... savoring the moment."
The words came automatically, as if a part of him knew exactly what to say despite his internal panic.
"Hmph. At least the boy appreciates quality," grumbled a large man at the head of the table—presumably his father. The World Noble wore similar elaborate robes, his face partially hidden behind a magnificent beard streaked with silver. "Unlike some who shall remain nameless." He shot a pointed look down the table.
Alcaster followed the gaze to a young man perhaps in his late teens who was clearly related to him—a brother?—who rolled his eyes while stuffing his mouth with food.
"Father, we have the finest chefs from across the Grand Line. It would be strange not to become accustomed to perfection," the teenager drawled.
Alcaster's mind raced as he mechanically cut into his steak. Memories that weren't his own trickled in, providing context to the bizarre situation. He was Alcaster Reed, youngest son of Saint Dominus Reed and Saint Cassiopeia Reed. Five years old. A Celestial Dragon of Mary Geoise.
But he was also... someone else. Someone who knew exactly how monstrous these people were.
"Did you enjoy your history lesson today, Alcaster?" asked a girl seated across from him—his sister, Celeste, he somehow knew. She looked about twelve, with the same black hair and eyes as him, though her expression carried a hint of genuine curiosity lacking in their parents.
"Yes," he answered cautiously, searching his new memories. "The tutor's explanation of the founding of the World Government was... fascinating."
His father grunted approvingly. "The boy has a good head on his shoulders. Already showing more promise than Cassius did at his age."
The teenager—Cassius—scowled but said nothing.
A small commotion at the side of the room drew Alcaster's attention. A line of slaves entered, carrying trays with the next course. They moved with practiced precision, heads bowed, collars gleaming around their necks. One of them, a young woman with hollow eyes, approached to replace Alcaster's plate.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for his half-eaten meal. Without thinking, he looked up and met her eyes.
The slave froze, terror washing over her features. Breaking eye contact with a Celestial Dragon was punishable by death in some households, he suddenly realized.
"Is there a problem?" his mother asked sharply, noticing the exchange.
Alcaster felt sweat beading on his forehead. Every instinct from his previous life screamed to help this woman, to show her kindness—but his new memories warned him of the consequences.
"No, Mother," he said smoothly, returning his gaze to his plate. "I was merely ensuring she didn't spill anything on my new robes."
The slave quickly finished her task and retreated, visibly relieved.
"Good thinking, son," his father nodded. "These creatures require constant supervision. Speaking of which—" He snapped his fingers, and a manservant appeared instantly at his side. "Bring in the new acquisition. I wish to show the family."
Alcaster's stomach churned as a man was brought in, chains rattling with each forced step. He wore tattered clothing, his face bruised but proud. Despite his circumstances, he stood as straight as the chains would allow.
"This one," his father announced like a ringmaster, "was a captain in the North Blue. Had the audacity to fire upon my pleasure craft during our vacation last month." He chuckled, the sound utterly devoid of humor. "Now he'll serve as my new footstool in the study."
The other family members laughed appreciatively, commenting on his father's generosity in keeping the man alive at all. The captain's eyes burned with hatred, but he remained silent.
Alcaster felt bile rising in his throat. This was wrong—so deeply, fundamentally wrong that every fiber of his being rebelled against it. Yet he sat there, a child among monsters, wearing their skin and their crest.
"What do you think, Alcaster?" his father asked suddenly. "Should we remove his tongue? He had quite a vocabulary when we captured him."
All eyes turned to him. Alcaster felt time slow as he considered his response. The wrong answer could expose him immediately—but how could he participate in this cruelty?
His child's mind supplied an answer that his adult consciousness recognized as brilliant in its simplicity.
"A silent footstool seems best, Father," he said quietly. "But perhaps his tongue would be more useful if he could still answer questions about sailing. Didn't you mention wanting to learn more about navigation in the North Blue's winter islands?"
His father's eyebrows rose, then he laughed heartily. "Clever boy! Always thinking practically. You see, Cassius? This is why your brother, despite his age, is showing such promise."
The captain was taken away, his fate marginally improved—though still horrific.
Alcaster returned to his meal, forcing small bites past the knot in his throat. As conversation resumed around him, he made a silent vow to himself.
He would survive this. He would learn to navigate this twisted world of privilege and cruelty. And somehow, someday, he would use his position to fight against everything these people stood for.
The meal continued for what felt like hours. By the time it concluded, Alcaster had gathered crucial information: his family's dynamics, the layout of their immediate residence, and the expectations placed upon a young Celestial Dragon. He'd also formed the beginnings of a plan.
When he was finally excused and led to his chambers by a silent slave woman, Alcaster finally allowed his carefully maintained facade to crack. Alone in a bedroom larger than some houses, surrounded by toys and trinkets that would fund a small kingdom, he sank to his knees and released a shuddering breath.
"What am I supposed to do now?" he whispered to the empty room.
The answer came not from without, but from within—from the moral core that had survived the transition between worlds.
He would have to play their game, for now. Learn their rules. Gain their trust. And then, when the moment was right, he would begin to change things from the inside.