Sea Calendar Year 1504
Shimotsuki Village, East Blue
The midday sun cast sharp rays over Shimotsuki Village, its golden light streaming through the slatted windows of the Isshin Dojo. The wooden floors glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, polished not just by hands and feet, but by generations of warriors who had trained within these revered walls.
Inside, the dojo thrummed with life and discipline. Students of all ages—from spirited children barely tall enough to hold a bokken, to seasoned adults with calloused hands and steeled resolve—moved in coordinated drills, the rhythmic clash of wooden swords echoing like a battle hymn. The air crackled, not just with the energy of movement, but with something deeper—something ancient.
Haki.
Standing at the far end of the hall with a composed posture and unreadable gaze was Koshiro, the ever-calm master of the dojo. His presence was commanding, not from volume or aggression, but from the quiet strength that settled in his stance and the way his eyes missed nothing. Clad in his traditional blue gi, his arms were folded across his chest, a thin wisp of steam rising from the tea beside him, untouched.
The Isshin Dojo had changed over the years. Once a sanctuary solely for swordsmanship, now it had embraced a higher calling—the path of the will, as Rosinante had once described it. Ever since the flame of Haki had been lit in the East Blue by that defiant star and the dojo started imparting the knowledge of Haki, Koshiro had taken it upon himself to continue the legacy.
Though not all students succeeded, those who did had turned the dojo into a beacon in the East.
At the heart of the dojo, a ring had been cleared, and the room had gone still.
Today was no ordinary day. Today was a sparring session for the dojo's elite—two promising youths who had grasped the rare and sacred arts of Haki. Not only had they earned the right to wield live steel within the sacred ring, but their duel would also unfold in the presence of two legendary figures of Isshin dojo itself—though most of the dojo's younger students had no idea how lucky they were.
At the far end of the dojo, seated on raised tatami mats as honored observers, were Shimotsuki Kozaburou—the famed blacksmith and the former dojo master, his right sleeve empty where his arm once was—and Kozuki Sukiyaki, the former Shogun of Wano, now living in anonymity under the roof of his old friend's dojo. Other than his friend, only Koshiro knew Sukiyaki's true identity, but for all the students in the dojo, they all knew his authority eclipsed even that of Koshiro, the dojo's master.
Kozaburou leaned forward with a sharp eye, his only remaining hand resting on the pommel of his walking stick—crafted from the same wood as Enma's sheath.
To his right sat his tiny granddaughter, Kuina, no older than four, legs tucked under her in disciplined form. Her eyes sparkled with intensity beyond her age as she watched the two duelists, absorbing every strike and movement like a sponge.
To Sukiyaki's left sat a green-haired boy, just a year younger than Kuina, but already a child with unbreakable spirit. Zoro, with his arms folded and cheeks puffed out in quiet defiance, seemed frustrated that he wasn't allowed in the ring himself. He had already thrown his wooden sword twice that morning after missing a practice swing—but now, his eyes were locked on the battle with reverence.
Sukiyaki had taken the boy under his wing after fate dealt the child a cruel hand. At just two years old, the boy had been orphaned—his parents claimed by a lingering sickness that swept through the outskirts of the Shimotsuki village like a silent reaper. Most children would have been broken, swallowed by grief, or swept away by the world's indifference. But not this one.
There was something in the boy's eyes—wild and untamed, yet clear and unyielding. A quiet storm. Sukiyaki couldn't explain it, but the moment he looked into those emerald orbs, he felt a pull—an innate, inexplicable connection that went beyond sympathy. It was as though destiny itself whispered that this child would walk the path of the sword... and needed a guide.
So Sukiyaki took him in. Not out of pity, but out of conviction. He named him his grandson, gave him a roof, the care a child needed, and a future carved in steel. And though few at the dojo knew the truth of the former shogun's past, none questioned the authority with which he raised the boy—or the depth of his care.
As months passed, the dojo saw the strange but endearing sight of two old men constantly at odds—Sukiyaki and Shimotsuki Kozaburou. Both legends in their own right. Both sharp-tongued and sharper-eyed. But what they bickered about the most was not politics or philosophy, but something far more personal.
Their grandchildren. Kozaburou's pride and joy, little Kuina, was a prodigy of poise and form. Already by four, she moved with elegance, every step and swing guided by an innate understanding of the blade. Her grip was correct. Her focus unshakable. Her eyes—flashing with the fire of purpose.
On the other hand, Sukiyaki's young ward, Zoro, was her polar opposite. At just three, the green-haired boy was wild, headstrong, and unrefined. He swung with all his might, often falling over from the sheer force of his own strikes. But even in that chaos, there was something undeniable. Power. Will. The kind of raw, unrelenting drive that couldn't be taught—it had to be forged.
And so, the two elders would argue over tea, or across the sparring hall, or even from opposite ends of the courtyard.
"My Kuina will surpass every swordsman in the East Blue before she turns ten," Kozaburou would boast with a toothy grin.
"To surpass them, she'd first have to catch up to my grandson," Sukiyaki would retort, arms crossed, eyes twinkling.
Despite the bickering, they both knew the truth. These two children, born under different stars yet raised under the same roof, possessed a brilliance that only came once in a century. They would challenge each other. Push each other. And perhaps—just perhaps—they would one day stand side by side, not just as rivals, but as the future of the sword itself.
For in Kuina and Zoro, Kozaburou and Sukiyaki saw not just talent—but legacy. The spirit of Wano. The will of the warrior. The flame of hope passed down, not by blood, but by blade.
As the two youths inside the ring readied themself for the clash, Sukiyaki chuckled as he glanced at Kozaburou. "Your granddaughter watches like a blade waiting to be drawn."
Kozaburou scoffed. "And yours stares like a wild boar sniffing out the sharpest stick to fight with. Let's hope he learns grace before brute strength."
Sukiyaki smirked. "Strength without discipline is a sword without a sheath."
"And grace without bite is a meal for the wolves," Kozaburou shot back.
Koshiro couldn't help but sigh at the two old men bickering once again as he turned his attention back to the ring, standing tall near the edge of the sparring ring, and broke the tension with a single word.
"Begin."
In the circle stood Haruma and Riku—both in their late teens, both possessing the rare gift of Haki, and both graduates of the blade's cruel tutelage. The moment Koshiro's word hung in the air, both young men vanished.
No, they didn't vanish. To the untrained eye, it seemed that way, but to the few in the room who had awakened their Observation Haki, they could feel the movements—swift as lightning, coiled with intent.
CLANG!
The first strike came with explosive force as Haruma's katana, laced with Armament Haki, slammed into Riku's blade mid-arc. Sparks danced wildly, scattered by the sheer pressure of their haki-infused weapons.
Haruma pushed forward, his stance low, sword tilted to slice diagonally through Riku's guard. Riku turned his body just in time, countering with a sharp parry, his own blade humming with obsidian sheen—a manifestation of his own Armament Haki.
The clash unleashed a rippling shockwave, sending a gust of wind rolling through the dojo. Younger students gasped and stumbled, some covering their faces as the sheer force of the exchange washed over them.
"Haki's not just power!" Kozaburou barked, his voice ringing like a hammer against anvil. "It's precision! Control! Don't just coat the blade—breathe through it!"
Haruma heard it. He adjusted mid-strike, his eyes narrowing as he twisted his wrists, redirecting the force of Riku's counter upward. His blade curved mid-swing, using momentum and intention—rather than brute strength.
Riku, using Observation Haki, sensed the change in direction milliseconds before it came. He ducked, letting the katana pass inches over his head, feeling the vibration sing through the air.
"Too slow," Haruma whispered, lunging forward.
SLASH!
A shallow cut bloomed across Riku's shoulder—clean, sharp, and not too deep. Koshiro's eyes flicked in that instant, hand twitching near the hilt of his own sword, ready to intervene—but he didn't move. It was still within bounds.
Riku gritted his teeth but grinned through the pain. "Finally."
And then, he closed his eyes. For a heartbeat, Haruma hesitated—was he injured? Then it happened.
BOOM!
Riku's next strike carried a surge of energy—his Armament Haki flared, coating his blade more fully than before. But more than that, his presence vanished. His movements became unpredictable, his body flowing between attacks as if he were responding to invisible currents.
"The kid might be able to touch upon Ryou in the future…" Sukiyaki whispered with a hint of approval because even within those who could use haki, there were differences; only those who could truly learn the use of advanced haki form could be called haki users in their eyes.
Kozaburou nodded once. "He's sensing intent. Not movement. That boy… he might be able to unlock the advanced forms of haki in the future if he keeps training diligently…"
CLASH! CLANG! SPARKS!
Each exchange now was more than swordplay—it was dialogue. Every block a rebuttal. Every slash a statement. Their bodies flickered with subtle bursts of haki, colors blooming briefly on their blades like storm clouds before lightning.
Kuina leaned forward, fists balled. "They're like—so fast… I can barely see them!"
Zoro huffed. "I'd beat both of them."
"You can barely lift your training bokken without falling over," Sukiyaki smirked, ruffling the boy's hair.
"I meant if I was bigger," Zoro muttered, squirming.
"Grandpa… When are you going to teach me how to wield Haki?"
Kuina's voice was filled with a kind of childlike wonder only a four-year-old could muster—yet her eyes gleamed with the serious determination of a warrior in the making. She sat beside her grandfather, legs crossed, her small hands gripping the wooden bokken that never left her side. It was almost comical, the way the blade was nearly as tall as her—but she held it as though it were a national treasure.
The wind rustled through the open courtyard of the Isshin Dojo, stirring the leaves of the sakura trees nearby as the sound of clashing blades echoed faintly from within. The sparring session still raged, but for a moment, time slowed around the little group seated outside the ring.
On the other side, sitting beside Sukiyaki, Zoro, with unruly green hair and eyes like burning emeralds. His body was small, but his spirit burned far too brightly for his size. He was chewing on a rice cracker, but upon hearing Kuina's question, his jaw stopped mid-bite. His wide eyes shifted up to his grandfather, silently echoing the question.
"Tch—You little brats don't even know how to swing a sword properly, and you're already dreaming of Haki?" Sukiyaki scoffed, but his smirk betrayed his amusement.
He reached down, ruffling Zoro's hair with the rough affection only grandfathers could get away with. Zoro squirmed, frowning and huffing as his cracker fell out of his mouth in protest.
"Jiji…! I do too know how to swing a sword!" Zoro grumbled, arms crossed as he glared at a nearby training dummy like it had personally offended him.
Beside him, Kuina puffed her cheeks in protest. "I trained with Bokken before I could even walk properly! Mama says I used to swing broomsticks like they were katanas!"
Kozaburou laughed, a deep, weathered sound like iron clashing against iron. The one-armed master, who had once forged blades that could split mountains, leaned forward and gave his granddaughter a half-smirk. "Haste makes waste, little Kuina. You mustn't rush the path of the sword."
His voice lowered, becoming serious despite the twinkle in his eye. "And more importantly—it is not my place to teach you that. You already have a master. So does that loud-mouthed monkey beside Sukiyaki."
Zoro blinked, wanting to bite the old man, but Sukiyaki held him back, calming him down. Kuina frowned. They both looked at each other, then back at their respective grandfathers, completely confused.
"What master?" Kuina asked, tilting her head.
"We haven't met any masters." Zoro added, picking up his dropped cracker and dusting it off.
Sukiyaki let out a breath as he pulled out his pipe. Kozaburou, with the nimbleness of a thief and the smugness of a cat, snatched the pipe right out of his hands and began lighting it himself.
"Oi, that was mine, you old thief."
"You shouldn't have been so slow, you old turtle." Kozaburou countered with a grin.
Despite the playful bickering, both men shared a brief look of quiet understanding. They knew who the true mentors of these children were. Monsters, true masters in the way of the sword, whose names were not spoken lightly—even within these walls.
It wasn't that Kuina and Zoro were being ignored. Quite the opposite. Their "masters" were simply waiting. Watching, perhaps because they were too young. Preparing the ground before sowing seeds too potent for ordinary soil. Because the ones chosen to guide Kuina and Zoro weren't just skilled swordsmen. They were warriors whose names echoed across the Grand Line and even beyond.
"From what I know…" Sukiyaki mused aloud, rubbing his chin with mock thoughtfulness as he cast a sly glance toward little Kuina, "my grandson's mentor is currently hailed as the strongest swordsman in the world."
The words landed with a smug flourish, the old man's smirk tugging at the edge of his lips as if savoring the impending reaction.
Seated beside him, little Zoro, full of mischief and not willing to let go of this chance to mock his rival, puffed up his chest like a tiny rooster. He didn't fully grasp the magnitude of the title "Strongest Swordsman," nor did he understand who his mentor was, but he understood it was something huge. Something grand. And it was his mentor. That was enough.
He turned to Kuina and stuck out his tongue, pulling the sides of his eyes and waggling his fingers, teasing her with the exaggerated mockery only a rival and a child could pull off.
"Tch! Maybe your master will teach you how to properly hold a kitchen knife before I become a true swordsman, Kuina!" Zoro grinned, biting into another rice cracker with exaggerated confidence. "Strongest in the world, huh?! I guess that makes me the second strongest already!"
Kuina scowled, gripping her bokken tightly. She was still too young to fully understand pride—but the fire that flared in her eyes was no less fierce. "You dummy! You don't even know how to hold the sword right!" she retorted.
Kozaburou chuckled behind his pipe, eyeing Sukiyaki with half-lidded amusement. He had already told his friend Sukiyaki about the events that had transpired years ago—how Rosinante, the former prodigy of the Marines turned pirate, had helped him in the process of forging a Supreme-grade blade and had chosen Kuina as his disciple upon his request, and how Dracule Mihawk, the black-cloaked demon with the hawk eyes who had clinched the mantle of the strongest swordsman in the world, had named Zoro as his.
And with how far-reaching the World Times was, even quiet corners like Shimotsuki Village had not remained untouched by the recent happenings of the events in the other parts of the world, especially the Grand Line. People might not see Rosinante and Mihawk walking the East Blue in person, but their names were spoken with reverence... and a healthy dose of fear.
"At least I don't have to use a kitchen knife to beat you to a pulp!"!" Kuina snapped back.
But just as Sukiyaki opened his mouth to launch another teasing jab—and Kozaburou was reaching to steal his pipe again—a soft, steady voice echoed through the rafters of the dojo like distant thunder breaking through the calm.
"So... you're bullying my student now, huh?"
Every head in the dojo froze. The entire venue seemed to freeze at the sudden intrusion. Conversations fell into stunned silence. Even the wind outside seemed to stop. All eyes turned up—toward the exposed rafters high above the dojo floor.
There, seated casually with one knee drawn up and the other leg dangling like he'd been there for hours, was a golden blonde-haired young man, radiating presence like the silent pressure before a storm. His coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, his attire dulled from weather and battle, and his long blonde locks caught the orange light like threads of sunlight itself.
It was none other than Donquixote Rosinante, the man who Sukiyaki and Kozaborou had been discussing moments ago, his smile calm but unreadable as he looked down with bright, calculating eyes.
His hands rested lazily on his knees, yet the weight of his presence made even hardened swordsmen straighten their backs instinctively. No one had sensed him. Not Koushiro nor the two old veterans, who had been monitoring the sparring session with all the focus of a hawk despite their banter.
The silence broke with the sharp hiss of steel against steel. One of the sparring youths, who had been locked in a tense clash with his opponent, lost focus for a split second. The voice from above, the sudden presence intruding on his observation haki—it was too much. His concentration broke.
The tip of his haki-coated katana slipped past his opponent's guard. His partner— equally distracted by the new presence—reacted too late, his observation haki faltering as his defense broke. The blade was heading straight for his nape, armament hardening the edge to a lethal sharpness.
Koushiro's eyes widened—he was already moving, feet flashing across the mat—but he knew he was a fraction too late as even he was momentarily caught off guard. But before the blade could land—before it could even graze flesh—CRACK!
A ceramic roof tile streaked like a thunderbolt from above, moving so fast it screamed through the air.
CLANG!
The tile shattered against the incoming sword with perfect precision, diverting the blow just enough to send the blade skidding past Seiji's shoulder. A shallow gash. Nothing more. Everyone turned their gaze back to the rafters. Rosinante hadn't moved.
At least, it didn't look like he had. But the wind around his coat fluttered in the wake of something just having passed through.
"You're losing your edge, Riku."
The words slipped from my mouth almost without thinking, riding on a lazy smirk. From where I lounged high above the dojo, balanced comfortably on one of the wooden rafters, I could see everything. My eyes never left the ring, even as the sparring match faltered.
"Or maybe you've already forgotten what I taught you years ago… Never take your eyes off your opponent."
I wasn't mocking him. Not truly. But Riku — one of the very few students from the first batch who'd awakened their Haki under my guidance years ago— had just committed the sort of mistake that could've gotten him killed in a real fight. It wasn't just sloppiness. It was carelessness.
And in a world like ours, that could be fatal. Koushirou, realizing the disaster was averted, stood in the ring and sighed. He shook his head with that faint smile he always wore when he knew I was being "too much," as he liked to call it.
"Or perhaps you're just being too flashy, as always, Rosinante-kun," he said lightly, though I didn't miss the glint of amusement in his eyes.
Riku looked pale, shaken by the near-hit — his opponent's haki-enhanced strike had very nearly grazed his throat when I'd spoken. The distraction had been enough to throw both of them off. And me? If I had been just a second too late to stop the blade, then Riku's head would very well have flown off.
Everyone blinked, and the sparring pair stumbled apart, panting. Koushirou waved them off. "That's enough for today. Riku, get your shoulder checked."
The dojo fell into a hush. I didn't need to look to feel the dozens of eyes on me — students of all ages, their gazes frozen in my direction, their mouths slightly open. Some of them only knew my name through stories shared by the senior students. Others — a precious few — had bled under my instruction once, years ago, when I'd still been beating them until they had awakened their wills.
Now?
Now they stared at me like I'd stepped out of legend. I dropped from the rafters with the grace of a whisper, landing in the soft dust of the dojo floor without a sound. Stretching lazily, I rolled my shoulders and cracked my neck as if I hadn't just entered like a phantom in the middle of a storm.
"You're all softer than I remember," I said, brushing invisible dust from my coat. "Koushirou-san, I leave for a few years, and suddenly your students are startled by a little voice from the ceiling?"
He smiled, folding his arms. "Then perhaps you should take responsibility for them once again, Rosinante-kun. After all… some of them were trained by you, weren't they?"
The moment I dropped into the dojo, the air shifted. Among the students, the senior ones — the veterans who had once trained under me — tensed almost instinctively. I saw it in their posture, in the way their shoulders stiffened and their hands curled just slightly over the hilts of their training swords. A chill danced up their spines, not from fear, but from memory — the echo of a past soaked in sweat, blood, and relentless drills.
They remembered. They remembered what it truly meant to awaken haki — not just the flashy concepts that outsiders romanticized, but the unrelenting grind. The exhaustion. The pain. The cruel, intimate process of peeling back one's limits until the soul was forced to grow... or break.
And they knew what was coming. Because if Koushirou had agreed — openly — to let me resume their training, then it meant their days of peaceful, structured instruction were over. Their juniors, those wide-eyed kids who had only seen the calm and measured approach of the dojo master, would soon learn what real training looked like.
They would come to understand the meaning of hell on the path to mastery. I allowed my gaze to drift, sweeping across the dojo like a quiet storm, before settling on the front — where the honored seats were placed beneath the carved beams and fluttering lanterns.
And there they were — the old legends themselves. Shimotsuki Kozaburou, the man who had taught me the truth about the blades. One-armed, yet still radiating a presence so sharp it felt like steel. The man who had once defied Wano's isolation to chase the call of the sword across the seas. His weathered face, carved with a thousand battles and a thousand more laughs, was calm... but alert. His face blossomed at recognizing me as I gave a respectful nod.
And beside him… Kozuki Sukiyaki, a man I never expected to find here. I hadn't known him personally back in Wano. Our paths had never crossed, and yet I recognized him instantly. Oden's father. The former shogun of Wano. He wore his years like armor — proud, unbent, his dignity shining even in the humble surroundings of this dojo. I blinked, unable to stop the flicker of surprise from washing over me.
So that's where you've been hiding, old man.
I gave him a subtle nod of respect. He returned it with a flicker of a smile despite not realizing that I already knew about the man's true identity— the quiet recognition of two men who had both borne more than their fair share of burdens.
But it wasn't the legends who held my attention for long. It was the two small shadows seated between them.