"Ooooh… Master, is that my sword…?"
Her voice trembled with awe, eyes locked onto the blade before her, wide and sparkling with wonder. Kuina had always carried herself with a seriousness that belied her age — focused, disciplined, sharp. But in that moment, she wasn't a prodigy or the granddaughter of a legendary smith.
She was a child seeing magic for the first time. The katana before her lay nestled within a dark velvet-lined box, its saya pure snow-white, wrapped in silver thread and mist-like silk. The hilt shimmered with pale frost-blue ray skin, wrapped in an icy silver ito that seemed to gleam like freshly fallen snow under moonlight. And the guard — a minimalist circular tsuba — resembled a snowflake frozen mid-dance, delicate yet unyielding.
When the blade was drawn, it sang. A crystalline note, pure and high — like winter wind across untouched fields. Its steel was a pale silver-white, forged so flawlessly it seemed translucent at the edges, as if not cut from ore but conjured from frost and moonlight. The blade bore no blemish, no inscription, save for a single thin wave-like hamon that glowed faintly when struck by the sun.
Sode no Shirayuki. One of the Thirteen Supreme Grade Blades. It had lain dormant in my care for years — untouched, waiting. Forged by Shimotsuki Kozaburou, the blade was meant to be wielded by none but the purest of will, the most resolute of spirits. It was cold to the touch, not just in temperature, but in presence. It demanded not just strength… but clarity.
And now, for the first time, it had been shown to the one it was destined for. Kuina was utterly enraptured. She inched forward, as if caught in a trance, her small hand reaching for the blade like a child reaching for a shooting star. But before her fingers could brush the steel, my hand came down lightly on hers with a soft smack.
She blinked, startled, and looked up at me, cheeks puffing out in a sheepish pout.
"No," I said with a gentle but firm smile, folding my arms. "Not yet."
"But…" she whimpered, still staring at the blade like it might disappear. "It's so pretty… and it's mine, right? Grandpa said you'd be the one to give it to me…"
I knelt beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "That sword isn't just pretty, Kuina. It's alive. It listens. It waits. And it judges." She tilted her head.
"That blade will not accept anyone unworthy," I continued. "And right now, you're still learning how to move your feet without tripping over them."
She huffed, crossing her arms. "I don't trip that much." I gave her a raised eyebrow.
"...Not anymore," she amended with a pout.
I chuckled, ruffling her hair. "You're improving. Faster than most your age. But a Supreme Grade Blade isn't something you hold just because you want to. It's a responsibility — a burden. If your will isn't strong enough, it won't sing. It'll remain silent in your hands. Cold. Unmoving."
Her eyes turned back to the blade, now sheathed again. I watched the flicker of determination pass through her — the first quiet burn of obsession. Not greed. Not pride. Devotion.
She leaned in, whispering to it as if it were a living thing. "Don't worry, I'll be ready for you. Just wait a little longer, okay?"
I felt something shift in the air. As if even the blade acknowledged her presence — not a bond formed yet, but a seed sown.
"Master…" she turned to me again, her tone suddenly softer, almost playful. "Can I at least hold it for a second?" Her voice tilted slightly, attempting charm, her lips curling into a mischievous smile that might have worked on anyone else.
I narrowed my eyes. "Trying to sweet-talk your master now, are you?"
"Maybe…" Kuina chimed.
I smirked. "Nice try. You'll hold it when you've earned it — not a second sooner."
She sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the floor with arms stretched wide like she'd been struck down by tragedy. "You're the meanest master ever."
"Yet here you are, still following me around like a duckling."
She peeked up. "Because you're going to teach me how to be the strongest swordswoman ever, right?"
I didn't answer with words — only smiled and nodded once. That was enough for her. She got back to her feet, turning to the training ring where the other students had begun their warmups for the day.
"I'm going to get strong," she whispered, not to me, but to the blade still resting inside its velvet prison. "Strong enough to hear you sing." And with that, she ran off — bokken in hand, resolve in every step, snowflakes of memory trailing behind her.
I lingered a moment longer, glancing down at Sode no Shirayuki.
"Looks like she's already fallen for you," I murmured. The blade remained still. But the air around it was no longer cold. It was… expectant.
"You can come in now…" I said with a light chuckle, my gaze still fixed on the pristine blade resting in its velvet-lined case.
I'd sensed the presence the moment I opened the box — quiet, hesitant, almost holding its breath. Whoever it was had been there for a while, hiding just beyond the sliding door, not daring to interrupt. When no one responded, I smirked.
"If you don't come out now, I'm going to close the box. You can have a better look if you come closer."
A few heartbeats passed in silence. Then, the door creaked open — just slightly at first, as if testing the waters. A small head with spiky green hair peeked around the frame. Bright eyes blinked at me, then quickly darted toward the sword. When our gazes met, he froze, almost like he'd been caught stealing sweets.
I raised an eyebrow, amused. With a nervous shuffle, the boy stepped into the room, his hands awkwardly clutched behind his back. His tiny bare feet padded softly across the tatami floor, his eyes never leaving the blade.
Zoro.
Even at his young age, the fire in his eyes was unmistakable — curious, intense, and hungry. But there was something else too: respect. He knew this wasn't just any sword. Even if he didn't understand the weight of a Supreme Grade blade, instinctively, he could feel its presence.
"You wanted to see it, didn't you?" I asked gently.
He nodded, sheepish but unable to tear his gaze away from the katana. "Is that… really the sword for Kuina?"
I closed the box partway, just enough for him to snap to attention.
"Y-Yes!" he blurted, before realizing I hadn't actually asked him a question. He flushed and quickly corrected himself, rubbing the back of his neck.
I smiled. "She's not ready for it yet. But one day, maybe. Just like one day, you'll have a blade of your own to match."
Zoro's eyes flickered with something fierce. He glanced between me and the sword, then slowly stepped closer — barely daring to breathe. He stopped just short of the blade, as if afraid his very presence might disturb it.
"It looks like it could cut the wind…" he whispered.
"It could do far more than that," I replied, my tone low. "But only if the one wielding it is strong enough. The sword doesn't make the swordsman, Zoro. The will behind the blade is what matters."
He stood in silence for a long moment, then gave the sword a small bow — clumsy, stiff, but sincere. I watched him, amused and quietly impressed.
"You'll be strong too, one day," I said. "Stronger than you can even imagine."
Zoro blinked up at me, then gave a determined little nod, his tiny fists clenched at his sides. I let the box close with a soft click, and the moment passed — but the spark it left behind in that small green-haired boy would burn for years to come.
"Do you think my master will gift me a Supreme Grade blade too…?"
Zoro's question came with all the innocence and eagerness of youth, his wide eyes filled with wonder and hope. He didn't know who his master was — only the name Dracule Mihawk, whispered with awe by adults and feared by swordsmen across the seas. To Zoro, the title of World's Strongest Swordsman was more mystery than meaning. But even so, he believed.
Fiercely. I felt my grin widen. A mischievous part of me wanted to mess with the kid, maybe say something outrageous like, "Oh yes, your master will gift you a sword that slices islands in half before breakfast."
But I held back. Not because I was feeling merciful — no, I just had a better idea. Instead, I knelt beside him and asked, "Tell me, Zoro… would you rather your master find a blade for you… or would you like to find one through your own strength?"
The boy blinked, clearly caught off guard. He hadn't expected a counter-question. I saw it in his eyes — that flicker of thought, the moment his mind chewed on the weight of the question. A sword given... or a sword earned.
And just as his mouth began to open — tap tap. A soft knock against the wooden partition interrupted the moment.
"Rosinante-kun, may I come in?"
Ah. Finally. It was Sukiyaki. The old man had been keeping his distance since I arrived in Shimotsuki Village. I knew he had wanted to speak with me — to measure the man who now owned the treasure of Wano, the blade of te sword god himself. I'd expected this visit days ago, but I suppose former shoguns move at their own pace, or maybe the old man needed to compose himself before he met me because the memories of Wano should have brought back the pain.
"Come in," I replied smoothly, rising to my feet as the door slid open.
I turned to Zoro with a soft smile. "Why don't you head out and practice? I'll teach you and Kuina a cool trick later. Something very advanced… but only if you're sweating when I see you next."
Zoro's face lit up like someone had just promised him a mountain of meat. "Yes, Rosinante sensei!"
He turned to give his grandfather a quick hug — a moment of affection that surprised even Sukiyaki, who smiled gently and ruffled the boy's wild hair. And then… Zoro was off like a cannonball. Or at least, he tried to be.
With all the energy of a storm but none of the direction, he darted out the wrong door, ran straight past the entrance to the training yard, made a sharp left into the kitchen (where an angry cook nearly clobbered him with a ladle), turned again into the washroom, came face to face with an elderly student bathing, screamed, and finally scrambled out a window.
I didn't even need Observation Haki to know he was lost. But using it anyway, I sighed and chuckled.
"There he goes… the boy who will one day split mountains can't even find a straight hallway."
Sukiyaki laughed softly behind me. "He reminds me of Oden… though I suppose even Oden had a better sense of direction."
"I wouldn't be so sure," I muttered. "I've seen Oden-sama trip over his own leg once or twice."
The former shogun chuckled, but his tone sobered quickly. He stepped inside, the sliding door closing behind him with a soft click. The room felt heavier now, not with tension, but with age… with the kind of weight that came only from men who had carried kingdoms and revolutions on their backs.
Sukiyaki studied me for a long moment before he spoke.
"You've grown. I never expected Oden would part with the treasure of Wano to an outsider, but maybe that was for the best." he said simply.
"And you've aged, Shogun-sama," I replied with a smirk. He laughed again — genuine this time — and took a seat.
"Rosinante… what are your intentions with those two children?"
It was blunt. Direct. But not hostile. The question didn't come from suspicion. It came from care.
I sat across from him, folding my arms.
"My intention is simple. I will guide them to be strong enough to survive this world. Strong enough to stand for something… or protect what matters when the world tries to take it."
Sukiyaki's gaze lingered on me — sharp, calculating, and heavy with the years of a man who had once ruled an entire nation. He didn't speak for a long moment, as if weighing the sincerity behind every word I'd spoken. Then, finally, he exhaled — slow, measured — the breath of a man unburdening doubt. His shoulders relaxed, just a touch, and his expression softened as his eyes drifted toward the lacquered box that rested near us.
"…He really did it, didn't he?" I followed his gaze. "He finally outdid himself."
His voice held a quiet reverence — the kind reserved for old friends, long journeys, and impossible dreams. He stepped closer to the box, but I noticed his eyes weren't on Shirayuki. No — his attention had shifted slightly to the left, to the swords resting by my side. His focus was on Shusui — the treasured black blade of Wano. The weight of his gaze said everything. It wasn't idle curiosity. It was memory. Legacy.
"One of the main reasons Kozaburou left Wano," Sukiyaki murmured, "was to pursue what many of us believed was madness. He wanted to forge a Supreme Grade blade — one that would surpass the likes of Enma, Ame no Habakiri… or even the first-generation Kitetsu in its prime. I called him a fool back then. Told him he was chasing ghosts. But now…"
He turned back toward me, his expression unreadable. "…he succeeded. And from what he's told me, he couldn't have done it without you. For that, Rosinante… you have my gratitude. You helped my dearest friend fulfill the impossible."
I inclined my head in respectful silence. There was no need for pride or humility here — just acknowledgment between two men who understood the price of dreams. Then, with a slow exhale, Sukiyaki turned toward me again.
"May I…?" He wasn't asking to see Shirayuki. I didn't need Observation Haki to sense the pull in his voice. His eyes had already settled on the black blade resting at my side. Shusui. The national treasure of Wano. A sword once wielded by the legendary samurai Ryuma. A blade imbued with history, reverence, and the soul of a country.
I nodded silently and, with care, reached for the blade. The moment I handed it over, Sukiyaki's entire demeanor changed. He didn't seize it, didn't grip it with the hunger of a collector. No, his hands were reverent — as if accepting a relic from the gods themselves. He cradled the sheath with a gentleness that betrayed a deep respect, his fingers lightly tracing the lacquered edge before slowly drawing the blade free.
Shusui's edge emerged — a dark mirror etched in midnight, rippling with the faint pattern of its blackened steel. It didn't shine like silver or gleam like polished chrome. Instead, it drank the light around it, a void in the shape of a sword. A legend in steel.
Sukiyaki stared at it, unmoving. "…It's beautiful as I remember," he whispered. He tilted the blade ever so slightly, watching how the darkness flowed across its length like oil across still water. Then he brought it closer, his aged fingers brushing along the hamon line — the wave pattern etched into the metal like a quiet heartbeat.
"Even during my time as Shogun, I only saw this blade a handful of times. Ryuma's legacy was so revered, it was locked away more often than not. Protected. Worshipped. But in my heart, I always felt it was a shame — for a sword of such might to sit in silence… gathering dust. It deserved to breathe. To move. To sing in battle."
He looked up at me then, something like gratitude flickering in his eyes.
"You've taken good care of it. The steel… it breathes with you. It's bonded to you, Rosinante. I can feel it."
I inclined my head again, quietly honored by his words. Shusui had become a part of me — not just a tool or a weapon, but a partner. One forged in blood and purpose.
But then, his eyes shifted. They moved from the blade in his hands… to the other sword. The one resting near me. Closer. Almost hidden, but not quite. His brow furrowed as the air thickened, as if the very presence of the weapon weighed heavier than it should.
Even sheathed, Akatsuki exuded something… unnatural. The sword's presence was oppressive, like a storm looming just beyond the edge of your senses. Malice curled around its hilt like invisible tendrils. It didn't beckon. It warned.
"…A cursed blade, I presume?" Sukiyaki murmured, not looking away. His fingers still rested gently on the spine of Shusui, but his focus was entirely on its dark sibling. I raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. If anyone outside the Shimotsuki bloodline could have known the legacy of their forging arts, it would have been him. Yet even he didn't recognize Akatsuki.
That realization struck me.
"Interesting," I said, voice low. "I'd assumed you knew. But perhaps the Shimotsuki clan kept this one hidden… even from the Kozuki line."
Sukiyaki's expression darkened with thought. "There were always whispers… of an unnamed blade forged more than a millenia ago. One forged in secret. One that consumed the will and souls of hundreds and thousands of Samurai. But I never saw it. Not once."
His eyes returned to me. "And yet… here it is. In your hands." I met his gaze, unwavering.
"This blade chose me," I said simply. "And I've paid the price to wield it. But it knows I won't break."
Sukiyaki nodded slowly. "Just be careful, Rosinante. Not all blades hunger for blood. But this one… this one remembers too much."
I didn't respond. I didn't have to. The silence between us said more than words could. The weight of legacy. The burden of choice. The knowledge that every blade, no matter how finely forged, cuts both ways — forward and back.
At last, Sukiyaki sheathed Shusui and returned it with both hands, as one would a sacred gift. I accepted it with equal solemnity.
"So…" Sukiyaki hesitated, the word hanging in the air like a blade suspended over his heart. His voice wavered as he searched for the strength to ask what had haunted him all these years. Finally, with trembling breath and eyes full of silent desperation, he spoke.
"Are you aware…? Aware of what truly happened in Wano back then? What became of my son… of Oden… and… my grandchildren?" His words cracked, each syllable seeming to cost him a piece of himself. Though it had been years since the fall of Wano, the wounds hadn't closed—they festered, hidden behind time and distance. The world might have accepted that the Kozuki line had perished in fire and blood, but Sukiyaki… Sukiyaki still clung to a fragile ember of hope.
A single flicker in the all-consuming darkness, begging for even a whisper of survival. He bowed deeply, his shoulders hunched beneath the crushing weight of guilt, age, and regret. The once proud Shogun of Wano was now just an old man, worn down by loss and time, held together only by the last thread of faith that perhaps—just perhaps—someone had endured.
"Please…" he whispered, voice low and cracking. "Please tell me what happened in Wano."
I sighed, long and heavy, setting the pipe I'd barely touched aside. His pain was raw, naked. And he deserved the truth—not the half-baked reports filtered through propaganda or the sugar-coated tales peddled by newspapers. No, I would tell him everything I knew. Everything I had seen, everything I had heard, and everything that had been buried beneath the silence of history rewritten.
I began to recount it all. The day Oden had taken up the mantle of Shogun. The chaos that crept into the land like a sickness—slow, insidious—masked behind the charming smile of a serpent named Douglas Bullet, who betrayed his own kin in pursuit of power and ambition.
I spoke of how Oden faced the combined might of the Sea Emperors, Big Mom and Kaido, and how Bullet had sealed his treachery by abducting Toki and Oden's children, using them as leverage to force the great samurai into submission. How Oden—cornered, bound by love for his family—chose surrender over defiance, sacrificing his pride and resistance in a desperate bid to protect those dearest to him.
I described the horrors that followed. How Kaido, the Beast incarnate, took personal pleasure in breaking Oden. Torturing him for days—dismembering him piece by piece, subjecting him to cruel, unspeakable agonies. I told Sukiyaki of the fall of the daimyō, one by one—brave lords brought to their knees, their lands swallowed whole by terror. Of the slow decay of hope that once lit the skies of Wano like a rising sun, now reduced to smoldering embers beneath an iron heel.
I told him about the execution. The ultimate humiliation. How Oden, a man I had admired even from afar, stood unflinching for hours in a vat of boiling oil—boiled alive—to shield his retainers from death. A warrior to the end, he bore it all without a scream, enduring pain beyond comprehension… and in his final moments, he laughed. Not out of madness, but with the unshakable pride of a man who died for something greater than himself.
With every word, Sukiyaki's head dropped lower. Silent tears carved lines down his aged cheeks, soaking into his beard. His hands trembled in his lap, and his shoulders—once upright and noble—curled inward under the crushing weight of guilt and sorrow. This wasn't just an old man grieving. This was a father watching his son die all over again—helpless, haunted by what could have been, what should have been, had he not walked away from it all.
I told him of the remaining retainers—how they vanished into the shadows, scattered across the land like leaves torn from a dying tree. Some fell in battle; others disappeared into nothingness. A few, whispers said, were still hiding, waiting for the day they could rise again.
I told him what little I knew of his grandchildren. Of how Momonosuke vanished during the prison's final burning—whether by fate, chance, or divine intervention, none could say. Lady Toki, too, was lost in the chaos, along with the loyal retainers who had refused to abandon them.
And then… I stopped. Because the rest was silence—silence that lingered like smoke after a fire. The kind of silence that carried grief so vast, no words could contain it. Sukiyaki sat in it. Drenched in it. Broken by it. And all I could do… was let him grieve.
"You were gone," I said softly, my tone neither accusing nor cruel. "And he carried it all. Alone."
The words struck him like a hammer. Sukiyaki's hands curled into fists on his knees, his body shuddering as the weight of the truth clawed its way deeper into him. The man had left on a journey seeking wisdom… and returned to a graveyard.
"Perhaps," I added after a pause, "if you had stayed, things may have been different. Or perhaps, they would have unfolded the same. Fate… doesn't always care for the 'what-ifs.'"
But even as I said it, I could see in his eyes that the guilt would remain. The thought that his absence had allowed the darkness to take root—that if he had stood beside Oden, father and son, perhaps Wano might still shine free beneath the sun. Sukiyaki exhaled sharply, as if finally exorcising years of buried agony.
"So did no one make it…?" Sukiyaki hoped against hope because he realized, despite all that I had shared, I never once confirmed the death of anyone other than his son Oden.