Smack!
The cane cracked against the little girl's ankle again, sharp and merciless. I watched as Kuina wobbled, her tiny frame struggling to stay upright. Around us, the sounds of wooden swords and practice matches stuttered to a halt. Every student's head snapped toward us, eyes wide with fear or disbelief.
Even her father, Koushirō, couldn't hide the flash of anger across his face. I could feel his gaze burning into my back. I didn't blame him. No father wanted to see his daughter struck—especially not when she was this young, this small.
But I didn't flinch. I couldn't. Kuina had asked me for this. Begged, even. She didn't want the gentle, forgiving hands that others in the dojo offered her. She didn't want sympathy because she was small or because she was a girl. She wanted strength—the kind of strength that could survive this merciless world, the strength that someday would help her climb the pinnacle of swordsmanship.
And strength never came easy.
"Again," I said, voice sharp enough to cut stone. She staggered a half-step, but she raised her bokken again. I could see the tears brimming in her eyes, could hear the soft sniffle she tried to choke down. She clenched her tiny jaw, tightened her fingers around the hilt, and forced herself to reset her stance.
Good. She hadn't broken. Not yet. I stalked around her in slow, deliberate circles, the end of my cane tapping against the uneven dirt. I had chosen this ground on purpose—full of cracks, loose stones, treacherous dips. No even footing. No mercy.
"Your balance during every swing will determine your strength," I said, low but clear enough for everyone to hear. "Not your arms. Not your sword. Your center. Your foundation."
I stopped in front of her, tapping my own foot against the ground.
"Think the battlefield will wait for you? Think the world cares if you slip?" I snapped. "No. Only your enemy will care. And they'll show it by driving their blade straight through you the moment you falter."
I could see her biting the inside of her cheek, trying to stay calm, trying to listen past the pain. Good. Pain was the best teacher in this cruel world.
Without warning, I flicked my cane low and swept her ankle again. She stumbled—but this time, she didn't fall. She corrected herself mid-lurch, planted her foot hard into the ground, and steadied her swing. I allowed myself a thin smile.
"Again," I barked.
She swung. Her form was shaky. Her footing was unsure. But she held it.
"Again!"
She swung again—faster this time, more controlled, even as her arms trembled from the strain and her raw hands barely kept hold of the wooden sword.
Each time she swung, I hammered the lesson deeper. Footwork. Balance. Core. She needed to feel it in her bones, so deeply that no amount of fear or exhaustion could shake it; it needed to become her instinct.
Behind me, I could feel Koushirō's frustration, his helplessness. I didn't turn to look at him. If I did, I might start to waver after all; little Kushina was barely four years old. I might remember that the girl standing before me wasn't just my student, but someone's daughter—someone's everything.
But there was no room for hesitation. Not here. Not now. Because if Kuina wanted to survive the world waiting for her beyond this dojo's walls—the brutal, pitiless Grand Line—then she needed to become something far stronger than a precious daughter. She needed to become unbreakable.
Finally, after another few minutes, I lowered the cane and stepped back. I looked her straight in the eyes—eyes burning with stubborn defiance—and I spoke quieter this time, just for her.
"You wish to be the strongest, Kuina?" I asked.
She nodded, gasping for air but refusing to bow her head.
"Then remember this." I drove the butt of my cane into the earth for emphasis. "Your sword is nothing but an extension of yourself. If your soul isn't steady, if your spirit isn't anchored—you'll lose. Every time."
She didn't answer with words. She simply straightened her back, lifted her sword again, and prepared herself for more. And as I watched her, so small, so battered, but so relentless—I knew.
No matter how cruel this training seemed now, no matter how much it twisted Koushirō's heart to watch—it was necessary. Kuina had the fire. All I had to do was forge it into something the world couldn't extinguish.
Again, I thought, raising the cane once more. Until you can no longer fall.
"Rosinante, why don't you let the little girl take a break?" Sukiyaki's voice broke the rhythm of Kuina's relentless swings, the old man speaking with a note of concern that he couldn't quite mask.
From where he stood, arms folded, the former Shogun of Wano had been quietly observing the session, a furrow in his brow deepening with every stumble and labored breath Kuina made. Kozaburo had already left some time ago, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to witness the brutal training any longer. But Sukiyaki remained, his eyes sharp despite the compassion in them, a man who knew the cost of forging warriors.
I didn't stop. I didn't even flinch. I kept my gaze firmly on Kuina, watching her correct her stance with sheer stubborn will, watching the way her tiny hands tightened around the wooden blade even though her knuckles were scraped and raw. She missed a step, grit her teeth, and forced herself back into rhythm.
Without looking at Sukiyaki, I answered, a low chuckle rumbling in my chest.
"Sukiyaki-sama," I said, "I don't see you asking me to go easy on your grandson, who seems to be suffering even more than little Kuina here."
I jerked my chin toward the far side of the courtyard. There, standing under the merciless sun, was a small boy—a year younger than Kuina—his legs locked into a deep horse stance, arms stretched forward as if holding an invisible blade, and tied to his back and limbs were specially designed weights that were fashioned by the great artisan Kozaboro himself. Sweat poured off him in rivers, soaking his clothes until they clung to his trembling body like a second skin. His legs quivered violently, every muscle fiber screaming for mercy.
But the boy didn't move. He didn't fall. He didn't even whimper. Young Zoro bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, using the raw sting of pain to numb the growing exhaustion that was threatening to consume him. Tiny droplets of blood mixed with the sweat trickling from the corner of his mouth. His face, scrunched into a grimace of effort, was a mask of pure, stubborn will.
There wasn't a hint of complaint in his eyes. No plea for rest. No resentment. Just a single, unwavering determination to endure. I felt a flicker of admiration stir in my chest at the sight. Though Zoro wasn't officially my student—I was simply passing down the basics in Mihawk's absence—I had no qualms about pushing him hard.
I knew what the future demanded. The Grand Line was no fairy tale; it was a place that devoured the weak and pitied no one. If the Straw Hat crew was going to stand a chance in the storms that were coming, they needed to be stronger than in the stories I remembered. Much stronger.
And while I had no formal obligation to help the future members of the Straw Hats, I would be lying if I said I didn't care. After all, in my previous life, I had admired these characters, their dreams, their struggles. Their spirit had once inspired millions—including me.
But my priority was crystal clear. Above all else, I would forge Kuina into the strongest swordswoman the world had ever seen.
"Continue," I commanded, a little more sharply now, turning back to Kuina.
She faltered for half a heartbeat at the tone, but then gritted her teeth and lifted her blade higher, forcing herself into motion. Each swing was agony. I could see it. Every fiber of her being screamed for rest. Her arms were lead, her feet dragged, her lungs burned for air.
Through my Observation Haki, I could feel it—the trembling of Kuina's soul. Her balance was faltering, her swings losing sharpness, the weight of exhaustion creeping into her small frame like a slow, venomous fog. The pain, the fatigue—they were close to breaking her.
I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice to a near whisper, a blade of words meant to cut deeper than any cane strike.
"Tell me, Kuina... do you want to lose to Zoro?"
The question struck her harder than any blow could have. I saw it—the subtle stiffening of her shoulders, the flicker of defiance in her weary eyes.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" I continued, my tone low, relentless. "That boy… he's not ordinary. Right now, yes—you can disarm him with a single swing, topple him without a second thought. But tell me... how much longer do you think that will last?"
I shifted my gaze, deliberately pointing toward the boy who stood trembling in his horse stance.
"Look at him, Kuina. Despite being way past his limit, he holds firm. His legs are shaking, his muscles are screaming, but not a word of complaint passes his lips. Even if I strapped more weights to his body, even if I doubled the pain—he wouldn't give up. He would endure it all without a whisper of surrender. The only way to make him stop... would be for me to tell him that today's training is done."
I turned my eyes back to her, piercing through her spirit like a blade drawn across silk.
"So, tell me, Kuina… with that kind of will... how long do you think it will take for him to surpass you?"
The instant the words left my lips, it was as if lightning struck her heart. Her small fists clenched tighter around the bokken, the trembling stopped, and her stance—once wavering—hardened like tempered steel. In that moment, her entire being reignited with a ferocity that made even the air around her seem sharper.
Her breath hitched once—only once—before her little voice, fierce and resolute, cut through the dojo.
"Hai...!"
She swung. The bokken tore through the air with such brutal force and speed that for an instant it became a blur, the wood humming with the strain. The sharp crack of each swing echoed like thunder in the courtyard. Again and again, her body moved, fueled not by strength alone but by the burning fire of sheer, indomitable will.
I could see it—clearer than ever.
If there was one thing Kuina wanted, perhaps even more than becoming the strongest, it was to earn Zoro's respect and also to prove to her father that she could reach the pinnacle with the sword. Despite being young, she was sharp. She knew, though, that her father supported her ambition because of her grandfather; he looked at Zoro much more like someone who could restore the Shimotsuki name, all because she was born a girl.
Deep down, she understood: while she could easily defeat him today, the gap between them was shrinking with every sunrise. She could sense the monstrous rate at which he was growing, instinctively grasping that if she didn't push herself far beyond her current limits—if she allowed complacency to settle—he would surpass her.
And she could not allow that. So she buried her pain. She numbed the fatigue gnawing at her muscles, she muted the protests of her screaming lungs. She shattered the shackles she had placed on her own body and mind and hurled herself beyond the threshold of her limits—and further still.
"If that stupid Zoro can do it, then I can do even better," she thought to herself.
Each swing was a roar of defiance against weakness. Each stance, a declaration of war against her own doubts. Each breath, a refusal to surrender to destiny.
I smiled faintly as I watched her, my heart thudding with a strange mixture of pride and a deep, solemn understanding. This was the beginning. The day Kuina chose to break her own fate with her own two hands.
****
"Jiji... are you sure this is training? Are you really not just trying to get me killed out here...?" Little Ace gulped, his wide eyes darting nervously around the pitch-black forest. Every crackle, every shift of the shadows, seemed alive with hidden danger. It wasn't the soft glow of the campfire keeping the beasts at bay—no, it was the silent, crushing pressure radiating from the old man casually grilling a chunk of beast meat over the flames, humming like he hadn't a care in the world.
"Bwahahaha! Brat, didn't you say you wanted me to train you?" Garp barked out a laugh, shaking his head like he was genuinely disappointed. "We haven't even started, and you're already wetting your pants... what a shame!"
Ace, panicking, immediately stood up and frantically checked his trousers, patting around with a horrified look. Only when he found them dry did it finally click—the old geezer was messing with him. His cheeks turned red as a tomato.
"Tch... stupid old man..." Ace grumbled under his breath, slumping back down onto the log. He crossed his arms and sulked, the firelight casting his pouty face into shadow while Garp chuckled heartily, flipping the meat with the ease of a man who could wrestle mountains for breakfast.
"So, as the first part of my training, I just have to survive in this stupid forest for a week, right...?" Ace challenged, puffing out his chest with all the bravado he could muster.
His grandfather had told him bluntly—this was a test. If he couldn't even pass this simple trial, there was no point in dreaming about real training. Ace wasn't stupid. He had felt the overwhelming might of Garp firsthand—especially the day Brother Ross had visited the island weeks ago.
Though they hadn't clashed directly, the sheer pressure between them had been unforgettable. It gripped Ace's young heart like a vice, a suffocating reminder of how distant true strength really was.
The bandits, the stray pirates who wandered into their territory—Ace realized now they were little more than jokes. Clowns dressed up as monsters. Even untrained, Ace could instinctively tell—what he had seen so far wasn't even a fraction of what real strength looked like.
And from what Brother Ross had told him, his father, Gol D. Roger, and Garp stood at the very apex of strength. Ace wanted that strength. Needed it. And he knew it wouldn't come easy. Garp let out a loud, rumbling laugh as he flipped the roasting meat over the fire, its aroma filling the campsite.
"Heh! Look at you!" Garp snorted. "A few seconds ago you almost pissed yourself... and now you're standing there all confident, talkin' about surviving a week!"
He turned, his voice sharpening into something cold, something real. "Did you really think it would be that easy, brat?"
The warmth of the fire seemed to flicker in the sudden change of atmosphere. Garp's figure loomed larger, more dangerous.
"You'll have no one watching your back here," he said, voice like iron. "Even if beasts tear you apart, I won't interfere. So tell me again—do you really want to do this?"
Ace's heart thudded painfully against his ribs. A bead of sweat trailed down his neck.
"It's not too late to turn back," Garp rumbled. "We can wait a year, maybe two. Let you get stronger first. But hear me well, Ace—" He crouched low so his piercing eyes met Ace's through the flames, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "—once we start this path, there'll be no excuses. No mercy and you will have no chance to turn back."
Garp's expression darkened further, like a general pronouncing judgment.
"In all my decades of training Marines and monsters alike, only one kid survived my training till the end. Most quit halfway, broken. Some learned what they could, then ran. You won't get that luxury." His hand clenched into a massive fist. "If you can't survive my training from start to finish, I'll cripple you myself. So bad you'll never sail the seas."
The words dropped like thunder in the silence. Ace swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed at him to reconsider. His little body trembled slightly under the invisible pressure. The fire cracked between them, throwing monstrous shadows across Garp's face.
But still—Ace stood firm.
He locked eyes with Garp, and with a voice steady as steel, he answered, "I'm ready, Jiji."
A flash of something—approval, pride—flickered across Garp's weathered face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a wide, devilish grin.
Just as Ace's stomach gave a loud, pathetic grumble—the smell of the roasting meat becoming unbearable—Garp seized him by the collar with one massive hand.
Ace barely had time to squeak before he found himself dangling in the air like a caught fish.
"Oi! You crazy old man! At least let me have a bite!" Ace wailed, eyes locked desperately on the perfectly cooked meat now sizzling over the flames, golden grease dripping like liquid treasure.
Garp's grin widened.
"This is survival training, brat," he chuckled. "Did you really think I'd lay out a grand feast for you before sending you to hell?"
Ace's jaw dropped. "Wait—is that why you told me to skip lunch today?! YOU'RE A DEMON!!"
Still laughing, Garp turned, casually lifting Ace like he weighed no more than a sack of feathers. His Observation Haki briefly swept over the vast forest ahead—mapping every beast, every lurking threat. Though he had vowed not to interfere, if true death came for the boy, he would move. Silently. Instantly. But only if it came to that.
Ace was still mid-scream when Garp's arm flexed—and with a simple, effortless toss, hurled Ace through the air and deep into the shadowy abyss of the wild forest.
"GOOD LUCK, BRAT! TRY NOT TO DIE!" Garp roared after him, grinning ear to ear as Ace's curses echoed through the night.
And thus, the real training of Portgas D. Ace had begun under the hands of the monster called Monkey D Garp.
Just as Ace's shrill screams faded into the dense darkness of the forest, a faint crunch of footsteps on dry leaves signaled another presence.
From the shadows, Bogard casually emerged, his tall figure blending seamlessly with the night, the brim of his hat casting his eyes in shadow. Without a word, he moved with unhurried steps to the vacant log opposite Garp and sat down, setting his worn cap aside with a care that spoke of long-ingrained discipline.
Garp, still tending to the fire, tore off a generous hunk of the sizzling meat and tossed it to Bogard, who caught it with a grunt of thanks. For a few moments, the only sounds were the soft crackling of the fire and the faint, distant roars of the beasts lurking within the wild.
Bogard hesitated, chewing slowly, before finally breaking the silence.
"Garp-san…" he began, his voice low but carrying the weight of genuine concern—a rare thing from a man like him. "Don't you think it's a bit early for Ace to start training like this? Normally, even the most rigorous Marines wait until a kid's at least six—once the bones really set in."
He tore into the meat, the flavors filling his mouth, but his sharp eyes never left Garp, gauging his reaction.
Garp, still chewing thoughtfully, didn't respond right away. Among the entire world, there were perhaps only a handful Garp trusted enough to speak to so freely—and Bogard stood at the very top of that short list. His right hand. His silent shield. His brother-in-arms in everything but blood.
After a moment, Garp exhaled heavily, a long, weathered sigh that spoke of burdens too heavy for most men to carry.
"Time, Bogard…" Garp muttered, voice low, crackling like the fire between them. "Ace doesn't have the luxury of time."
He leaned back against the log, his massive arms folding across his broad chest, the firelight dancing across the hard lines of his face, casting deep shadows in the creases formed by decades of war, loss, and regret.
"I fear by the time that boy becomes a man," Garp continued, "this world will have changed so much it'll be unrecognizable. An upheaval is coming… a storm that'll swallow everything. Everyone."
His fists clenched unconsciously, veins bulging against scarred knuckles. The unease had only grown sharper ever since his meeting with Rosinante. Garp could feel it in his very bones—the world was shifting, tides unseen by most were beginning to swell. And at the heart of that inevitable chaos would be Ace—willing or not, the blood of the Pirate King would ensure it.
Someday, no matter how strong Garp was, he might not be able to shield the boy.
No, Ace would need the strength to stand on his own. To fight his own battles. To survive a world that would seek to destroy him for a crime he never committed—being Roger's son.
"Hmmm..." Bogard nodded slowly, silently digesting Garp's heavy words alongside the meal. In his own quiet way, he too had sensed the shifting tides. People like them—men who had walked through battlefields drenched in blood—knew better than most when the world was on the verge of breaking.
For a few long minutes, neither man spoke. Only the pop and crackle of the fire filled the night air as they ate, two warriors sharing a rare moment of peace amidst the coming storm.
Then Bogard, as always practical, finally spoke again.
"Sengoku-san called again," he said, voice dry as he tore another piece of meat. "For the dozenth time."
Garp only grunted, not even looking up.
Bogard chuckled under his breath before continuing, "I tried giving him excuses. Said you were out fishing. Or maybe taking a nap." He tilted his head slightly. "But it seems like he's under too much pressure these days. If you keep ignoring him, Garp-san... he'll come here himself."
He leaned back, tossing a bone into the fire and watching it sizzle.
"With both Ace and Luffy here… it wouldn't be wise to attract that kind of attention to the island. Sengoku might not be able to connect the dots yet, but if the wrong people start sniffing around…"
Bogard left the sentence hanging, trusting Garp to finish the thought himself. That was the bond between them—an understanding deeper than words. Garp finally huffed out a breath, his thick brows furrowing as he stared into the fire.
"Che… that old bastard Sengoku. Always was a pain in my ass." He gave a small, bitter chuckle.
"I'll deal with him soon."
Bogard said nothing, simply nodding once, trusting Garp's judgment absolutely. His loyalty to Garp wasn't blind—he knew the man's flaws better than anyone. But it was ironclad, forged through decades of hardship, loss, and victories no history book would ever record.
Around them, the darkness deepened. Somewhere far off, Ace's indignant cries echoed through the trees as the first beasts stirred from the shadows.
Bogard smirked slightly, extending his observation Haki to make sure he didn't miss a thing.
"He'll be fine," he said quietly as if trying to assure himself, setting his cap back atop his head.
Garp chuckled, low and rough. His eyes, sharp as ever, flickered with a rare glint of pride as he watched the fire.
"He'd better be," he said, voice a gravelly promise to the world itself. Because Portgas D. Ace had a destiny to claim—and Garp would damn the world itself before he let it crush his grandson unprepared.