A small caravel, no larger than a fishing vessel, glided steadily across the calm waters of the East Blue. The late afternoon sun painted golden ripples across the surface, and the wind—steady, sure, and purposeful—billowed the single sail, carrying the ship with ease in the direction of the island where Shimotsuki Village lay.
The creak of wood, the flutter of canvas, and the gentle slap of waves against the hull created a serene rhythm, like nature itself was singing a lullaby of peace. It was a rare moment of calm in the otherwise tumultuous lives we all led.
I sat along the rail, barefoot and relaxed, a simple fishing rod in hand, the line trailing into the sapphire waters. My coat hung lazily from a nearby post, fluttering with the breeze. I didn't need to steer. The wind knew where we were headed, and I trusted it.
Beside me sat little Kuina, barely six years old, her legs tucked beneath her, chin resting on her knees as she watched the fishing line intently. She didn't speak, but I could feel the questions stirring behind her calm eyes—always watching, always thinking. She marveled at how the line twitched occasionally, yet I remained still, waiting, patient, as if I could feel the pulse of the ocean itself.
Further down the deck, the rhythm of effort broke the silence. "Seven hundred... seventeen... seven hundred... Eighteen..." A strained voice, breathless but stubborn, echoed with resolve.
"Seven hundred... nineteen...!"
Zoro.
The boy's small frame shook as he struggled to finish another push-up. His body, lean and wiry, was coated in a sheen of sweat. The midday sun beat down upon him mercilessly, and the deck beneath him was slick with sweat and saltwater.
But the greatest challenge was not the heat—it was the crushing weight strapped across his back: a pair of weighted training stones tied together, easily weighing more than a ton. To any normal five-year-old, even in this world where little monsters with unnatural physiques were born, it might as well have been a death sentence.
His arms trembled. His shoulders burned. His bones creaked with the strain. Yet still, he pushed. I watched from the corner of my eye, quietly impressed. Most grown men would have passed out. But Zoro—driven by something deeper—endured.
He had tasted strength. Real strength. He had seen what I could do, seen what Garp could do, and it lit a fire in him. He had chosen his path, and he would drag himself to the ends of the world if it meant reaching it.
In the canon timeline, I mused, Zoro had been strong, yes—but limited. His world had been small. His mentor, Koushirou, no matter how wise, had likely never shown him the true heights of swordsmanship. Perhaps he had hidden his strength. Perhaps he feared what would happen if Zoro chased too much too soon.
But now… fate had shifted. And Zoro had already glimpsed the summit. He would climb it—faster than he had before. A shift beside me.
I turned my gaze to Kuina, who now looked away from the fishing line, her eyes drifting toward Zoro. Her brows were drawn, her lips pursed.
"Is it because he's a boy, Master... that Zoro gets to train longer than I do?" she asked softly, her voice fragile.
There it was—the old doubt again. That familiar shadow which crept in when her body ached and Zoro kept going. I saw it in her eyes: that fear that the world might always favor boys, that no matter how hard she tried, nature itself was holding her back. I placed the rod down gently and turned to her.
"No, Kuina," I said firmly, meeting her eyes. "Not because he's a boy. Because right now, your body needs time to adapt. And if I truly let you train like Zoro does right now, it wouldn't make you stronger—it would break you."
She looked down, ashamed. But I continued, my tone gentle but unwavering.
"Listen carefully. Nature did make men and women different. That's not a weakness. That's just a truth. Men, by design, often develop greater raw endurance, more dense muscle mass, and can take heavier physical strain earlier in life. But do you think the sword only answers to brute strength?"
She glanced up again, uncertain.
I shook my head. "No. To master the blade, one must master both power and precision. Strength and control. Endurance and finesse. Men may reach certain physical peaks faster, but you were born with something just as vital—grace, balance, adaptability. Your center of gravity is lower. Your movements are more fluid. If you hone those traits now, when your body is ready to catch up in strength... you will surpass him in ways he cannot imagine."
She was quiet, digesting my words.
"But," I added, leaning closer, "if you let that doubt settle in your heart—if you keep telling yourself that being a girl means you'll never be the strongest—that is the moment Zoro will begin to catch up to you."
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Do you think the title of 'World's Greatest Swordsman' will be won by someone who doubts themselves?"
She shook her head.
"Then discard that doubt. Don't train harder than Zoro. Train smarter. Learn to listen to your body, to your sword, and most importantly, to yourself. You're already ahead of him. Stay on your path—and you'll reach the apex long before he does."
Silence fell between us for a moment, save for the creaking of the ship and the flapping of the sail. Then… her small hands clenched into fists. And she nodded. I smiled.
"That's my student."
Behind us, Zoro collapsed face-first on the deck with a groan. "Seven hundred... twenty...!"
I couldn't help but laugh.
"Maybe I should be worried," I said aloud, "that these two monsters are barely six years old and already chasing the mountaintop."
Zoro lay sprawled on the sun-warmed deck, breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his brow as he stared at the sky. Kuina sat beside me near the rail, her legs swinging idly over the edge, the sea stretching endlessly beyond her gaze.
Then she asked it—quietly, but with purpose.
"Sensei... what was the most difficult thing you had to learn, since you first walked the path of a swordsman?"
Her voice held no doubt now, only curiosity—the kind that came when the heart was ready to grow. It caught me off guard. I paused, truly thinking for the first time in a long while. Even Zoro, barely catching his breath, rolled to his side, ears perked, drawn in by the question.
I could see in Kuina's eyes what she expected to hear. She thought I would speak of haki—perhaps the raw brutality of Advanced Armament or the supreme will behind Conqueror's Haki. Or maybe the discipline to tame the sword's edge, to strike only with purpose. She was ready to hear about power.
But the truth I carried was something far older… far heavier. I drew in a deep breath, my gaze drifting to the horizon.
"If I were to speak honestly," I began, "the hardest thing I ever had to learn... and the burden I still carry… is taking a life—and learning to live with it afterward."
Kuina blinked. Her expression faltered. That wasn't the answer she had prepared for.
"In a world like ours," I continued, voice calm but weighted, "the sword is not just a tool of skill. It is a weapon. Sooner or later, you will take lives—perhaps to protect someone you love, perhaps in self-defense, or to stop someone who truly deserves it. Those kills… you can reconcile. You can bury them. You may even find peace in them."
I paused, feeling the ocean breeze brush against my skin. My voice grew quieter.
"But there are others… harder to justify. Harder to forget."
Their eyes were locked on me now—two children on the cusp of a path that would shape them forever.
"There will come a moment," I said, "when your blade will claim the life of someone who didn't deserve to die. Maybe they were in the wrong place. Maybe they were just doing their duty. Or maybe… maybe you were too blinded by rage, or sorrow, or vengeance. And in that moment… the sword won't feel like a weapon anymore."
I looked down at my hand—steady, scarred, but not clean.
"It'll feel like a curse."
Kuina swallowed, her voice barely a whisper.
"Have you… have you ever killed innocents, Master?"
Her question didn't accuse. It feared. Not me—but the cost of walking in my footsteps.
I nodded slowly.
"Yes," I said, the word heavier than any sword. "I have."
Silence. Even the sea seemed to hush.
"It wasn't always for a purpose," I admitted, my voice strained with old regret. "There was a time—after I first consumed my Devil Fruit, when I lost someone… someone precious. In my grief, in my fury, I razed a village to the ground. They weren't my enemies. They didn't even know why it was happening. I killed them all. Not with honor. Not with restraint. But in blind, brutal vengeance."
Zoro sat up slowly, his face pale. Kuina stared, stunned, the image of her revered mentor suddenly human—flawed, bleeding behind the eyes.
"It wasn't the first time I caused a massacre," I continued, closing my eyes, haunted by the memories. "There were other battles… Impel Down. The Elsar Coast. I've built pyramids from the heads of mercenaries, watched tides turn red, and never once hesitated. But that village..."
I clenched my jaw.
"That one still haunts me. Because deep down, I know—they didn't deserve it. I broke my own code. And some nights… I still hear the screams."
Kuina looked down, gripping the fabric of her dress. Zoro's fists clenched at his sides, not in judgment—but in understanding the weight of the world he wanted to step into.
I stood then, slowly, walking to the edge of the deck, watching the sun beginning to dip low behind distant clouds.
"You two will grow strong. Stronger than I ever was at your age, perhaps. And there will come a time when you will be tested—not by an enemy, but by your own heart. That's the real battlefield."
I turned to face them again, my voice firm.
"Remember this… Power without purpose is destruction. Ambition without conscience is tyranny. The sword is not just a weapon—it is a mirror. Whatever you do with it… you must be ready to see it reflected in yourself."
I knelt before Kuina and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"And no matter what the world tells you—man or woman—your strength is yours to forge. But never forget the cost. Because once your blade tastes blood… there's no turning back."
Tears welled in her eyes—but she didn't look away. She understood. And that was the moment I knew: she was no longer a student just chasing dreams. She was now a warrior preparing to face her demons long before they arrived.
****
"Snap—"
The sound echoed like a whipcrack through the open-air training yard. A small fist had rammed full-force into the thick wooden practice pole. For a moment, it stood there—silent, trembling from the impact—then splintered down the middle with a sharp crack, toppling in two jagged pieces onto the dirt.
The boy responsible stood over the wreckage with a wide, toothy grin. Barely five years old, Ichiji looked down at his handiwork with a glint of pride, as if reducing a reinforced oak post to rubble was nothing more than a warm-up. His crimson eyes gleamed under his short-cropped hair, and the wild wind of the training field caught the edge of his shirt, fluttering it like a flag of challenge.
Around him, a circle of stunned Revolutionary Army recruits stared in disbelief.
They'd seen glimpses of it over the past few weeks—brief, casual feats of monstrous strength that defied logic. But now, as Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji took to their morning drills, there was no denying it: these weren't ordinary children. These were war machines in miniature, forged with steel sinews and inhuman precision.
Across the yard, Niji was flipping through the air mid-Rankyaku practice, carving shallow trenches in the earth with the force of his kicks, while Yonji held a weighted log over his shoulders, sprinting uphill with a discipline that would shame most adult soldiers.
"I still can't wrap my head around it," one recruit muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as he leaned against the rail. "They're five. Five. I was still eating dirt at that age."
"They're monsters," another agreed in hushed awe. "Already learning Rokushiki like it's child's play. At this rate, they'll surpass most of us before they hit ten."
A third voice, laced with cynicism, broke the tension.
"It's a pity the third one isn't like them."
The tone wasn't cruel—just matter-of-fact, born from observation. The third brother among the four, the one who lacked the shockwave punches and impossible reflexes, was barely ever noticed. No shattered poles. No gravity-defying leaps. Just… normal.
"Shhh—don't let Commander Livia hear you," a taller recruit said quickly, elbowing the first in the ribs. "If she catches wind you're talking like that, you'll be back to scrubbing latrines with a toothbrush." He grinned, but his eyes flicked nervously toward the looming tower where Livia's office was located.
They all knew the rules: Never underestimate anyone, especially not under Livia's care. Still, the unspoken truth lingered—among the blazing stars of the quadruplet brothers, the third child cast no shadow.
Meanwhile, in the heart of the revolutionary base island was a community kitchen. A short walk away from the training field, nestled within the central compound, stood the Revolutionary Army's main kitchen—a massive, militaristic stronghold of culinary efficiency.
The kitchen was housed in a high-ceilinged structure of reinforced steel and stone, built like a warship's mess hall and operated with the precision of a battlefield operation. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling spices, freshly baked bread, and simmering broth. Dozens of cooks in aprons and bandanas moved in rhythm, ladles clanging, knives flashing, pots steaming—a symphony of chaos controlled by order.
Stainless steel countertops stretched across the room like battlements. Industrial stoves lined the back wall, where flames danced beneath massive cauldrons filled with enough stew to feed a battalion. Above them, pipes hissed with steam, and ventilation fans hummed to life, pulling away the smoke and heat.
Barrels of preserved vegetables, salted meats, and pickled fish lined the corners like artillery stockpiles, each labeled and dated. Overhead, racks of dried herbs and spices swayed with every gust of air, lending the kitchen a warm, earthy scent. A large board near the entrance bore the daily schedule in military shorthand, denoting everything from breakfast rotations to nutrition ratios per unit.
Commander Livia, despite her title, could often be seen marching through the lines here—not to eat, but to inspect. She had a hawk's eye for waste, inefficiency, and laziness. If a spoon was misplaced or a ration was short by an ounce, she would know. And gods help the poor soul responsible.
Near the back of the hall, children too young to be soldiers but too curious to stay idle helped peel potatoes, wash rice, or carry water barrels.
Among them was a small blond boy, barely five, perched on a wooden stool beside a great wooden vat filled with potatoes. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, cheeks slightly red from effort, as he peeled one large potato after another, dropping the clean tubers into another basin. He had done this for over an hour now—nearly a hundred potatoes peeled with tiny, practiced hands.
Despite the ache in his fingers, Sanji didn't complain. It kept his mind off other things—like the distant sound of his brothers sparring in the training yard, their laughter and the rhythmic thud of fists and boots on the earth reminding him how far they had drifted.
He longed to join them… but he already knew. He wasn't like them.
So he stayed beside his mother, helping in the kitchen where he could. She had left for lunch inspections earlier, leaving him with a quiet sense of purpose. Peeling potatoes was simple. It didn't make him feel weak.
That was, until a voice rumbled from behind.
"Kid… what do you think you're doing?"
Sanji jumped, almost losing balance as he twisted around. His foot slipped on a damp patch, and he tipped sideways—straight toward the vat of used wash water. But a thick, scarred hand grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and yanked him back just before he could tumble in.
"Ah—thank you!" Sanji said sheepishly, catching his breath.
The man who saved him was a burly cook, his dark apron stained with broth and flour, his head bald save for a few tufts of grey. He was huge, with arms like tree trunks and a heavy scar that ran from his left ear down to his collarbone. A ladle hung from his belt like a warrior's sword.
"I'm peeling potatoes," Sanji said matter-of-factly, showing off the next one he was working on. "I was careful not to waste any. Look!"
The man didn't take the offered potato. His eyes were scanning the floor and table around Sanji's station.
"Kid, I can see you're peeling," he grunted. "But I asked you—why are you wasting food?"
Sanji blinked. He looked around, expecting to find fallen potatoes or scraps. But everything was in place. "I didn't drop anything," he protested with a pout. "I peeled them properly, too. No big chunks cut off."
To prove his point, he picked up one of the smooth, cleanly peeled potatoes and held it proudly.
But the man's gaze didn't waver from the growing pile of discarded peels scattered around Sanji's work area. Brown, curled, and dusted with specks of dirt, the peels looked like trash to the boy. Useless skins stripped off and tossed aside. Just waste.
The man let out a heavy sigh and crouched beside the mess.
"You've never gone hungry, have you, kid?" he said gently, but there was a weight in his voice that quieted Sanji instantly.
The boy tilted his head. "Huh?"
Without another word, the man began gathering the peels. Carefully. Almost reverently. He placed them into a bowl, washing each handful in a nearby basin. Sanji stared, confused and fascinated, as the strange cook beckoned him over to the stove area.
"C'mon. I'll show you something."
The man rinsed the peels again in salted water, running his fingers through them as if scrubbing away the world's ignorance. When satisfied, he poured them into a colander, draining them thoroughly, then laid them out over a clean cloth and dabbed away the excess moisture with practiced hands.
"Remember this," the man said, his voice quieter now, like he was letting Sanji in on a sacred truth. "There may come a day when your belly screams so loud it drowns out your thoughts… when your own fingers start to look like food…"
He held up his left hand. Two fingers were missing. Sanji's eyes widened.
"I hope you never see such a day," the man said with a weary smile, "but if you do… you'll understand. Hunger is cruel. It doesn't care about pride or waste. It just takes."
Sanji didn't understand—not yet. But he didn't look away. He watched as the man placed the dried peels into a large bowl, added a pinch of sea salt, a dash of black pepper, crushed dried rosemary, and just a squeeze of lime. The scent that followed made Sanji's nose twitch with curiosity.
The man tossed the mix together, coating the peels evenly, and then turned to the deep fryer. A pot of oil was already heating, and he tested the temperature with a sliver of peel—when it danced and sizzled, he nodded.
One handful at a time, he lowered the peels into the fryer.
The oil hissed and bubbled. The kitchen air filled with the mouth-watering aroma of roasting spices, citrus, and golden crisp. The peels curled and crisped into delicate, golden-brown slivers. The scent was irresistible.
Sanji's stomach growled. The man lifted the fried peels out with a slotted ladle, laying them on paper to soak the oil. Then, he arranged them neatly on a small clay plate, added a side of tomato ketchup, and slid it toward Sanji.
"Try it."
Sanji didn't hesitate. He picked up a hot, crispy peel and popped it into his mouth.
Crunch.
His eyes lit up. It was delicious. Salty, tangy, with a hint of earthiness and citrus bite. He grabbed another. Then another. The texture was perfect, the flavor deep and layered. Potato peels? He had thrown them away without a thought, but now…
He looked up at the man, who watched him with a satisfied grin.
"Cooking's not just about flavors, kid. It's about respect. For ingredients. For those who eat it. For the ones who have nothing."
Sanji nodded, slowly chewing, his earlier gloom forgotten. He didn't fully understand the man's words, or the meaning of true hunger… not yet. But something in him clicked.
These weren't just scraps. They were food. They brought smiles. Warmth. Comfort. For the first time, Sanji realized that even the most discarded parts of something could become something beautiful… something meaningful.
And maybe—just maybe—so could he.