The island was quiet under a heavy veil of night. Ryan moved like a shadow through the underbrush, each step measured, avoiding dry leaves and brittle twigs. The pirate camp ahead flickered with orange light—campfires crackling, throwing erratic shadows across the trees. The smell of smoke and sweat hung thick in the air.
He crouched behind a cluster of rocks, peering through the brush. Around the fire, pirates lounged, drinking and gambling, their laughter loud and careless. He counted them slowly, carefully. Five near the flames. Three more by the cages. A few further out, pacing near crates and barrels. Fifteen, give or take.
He stayed until he had a rough layout of the camp in his mind—a crude semicircle of bedrolls scattered around a central fire pit, with crates and barrels stacked haphazardly near the tree line. A single lookout kept post on a boulder facing the sea, more interested in chewing dried fish than watching the horizon.
Sloppy formation, no one really keeping watch. Overconfidence radiated from the way they carried themselves. Still, Ryan knew numbers alone could be dangerous.
He crept back the way he came, retracing his steps with care. Every snapped twig felt like thunder to his ears. But luck stayed with him. No shouts. No torches raised. He disappeared into the forest without alerting a soul.
By the time he returned to the clearing, the moon had risen high, its silver light rippling across the water. Unohana was awake, sitting cross-legged, still and patient beside the fire with Minazuki across her knees. She looked up as Ryan approached, offering no words, just a calm, knowing glance.
"About fifteen," he said. "Mostly grouped near the main campfire. No proper patrols. A few armed with guns."
Unohana nodded once, her gaze scanning the distant glow in the trees. "Sloppy formation. But numbers, even undisciplined ones, can overwhelm." She tilted her head slightly, the firelight catching in her eyes like twin coals. "If you say the word, I can silence their camp before the first morning light touches the sea."
Ryan paused for a moment, then slowly shook his head. He lowered himself beside the fire, the fatigue settling into his bones. "I know you can. But this... this has to be me."
He stared into the flames for a long moment before continuing, voice quieter. "For the mother he lost. For the villagers they hurt. This body lost everything because of them. I may have inherited it—but I still carry its burdens."
Unohana didn't argue. She simply inclined her head and went back to her stillness.
"I'll strike at dusk tomorrow. That gives me time."
"To train," she said.
Ryan nodded. "Exactly."
He rolled into his blanket and stared up at the stars again. His body ached. His mind was running too fast. But sleep found him eventually.
—
Dawn broke with a soft chill and the call of distant seabirds. Ryan woke early, stretched sore muscles, and joined Unohana near the clearing. The second day of training began.
This time, there was no warm-up. She came at him fast—the clash of steel echoing through the trees as they exchanged measured but fierce strikes. Unohana didn't go easy. She moved with grace and lethal precision, punishing his sloppy footwork and unbalanced swings. But Ryan was different now. The kendo mastery granted by the system was now more than borrowed knowledge—it was becoming instinct. He learned faster today, more focused, muscles already adapting to the rhythm of true combat. Not just instinct—but memory woven into his limbs.
He got knocked down five times by noon. But the sixth, he stayed standing. Even scored a light tap against her guard.
"Better," she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Your form's catching up to your knowledge," she continued, stepping back.
"Still not good enough," Ryan muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Not yet."
They rested by the stream near the camp. Ryan refilled the waterskin and sat down beside her.
"I've heard stories about your sword," he said suddenly. "Minazuki. It could heal people in its original form."
Unohana glanced at the blade across her lap, then nodded slowly. "It has many faces. Healing is one of them."
Ryan shivered slightly despite the warmth. He'd seen the other face of Unohana—the one that came before the healer. That face still lingered in her stance, her silence. She is more than just a medic. She is a warrior of old.
By afternoon, he double-checked the supplies he'd already salvaged from the pirate ship the day before. Spare blade, bundled rations, dried meat, and a handful of clean shirts looted from the captain's chest. There were even some bandages and bits of broken medicine kits. He arranged everything neatly beside the makeshift shelter, taking stock once more. It wasn't much, but it would keep them going for a while.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Ryan stood before Unohana, sword in hand.
"I'm ready."
"You're prepared," she corrected, sitting by the fire, adjusting Minazuki across her lap, the blade quiet and still.
The fire cracked behind them. Ryan took one last look toward the pirate camp's direction. Fifteen of them. Still dangerous if caught off guard. But this wasn't revenge without thought. It was justice with purpose.
—
Dusk settled. Ryan moved through the forest, this time not to scout, but to strike. He approached the camp from the far side, slipping past the outermost bedrolls and makeshift shelters until he reached a high rock that overlooked the fire.
Two pirates stood nearby, their attention fixed on a dice game, voices low and careless. Ryan descended like a shadow, each step measured, each breath steady. The blade in his hand moved with deadly grace—one clean arc across the throat of the first, and a sharp thrust into the heart of the second before either could cry out. He caught one of the bodies before it hit the ground, easing it silently to the dirt. The other slumped beside it, eyes wide with fading life. Ryan crouched low, eyes scanning the camp for any sign of movement. None. Still clear.
Moving swiftly, he took out a third behind a supply crate. A fourth came to investigate the noise and found the wrong end of Ryan's blade.
The camp began to stir. Voices raised, feet scrambling. Ryan ducked into the shadows, navigating the chaos. One pirate lit a torch just in time to see Ryan's silhouette closing in. The blade arced. The light went out.
Cries of alarm rose. A shot rang out. Ryan dove behind a barrel as splinters flew. He rolled out and lunged at the gunman, disarming him and driving his blade deep.
"Where is he?! Find him!" a voice barked.