Year 264 A.C.
POV: Ryoma Roronoa
Life here, on Mirror Isle, is a constant dance between duty and harmony.Yes, there are responsibilities—of course there are—but… they don't weigh as heavily as one might expect.Each family knows its role and honors it with head held high.That's always been the essence of our unity: an ancient structure forged not by force, but by respect.
My son was less than a year old when he took his first steps.Less than a year.An absolute record in the history of our bloodline.Zoro, with his stubborn, wobbly gait, left even the elders of the Willow Council speechless."As if his legs remembered a path once walked," one of them whispered.And I… I couldn't help but smile with pride.
Himiko, my wife, gives him a love so warm, so necessary, that not even my own mother—may the gods keep her soul—was able to give me, even though she was not allowed to.Sometimes I watch Himiko cradle him or hum those ancient lullabies, and I think: this is how you forge a man who does not break.
I was raised to lead.Raised with rigor.Raised with duty.But I don't want that for Zoro… not exactly.I want balance.I want him to have a childhood, to laugh with dirt on his feet, to love before he fights, to cry without shame.Because a leader who doesn't know the soul of a child will never rule the hearts of men.
That's why I give in.That's why I grant Himiko all the time she needs.She earns it every day. And he… he needs her more than he needs me.For now.
But fate—that stubborn old thing—does not wait.And neither does Zoro.
One afternoon, while I was training in the courtyard of the ancestral mansion, I saw him.Small as a lily.Steady as an oak.He held a fallen branch like it was a katana.His stance was clumsy, unstable… but gods damn it—correct.He had the base.He had the center.He had the instinct.More than that—and strike me down if I lie—there was something in his form that surpassed mine.Just a little. A flicker… a tiny percentage, but it was real.He lacked strength. Experience. Muscle memory.But the essence… the part you can't teach…He already had that.
In that moment, I knew.I didn't imagine it.I didn't hope for it.I knew.Zoro is the Child of the Eternal Prophecy.
Even with his hair jet black—so unlike mine or my brother Mihawk's, whose green locks mark the direct line—I can't help but suspect what's already beginning to show:Every week, I draw seawater to bathe him. And at the touch… sometimes, for just a moment… his deep black hair shifts to a pale green, as if his very blood were answering the ocean's call.It's strange.It's magical.It's destiny.
When Zoro turned two, he began speaking fluently.A few months later, he learned to read and write as swiftly as he sharpens his gaze.Himiko, of course, worried.She said it was too soon. That it wasn't time for swords or studies yet."Ryoma, he hasn't even let go of his toys yet..." she'd say, voice both gentle and firm, as she held him close.And I… I didn't argue. I only watched.Because Zoro…Zoro absorbed everything.Without pressure.Without complaint.Without losing his smile.He studied in the morning, trained at midday, played like any other child in the afternoon…And at night, he returned to his mother's arms as if the world didn't weigh on his shoulders.As it should be.As it must begin.
They say the Roronoa live longer. And it's not just a tavern rumor or an old maid's whisper—it's as real as the stone of Castle Parago.For us, time flows differently.Childhood… ah, the childhood of a Roronoa lasts twice as long. Two of our years equal one of any ordinary mortal.It's no divine whim nor ancient curse, but evolution. Time granted to temper the spirit, strengthen the soul, and prepare the body.We are born with a duty, and from the cradle we are trained for it.
An old sage from the Highveil branch—one of those who still wear robes and speak like they're always quoting something—once said that extra time is for the mind to shape the body, not the other way around.And perhaps he was right.In this family, everything begins with the mind.
Our adolescence, in contrast, is as chaotic and brief as anyone else's.Just as turbulent. Just as hormonal.Thank the gods, it passes quickly.Because let's be honest: what teenager doesn't screw up?Even I made my share of foolish mistakes.
But it's in adulthood that we separate from the rest.
"The Adulthood"—as we call it, with no embellishment or need for justification—is our longest phase.I appear to be around thirty-eight winters… but I've seen over a hundred pass.And still I feel young. Strong. Sharp.As if my journey has only just begun.
Himiko?Well, she doesn't come from noble blood, but she carries in her veins an echo of what we once were.She has longevity in her genes, yes, and though she doesn't bear the name Roronoa, she's closer to the bloodline of Zoro I than many who wear our name with pride.
There are other Houses with similar gifts: talent, endurance, strength…But few match ours.
On this island, even the humblest peasant might be born with a green streak of hair or a strange ability.All thanks to that ancestor.That great being who offered himself as an eternal flame to give us this sanctuary.
Because yes… this island was no accident.It was his legacy.A refuge from the rot of the world.A bastion amid stormy seas, endless wars, and evils that slither beneath every shadow.
Here, we live for him.For his memory.For his sacrifice.
And for that, every heartbeat we give… is a promise.
...
Year 269 A.C.
POV: Himiko Roronoa
My pride. My joy. My little Zoro...
He's five years old, though Ryoma insists he's only four. He explained it to me —with that tone of his, dry yet wise— saying Zoro has entered what they call the "Childhood Delay Phase." A unique stage of his bloodline, where physical growth slows down, even though the soul and intellect keep progressing.
This, according to him, will last for two decades and a little more. When he turns twelve in Roronoa years —which would be the equivalent of twenty-three regular years— his body will finally catch up. After that, his teenage years will unfold like any other youth's. For a Roronoa, adulthood begins at twenty-three.
"Ten more years," I told myself. "Ten more years to spoil him before he turns ten, and swords, titles, and duties begin to steal him away from me."
Ryoma promised me he wouldn't pressure him. That this stage would be for tenderness. For a mother's love, without interfering with his studies or daily training.
Zoro, after his kendo classes and reading sessions with his tutors, helps me around the house. I teach him to clean in sections. Not out of necessity, but out of principle. Because in my family, we never had maids, and I want him to grow up grounded. To be a leader, yes… but also a humble man.
I know he will be.
I know he'll be better than Ryoma.
The other day, I saw him in the courtyard. A few girls were watching him from beyond the mansion's fence, and he… he winked at them.
"Who taught you that, Zoro?!" I asked, half-annoyed, half-amused.
"No one, mama. I saw it… in my big me. The green-haired one. When I go play by the beach, I see him sometimes."
I was speechless.
Not because of the mischief —which he certainly had— but because of what he said.
Does my son… see the future?
Or does he see himself in another time?
I didn't tell Ryoma. Not yet. I'm afraid that knowledge might distance him from me.
I know, compared to other mothers in the clan, I have a strange privilege. Historically, Roronoa mothers were distant figures. Almost symbolic. But now… now I can be with my son. Raise him, love him, be part of his story.
And if what Zoro sees is real…
If it's true that he dreams of his adult self… what else has he seen?
I asked him one afternoon, while braiding his hair with white tea oil.
"And what else does your 'big you' show you?"
He answered without hesitation:
"He teaches me to train with a sword… I saw him sailing the seas… fighting monsters… and with lots of women."
That last part made me laugh nervously. Lots of women?
Oh, please… will my son be a womanizer like Zoro I?
That part of the ancestor doesn't sit well with me. I know it's part of our history… but the whole "thousand lovers" thing? Not exactly admirable in my eyes.
"Tadaima… Mama, are you home?" —my little angel's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Zoro, okaerinasai. Did you just get back from your tutoring session? How did it go?" I walked over to him with a smile and hugged him.
"Hmm… good, mother. Easy and bricky… but interesting, as always. Today, Professor Highveil told us about the history of the Ironforge family, and how they began living inside Mount Fuji. He also talked about how they built the shipyard in the south of the island. I can't wait for kendo class!"
Zoro clung to me tightly. I could feel in his hug a need that softened my soul.
"Why do you still call your uncle Mihawk 'tutor' and not by his name, my son?"
Zoro slowly let go, lowering his gaze as if it were an unchangeable truth.
"It's not my fault… At first, he told me that while he trains me, I must call him Master."
With that, he walked off to his room without saying another word.
Mihawk, Ryoma's younger brother, is considered the greatest swordsman on Mirror Island. No one has ever defeated him — not even my husband.
Ryoma once told me that, as the youngest of the Roronoa line, Mihawk was born with the blessing of choosing his own destiny. And he chose the sword.
He gave everything, held nothing back. He declared he would be the second-greatest swordsman in our history… and he achieved it at an age when most can barely wield a blade.
According to the temple records, the only person who ever came close to the Eternal's level… was him.
Many samurai and noble warriors have tried to transcend the limits of the sword. Some do it for honor, others for legend. But that path never interested me.
What I yearned for in my youth was to become a Patriarchal Priestess —a sacred rank among those who safeguard the magical balance of the island.
We priestesses care for ancient temples and purify dark spirits born from excessive mana. But… I never excelled in my studies, and that dream faded with time.
Sometimes I wonder if Zoro's intelligence comes from Ryoma… or if maybe what the old lighthouse keeper whispers is true:
That Zoro… is the reincarnation of the Eternal.
...
Year 272 A.C.
Time went by, and Zoro's birthdays were celebrated every three years until he would reach adolescence—specifically, his twelfth year.Today, on the first day of the year, the Roronoa estate was alive with celebration. It was Zoro's sixth birthday, and the grandest families had gathered: the Ironforge, Saltware, Zorynth, Snowfang, Highveil, Shadowfiend, and Windarrow families.Others, wealthy in coin rather than bloodline, were also present—such as the Goldcloak and Seacord families.
It was only the second time in my life that all the great houses of Mirror Island had come together. The first was on the day of my wedding to Ryoma.
I watched from a distance—not so far as to lose sight of him, but far enough not to interrupt. The way a curious housewife might pretend to dust the windowsill just to spy on the neighbors... or on her own child.
Even at such a young age, Zoro showed signs of being different. I had noticed it during gatherings with other families. Around strangers, he would become reserved—more of an observer. At first glance, his silence and lack of expression might be mistaken for arrogance by adults. But something inside me—some deep maternal instinct—told me otherwise.Maybe... maybe that was simply how he processed the world. Quiet, yes, but his eyes never lied. They were always sharp. Always measuring.
Compared to the children of other houses, he was remarkably calm. While the others laughed or shouted, he simply watched. Not with disdain, but with a kind of unsettling tranquility.
I've always kept track of his tutoring. He had few etiquette lessons—truth be told, he never showed much interest in that. Yet… that day, something changed. I don't know if he had a plan—or even if he has one—but within minutes, a small swarm of girls had formed around him.
And the strangest part? Zoro didn't flinch. He didn't get nervous. On the contrary—God forgive me—he seemed to be flirting with all of them at once. Where did he even learn such behavior?Could it be… in his blood?
The more Zoro spoke, the more the young girls laughed. They looked at him like he was a prince out of the great city's stage plays—the kind that captures hearts with a single word, and commands attention with nothing more than presence.Whether he knew it or simply pretended not to, he moved among them like the leading man of a romantic ballad, written long ago in the golden courts of the south.
And that's when I saw it.
My son stopped smiling. His gaze had shifted, drawn toward a solitary figure in the corner of the grand hall. A girl, no older than four, leaning against the wall with an open book in her hands—lost in a world far away from the party.
He was no longer with the others, but completely captivated by that quiet reader.Then, without warning, he apologized in a hurried voice and slipped away, leaving the circle of admirers behind like a king who abdicates his throne without regret.He headed straight for the girl with the book.
It startled me so much, felt so out of step with the script destiny seemed to be writing for him, that I couldn't help but follow—slowly, discreetly, listening closely to every word, like a spy witnessing the birth of something greater.
I arrived just in time to hear the first words of their conversation.
"Hello, sorry to interrupt your reading… you're from House Highveil, aren't you?"
My son's voice, soft yet clear, rose with a blend of respect and curiosity. The girl, still absorbed in her book, slowly raised her gaze, as if reality held less appeal than the pages cradled in her hands.
I'm not certain she recognized my son, but something in her expression—reserved, inquisitive—betrayed a subtle interest. Perhaps she was surprised that a boy from House Roronoa could discern her lineage without introductions.
I remembered her from before—at one of the annual knowledge contests organized by House Highveil, where children compete not in strength, but in wisdom. She answered every question with a startling precision.
Zoro, noticing he had her attention, continued with a measured smile:
"I've had private lessons with your grandfather… tutoring, actually."
Unaware, the girl closed her book with a deliberate grace—not abrupt, but solemn, as if granting permission for her sanctuary of words to be intruded upon. Her dark eyes brightened; for the first time, she looked at him with genuine interest.
They didn't know each other, and my son had never left home. Perhaps that's how he deduced her lineage—through the knowledge shared by Mr. Clark.
She possessed a visage impossible to forget. She evoked the melancholic elegance of ancient Hightower scions, yet carried an exotic air unlike anything on this island. Her skin was so pale it recalled the marble of Antigua's towers, and in the hall's light, she seemed to emit a faint glow, as though imbued with an ancestral magic.
Her hair, midnight-dark, fell in soft waves to her waist, reminiscent of a wise raven's feathers. Her eyes, however, were the most unsettling: a deep blue speckled with gray, glimmering like stars trapped in an icy lake. There was something ancient about them—something beyond childhood.
Slender and graceful, with hands still flecked in ink, she wore austere gray linen gowns that resembled the hakama of the scholars of Mirror Isle, embroidered in silver thread with symbols representing the stars of Antigua.
My son, standing before her, didn't look like a prince this time. He looked like a reader before his first sacred book.
She replied with a touch of recognition:"Do I have features of my House? Did the book betray me?"
She was sizing him up skillfully.
I thought Zoro might look away, as he did with me when pondering his response. But he didn't.
"Well, actually, your grandfather told me a bit about your House and your hunger for knowledge."
But, truly, perhaps my son observed certain "somethings"—her blue eyes, the way her hand held the book, and, finally, a familial intuition.
The girl laughed, using her hand to cover her mischievous slip.
The children talked for half an hour until one of those wild hurricanes I encountered before my marriage appeared behind Zoro and pointed at the bookish girl.
"Rhaenora, it isn't fair that your grandfather disproved my uncle's theory about navigating by the fixed positions of the stars! He labored day and night on the seas, only for your family of brainiacs to disprove him!"
She spoke heatedly; her hair, red as damp flame—a hallmark of the ancient Saltwave line—framed her defiance.
House Saltwave—born of the blood of the Grey King and the legacy of the Eternal Roronoa—Naerys was a child of sea and wind. Her fair skin, despite the sunlight's glow on the waves, contrasted with her amber-red hair that seemed to ignite at dawn. Her eyes were sea-green with flecks of bluish-gray.
My son knew when to retreat, and that was one of those moments.
Calmly, Rhaenora responded,"And what did you think of my grandfather's theory that the stars could vanish or move over the course of centuries?"
The red-haired girl then said,"It's both marvelous and precise. The shifting of the Tessaiga constellation from its former position, thousands of years ago, shows that even five hundred years is enough for a constellation to change—and that could affect future navigation if your uncle's theory holds."
She realized the oversight in accepting such a theory, and a comic silence followed.
"Naerys," she added, "what if a future navigator from your family believed your uncle's theory and became lost by just a few degrees to port or starboard? And discovered that over time, your uncle's method fails. Just as your uncle thanked my grandfather for revealing the flaw that could endanger future sailors… you too ought to do the same."
Naerys—if I recall correctly—was Nery Saltwave's niece, the so-called Western Hurricane, and a childhood friend of my husband. She had long harbored feelings for Ryoma. Perhaps they would have ended up together—until Ryoma met me and fell in love.
Naerys, once calm, noticed Zoro's presence."Aaaah, you're the little charmer and heir of House Roronoa!"
Zoro nearly toppled at the nickname Naerys gave him.
Rhaenora fixed him with a watchful look. If I remember rightly, Zoro's tutor—Mr. Clark Highveil—secretly tutored nearly everyone on the island, including her own family.
"Ahem, excuse me. I am Zoro Roronoa II, heir of House Roronoa. And since today is my birthday, I must tend to my guests."
Zoro smiled, trying to cover the effect of being called a charmer.
Naerys arched an eyebrow in a gesture that said I don't believe you, and warned,"Whatever, birthday boy—but don't you dare flirt with Rhaenora, or I'll tell her grandfather."
I felt my son's discomfort. He was, for once, truly on the spot with the Saltwave girl.
Another half hour of conversation passed before two more children—clearly from Essos—arrived.
...
Parago Castle's great hall echoed with laughter, light footsteps, and curious murmurs. Between tapestries bearing dragons, swords, and interwoven waves, five children had gathered—as if fate had braided their paths long before reason could explain it.
The first was a boy with sun-kissed skin by heritage, large, keen eyes like those of a young hawk, and black hair braided in thin dothraki-style plaits, adorned with bone and copper beads. His gait was agile, almost feline, and his long, nervous fingers were stained with resin and bowstring. Uzzaro Windarrow, heir to a fierce and ancient bloodline. His quick jokes, harmless fibs, and cheeky grin didn't hide the spark of brilliance that set him apart: he was the reigning child archery champion, a prodigy born to aim with precision at the heart of the wind.
Beside him stood another boy, sculpted with a different flame. There was something special about him—even in his youthful aura. He had pale silver hair, short and wild, with locks that seemed to catch fire under certain light. His texture was unruly, as if refusing to be tamed. His eyes—deep red with golden flecks near the pupil—looked far beyond the present. His skin radiated a vibrant energy, intense and familiar, yet distinctly different. This boy was Vaerion Zorynth, a direct descendant of the Valyrian bloodline of Lysara, marked by a legacy of fire and prophecy. His very presence felt like a flame restrained.
One, son of untamed Essos, and the other, heir to the fallen towers of Valyria—both bound not only by the ancient blood of Zoro Roronoa I, the Eternal, but by an unseen thread that seemed to awaken in the presence of young Zoro II.
From my quiet corner, I watched them. Something about those children intrigued me. Was it magic? Destiny? Or simply the echo of a legacy beginning to stir? Whatever it was, my son—still so young—acted like a magnet. Without effort, he had drawn in the potential heirs of each of the great houses: Windarrow, Highveil, Saltwave, and Zorynth.
The celebration began to dwindle. One by one, families left with children in arms or half-asleep on their shoulders. But Zoro… Zoro had found his rhythm. So at ease was he with that group of children, he came to ask if they could visit him at home. The parents, perhaps sensing something beyond courtesy, agreed.
As we stood at the entrance saying our final goodbyes, Zoro came to me. His eyes sparkled—not just with excitement, but something else.
"Mother," he said, "I think that group will be my circle of friends in the future."
His simple words tugged a strange thread in me.
"Why are you so sure, my son? What do you feel?"
Zoro tilted his head, as if sifting through thoughts larger than himself.
"My grown-up self feels like it already knows them. It's like we're compatible, somehow… I can't explain it. They talked about an academy—Tokiyo Academy. I want to go."
I saw that look on his face—the one he wore when he was about to convince me of something. But this time, there was no trickery. Just sincerity.
"I'll speak with your father," I replied. "And then you must speak to him yourself. Share your wishes clearly, Zoro. You know our tradition: Roronoa children train at home. That's why you have the best swordsman as your uncle, and the best tutor in Master Clark."
Zoro didn't argue. He nodded solemnly.
"I understand, Mother. But… don't tell him yet. I'll speak to him. I know it breaks the rules… but I'll handle everything. I'll attend the academy, I'll train with Uncle, and I'll continue studying with Mr. Clark. I'll do it all."
I looked at him silently. My heart filled with warmth—and fear. He was growing up too fast. I feared the days slipping through my fingers. But deep down, something told me that Zoro would always give me what every mother longs for: moments—fleeting, but real.
I trusted him.
And I knew… time would never erode what we shared.
...
Zoro Roronoa II
Full Name: Zoro Roronoa II
Age: 6 years old (but the equivalent of 8 human years; born in 264 A.C.)
Gender: Male
Race/Species: Semi-Mortal Human (inherited from his Roronoa lineage, whose members live twice as long as ordinary mortals)
Affiliation/Group: Heir to the Roronoa Clan (the clan that guards Mirror Island)
Occupation/Role: Heir to the Roronoa Clan; mama's boy; learner-in-training
Physical Description
Height: 83 cm (still growing)
Hair: Deep black, but when touched by saltwater, it transforms into a vibrant, ocean-like green—a sign of his bond with the Prophecy of the Eternal, which has manifested since childhood.
Personality
Confident: Zoro II radiates confidence in every step, fully aware that his fate is tied to the prophecy.
Disciplined: His life is guided by a clear sense of duty.
Ambitious: Determined to protect and carry on his legacy.
A Walking Contradiction: He often gets lost—a humorous trait that lingers despite his growing wisdom, a reflection of his human nature beneath his power.
...
With that said ... i, Wissumi Wizaki, wish you a happy read. chao, chao...