"There's something beautiful about a quiet death. No screams. No begging. Just the sound of steel doing its job."
The wind was calm that morning.
Too calm.
After days of rot, fire, and buzzing flies, the silence felt… wrong. As if something had paused the world and held its breath.
The boy—no, the survivor—had just finished sharpening the bent pipe on a rough stone, giving it an edge good enough to pierce flesh. He was leaner now, eyes sunken from hunger, arms sore from endless repetitions.
But his grip?
Unshakable.
He trained every hour he was awake, and every night he bled in the spirit realm.
Today, he could feel it.
Something was coming.
A Visitor from Hell
The trap he'd set near the treeline—a simple wire snare rigged with kunai from dead villagers—snapped.
But it wasn't an animal.
He crouched behind a broken fence, eyes locked on the figure stumbling through the ruins.
A man. Rough. Tall. Scar on his cheek. Sword at his hip.
A bandit.
One of them.
His heart didn't race.
His hands didn't tremble.
He just stood slowly and stepped into the open.
The bandit turned, blinking in confusion.
"The hell? A brat survived?"
The boy didn't answer.
The bandit grinned. "You got balls, kid. Maybe I'll—"
CRACK.
The pipe slammed into his ribs mid-sentence, shattering three of them. The man gasped, dropping his blade. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
The boy didn't wait.
He ducked, twisted, and brought the pipe up beneath the chin with brutal precision. The man's jaw snapped shut with a wet crunch.
"That's for watching my mother die."
The bandit dropped to his knees.
"Wait… please…"
The boy grabbed the man's fallen short blade.
His voice was cold. Detached.
"I'm done waiting."
And then he struck.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The neck severed clean on the fourth.
Aftermath
He stood over the corpse, drenched in blood, eyes blank. There was no joy. No remorse.
Only…
satisfaction.
He took the man's sword. It was chipped, dirty—but it was steel.
His first real weapon.
He dragged the corpse to the edge of the forest, buried it under rocks and leaves, and carved a message into a nearby tree:
"One returned. One died. Send more."
Then he went home, sat in silence, and whispered to the system:
"Zoro. Tonight, give me hell."
Spiritual World – Night Three
The plains were darker now. The wind was sharper.
Zoro stood with both hands on his swords. His face wasn't amused this time.
"You killed someone."
"I did."
"First time?"
"First one that begged, yeah."
Zoro didn't smile. He nodded slowly.
"Then you're ready."
He stepped forward.
"Today, we go beyond slashes."
He reached behind and drew three wooden blades.
"Today, you learn your first technique."
"Oni Giri."
The training was brutal.
Zoro demonstrated it once—body low, swords crossing, a flash of motion—and the imaginary enemy split in three.
"You don't just swing with muscle," he growled. "You kill with intention."
Slash.
Again.
Slash.
Again.
Blood ran down the boy's fingers as the wooden blades cracked against his palms. His vision swam. His arms screamed.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He saw the image again—his mother. Her screams.
And then, finally—
The swords moved as one.
The air split.
The imaginary dummy's head flew.
Zoro smirked.
"Now you're worth something."
Real World – Morning
His body was bruised and shaking.
But a new message burned behind his eyes:
[Zoro's Swordsmanship: 12%]New Technique Unlocked: Oni Giri+2 Strength | +1 Speed | +1 Precision
He picked up the stolen blade, took a stance, and slashed—
CRACK!
The log in front of him snapped cleanly into three pieces.
"One down."
"Many more to go."