What Shimotsuki Koushirou had said was, of course, true.
After all, even among geniuses, there are vast differences.
Though Don had been at the Isshin Dojo in Shimotsuki Village for barely a month, the talent he had revealed was enough to leave Koushirou astonished.
That was why he gave such an answer.
"Searching for a sword style that suits you, is it?"
Don murmured softly, and in his mind's eye, a flame flickered.
The power of the Mera Mera no Mi was, at present, the strongest force he possessed. Naturally, his thoughts turned to fire.
And in that instant, the image of a gaunt old man wreathed in flames surfaced in his memory.
Heat rivaling the sun itself, an attack unleashed for too long that could even burn a world to ash.
He had never slacked in his efforts to explore the fruit's potential, constantly trying to fuse his own knowledge and experience into creating devastating techniques.
Perhaps this could be attempted.
Don's eyes lit up.
A technique that was both stylish and powerful—what man wouldn't like that?
"It seems you already have ideas. But before that, allow me to pass on my own philosophy of the sword. This is how I understand the blade. You can take it as reference."
Watching Don's expression, Koushirou smiled as he spoke.
"No problem. I do have some ideas, though the difficulty is high. Still, I'm willing to give it a try."
Don was in no rush. He was willing to devote the time and effort it would take to experiment.
"The foundation of swordsmanship must not be neglected. From now on, you'll train on your own every morning. In the afternoons, I'll guide you in both Haki and swordsmanship."
With that, Koushirou gave Don a measuring look, then rose and walked to the wall. With a tug, a hidden panel slid aside, revealing rows of sword racks.
"You may choose a blade. Normally, I wouldn't recommend a true sword for a beginner—but you are different."
Don didn't stand on ceremony. He rose and began selecting.
Each blade gleamed with fine craftsmanship.
He knew well that Koushirou's father, Shimotsuki Kouzaburou, was a master swordsmith from Wano. Enma, one of the 21 Ō Wazamono, had been forged by his hand.
One by one, Don lifted the swords, until at last his hand closed on a longer, broader, heavier blade than the rest.
Standing over a meter eighty in height, even he found the sword's length surpassing his own.
When Don returned holding the abnormally long sword, Koushirou's brows rose in mild surprise—but he said nothing.
As the wall closed again, the two sat down once more.
Koushirou's gaze lingered on the greatsword at Don's side, and he sighed softly.
"These were all forged by my father. He hasn't crafted a blade in many years. You may name it yourself. Perhaps, one day, it will become a true black blade and be renowned across the seas."
"A black blade?"
Don echoed the words.
He knew what they were—blades transformed through countless battles and the wielder's will, a metamorphosis tied closely to Haki.
"A black blade is a form a sword may take. Through endless battles and countless infusions of Haki, the blade itself changes in nature.
Its material grows tougher, to the point of being nearly indestructible."
Koushirou's eyes gleamed as he continued.
"And now, the one who has just become the world's greatest swordsman—Dracule Mihawk—his sword Yoru is a black blade."
He thought this revelation might stir Don.
But when Don heard of Mihawk's Yoru, his expression remained unchanged.
"You don't want to become the strongest swordsman in the world?"
Koushirou chuckled as he asked.
"At the moment, I don't. After all, I'm still far from that swordsman's level."
Don shook his head. "My goal has always been to live peacefully in this world. If, one day, that titleholder stands in my way… then perhaps the name of the world's greatest swordsman will change hands."
Koushirou burst into hearty laughter at Don's calm words.
"Hahaha! Good, I'd love to see that day come. After all, if I guided your swordsmanship, I could share in the honor."
"Right now, I'm not even a swordsman. Isn't it too early for us to be talking about this?"
Don looked at the laughing Koushirou, a bit speechless.
"I believe you have the talent."
"Well, thanks for the faith. But for now, I want to learn Observation Haki first."
"Very well!"
Though unsure why Don wanted to begin with Kenbunshoku Haki, Koushirou had no objection.
"Then I'll take my leave for today."
Don stood, picked up the long sword, and departed.
Koushirou watched him go. After a long silence, a short, elderly man slowly stepped out from the shadows.
"He knows I was here. He may already have awakened Observation Haki, though he cannot yet use it freely."
The old man, smoking a kiseru pipe, lowered himself into Don's seat.
"What do you think, Father?"
"If even you can't see through him, this old man surely cannot. I can't read him."
Shimotsuki Kouzaburou shook his head.
Though a master swordsmith and no stranger to the blade, his skill in swordsmanship did not match his son's.
"Still, perhaps he truly could temper a black blade. I never expected him to choose that sword."
The thought of the sword Don had taken left Kouzaburou deeply moved.
"That blade is no less than a great grade sword. But when I forged it, I lacked the strength, so its finish was rough—and it is heavy."
Indeed, the sword Don had taken weighed more than ten times the average blade.
"For someone with his talent, that weight is nothing."
Koushirou knew well Don's strength. Or rather, his strength and his appetite seemed to grow hand in hand.
"Mm. Teach him well. He won't remain here long."
Kouzaburou rose, walking toward the exit. But after a few steps, he paused, turned back, and fixed his dim old eyes on Koushirou.
"And Zoro!" He lingered on the name, eyes flashing with nostalgia. "Zoro's gift for swordsmanship comes from his father, his grandfather—even from that dragon-slaying swordsman. Teach him well."
"Understood."
Having come from Wano, Koushirou placed great faith in bloodlines.
If Zoro's ancestors had produced great swordsmen, then Zoro himself must surely possess that same potential.
…
Don had indeed faintly sensed another presence during his conversation with Koushirou.
But he had not pressed the matter.
It was enough to focus on his own path.
Back in his room, Don drew the sword from its sheath.
Its luster was muted, dark as dusk. Wave-like patterns rippled along the thick blade. It was heavier than most swords, yet its edge was no less keen.
Holding the hilt, he raised the sword across his chest. A flicker of flame leapt from his hand, racing along the steel until fire enveloped the entire blade.
For now, though, the fire was little more than a shell.