Life went on.
By my second year as Reed, I had fully mastered Observation Haki. Issho even tried to push me toward its advanced forms, but I wasn't there yet. Still, it was progress I could be proud of.
My relationship with him and Dr. Martinez stayed steady. Through endless errands I even learned the steps to make the doctor's drug on my own. It hardly touched me—maybe my constitution was just stubborn—but at least I knew the recipe.
My Devil Fruit hadn't advanced much either, aside from letting fusions last longer. I kept training it in private. That secret was mine alone.
Where I'd improved most was in combat. With my eyes open I could now hold my own against Issho in a duel. He admitted he hadn't used Armament on me, but that didn't make the practice any less real. He still didn't have a Devil Fruit then, which made me curious where he would later get one—probably from the Marines, I guessed.
Now we were working on Armament. Issho said my body might take to it faster because of its build. I hoped he was right.
We moved our training from the clearing to a rocky patch outside the city, where massive boulders rose like sleeping giants.
"Imagine an invisible armor around your fists," Issho said, calm as ever. "Will it into being, then hit like you mean it."
So I did.
Punch after punch, stone ground into my knuckles. Dust stung fresh cuts, blood smeared gray rock, and each strike rattled up into my bones. By the end of the session three boulders lay in pieces and I could barely close my hands.
It hurt like hell, but it was progress.
"Good job today," Issho said as I caught my breath. "It's not easy, but keep at it. You'll need it."
I let out a tired laugh. "You only say that because you make money teaching me."
He laughed, too. "Maybe. But you'll be glad for it someday."
After a pause, curiosity got the better of me. "Issho… you never talk about where you came from. How did you end up here? Did you—" I hesitated, not wanting to sound prying. "—lose your sight long ago?"
He gave me that small smile of his, the kind that didn't close a subject but reserved it. "A story for another time, perhaps. I'd rather hear about your training. Tell me what you felt on that last strike."
He redirected the question gently, not evasively, and I found myself answering—because that's the kind of friend he was. Some doors he kept shut, and I learned to respect them. I'd ask again someday, but for now I appreciated what we had: a teacher and a student, and something like ordinary company.
That evening, Martinez patched my hands, grumbling. "You'll break yourself before you learn to protect yourself, boy."
I smiled and waved him off. After dinner I skipped arm work, showered, then sat with two books: one in print, one in Braille. Reading both together sharpened my focus—forcing my mind to split and yet keep each task precise. It was my way of pushing Observation beyond the obvious.
When my eyes grew heavy, I set the books aside and lay down.
Days folded into their familiar pattern—breakfast, groceries, training; lunch, chores, dinner; a last training push and then sleep. Not glamorous, not heroic. Just work and small improvements.