A week slipped by in a blur of chores and training. Aragorn's days had fallen into a rhythm—wake up, endure Dama's sharp gaze as he scrubbed dorm floors, eat, run to the forest to push his body and Haki to its limits, return for food again, then collapse into bed. It was grueling, but somewhere in that grind he had grown—not visibly, not with muscle or bulk, but he could tell. His stride felt longer. His breath lasted longer. He was taller, if only by a fraction.
Now he stood in the bathroom, facing the cracked mirror above the washbasin. His reflection was still that of a five-year-old boy—messy hair, thin arms, and smudges of dirt that never quite left his skin.
A translucent screen flickered to life before him, displaying his current status:
StatusName: [Cassian D. Aragorn]
Race: Human
Title: None
Class: None
Attributes:
STR: 2.3
DEX: 3.0
CON: 2.5
INT: 8.0
Skills:[None]
Talents:[Supreme Sword Talent]
[Peak Haki Talent]
Item:
[Spirit Weapon]
He stared at the numbers, unsure whether it was good or bad, as with no one to compare himself to, the figures were meaningless.
Aragorn swipes the screen away with a thought as he focused on something more important
As when he closed his eyes and turned his focus inward, the truth revealed itself.
Within his soul space, the glowing red orb he had seen a week ago had transformed. No longer just a vague shape of light, it had stretched and sharpened, narrowing into something unmistakably blade-like. Each day it had grown clearer, more defined, until now, its form pulsed like a heartbeat, waiting.
Aragorn smiled faintly.
'It's ready.'
With a deliberate thought, he reached out. Energy surged through him, and his right hand began to glow. Slowly, impossibly, the soul-forged weapon materialized in his grip. First came the hilt—blood-red, carved into the shape of wings. Then the blade extended outward in a dark shimmer until he held in his hand a saber as black as the void itself.
[saber]
Aragorn raised it, eyes wide. It wasn't the katana he had expected. This was heavier in presence, curved yet balanced perfectly, as if it had always belonged to him. His fingers curled around the hilt, and a rush of connection coursed through him. He could sense the weapon's presence even when he closed his eyes—where it was, how it tilted, even the faint hum of its existence, bound to him alone.
It felt alive.
Before he could test it further, the bathroom door rattled violently.
"Hey! Hurry up! I gotta pee!" came a whiny shout.
Aragorn blinked, sighing through his nose. With a thought, the saber dissolved into nothingness, vanishing back into his soul as if it had never been. He pulled the door open, brushing past the impatient boy, who immediately darted inside and slammed it shut.
Aragorn walked back into the hallway, lips quirking into a grin despite his annoyance. The weight of the saber still lingered in his palm.
Aragorn slipped out of the city gates just as the sun had fully risen, making his way to the quiet forest that had become his private training ground. Dew still clung to the leaves, and the cool air carried the scent of damp earth. He stopped in a small clearing, heart pounding with excitement.
Holding his hand forward, he willed it.
The saber bloomed into existence, materializing from a glow that pulsed against his skin before solidifying in his grasp.
Aragorn held it aloft, admiring the cruel beauty of its pitch-black curve and the blood-red hilt shaped like wings. Even in the silence, it seemed to hum faintly, alive, waiting.
He lowered himself into a stance. He didn't know how to wield a sword—he'd never been taught—but his body moved anyway, guided by something deeper. His feet shifted, his knees bent, and his arms angled the saber in a way that simply felt right.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the tether between himself and the weapon. The moment he opened them again, his body surged forward.
The saber cut through the air in a clean arc, so sharp that Aragorn could feel the air parting. For a heartbeat, it was as though the world itself split. Then, his small arms cramped under the strain, and the sensation vanished as quickly as it came.
He hissed through his teeth, clutching at his wrist.
"Damn… A half slash is all I could do."
But the rush of it lit a fire in his chest.
He tried again—a thrust, a diagonal cut, a sweeping side slash. Each time, the motion felt natural, his body moving as if it had performed these drills a thousand times before. His muscles protested, yet he pushed forward, chasing that fleeting perfection he'd tasted in the first strike.
Finally, his gaze fixed on a tree at the edge of the clearing. Its trunk was thick and unyielding, bark rough from age. Aragorn stepped closer, the saber steady in his hands despite the ache in his arms.
"Alright. Let's see."
He drew in a breath, let the world narrow to the blade and the target, then slashed with every ounce of strength left in him.
The saber bit into the wood with shocking ease, carving five inches deep before stopping. Splinters burst outward, scattering across the ground. Aragorn stumbled back, chest heaving, eyes wide.
A boy of five shouldn't have been able to do that.
He stared at the wound in the tree, then at the saber that seemed to hum in satisfaction within his grip. Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
"This… this is just the beginning."
Feeling satisfied from his test, Aragorn trotted back toward the city, a new thought forming in his mind.
'I can't just keep training myself… I need a teacher.'
The afternoon sun still hung high as he made his way to a famous sword dojo near the city.
Fierce Sword Dojo.
Aragorn paused at the entrance, reading the plaque aloud with a twitch of amusement.
'Fierce Sword Dojo… heh.'
Pushing the double doors open, he was immediately greeted by a scene of discipline and chaos.
Nearly thirty children stood in straight lines, bokken in hand, shouting a sharp "Hah!" with every thrust and slash. An instructor moved among them, tapping anyone who broke form with his wooden sword.
The instructor looked old.
His head was nearly bald, with only a few stubborn tufts of white hair clinging to the sides. A neatly trimmed white beard flowed from his chin down to his chest; he was short as well with a slight hunched back.
The instructor glanced up at Aragorn. Seeing a tiny child standing awkwardly at the doorway, he waved dismissively.
"Brat, this isn't a place to wander into. Go back to mommy before she gets worried."
A few of the practicing kids snickered, but Aragorn ignored them. He squared his shoulders and declared boldly,
"I want to join the dojo."
The instructor squinted down at him.
"How old are you, kid?"
"Five," Aragorn replied.
The man shook his head.
"Come back when you're bigger."
Aragorn's eyes narrowed. He decided to take a page out of Zoro's book.
"Then have some of those idiots you're training fight me. If I win, I join."
The children's faces twisted into comical expressions of outrage, muttering and shaking their bokken. The instructor, meanwhile, stroked his long white beard thoughtfully, a small hum escaping him.
"And if you lose, brat?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Aragorn's answer was immediate.
"I'll clean this dojo spotless—for however long you want."
A slow smile spread across the instructor's face. He gestured toward a random child, who looked to be about ten. The boy stepped forward with an air of arrogance.
His physique was classic One Piece exaggeration: a massive upper body, thin, broom-like legs, and a head far too large for his frame. Straightening his posture, he held his bokken upright and let out a bizarre, gloating laugh:
"Iieghiieghiiegh! Kid, you're about to be taught a nice lesson—personally—by me, Caba!"