Two years quietly passed by
Aragorn—now seven—stood in his private quarters, no longer the cramped dormitory of the orphanage, but a room within the dojo itself.
"Time really does pass by quickly…" he muttered with a sigh.
He willed his status window open:
Name: [Cassian D. Aragorn]
Race: Human
Title: Sword Genius
Class: None
Attributes:
STR: 10
DEX: 10
CON: 10
INT: 10
Skills:
One Sword Style
Soru [Incomplete]
Talents:
[Ultimate Sword Talent]
[Peak Haki Talent]
Aragorn frowned, clicking his tongue. "My physical stats refuse to push past the first boundary…"
It wasn't for lack of effort. For two relentless years he had hammered his body, bled, and pushed himself through Mitsu's merciless drills. But his numbers would not move.
He finally understood why: it wasn't training that held him back—it was his age. He had already reached the limit of what a seven-year-old body could contain. His muscles, bones, and frame had no more room to grow—yet.
"Peak human at seven…" he thought, clenching his fist.
"But only physically. That doesn't count my haki… or the sword."
And the sword was where his true terror lay.
The dojo was now too small for him. Mitsu had taught him everything he could, and Aragorn had forged a flawless foundation. Now, all that remained was patience—waiting for his body to mature so his true potential could erupt.
He inhaled deeply, letting his haki expand. The air seemed to ripple, unseen waves pulsing outward. Within moments, his observation Haki covered a fifty-meter radius. Unlike before, he no longer sensed only the vague outlines of life. He could distinguish gender, build, strength… even the faintest ripples of emotion that stirred within them.
More astonishing still, he had learned to map the non-living world as well. Every pillar, every wall, every flutter of a leaf on the breeze painted itself in his mind.
He caught a familiar presence. Frail but steady, Teacher Mitsu.
Aragorn let his haki retract and began walking. His wooden sandals clicked softly on the polished hallways as he made his way through the Japanese-style house, sliding doors parting before him.
At last, he came upon a small private garden. A pond rested at its center, koi fish breaking the surface with lazy ripples. There, on the edge, sat Mitsu. A teacup in hand, his posture hunched, his once broad back now bowed further by the cruelty of time.
His beard had grown longer, his wrinkles deeper. The man who had once struck like lightning across the dojo now seemed a flickering candle against the wind.
Aragorn paused in the doorway, watching him quietly.
A sigh escaped his lips.
'So this is what time does… '
Mitsu looked over at the sound of footsteps, his gaze landing on Aragorn. He gave a short nod, lips curling into a half-smirk.
"What the hell are you doing here, brat?"
Aragorn's lip twitched.
'He may have aged… but his attitude certainly hasn't.'
For a long moment, he stayed quiet, eyes steady. Then, in a low voice, he said,
"I plan on leaving, teacher."
He bowed slightly.
"Thank you… for the kindness you've shown me all this time."
Mitsu only nodded, unsurprised. He had expected this day. The boy had absorbed every piece of sword knowledge he had to give within the first month but stayed, hammering his body past its natural limits. Still, the farewell stirred something in him.
The old swordsman stood, heading toward the garden clearing. A bokken rested in his hand, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the afternoon light.
"How about you entertain this old man before you leave, Aragorn?"
Without waiting for an answer, Mitsu tossed a second bokken. Aragorn caught it easily, the weight natural in his palm. He gave a short nod and stepped forward, his mind already turning.
'Stats,' he thought.
Name: [Mitsu Nagori]
Race: Human
Title: Sword Instructor
Class: Retired Marine
Attributes:STR: 9.9
DEX: 9.7
CON: 6.2
INT: 6.1
Skills:[Geppo][unusable]
[Rankyaku] [unusable]
[Soru][unusable]
Talents:
[Mild Sword Talent]
Aragorn's eyes narrowed.
'His rokushiki skills are no longer usable. Is it because his stats degraded below the superhuman level? Anyways, it would take a single strike.'
Mitsu's hunched frame straightened, his back rigid as his hands brought the bokken into a practiced guard.
"Fierce Tiger," he announced, his voice deep with the pride of naming his stance.
Aragorn's lip twitched.
'Cringy name… but who am I to say otherwise?'
He made no effort to change his approach, his stance the same relaxed, almost careless one. Only the slight bend in his knees betrayed his readiness for a dash. Mitsu mirrored him, weight shifting forward.
They launched at the same instant.
The air split with the thunderous crack of wood meeting wood—yet the resonance carried the weight of steel. They passed each other, blades striking true, and in the same motion, they exchanged places.
Aragorn turned, eyes cool, only to find Mitsu frozen mid-step. The old man's gaze rested on his bokken… carved down the center with a flawless line.
For a heartbeat, Mitsu looked ridiculous—his treasured stance undone in a single pass. Then, a booming laugh erupted from his chest, echoing through the garden.
"As expected… of my greatest student."
He dropped back down to his seat, lowering himself with an ease that belied the intensity of the moment. With a wave of his hand, he gestured for Aragorn to join him.
Aragorn lowered himself beside Mitsu, the wooden bokken still resting lightly across his knees.
"So what do you plan on doing, brat?" Mitsu asked without looking at him.
Aragorn's gaze drifted across the garden, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.
"I'll just roam this island for a while," he admitted.
"I'm still too young to travel the seas."
Mitsu nodded, stroking the length of his beard, the habit more thoughtful than vain.
'Someone like him… with that kind of talent… he mustn't wander. If left unchecked, his spirit could drift into piracy. But with guidance, he could embody justice.'
His eyes narrowed, weighing his next words carefully.
"What do you think about the Marines, then, Aragorn?"
The boy fell silent, lost in thought. His fingers drummed lightly against the bokken. Finally, he answered:
"They're good. Overall. Were it not for them, this island would've been in ruins by now."
And it was no exaggeration. Gloria stood apart from so many other kingdoms. Nearly sixty years ago, the royal family had invested heavily to secure a marine base on the island. That choice had shaped everything since, turning Gloria into a safe and prosperous nation, a rare pocket of peace in a world otherwise plagued by pirate raids. While neighboring kingdoms still occasionally suffered beneath the chaos of the Great Age of Piracy, Gloria had endured.
Mitsu nodded slowly, his eyes gleaming with a quiet knowing.
"You must have noticed the special techniques I sometimes used, right?"
Aragorn's lips curled faintly.
'Rokushiki… I know them.'
He gave a small nod.
"Yes. Some kind of fast-movement technique, a sword-slash one… and the ability to double jump."
The boy leaned forward, curiosity sharp in his tone.
"Where did you learn such incredible techniques, Teacher?"
Mitsu chuckled, the sound dry and heavy with age.
"Incredible? Hah. I barely mastered them, boy. And as the years caught up to me, they only grew weaker." He lifted his hand, flexing his stiff fingers as if mocking his own decline.
"Those abilities… they belong to the Marines. Their special fighting style. Top secret."