Discussions about Ryo in the Senju compound were completely unknown to him, the protagonist.
Right now, his stomach was rumbling with hunger, like a giant pit churning inside.
This wasn't ordinary hunger. It was the kind of hunger where he felt like he could eat an entire cow.
He just wanted to stuff himself.
All of this was because of his body—he had inherited Shanks' monstrous physique. Even though Ryo was still a child, the more he trained, the hungrier he became.
He knew that if he didn't put at least a hundred catties of meat into his stomach, today's training would be wasted.
Home?
Just a dilapidated shack on the edge of the village, dirt poor, a pathetic contrast to his bottomless appetite.
The rice jar was always empty.
The most valuable thing in the entire house was a spice box against the wall. That was his lifeline.
The money left behind by his parents?
Already eaten long ago!
Now, he lived on a monthly pension from the village. He wouldn't waste a single coin on rice or flour. Other than daily necessities, all his money went straight to the Konoha store for seasonings: big jars of coarse salt, dried chili flakes, cheap miso, animal fat, dried wild onions, and ginger blocks.
Beside them were his handmade two-meter-long skewers, wicker baskets for smoking meat, and large clean tree leaves for wrapping.
This was his "kitchen arsenal."
The few scraps of smoked boar jerky left?
Not even enough to get stuck in his teeth.
He chewed them down, changed into old clothes, and under the cover of night, slipped out of the village like a shadow, heading for the Forest of Death.
Little rabbits and birds?
That kind of meat wasn't even enough to snack on. If he was going to hunt, it had to be something big.
Because of the natural energy in this world, the Forest of Death had an abundance of oversized wild beasts. Look, a boar the size of a small hill, thick skin, bristly fur, and tusks sharp enough to gut a man. Just its bulk alone was enough to make anyone drool.
Ryo didn't say a word. He didn't draw his broken katana. Instead, he grabbed a sharpened wooden club. This thing worked better against thick hides anyway.
When the boar lowered its head to root around, exposing its neck, Ryo tensed his body like a drawn bow and—whoosh!
With his current strength and sharp eyesight, the club flew like it had eyes, stabbing straight into the weak spot of the boar's neck.
A clean kill. Done.
Bleeding, gutting, skinning, butchering… his movements were quick and precise. How many innocent lives had he ended to get this skilled?
Dragging back half a side of meat (which still weighed over a hundred catties), Ryo tossed it into his backyard "slaughterhouse + tough guy kitchen." There sat a large bluestone chopping block, a chipped cleaver, a scrap iron pot big enough to stew a whole pig, a branch barbecue grill, and piles of coarse salt, chili powder, and other spices.
Rolling up his sleeves, he instantly switched into gourmet veteran mode.
"Swish, swish, swish!" The cleaver flew, breaking the boar down: thick hindquarters? Chunk them up for stew. Ribs and legs? Slice for grilling. The tender parts? Cut into wide slabs for marinating.
Earthenware basins were set out. He dumped in the sliced meat, poured in coarse salt, sprinkled chili powder and spices, drizzled oil and miso.
With bark gloves on his hands, he kneaded the meat thoroughly, making sure every piece was coated. Then he wrapped them in tree leaves, tied them down with stone weights to marinate, while the extra strips were salted for air-drying.
The giant iron pot was filled with water. Bones and scraps went in. He tossed in handfuls of wild onions, ginger, mushrooms, and fruit he'd gathered nearby. Soon it was boiling hard, "gurgle, gurgle," as the smell of broth filled the air.
Those two-meter skewers weren't just decoration. He threaded ribs and leg slices onto them and placed them on the grill, carefully controlling the distance from the fire.
Fat dripped onto the coals, sizzling loudly, sending waves of aroma straight up.
Ryo crouched beside the fire, flipping meat like it was his own child.
The rest of the meat was hung in wicker baskets, smoking over pine needles and fruit wood. Another portion was laid on a stone slab, waiting.
He wasted nothing.
Even as a child, Ryo did the work of several men. Shanks' physique made it easy. He processed the hundred catties of meat without breaking a sweat.
The backyard filled with smoke, fire, and the overwhelming aroma of meat, a giant's kitchen party.
Hungry? Yes, starving.
But in his heart, he knew eating was just fuel. Only by filling up could he keep training. Before eating, he had to take his "Overachiever's Body Training Package."
With a giant log strapped to his back, heavy enough to crush several men, he began weighted steps. Each stomp left a crater, sweat pouring down: "One! Two! Three!"
In his mind, he replayed Shanks' training—breathing, step control. He grit his teeth, pushing to his limit. When he finally dropped the log, his back was red like it had been branded, muscles twitching.
He caught his breath, then drew his katana. "Clang!" He slashed downward. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" The sound of blades cutting air pierced the night.
He didn't know how many tens of thousands of cuts he made, only that his arms eventually went numb. Leaning on the sword, panting, he felt like a dog about to collapse.
Then his nose twitched. "Whoa!"
The bone broth was bubbling into a milky-white soup, steam rich with the smell of onions and mushrooms.
The skewered meat turned golden, fat popping open, a charred scent rising.
The smoked meat gave off the deep aroma of pine and fruit wood.
The marinated raw slices carried a spicy punch.
This avalanche of smells hit him like a slap.
Ryo's exhausted body suddenly sprang up.
The physique from the One Piece world was just that absurd. As long as he ate, his fatigue and minor injuries healed automatically.
The value of this "sit-up lock-health cheat" was off the charts.
Indeed, the best medicine was the hundred-catty feast laid before him.
He inhaled deeply, mentally taking notes: when to add meat to the stew, which skewer needed flipping, which smoked cut needed more salt. Cook fast, feed stomach.
In his past life, Ryo had been a cooking fanatic.
Single for decades, all his energy went into food.
Every day, he watched food bloggers, then practiced on his own, perfecting techniques to make even cheap ingredients delicious.
Training himself half to death? Fine. He could endure.
But disappointing his stomach? Never.
If after sweating blood all day, he still ate like a pig, what was the point of living?
So no matter how tired he was, he would always turn giant beast meat into something mouthwatering.
That was his one stubbornness.
Only by eating his fill could he keep grinding.
After a short break, more training would continue through the night.
As for chakra?
What chakra?
He had Shanks' inheritance. Even without Six Paths-level cheats, he could climb to the top of the ninja world the normal way.
And besides, he didn't even have access to advanced ninjutsu right now.
So his chakra reserves were small, on purpose. The little he had was enough to pass school exams.
Now, only when he was dead tired would he glance at his system panel, watching the assimilation progress tick forward by a tiny fraction, like sword skill unlock progress. Every bit of growth made it worth it.
After his feast and some rest, he pushed himself again.
…
By dawn, the night-long training ended.
He washed up, soaked in a hot bath, and ate a hearty breakfast.
Then he packed the bento he'd prepared the night before for the academy lunch, dragging his drained body to school.
Daytime? That was prime time for him to lie flat and recover.
(To be continued.)
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