The days after the raid blurred together.
Ryo stayed in the village that he had helped — or at least, tried to help — defend. The people were kind, in the quiet way survivors often are. They didn't ask questions. They offered him food, a cot in a fisherman's hut, and something he hadn't felt in a long time: belonging.
But he couldn't rest.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the pirate's blade flashing toward him — felt the weight of his own sword slipping from his grip, the way his arms had screamed in pain after only a few swings.
He'd survived, but barely. If it had been a real pirate crew — even a small-name one — he'd be dead.
And that thought burned.
So every morning, before the sun rose, Ryo walked to the far end of the beach with his sword. He didn't know what he was doing. He only knew he needed to start.
He tried copying things he remembered from Zoro's training scenes — wide stances, fluid cuts, breathing with the motion. He swung until his shoulders went numb, until his fingers blistered and bled. He fell more times than he could count.
But every swing brought him closer to understanding one thing: wielding a sword wasn't about muscle. It was about control. Focus. Will.
On the fifth morning, someone watched him.
"Your swing lacks purpose," a voice said behind him.
Ryo turned.
An old man stood a few paces away, barefoot, wearing a faded gi that might once have been white. His gray hair was tied loosely, his posture impossibly straight despite his age. He carried no sword — only a wooden staff slung over his shoulder.
"Who are you?" Ryo asked, catching his breath.
"Someone who once swung a blade the way you're doing now," the man said calmly. "Without meaning."
Ryo frowned. "Meaning? I'm just trying to get stronger."
"Then you'll only learn how to swing harder," the old man replied. "Not better."
There was no insult in his tone — only truth.
He walked closer, his eyes scanning Ryo's grip. "Your hands are wrong. Your balance, too. You're fighting the sword instead of guiding it."
Ryo bristled. "And you'd know how to fix that?"
The old man smiled faintly. "I would."
He tapped the sand with his staff. "You may call me Master Genzu."
Genzu's hut sat near the cliffs overlooking the ocean. It was old and small, but neat — no dust, no clutter. Inside hung a single, sheathed sword above the doorway. The blade was plain, but Ryo could feel something heavy in its presence — a quiet dignity that made him straighten his back without thinking.
Genzu handed him a cup of tea and gestured for him to sit.
"I saw what you did in the village," Genzu said. "Reckless, but brave. That spirit is good. But spirit alone will not save you the next time."
Ryo nodded. "That's why I want to learn. To fight properly."
"Fight properly?" Genzu repeated, amused. "You wish to become a swordsman?"
Ryo met his eyes. "Yes. One day, I'll travel this world. But before that… I need to be able to protect myself — and others."
Genzu studied him for a long moment, then smiled. "Very well."
He stood, walking to the doorway. "You'll begin at dawn."
Training under Genzu was nothing like what Ryo imagined.
There were no flashy techniques. No wooden dummies. No instant progress.
The first week, Genzu didn't even let him touch the sword.
He made Ryo carry buckets of seawater up and down the cliffside from sunrise to sunset. He made him hold his stance for hours with a wooden stick balanced on his wrists. He made him cut bamboo stalks, not with a blade — but with controlled strikes of his hands.
When Ryo complained, Genzu said only, "The sword is an extension of your body. If the body is weak, the sword is meaningless."
The work broke him down.
His shoulders burned. His palms split open. Some days, he couldn't even close his fingers. But each night, as the sun fell into the sea, he looked at his reflection in the water — and saw a man who was still standing.
On the twelfth day, Genzu finally placed a wooden sword in his hands.
"Show me your swing," the master said.
Ryo exhaled, steadying his breath. He raised the bokken and brought it down in a clean arc.
It wasn't strong. But it was smooth.
Genzu nodded slightly. "Better. You're beginning to understand."
Weeks passed. The rhythm of training became his life.
At dawn, he meditated facing the ocean. At noon, he trained balance and breathing. At dusk, he practiced drawing and sheathing the sword a hundred times.
He learned small things — how to align his stance so each step flowed into the next, how to breathe through pain, how to stay calm under pressure.
But more importantly, he learned silence.
Genzu rarely praised him, but occasionally he'd say something that sank deep.
"Do not fight with anger," he told Ryo one evening as they watched the sunset. "A blade swung in rage cuts both ways."
Or, "Power isn't in the arm. It's in the heart that decides when to draw."
Ryo began to realize swordsmanship wasn't just about killing. It was about clarity — the act of refining chaos into precision.
One night, as rain lashed the cliffs, Ryo sat outside, practicing cuts in the downpour. The water made the wooden sword slick in his grip. His muscles screamed for rest.
He slipped — fell hard, splattering mud across his face.
He let out a frustrated groan, pounding the ground. "I'm never going to be like them…"
"Them?" Genzu's voice came from the shadows of the hut.
Ryo looked up, soaked and shivering. "The swordsmen of this world. Zoro. Mihawk. Monsters like them. I can barely stand after a day of training, and they're out there cutting down ships."
Genzu walked closer, his face calm but stern. "You see their power. But not their years of pain."
He knelt beside Ryo, resting a hand on the sword. "Every master was once a fool swinging blindly in the rain."
Ryo met his gaze. The old man's eyes were clear — sharp as a blade's edge.
"Then I'll keep swinging," Ryo said quietly.
Genzu smiled. "Good."
By the second month, something inside Ryo began to change.
He still struggled, still stumbled, but now he understood why. His movements had purpose. His breathing matched each cut. His senses grew sharper.
And one morning, Genzu said, "It's time."
He led Ryo to the cliff's edge. A single candle stood atop a rock, its flame flickering in the breeze.
"You will cut," Genzu said simply.
Ryo blinked. "A candle?"
"The flame," the old man corrected. "If your cut disturbs the air, it will go out. But if your will is steady…" He smiled faintly. "…the flame will remain."
Ryo took a deep breath, drawing the sword he had inherited from the wreckage. The blade was still chipped — dull compared to the sharpness of real steel. But it felt right in his hands now.
He exhaled.His eyes softened.He swung.
The sound was almost silent — just a whisper of motion.
The flame swayed… and stayed lit.
Ryo froze, breath caught in his throat.
Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face.
Genzu nodded once. "Now," he said quietly, "you are walking the path of the sword."
That evening, as they ate beside the fire, Genzu poured two cups of sake.
"You've learned well," he said. "But remember — the sea is wide, and the blades you'll face are far sharper than mine."
"I'm ready to test myself," Ryo said. "To see what's out there."
Genzu chuckled softly. "Ah, youth. Always eager to sail before the storm." He handed Ryo a small cloth bundle. "Then take this."
Inside lay a sheath. The same one that hung above Genzu's doorway.
"I no longer need it," the master said. "It once held a blade that taught me everything I know. Now it will protect yours."
Ryo bowed deeply. "Thank you… Master."
Genzu smiled. "Don't thank me. Thank the sea, for carrying you here."
That night, Ryo stood on the cliff again, watching the moon cast its reflection across the waves. The wind tugged gently at his hair, carrying the scent of salt and promise.
He unsheathed his sword, holding it in front of him.
"I'll keep training," he whispered. "Until I can stand among the greats. Not because I want glory… but because this world deserves one more blade that protects instead of destroys."
The waves crashed below — steady, endless.
And as the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Ryo Tenshin smiled.
The path ahead was long.But the fire inside him burned brighter than ever.