The sea was calm that night.
Almost unnaturally so.
The moon hung low above Fukuyama's harbour, pale and swollen, its light painting the waves in shades of silver and frost. Lanterns swayed gently along the pier, their reflections breaking apart with each ripple. The air smelled of brine, smoke, and fish — an aroma both comforting and vaguely nauseating.
Hanzo stood at the edge of the dock, barefoot, wearing nothing but a white loincloth that clung to his lean but muscular frame. His travel clothes were folded neatly beside a small oil lamp, his bo-staff resting across them.
He cracked his neck, exhaling a long breath that misted in the cool night air.
"I swear," he muttered to himself, "if this turns out to be another grade three slime, I'm writing a complaint to the afterlife's management."
Observation Haki thrummed like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. The range extended outward — two kilometres of invisible net flooding the bay. Every motion, every life form, every faint shift in current — all painted itself in his mind. Schools of fish flickered like motes of light. A distant dolphin surfaced, then vanished. And there — near the sea floor, behind the pillars of the harbour — a stagnant void.
A presence so foul he can almost smell it.
"Bingo," Hanzo whispered.
He crouched, stretched once, and then dove.
The water swallowed him whole — inside it was cold, quiet, and dark.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own pulse and the muffled beat of the sea around him. The world above faded into a dim blur. Only the moonlight followed him down in shivering beams.
Beneath the surface, Hanzo was in his element. His physique, blessed by Heavenly Restriction and honed through years of training, cut through the water with the grace of a shark. Each stroke sent him deeper, faster, his lungs calm, his body unfazed by pressure or chill.
Observation Haki expanded again, mapping the seabed in perfect clarity. The cursed spirit's presence was clearer now — a mass of hatred coiled upon itself, half-asleep within a nest of coral and shattered wood. From his perceptions, its presence was like a candle in the darkness.
Hanzo slowed, body hovering a few meters above the ocean floor. He saw it then — an abomination slumbering amidst the wreckage of an old ship.
The cursed spirit resembled a distorted eel, easily twenty meters long. Its scales were the colour of bruised flesh, its mouth stretched across half its body, filled with teeth like rusted blades. Eyes the size of a basketball rolled beneath translucent lids. Cursed energy radiated from it in slow, venomous pulses.
Hanzo tilted his head. "Looks like sushi gone wrong."
He drifted closer, feet barely brushing the sand. The creature twitched, sensing disturbance. Its eyes snapped open — twin orbs of eerie blue — and the water seemed to darken around it.
The spirit shrieked. The sound didn't travel through water, but Hanzo felt it — a vibration through his bone and marrow.
He smiled faintly. "Evening. Guess we're skipping introductions."
His right arm shimmered. Armament Haki flared, coating his skin in a black sheen. He clenched his fist.
Then he struck.
The first punch hit like thunder underwater, the impact sending shockwaves through the sea floor. Bubbles exploded outward in a violent ring. The cursed spirit convulsed, twisting its serpentine body in agony.
Hanzo darted upward as the creature lunged, its jaws snapping shut where he had been moments before. Its teeth sliced through coral and splintered wood.
He descended again like a comet, spinning into a kick that cracked across its skull. The water distorted with the force, sending debris spiralling.
Dragon's Talon.
The three-fingered claw strike followed — a precise jab straight through the creature's eye, destroying it. The cursed spirit howled, thrashing wildly, its tail whipping through the currents like a storm. Hanzo dodged each blow with calm, flowing movement — the rhythm of combat guiding him as naturally as breathing.
He wasn't just fighting, he was dancing. In the water.
"Man," he thought between strikes, "I really should've brought goggles."
The eel reared back, releasing a wave of cursed energy so dense it warped the surrounding water. Hanzo braced himself, making an X pose with his Haki-clad hands. The pressure hit him like a freight train, forcing him back several meters unharmed.
His grin widened. "Now that's more like it."
He pressed forward again, spinning his body in a tight arc. His hands slammed together.
Dragon's Breath.
The shockwave that followed was monstrous. Hanzo drove both fists into the ocean floor, and the force rippled outward — a visible distortion that split sand and stone alike. The water exploded in a torrent of bubbles and debris. The cursed spirit, caught in the blast, was torn apart from within — its form unravelling, its hateful essence dispersing into black mist.
And then… silence.
The water stilled. The cursed energy faded into nothing.
Hanzo floated there for a moment, eyes closed, letting the remnants of energy wash past him. The moonlight filtered down once more, highlighting his toned body under the water.
He exhaled through his nose. 'Rest in pieces.'
Turning upward, he began his ascent, kicking off the sea floor with a single powerful push. The surface shimmered above him like glass.
Hanzo broke through the water with a gasp, droplets scattering in arcs of silver. He brushed his black hair back, squinting toward the pier.
That was when he saw the patrolman.
The man stood on the dock, holding a lantern and staring down with a puzzled expression. His gaze flicked from the pile of folded clothes to Hanzo, then back again.
There was an awkward silence.
Hanzo treaded water, trying for a smile. "Evening."
The patrolman blinked. "...You're swimming?"
"Yup."
"At midnight?"
Hanzo nodded. "Good for circulation."
The patrolman frowned. "You do realize it's October, right?"
Hanzo shrugged. "That explains the temperature."
The man sighed, muttered something about "youths these days," and wandered off shaking his head.
Hanzo climbed back onto the dock, dripping seawater and victory. He towelled himself off with his haori and started dressing.
"Another day, another exorcism," he muttered. "And a patrolman questioning my life choices."
He slung his bo-staff across his back, picked up his lamp, and walked toward the inn, water still dripping from his hair.
The following morning dawned clear and golden. The harbour bustled as usual — ships creaking, merchants shouting, gulls screaming overhead like deranged spirits of their own.
Hanzo stretched his shoulders, still feeling faint soreness from the underwater fight. His muscles sang pleasantly, like they'd just finished a festival of violence.
He grabbed breakfast from a nearby stall — grilled rice cakes and pickled radish — and ate while watching fishermen haul their nets.
A group of workers waved at him from across the dock. "Hey! Hanzo! What's up?"
Hanzo grinned, waving back with his rice cake. "Alive and starving, as usual."
They laughed, one of them calling out, "Heard strange noises from the bay last night! We heard from the patrolman that you were swimming at that time. You sure you weren't wrestling sea monsters?"
Hanzo chewed thoughtfully. "...Define 'sea monster.'"
That earned him a round of cackles.
Days passed in quiet rhythm after that. Work, food, laughter, sleep.
The life of a simple dockhand — though "simple" was relative when half your evening hobbies involved punching grotesque things into oblivion.
The money came steadily. Hanzo was careful not to draw attention beyond harmless gossip. He knew the rule — the existence of curses had to remain hidden. The fewer people suspected, the safer they were.
Still, there was a strange comfort in it all.
In the mornings, he carried crates beneath the sun.
At dusk, he'd sit by the water, drinking cheap tea and listening to the hum of the city.
And at night, he'd train quietly behind the inn — barefoot on dirt, movements fluid and sharp, bo-staff carving arcs through lanternlight.
Sometimes, the innkeeper's daughter would peek out from the doorway, giggling as he practiced.
"You look like one of those traveling monks from the storybooks," she said one evening.
Hanzo paused mid-strike, smiling faintly. "Monks are bald, I'm not."
She tilted her head, giggling. "Maybe you're a funny kind of monk."
"Nuh-uh."
Two weeks have passed since the night of the underwater battle.
By then, Hanzo's coin purse had grown heavy enough to fund the next leg of his journey. His reputation at the docks was somewhere between "local legend" and "possibly divine."
He stood once more at the edge of the pier, looking toward the eastern horizon. The sun rose there, faint and red, painting the waves in crimson sheen.
Tokyo was far. The road between was long. But something inside him stirred — that same hunger he'd carried since the day he woke in this world.
He tightened his pack straps.
"Alright, Fukuyama," he murmured. "You've been kind. Time to see what the rest of Meiji Japan has in store."
Behind him, Jirou called out, voice booming across the docks. "Leaving already, Hanzo?"
Hanzo turned, grinning. "Can't stay too long. The road might start missing me."
Jirou laughed. "You're a strange one, boy. Come back if you ever need work — we'll save you a crate or two."
Hanzo nodded, bowing lightly. "And I'll bring better rice balls next time."
He started walking, his geta sandals clacking against the wood. The salty breeze tugged at his haori, and the distant cry of gulls followed him like a farewell song.
With one last glance at the shimmering bay, he whispered under his breath:
"Onward, then."
The road awaited. The great story of his second life was just beginning to unfold.