Gojo couldn't help but recall the match from six months ago, when he had challenged Master Kishimoto—the stern old swordsman who owned the dojo in Cloverbook Village. Back then, Gojo had restrained himself completely, refusing to rely on his Devil Fruit powers. It was a duel of pure swordsmanship, nothing more.
The fight had pushed him harder than any before, forcing him to rely solely on instinct and blade work. But in the end, he lost. Master Kishimoto's swordsmanship had already reached the fabled level of the Breath of All Things.
The realization had stunned him. He had expected Kishimoto to be skilled—after all, anyone who'd survived the Grand Line had to be formidable—but to have reached the realm of feeling the Breath of All Things, the cutting-iron state, was something else entirely.
Still, that defeat had been a gift. Every clash, every parry in that battle had sharpened Gojo's senses and refined his technique. Though he hadn't yet reached the level of cutting iron, he could feel he was close. At this pace, he thought, another year of training—and I'll stand in that realm too.
The memory lingered for a moment, the faint rustle of the forest wind brushing against his blindfold as if echoing the quiet resolve in his heart.
After this, Gojo didn't immediately leave the forest; instead, he continued his relentless physical training. Nearly two and a half years had passed since he had eaten the Devil Fruit, and now he could keep his Six Eyes open for almost an entire day without any issues. Yes, the flood of information that poured in through his eyes still overwhelmed him at times, but he had learned to live with it, to let that torrent of perception become a part of him. I've grown used to the noise, he often told himself. Even so, he usually preferred to keep his eyes hidden behind his blindfold, sparing himself from unnecessary strain.
Gojo trained until the sky began to fade from gold to indigo, the forest quieting under the weight of dusk. The air was cool, and the faint rustle of leaves followed his movements as he finally placed his sword in its sheath. His breathing was calm, steady—disciplined.
As he began descending the hill, he muttered under his breath, "It's been more than a year since I've had a proper conversation with anyone. I should head to town today… have dinner there." His voice was low, almost lost in the whisper of the evening wind.
Emerging from the forest's edge, Gojo adjusted the blindfold over his eyes and started toward the distant lights of the town. His destination was clear—Martha's restaurant. Among the few people he knew there, Martha was the one he trusted most. The thought of a warm meal and the faint chatter of her small eatery almost felt... comforting.
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At the same time, inside Martha's restaurant, the gentle chime of the bell above the door rang out as a group of people stepped inside. Martha looked up from behind the counter, wiping her hands on a towel, and her eyes settled on a young man who couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. He wore an orange hat tilted slightly back on his head, his upper body bare and sun-tanned, a long iron pipe slung casually across his shoulder. Behind him followed three others—a man in a simple shirt and pants, and two more whose tired but eager faces spoke of travel and salt air.
The young man with the orange hat swaggered to a table near the center and dropped into a seat with a grin that could light a room. "Hey! Bring us your best food—and make sure there's plenty of meat!" he said, his tone half command, half laughter.
Martha smiled faintly at his enthusiasm. "Coming right up," she said, turning to one of the waiters to have the food prepared.
At the table, conversation quickly turned animated. One of the crew members leaned forward, excitement flashing in his eyes. "Captain, now that we're heading to the Grand Line, we'll definitely make a name for ourselves—famous across the world!"
The young man in the orange hat leaned back, his grin widening, eyes alight with fire and certainty. "Don't worry," he said, tapping the iron pipe against his shoulder with a confident smirk, "the Spade Pirates will be known by everyone. I'll make sure of it—until the day I become the King of the Pirates."
Hearing their captain's bold declaration, the entire group burst into laughter, the sound filling the cozy restaurant. Their laughter was loud, unrestrained, and full of the kind of confidence only young pirates carried. It was clear now—this lively young man was none other than Portgas D. Ace, captain of the Spade Pirates and wielder of the Mera Mera no Mi (Flame-Flame Fruit).
The crew continued to chat and laugh among themselves, the air around them thick with the smell of roasted spices and warm candlelight. Martha, ever attentive, had already begun preparing the drinks herself while the food was still being made. She moved with practiced ease, her expression calm, but her sharp eyes missed nothing.
Having run her restaurant for many years, she had long since learned to recognize the kind of energy pirates carried—the mix of recklessness and ambition that followed them like a shadow. So when this particular group walked in, she had guessed their nature almost immediately.
But as her gaze lingered on the young man in the orange hat, recognition struck her. That face… I've seen it before. She recalled the newspaper article from a few weeks ago—the one that showed his smiling face above a bold headline: Portgas D. Ace — Captain of the Spared Pirates. Bounty: 10,000,000 berries.
And there had been more. The article spoke of his power—the flames that answered to his will. Fire Fist Ace, they had called him. Martha exhaled softly, her hands steady as she set the drinks on their table. "So that's him," she thought, watching the firelight dance across his confident grin.
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