The first scream left his throat less than ten seconds after Ivankov said "Survive."
They came from the hills like a living flood.
Not soldiers.
Not pirates.
Not even fighters in the way Sanji understood them.
They were fast. Too fast. Moving with strange, flowing footwork. Their bodies twisted, bent, spun. Kicks came from impossible angles. Elbows. Knees. Heels.
Okama Kenpo.
Sanji blocked the first strike.
Dodged the second.
Got hit by the third.
Then the fourth.
Then the ground slammed into his back.
"Get up," someone said cheerfully as a heel crushed into his ribs.
He rolled, coughed, and kicked.
His foot met nothing but air.
A fist smashed into his jaw.
He skidded across the grass.
"…Tch."
He jumped back up.
He always did.
That was his pride.
That was his curse.
They didn't fight like enemies.
They fought like a storm.
No formation. No honor. No pattern he could read.
They laughed. They taunted. They toyed with him.
"Black-Leg, right~?"
"Your kicks are cute~!"
"Too straight! Too stiff!"
A knee slammed into his stomach.
He vomited.
He tried to breathe.
A heel smashed into his face.
He went down again.
He got back up again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
--------------------------------------------------------
Ivankov watched from the hill.
"Do not stop them," he said. "Let them teach him."
Hours passed.
Or minutes.
Time stopped meaning anything.
Sanji's suit was torn.
His face was swollen.
One eye wouldn't open.
His legs were shaking.
Still, he stood.
Still, he fought.
Still, he lost.
When he finally collapsed and did not get up, someone poked him with a parasol.
"Is he dead?"
"Not yet~"
Ivankov walked down and looked at him.
"You relied on speed," Ivankov said. "On instinct. On talent. But your body is lying to you."
Sanji tried to move.
Couldn't.
"Training is not about becoming stronger," Ivankov continued. "It is about killing the parts of you that are comfortable."
Ivankov snapped his fingers.
"Drag him to the kitchens."
Sanji woke up face-first in cold stone.
His entire body felt… wrong.
Heavy.
Unresponsive.
"Get up."
He tried.
Failed.
"Get. Up."
He bit his teeth and forced himself onto his elbows.
His arms screamed.
"That is only the beginning," Ivankov said.
They chained weights to his legs.
Not small ones.
Absurd ones.
"Run."
Sanji laughed weakly.
"…You're insane."
"Yes."
They made him run the island.
If he fell, he was kicked.
If he slowed, he was chased.
If he stopped, he was dragged and thrown back on his feet.
He vomited.
He fainted.
They poured water on him.
They kept going.
When he could no longer lift his legs, Ivankov said:
"Again."
Then came the worse part.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Not the body.
The mind.
They did not let him sleep.
They did not let him rest.
They made him fight every day.
And every night—
They chased him.
Not to kill him.
To break him.
He ran from dozens.
Hundreds.
Through forests. Over cliffs. Across towns.
His lungs burned.
His legs tore.
His heart pounded like it would explode.
And every time he thought he was safe—
A heel would smash into his back.
"Too slow~!"
"Too straight~!"
"Too proud~!"
He started hearing their voices even when they weren't there.
He started flinching at shadows.
He started dreaming of light he couldn't touch.
Weeks passed.
Maybe months.
He stopped counting.
One night, collapsed in the rain, shaking, unable to stand, he whispered:
"…Why…?"
Ivankov stood over him.
"Because the New World will not wait for you to get ready."
Sanji's fingers dug into the mud.
"…I'm not enough."
Ivankov's voice was cold.
"Not yet."
Sanji tried to push himself up.
His arms failed.
His legs failed.
His body failed.
"…Damn it…"
Tears mixed with rain.
"I won't… lose them again…"
Ivankov looked at him.
Then said:
"Good. Tomorrow, we start the real training."