They stopped attacking him in crowds.
Now they came one by one.
Then two.
Then three.
Not to overwhelm him.
To test him.
Ivankov changed the rules.
"You are not allowed to retreat."
Sanji frowned.
"…What?"
"You may step. You may turn. You may tilt. But you may not run."
The first opponent lunged.
Sanji moved—
—and almost got hit.
Not because he was slow.
Because he overstepped.
"Too much," Ivankov said.
The second attack came.
This time, Sanji barely shifted his shoulder.
The fist brushed his coat.
"…Tch."
"Again."
He began to understand.
He didn't need distance.
He needed just enough absence.
Then they brought blades.
Not sharp ones.
But fast ones.
Wooden, flexible, whistling through the air.
"You will not block," Ivankov said.
Sanji's eye twitched.
"…And if I get hit?"
"Then you bleed. And learn."
The first strike cut across his cheek.
The second hit his ribs.
The third took his legs out from under him.
But he didn't panic.
He watched.
Not with his eyes.
With something deeper.
He started to feel it again.
That pressure.
That intention.
The moment before movement was born.
And he stepped—
—not away—
—but through it.
The blade passed where his neck had been.
His coat fluttered.
He was already inside the attacker's space.
They froze.
"…He's behind me?"
Sanji didn't answer.
He just tapped the man's shoulder with two fingers.
"Out."
Then Ivankov said:
"Now add fire."
They made him run until his legs smoked.
Until his muscles screamed.
Until Diable Jambe ignited not from friction—
—but from will.
The flame felt different now.
Not wild.
Not raging.
Condensed.
Focused.
His kicks no longer chased.
They appeared.
An opponent attacked.
Sanji tilted.
Their strike missed by a hair.
His leg was already there.
Boom.
Not a heavy blast.
A precise detonation.
The man flew.
"…Again," Sanji said quietly.
They took him to the cliffs.
High.
Violent wind.
Sharp drops.
"You will fight here," Ivankov said.
"…You want me to die?"
"No. I want you to stop thinking the ground is guaranteed."
They came at him in the air.
Jumping.
Kicking.
Spinning.
Sanji fell.
More than once.
The sea waited below like a mouth.
He learned quickly.
Not how to jump.
How to place himself in the sky.
How to steal half-steps from nothing.
How to exist where he should not.
Not by power.
By timing.
By feeling.
By moving into the space before the enemy claimed it.
Then one day—
Something changed.
He felt an attack—
—from behind—
—before it existed.
He turned.
Tilted.
The kick passed where his head would have been.
He didn't understand how he knew.
He just knew.
His heart started racing.
"…That wasn't sight."
Ivankov smiled.
"You are beginning to listen to the world instead of shouting at it."
Three masters.
Real ones.
No restrictions.
They attacked together.
Sanji did not retreat.
Did not rush.
Did not think.
He stepped.
The first missed.
The second missed.
The third almost hit—
—but fire bloomed.
A single, perfect kick.
Then another.
Then another.
Not flashy.
Not wild.
Inevitable.
When it ended, he stood alone, breathing slowly, coat torn, leg smoking.
Not a single clean hit on him.
Ivankov looked at him.
"…You are no longer chasing the battlefield."
Sanji lit a cigarette with a steady hand.
"…Yeah."
He exhaled.
"I'm letting it come to me."
He looked at his leg.
At the quiet flame.
"…Kizaru won't feel like light next time."