Sanji's days became… simple.
Wake before sunrise.Run.Stand.Breathe.Get beaten.Stand again.Cook.Train.Sleep.
No shortcuts.
No applause.
No cigarettes.
No distractions.
No masks.
Ivankov had taken everything unnecessary from him.
What remained was… a man.
Not a performance.
Not a role.
Just responsibility.
It started with posture.
"You are crooked," Ivankov said one morning.
Sanji frowned. "…I stand fine."
Ivankov walked behind him and struck his back lightly.
Sanji nearly fell.
"You carry doubt in your spine," Ivankov said. "Fear in your shoulders. Pride in your chin. Your body is always arguing with itself."
So they made him stand.
Hours.
Days.
Weeks.
Not moving.
Just… aligning.
Breath.Weight.Balance.
When he fell, he stood again.
When he shook, he stayed.
Discipline was not violence.
It was refusal to escape.
Then came the mirror.
A full-length one.
Old.
Cracked.
Ivankov stood beside him.
"Who are you?"
Sanji looked at the reflection.
A man with scars.Burns.Tired eyes.
"…A cook," he said.
Ivankov waited.
"…A fighter," Sanji added.
Ivankov waited.
Sanji's jaw tightened.
"…A failure."
Ivankov struck the mirror with a cane.
Crack.
"You are a Vinsmoke."
The word felt like poison.
Sanji's eye darkened.
"…Don't call me that."
"You do not have to like your blood," Ivankov said. "But pretending it does not exist makes you weak."
Sanji turned away.
"I am not them."
"No," Ivankov agreed. "But you are not nothing either."
Silence.
"You have their body," Ivankov continued. "And Zeff's heart. And your own will. You have been tearing yourself apart trying to deny one third of yourself."
Sanji's hands clenched.
"…I don't want their strength."
Ivankov's voice was calm.
"Then do not become them. Dominate what they gave you."
The words stayed.
That night, alone, Sanji stared at his hands.
"…So this is my body…"
Not a monster's.
Not a tool's.
His.
"…I'll decide what it's for."
For the first time, he stopped hating the parts of himself he didn't choose.
And started owning them.
The next change was in his mind.
Ivankov stopped letting him dodge.
"Close your eyes."
"…What?"
"Close. Your. Eyes."
They attacked him.
At first, he failed instantly.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"You are still trying to see," Ivankov said. "The world is not only light."
Sanji breathed.
Stood.
Listened.
Not with ears.
With… something deeper.
Pressure.Intent.Weight.
A presence behind him.
He moved—
—not fast—
—correctly.
The strike missed.
His eyes snapped open.
"…That wasn't… sight."
Ivankov smiled.
"You are touching the surface of will."
They didn't name it.
They didn't need to.
They just kept drilling it.
Blindfolded.
Exhausted.
In pain.
When his mind screamed, they continued.
When his body begged, they continued.
Until he could feel attacks.
Until he could feel killing intent.
Until the world stopped being empty space and started being full of meaning.
One night, collapsed, shaking, Sanji whispered:
"…I'm not special."
Ivankov looked down at him.
"No. You are disciplined."
Sanji laughed weakly.
"…That's worse."
"No," Ivankov said. "That is what survives."
Weeks later, they brought back the New World monster.
The same one.
Sanji still lost.
But—
He was not erased.
He was not panicking.
He was not blind.
He was present.
He lasted.
And when it ended, Ivankov nodded.
"…You are beginning to exist in the same world as them."
That night, Sanji stood alone under the stars.
No cigarette.
No noise.
Just breath.
"…I don't need to be a hero," he said quietly.
He thought of Zeff.Of Luffy.Of the table.
"…I just need to be there."
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment—
He felt the whole world.