The sound of impact echoed across the open field like a dry thunderclap.
Yuta rolled across the ground, kicking up dust, the breath torn from his chest. The metallic taste hit his mouth before the pain—always did. He spat, wiped the blood from the corner of his lips with the back of his hand, and laughed.
"Again."
Ragan didn't move.
The old man stood there, relaxed—far too relaxed for someone who had just thrown a boy aside like an empty sack. The wind tugged at his worn cloak, and his gray hair, loosely tied, betrayed the time the world had tried to erase him… unsuccessfully.
"You don't learn," Ragan said, voice low, steady, without anger. "You only learn when it hurts."
"Then keep going," Yuta replied, already stepping forward.
Tokyo sighed.
He watched from a few meters back, silent, fists clenched, body taut like a bowstring about to snap. He knew Yuta better than anyone. He knew what would happen before it did.
Yuta didn't attack to win.
He attacked to test the world.
The boy burst forward in a straight line, too fast for someone his age. The ground cracked beneath his feet, all his strength thrown forward—no calculation, no restraint. A raw, honest punch.
Ragan stepped aside.
Just one step.
The fist cut through empty air, and before Yuta could react, two fingers pressed into the center of his chest. It wasn't a shove. It was an invisible blade of force. The air was ripped from his lungs.
Yuta dropped to his knees.
"You open yourself too much," Ragan said, looking down at him. "And you don't even notice."
"I notice," Yuta shot back, forcing himself up. "I just don't care."
Ragan raised an eyebrow.
"That's the problem."
Tokyo stepped forward.
"Can I go now?"
Ragan nodded.
The atmosphere shifted.
Tokyo didn't run. He walked. Every step measured, weight balanced, eyes sharp, aware of everything. No haste. No waste.
Yuta backed away, breathing hard, watching.
Tokyo attacked with precision.
He wasn't faster than Yuta. He wasn't stronger. But every movement had intent. Every strike was set up for the next. He didn't break through defenses—he built traps.
Ragan blocked the first strike with his forearm. Redirected the second. Caught the third with his elbow. By the fourth, Tokyo had already changed angles.
A low, fast kick aimed at balance.
Ragan smiled.
The old man twisted his body, letting the strike pass by inches, and touched Tokyo's shoulder with an open palm. Too light to seem dangerous.
Tokyo was hurled backward as if struck by an invisible wall.
He slid across the ground, feet digging in, controlling the fall, absorbing the impact. He stopped—still standing.
Breathing hard. But upright.
"Better," Ragan said. "Much better."
Tokyo dipped his head in respect, but his eyes burned.
"Still not enough."
"No," Ragan agreed. "It isn't."
Silence settled for a few seconds. The wind passed between the three of them, carrying the distant scent of the sea. The island was simple, almost forgotten by the world. That was why Ragan had chosen it.
Here, no one watched.
"You both," Ragan began, turning to face them, "think strength is about winning."
He walked slowly, every step heavy with history.
"But strength is about distance."
Yuta frowned.
"Distance?"
Ragan stopped in front of them.
"Between you… and the world."
He raised his hand.
The air changed.
There was no explosion. No light. Just pressure. The ground beneath their feet cracked like old glass. Yuta felt his body lock up, muscles screaming, breath growing heavy. Tokyo felt it too—but he held his ground.
Ragan didn't move.
"You're still too close to me," he said. "And I'm old."
Yuta clenched his teeth.
"That's a lie…"
"It's the truth that hurts the most," Ragan replied. "The world out there won't wait for you to grow."
The pressure vanished.
Yuta collapsed onto the ground, gasping. Tokyo dropped to one knee, hand braced against the earth, eyes lowered.
"You want to be pirates," Ragan continued. "You want to surpass legends. You want to touch places that shouldn't even exist."
He turned his back on them.
"Then learn this now."
Ragan walked toward the sea, stopping at the edge of the cliff.
And took one more step.
He didn't fall.
His feet rested on the surface of the water as if it were solid ground. Gentle ripples spread outward, but he remained still.
Yuta's eyes widened.
"Not this again…"
Tokyo watched in silence. For him, it wasn't new. Still, it never failed to impress.
Ragan glanced back over his shoulder.
"This isn't power," he said. "It's control."
He walked across the sea as if strolling through his own home.
"Yuta," he continued, "you try to compensate for everything with strength and speed. And you'll survive because of it. But you'll also fall."
Yuta clenched his fists.
"I'll get back up."
"Yes," Ragan agreed. "Always. That's your gift."
Then he looked at Tokyo.
"And you… carry the weight of protecting someone who doesn't want to be protected."
Tokyo bared his teeth.
"I chose that."
Ragan smiled sadly.
"So did I."
With a single step, the old man returned to solid ground.
"The world isn't kind to people like you," he said. "Pirates aren't hated because they steal. They're hated because they remind people of the past."
He walked between them, resting a hand on each of their shoulders.
"And the past… is something the government fears."
Yuta looked up.
"Government?"
Ragan didn't answer right away.
Silence stretched. Waves crashed against the rocks below. A bird cut across the sky.
"Training's over for today," Ragan said, stepping away. "Tomorrow… you'll get beaten even more."
Yuta smiled, exhausted.
"Can't wait."
Tokyo watched the old man walk away, his chest tight with something he didn't yet understand. Something felt different that day. Something heavy in the air.
As if the world was preparing to collect an old debt.
And they… were standing right in the middle of it.
The scent of the sea changed before the sound arrived.
Tokyo was the first to notice. Not sight. Not hearing. Instinct. Something ancient, carved into him through training, scars, and silent nights.
"Yuta…" he murmured.
Yuta was still lying on the ground, staring at the sky, his body aching.
"If this is a lecture, save it."
Tokyo was already on his feet.
"Someone's coming."
The wind picked up. The waves began to behave strangely, crashing against the rocks with uneven force. On the horizon, shadows cut through the sea.
Ships.
Not merchants. Not pirates.
"They're here," Ragan said, appearing behind them.
His voice was far too calm.
Yuta jumped to his feet.
"Who?"
Ragan didn't answer immediately. He walked to the edge of the cliff, watching the ships approach one by one—predators far too confident in their position.
"Privateers," he said at last. "Two of them."
Tokyo felt his stomach sink.
"So…" Yuta clenched his fists. "We fight."
Ragan slowly turned his head.
The look he gave Yuta wasn't reproach.
It was pride.
Mixed with something heavier.
"No."
The word fell hard.
"Not this time."
Before Yuta could argue, a presence descended upon the island.
No explosion. No warning.
The air simply became dense.
Tokyo felt his knees buckle for an instant. Yuta felt his breath seize in his chest. The world seemed to shrink around them.
Two men appeared atop the cliff, walking as if the shattered ground meant nothing.
Their hands were visible. Not because they were weak—but because they didn't need to prove strength.
"Ragan D. Vellor," one of them said. "We finally found you outside the shadows."
Ragan stepped forward alone.
"You took your time," he replied. "I thought the government had given up on me."
The second privateer smirked.
"We never give up on legends. We just wait for the right moment."
Yuta stepped forward.
Ragan raised a hand.
"Stay where you are."
"Old man—"
"I'm not asking."
The pressure exploded.
The ground shattered beneath the privateers' feet. Trees were torn from the earth. The sea rose as if pulled by invisible strings.
Ragan didn't shout. Didn't charge.
He simply existed.
His power didn't come in bursts. It was constant, crushing—like a mountain in motion.
One privateer was launched dozens of meters away, smashing through rock. The other dug his feet into the ground, teeth grinding.
"Still a monster…" he muttered.
"Always have been," Ragan replied.
Yuta watched, eyes wide.
There was no fair exchange.
No balance.
Ragan was on another level.
Tokyo realized it first.
"He's not trying to win…"
Yuta turned to him.
"What?"
"He's controlling it," Tokyo swallowed hard. "He's stopping the fight from spreading."
Ragan could have destroyed the island.
He didn't.
The privateer who had been thrown aside staggered to his feet, wounded, breathing hard.
"That's enough," he said. "We didn't come to die today."
Ragan stopped.
Silence fell like weight.
"Then leave," the old man said.
The first privateer looked past Ragan. At Yuta. At Tokyo.
"We can't," he said. "They're the problem."
Yuta's blood ran cold.
Ragan inhaled deeply.
For the first time… he hesitated.
"The government can't allow heirs to exist," the privateer continued. "You know that."
Ragan closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the decision was made.
"Let them go," he said. "And I'll come with you."
Tokyo screamed.
"NO!"
Yuta lunged forward.
"Old man, this is insane!"
Ragan turned to them.
And smiled.
Not like a warrior.
But like a grandfather.
"You two…" he said softly. "You still don't understand. The world needs someone to walk forward after the old ones fall."
"Then fight!" Yuta shouted. "You'll win!"
"I know," Ragan replied. "That's why I can't."
Chains appeared from nowhere—black, ancient—wrapping around his arms.
Ragan didn't resist.
Yuta fell to his knees.
"I'll come for you," he said, voice breaking. "I swear."
Ragan leaned close enough to meet his eyes.
"Live first."
Then he looked at Tokyo.
"Protect your brother."
Tokyo couldn't answer.
The privateers began to retreat, Ragan with them.
Before disappearing, the old man spoke loudly, his voice echoing across the island, the sea, the world:
"The legend didn't die."
"It's just waiting."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was a promise.
Yuta stared at the horizon for a long time.
"The Navy…" he murmured. "They'll pay."
Tokyo placed a hand on his shoulder.
"We're going to the center of the world."
The wind blew harder.
And in that moment, the war began.