Loguetown, back-alley weapon shop.
Far from the bustling central square, this dim back alley was steeped in the mingled stench of rust and machine oil.
A weapon shop hung with a weathered sign stood quietly there, like a corner forgotten by time itself.
Ding—ling.
The copper bell above the door chimed crisply as Ronan and Zoro stepped inside, one after the other.
The interior was dimly lit. Every wall was crowded with swords, axes, and firearms of all kinds, while fine dust floated lazily through the air.
Behind the counter, a middle-aged man with a classic "receding-hairline-to-the-back" hairstyle and round glasses was lazily trimming his nails.
When he noticed customers entering, his slightly cloudy eyes lit up at once, his face instantly switching to an exaggeratedly professional—yet blatantly fake—smile.
"Welcome!"
Ipponmatsu rubbed his hands together enthusiastically as he hurried over.
"You've got a good eye, you two! Don't let the location fool you—this shop's been in business for two hundred years!"
"Famous blades, sharp weapons—whatever you want, we've got it all. Take your time and look around!"
Zoro didn't waste words. He walked straight to the counter and slapped a stack of bills down hard.
Smack!
"I'm buying swords," Zoro said, his voice low and hoarse. "I've got 100,000 berries. Sell me two swords."
"Ten… ten thousand—no, a hundred thousand?"
Ipponmatsu's smile froze instantly, like a cheap mask cracking down the middle.
He stared in disbelief at the thin stack of money, the muscles at the corner of his eye twitching.
In Loguetown, where prices were sky-high, even buying a decent kitchen knife with 100,000 berries would be a stretch—and this green-haired guy wanted two weapons?
"Tch… so you're just a poor bastard."
Ipponmatsu's attitude flipped a full one-eighty.
Dropping the act, he plopped back into his chair, dug at his nose, and waved his hand impatiently.
"Hey, kid, are you joking? Two swords for 100,000? At fifty thousand each, all you can buy are dull blades that'd chip cutting vegetables!"
"Add a bit more—just another hundred thousand would—"
"No money," Zoro replied flatly. "Something usable is fine. As long as it doesn't break. This is all I've got."
"Tsk."
Rolling his eyes, Ipponmatsu had already decided these two were clueless country bumpkins who didn't know their place.
But just as he was about to chase them out, his gaze drifted—purely by accident—to Zoro's waist.
There hung a long sword in a pristine white scabbard, exquisitely crafted.
Ipponmatsu's pupils shrank violently.
As a weapon shop owner, he knew his stuff.
That understated yet elegant white lacquer… that flawless curve—
"Ō Wazamono… Wado Ichimonji?!"
His heart started pounding as greed flooded his mind.
This guy… could he be a complete amateur? Carrying a priceless blade like that so casually at his waist? If he could trick it out of him cheap—
Cold sweat slid down Ipponmatsu's forehead. He swallowed hard and forced a smile uglier than crying, his voice trembling with excitement.
"Uh… say, kid. How about letting me take a look at the sword on your waist?"
Zoro frowned, his hand instinctively guarding the hilt. "Huh? Why're you getting all nervous?"
"N-no, just a look…" Ipponmatsu's hand was already reaching out.
"That's Wado Ichimonji."
A calm voice cut in abruptly, popping the bubble of greed thickening the air.
Ronan leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, a mocking smile on his lips as his sharp gaze locked onto Ipponmatsu.
"One of the Twenty-One Great Grade swords. Worth over ten million berries. Boss, you've got a good eye."
"Gah—!"
Ipponmatsu's hand froze in midair, as if bound by an invisible spell.
He stared at Ronan in panic, feeling as though the black-haired man's eyes had seen straight through every filthy thought in his head.
"A-ah… ha… so you… you knew…"
Ipponmatsu awkwardly withdrew his hand, wiping the cold sweat from his brow while cursing his luck.
Since they knew their stuff, his dream of ripping them off was completely dead.
"Of course we know," Ronan snorted. "Enough nonsense. Do you have iron spears?"
"Spears?"
Though disappointed, Ipponmatsu still had business to do.
Scratching his shiny scalp, he pointed toward a corner.
"Long weapons, huh… not many people use those these days. Over there—those big wooden barrels. All the polearms are stuck in them. Go dig around and see if anything suits you."
Then he shot Zoro an annoyed glare.
"You too! If you're broke, go check the barrels! Everything there's clearance stock—50,000 berries a piece! Pick two and get out!"
"Tch, what's with the attitude," Zoro muttered as he headed for the barrel marked Discount.
Ronan walked over to the corner where the polearms were stored.
Several dust-covered barrels were crammed with spears, halberds, and even rusted harpoons.
He casually pulled out a spear that looked fairly sturdy.
"Light."
The moment it settled in his hand, Ronan frowned.
This spear couldn't have weighed more than thirty pounds—like holding a toothpick to him.
He tested the shaft's flexibility.
"Too brittle."
Ordinary iron like this couldn't withstand his current power output. The instant he unleashed crushing force, it would shatter.
"Too short… none of them are over three meters."
Ronan went through every barrel, disappointment flashing in his eyes.
For Xingyi spear techniques, "an inch longer, an inch stronger" wasn't just a saying—it was a physical truth.
A full zhangba spear—around 3.6 meters—was his ideal range.
The longest thing here barely cleared two meters.
"Looks like I'll have to try my luck in the Grand Line… or custom-make one from raw materials."
Ronan sighed and tossed the scrap back into the barrel with a clatter.
Just then, a strange ripple stirred from the discount section.
Ronan's heart twitched. He turned.
Zoro stood by the barrel of dull blades, holding a sword with a dark crimson scabbard.
He hadn't drawn it yet, but his expression had turned unusually grave—like he wasn't gripping a sword, but a red-hot brand… or a writhing venomous snake.
"That is…"
Ronan's Observation Haki instantly caught the ominous aura leaking from the blade—something so malignant it couldn't be hidden even by the scabbard.
"Hm?"
Zoro let out a low murmur, confusion and excitement flashing through his eyes.
Slowly, he gripped the hilt and nudged it with his thumb.
Shing—
A bewitching flash of cold light bloomed in the dim shop.
The blade didn't bear an ordinary straight temper line, but a wild, flame-like hamon—chaotic as burning fire.
The pattern seemed alive, flowing along the blade itself, radiating a thirst for blood.
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