Whenever you see him, he always looks like he's chasing death.
It's not just when he's cutting open his own wounds or something stupid like that (though it certainly doesn't help).
It's in his daily routine. He exercises himself to death. He sleeps like the dead. He drinks like someone on their deathbed. If you tucked two coins in his mouth, it would complete the image of who he is: a dead man walking.
And it shouldn't be surprising, really, it shouldn't. Everybody on this ship has their own dream, but his is still unique among them all. The others dream about freedom, about finding, achieving, knowing, discovering.
He dreams about bloody conquests. He dreams of a fight that could end in his own death.
So it shouldn't be surprising. And yet, when he walks out of a fight with his feet flapping, giving you an anatomy lesson you never wanted, or when he comes back more blood than man, or even when he just willingly walks around in freaking -50 degrees Celsius weather without a goddamn shirt, you have to wonder what this idiot thinks he's doing.
You see him exercising again, even when he looks like a mummy did a hit and run on him, and you shake your head and you give him dark looks of disbelief and you make disparaging comments about his sense of reason.
"If I die from just this, then I wasn't meant to be the best swordsman anyways."
That is his only response. In his typical fashion, his answer makes you feel more frustrated.
He's lost it. Or maybe he was born an idiot and nobody bothered to correct him on how the world works. Or maybe he's impatient. Or maybe he's like one of those self-flagellating monks or whatever, the kind that live on mountains and drink dew and eat sunshine and good vibes. You don't become the best by forcing your body beyond its natural limits, asshole. You become the best through reasonable practice, reasonable training. Take breaks. Eat well. Don't fucking let yourself get sliced in two. Get it?
He doesn't get it. He's back to pumping irons as wide as tree trunks and probably five times as heavy. His bandages bulge with the muscles underneath and the air itself is humid with his sweat. You consider that a sign that his body is screaming at him to stop fucking killing it. He seems to consider it merely a sign of his current weakness, proof that he should keep going, as though putting down the weights for one day will wither his chiseled body away until all his hard work is undone.
He hates his body, there's no way around it. He hates his own flesh and bone, hates the confines of his own skin. His ambition is bursting at the seams and his spirit howls for something more, something better. A body that cuts everything. A body that isn't cut. A body that can withstand everything the world has to offer.
"The best swordsman wouldn't lose just because of some minor wound."
You want to point out that he's lost probably half of his blood at this point and that he really has a ridiculous expectation of what human bodies can withstand. You tell him that a person can't survive on spirit and gumption alone. You remind him of this fact until Brook comes along (that shitty skeleton).
And yet, he's still here. Death eludes him, no matter how much he runs, and it really is impressive that a man who gets lost in a straight alley can still find the deadliest position to be in without fail. You'd be impressed, if you weren't screaming at all the blood.
He always seems like he's chasing death. He's catching up. Coming back every time with more gashes; open wounds; punctured organs; broken bones; missing flesh.
He always seems like he's chasing death. And you don't know who to be afraid for.