Disclaimer: One Piece is owned by Eiichiro Oda
Warning: Mentions of suicide in chapter
Chapter 4
(Shimotsuki Village)
"Why do you keep making me do this?" Zoro demanded, his voice rough with frustration and fatigue. His breath came in shallow, labored gasps, his chest heaving beneath the strain. Sweat dripped down his face, tracing paths across his furrowed brow, stinging his eyes and forcing him to blink rapidly. His muscles screamed in protest with every movement, his limbs burning as though they were made of lead. But before he could even wipe the sting of salt from his eyes, his opponent pressed the attack.
With a speed that blurred the edges of Zoro's vision, the opponent's blade sliced through the air, a flurry of strikes coming at him with ruthless precision—each blow aimed to find an opening, to shatter his resolve. Zoro's sword met the first slash with a loud clang, the force vibrating through his arm, but he barely succeeding in steadying himself before another was already in motion. The next strike came from above, a swift downward arc that forced him to twist his body to the side, just managing to avoid the cut that would have split him in two.
His breath hitched as the third strike came in low, aiming for his midsection. Zoro spun on his heel, the blade grazing his side as he parried it with his own, the sting of the near-miss sending a jolt of pain through his ribs. Every moment felt like a battle against his own exhaustion, but still, the pressure kept mounting. He deflected, his arms shaking with the effort, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. His opponent didn't relent. A barrage of blows came in rapid succession—high, low, diagonal—all of them designed to break his defense.
Zoro's heart raced as his opponent's blade came down again, targeting his head. He instinctively raised his sword, but the impact rattled his bones, forcing him to stagger back a step. He only just managed to lift his blade in time to block another strike aimed for his legs. The force of the blow sent him off balance, his foot skidding in the dirt, his teeth gritting against the shock of it.
His body screamed for rest, his muscles trembling with the effort, but his focus never wavered. He twisted his sword in a fluid, desperate counter, hoping to create an opening. But the opponent was already there, anticipating his move, parrying with a deft flick of their blade that sent Zoro stumbling back. The world around him seemed to blur as his movements became less precise, each block feeling like an uphill struggle, his arms growing heavier with every second.
Sweat soaked through his clothes, dripping into his eyes, and for the briefest moment, the world around him felt distant, as though the air itself had turned sluggish. Yet, despite the mounting fatigue, his opponent's strikes kept coming—each one faster, more forceful than the last, as if they could sense the weariness creeping into his body. Zoro could feel himself slipping, the weight of each swing wearing him down, the gap between him and victory narrowing.
He blocked, deflected, and countered with everything he had left, but the pressure never let up. His muscles screamed, his vision blurred, and yet, Zoro knew he could not falter—not now, not when the fight was far from over.
His opponent moved with a fluidity that bordered on effortless grace, leaping over Zoro's head like a shadow in the wind. The metallic clash of steel echoed as Zoro's strikes failed to meet their target, his foe deftly parrying every attempt. The rhythm of the battle shifted, and Zoro found himself chasing after the fleeting advantage he had once grasped.
With each passing second, cuts began to etch themselves onto Zoro's skin—a painful reminder of the widening gap in their skill. Blood welled up from fresh wounds, staining his clothes and the sand beneath him. Desperate for a breather, he leaped back, hoping to gather himself, but in those brief moments his feet left the ground, his opponent closed in, sweeping Zoro's legs out from under him.
The world tilted as Zoro tumbled backward, but even as he fell, his mind screamed one defiant thought: 'Not this time.'
He plunged his left katana into the ground, feeling the shock of impact reverberate through his arm as he halted his descent. Gritting his teeth, he pushed off with all the strength he could muster, flipping himself upright with a surge of adrenaline. The sand swirled around him as he spun, his two katanas held at a deadly angle, the blades whirling like a storm.
His opponent, sensing the endgame, took a graceful step back, amusement dancing in his eyes as the corners of his lips curled into a smirk. His purple kimono fluttered in the breeze, the fabric catching the wind as he advanced, sword poised with unnerving calm.
The gap between them closed rapidly, and Zoro lunged, roaring, "Nitoryu Ogi: Sanzen Sekai!" His spinning blades became a blur, the wind howling in their wake as he aimed for his opponent's torso.
But in an instant, it was over. Zoro's eyes widened in disbelief as his swords were halted—crossed in an X and stopped dead by the mere tip of his opponent's blade. The air crackled with the intensity of the moment, Zoro straining against the unyielding force that held him at bay.
His opponent's eyes gleamed with amusement, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. "Nice try, my boy," he said, his tone laced with sardonic finality. "But better luck next time."
With a twist of the wrist, the opponent disengaged, sending Zoro staggering forward. Before he could recover, the man was upon him, his blade a blur of motion. Zoro barely managed to bring his katanas up in defense as the opponent's sword descended. The clash of metal rang out, a sharp, resonant clang that sent seagulls screeching into the sky, their wings flapping in frantic disarray.
Zoro lay sprawled on the sand, staring up at the sky, his breath coming in ragged gasps. A shadow fell over him, and he glanced to the side, seeing a calloused hand extended in his direction. He hesitated, spitting out blood that had pooled in his mouth, before reaching out with a trembling hand.
Once on his feet, Zoro faced the grey-haired man who had helped him. "Why do you keep putting me through this?" he asked, his voice a rasp, each word a strain on his burning lungs.
The man regarded him with a calm, steady gaze, his expression unreadable as the wind swept the sand around them.
The answer, however, remained unspoken in the air between them.
Still holding his sword, Kouzaburo rummaged through his kimono pockets, clearly in search of something. The surroundings fell into silence as he finally retrieved the desired object, prompting a dismissive eye roll from Zoro.
He brought the object to his lips, then delved back into the same pocket for something else. This time, a hiltless tanto gleamed in his fingers, its silver blade reflecting sunlight. Aligning the sword and the tanto, he flicked the blades together, producing a spark.
The spark ignited the herbs in the object between his lips, and smoke gracefully wafted from it. Inhaling deeply, Kouzaburo slowly exhaled, watching the smoke escape his lips while holding the kiseru in his hands, the tanto now stowed away, and the sword returned to its sheath.
"I remember you saying something along the lines of 'I want to be the world's strongest swordsman' when I first took you on as an apprentice," Kouzaburo murmured. His voice soft, yet the wind carried his words to Zoro's ears.
A parched tongue darted out to moisten cracked lips, the taste of iron still lingering in his mouth as he silently hoped the conversation wouldn't take the turn he feared.
A brief scowl flickered across the young boy's face, darkening his features, before his expression settled into something more resolute. He crossed his arms defiantly, his gaze drifting out to the endless expanse of the sea, where the horizon met the sky in a seamless line.
"And that's gonna be my goal until I get that title," Zoro declared, his voice rough yet determined, the words carrying the weight of his ambition. A roguish smile tugged at his lips, a hint of wildness in his eyes that spoke of the challenges ahead.
Kouzaburo hummed thoughtfully, a low, contemplative sound that reverberated in the quiet air. He removed the kiseru from his lips, the long pipe still warm to the touch. Slowly, he exhaled, releasing a stream of smoke that formed hollow, concentric circles. The rings expanded outward, their edges fading into the air until they merged into one intricate shape—a single, unified circle.
"I'd be doing Silvers Rayleigh a disservice," Kouzaburo said, his voice carrying a sharp edge of disgust, "if I let trash like you leave this island to challenge him for a title so prestigious."
For a moment, Zoro could have sworn his heart had skipped a beat. His felt his chest tighten as he swallowed hard, releasing a slow, measured breath.
"For the past year, I've told you—before you pick up your swords and step into this camp, make sure there's no doubt about the path you want to take. Only then will I consider you ready to leave this island and chase the title of World's Strongest Swordsman." the old man said, his voice level, yet Zoro heard the derision in each word he uttered.
"Yet for some reason, every time you've come here in the past two months you've not only failed to pick up a single lesson but continuously fail to meet the standard I set when we first started training." Kouzaburo's voice dropped, each syllable like the slow, deliberate strike of a hammer. "You stand before me with the same raw potential I saw in you a year ago, but no progress, no clarity. Do you think your strength will come simply by swinging a sword, by going through the motions with half a mind on the fight?"
Zoro shifted his weight uncomfortably, his jaw tightening, but he kept silent, unwilling to voice the thoughts that plagued him. His fingers twitched as they flexed against his forearm, clinging to the barely contained anger bubbling beneath his skin.
Kouzaburo's eyes narrowed, his gaze unyielding. "A swordsman's path requires a clear mind and an unwavering will. Right now, you have neither. I've watched you stumble through your forms like a man wading through mud—each swing devoid of conviction, each step lacking purpose. Whatever's dragging you down, whatever storm's brewing in that mind of yours, it's staining your swordsmanship like rust on steel."
Zoro opened his mouth, a retort forming on his tongue, but the words died when Kouzaburo raised a hand, silencing him with a look that left no room for argument.
"Don't waste my time with excuses, Zoro," the old man continued, his tone as sharp as a blade. "Resolve whatever conflict you're hiding. Confront it, overcome it—do whatever you must. Until then, you are not worthy of holding a blade. No more training. Not until the man standing before me is certain of the path he wants to walk."
Zoro's eyes widened, a mix of frustration and desperation flickering across his face. "But—"
"No," Kouzaburo interrupted, the finality in his voice crushing any protest. He placed the kiseru back between his lips, taking a long, slow draw before exhaling, the smoke spiraling into the air like a quiet warning. "Return when you're ready, Zoro. Not a moment before."
And with that, he turned, his figure disappearing slowly into the shadows of the trees, leaving Zoro alone on the edge of the cliff, the vast ocean stretching endlessly before him—a reminder of the journey he dreamed of, now slipping further from his grasp.
Zoro clenched his fists, the wind whipping around him as he stood there, the weight of his master's words settling like lead in his chest.
Some time later...
"Stupid... fucking stupid," Zoro muttered, his voice laced with frustration as he stomped along the dirt paths weaving through the bustling heart of town. He wasn't sure if he was cursing himself or his master, but the words tasted bitter either way. His outfit flowed with every step—a pair of loose, wide-legged black pants cinched at the waist by a black obi belt, his white hakama top stark against the dirt and grime of the streets. An insignia sat proudly over his right breast, two crossed swords embroidered in bold red. He glanced down at it, scowling, the sight of it adding fuel to his irritation.
The town square was a chaotic sea of people. Every three months, the marketplace swelled with merchants, hawkers, and traders, drawn like flies to the scent of coin. Ships clogged the docks, unloading goods and greedy passengers eager to make a quick trade or bargain with locals who knew well enough to avoid getting swindled. Ordinarily, the influx of outsiders led to a surge in petty crime—pickpocketing, fistfights, the occasional stolen crate of fish. But this time, the crowd felt restrained, almost respectful.
Zoro knew why: the local swordsmen from Isshin Dojo, under Koushiro's command, were on high alert, and the townsfolk were quick to show their gratitude. The village owed its peace to the dojo, but only the elders remembered who was truly responsible for making swordsmanship so prevalent in Shimotsuki Village.
Despite the press of hundreds of bodies, not a single person brushed against Zoro. His steps were swift, purposeful, slicing through the crowd with the ease of a blade through water. Eventually, he reached the edge of the bustling square and veered left, heading towards Isshin Dojo.
From within the dojo's walls, excited voices rang out.
"You beat her too?!" a high-pitched voice asked, crackling with awe.
"I told you I'd do it today!" boasted another voice, loud and proud.
"Yeah, yeah, you've been saying that for a whole year," drawled a third, distinctly bored.
"Sh-shut up! You're just jealous 'cause you know you can't beat her," the loud boy stammered, defensive.
"Nah, it's just that I don't care enough to try," came the bored response, a hint of smugness seeping through. "It's not like it's impressive anymore, anyway. She's gone soft, man."
"It's so weird!" the first boy said. "You're, like, the eighth person to beat her in the past two months. Hard to believe there was a time when she was the strongest in the whole village."
"Doesn't matter," the loud boy cut in. "You're looking at the new strongest swordsman in Shimotsuki Villa—"
The sudden crash of sliding doors stopped the words dead in their tracks. All three boys turned, eyes widening as Zoro stepped into the room. Dressed in the dojo's training uniform, they froze: a short, wiry boy; a lanky, dark-haired one leaning casually on a kendo stick; and a red-headed, pudgy boy with his fist still raised in mid-air, his triumphant grin fading fast.
The air thickened. Each of them felt it, the weight pressing on their chests as Zoro's gaze settled on them like a drawn blade. In an instant, he closed the distance, moving so quickly the wiry boy and the lanky one barely registered his approach. Before the redhead could react, Zoro had him by the throat, lifting him clear off the ground and slamming him back against the row of wooden training dummies.
The boy's hands clawed at Zoro's grip, his face rapidly turning from pale to a painful shade of red. Zoro's fingers tightened around his neck, unyielding, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.
"You could beat her two thousand times and still wouldn't be half the swordsman she is. Got that?"
The boy's eyes bulged, his face as red as raw meat, but he managed a shaky nod, terror etched into every feature.
But Zoro's anger had taken root, his grip only tightening as he held the boy up, watching as fear gave way to fading consciousness in the boy's panicked eyes. A dark satisfaction curled within him, a grim thrill at seeing the arrogant words choke off along with the boy's air.
"Zoro! Enough!"
The voice cut through the haze of Zoro's fury like a blade through smoke. He turned, still clutching the redhead by the throat, his eyes meeting the sharp, unyielding gaze of Daiki—a swordsman known throughout Shimotsuki Village, one of the few that Zoro begrudgingly acknowledged as his superior.
The short, bald-headed boy, who had slipped out to find help, now stood behind Daiki, looking both relieved and terrified.
The man had cropped hair, dressed in a traditional black martial arts uniform, matching the uniform of the other students, but his attire includes a light-colored cloak draped over his shoulders. He wears a red insignia on the left side of his chest, which resembles two crossed swords.
Daiki's expression was cold as he crossed his arms, a warning clear in his tone. "Let him go. Now. You're too far above them to be bullying."
A flicker of irritation crossed Zoro's face, but he dropped the boy unceremoniously, letting him crumple to the floor. The redhead scrambled back, gasping and clutching at his throat, casting a fearful glance over his shoulder before he scurried to the other side of the room.
Zoro straightened, rolling his shoulders as he fixed Daiki with a challenging stare. "Or what?"
Daiki's face remained impassive, but he rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze steady. "Then I'd recommend you pick on someone your own size."
Zoro's scowl twisted into a grin, the bloodthirsty gleam in his eyes intensifying. He took a step forward, fingers flexing at his sides, eager for a real fight. "Gladly."
For a tense moment, the two locked eyes, the air between them humming with unspoken promises of violence.
Then a firm, steady voice sliced through the silence.
"Enough."
Both Zoro and Daiki turned to see Kuina standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She met Zoro's gaze, her look cool and assessing. "Outside. Now."
Without waiting for his response, she turned and strode out of the dojo. Zoro clenched his jaw, frustration simmering in his chest, but he knew better than to ignore her. Casting one last glare at Daiki, he followed her out, leaving the dojo behind.
The two walked in silence, Kuina leading the way through the winding paths that cut across the countryside. Zoro's anger simmered at first, his mind replaying the smug voices, the insults, and Daiki's interference. But as the hours passed, the tension in his shoulders slowly began to ease, replaced by a grudging calm.
By the time they reached the cliff's edge overlooking the village, the sun had dipped low, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The view was breathtaking, the rolling hills bathed in the last light of day, but Zoro barely noticed, too busy stewing in his lingering frustration.
Kuina finally stopped, crossing her arms as she turned to face him. "What the hell was that back there, Zoro?"
Zoro met her gaze, a flicker of defiance still in his eyes. "They were talking trash about you. Saying things like you'd 'fallen off' and weren't the strongest anymore. I wasn't gonna let them get away with it."
Kuina's expression softened, but only slightly. "So you thought choking one of them was the best way to handle it?"
"They needed to learn some respect," Zoro muttered, looking away.
Kuina sighed, glancing out over the village below. For a while, she didn't say anything, just letting the silence stretch between them, the wind tugging gently at their clothes.
"I don't need you fighting my battles, Zoro," she said quietly. "Especially not like that. You're stronger than them, yes, but that strength means nothing if you use it to bully people."
Zoro clenched his fists, the words digging into him. "It's not about bullying. It's about—"
"Pride?" she interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Honor? Do you think that's what I want? For you to hurt people just to defend some image of me?"
Zoro opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, uncertain. He hadn't thought of it that way. To him, it was only natural to defend her name; she was the strongest person he knew, the one he aspired to surpass one day. But seeing the hurt in her eyes now, he felt an uncomfortable knot form in his chest.
"It's not about what they say," Kuina continued, her gaze softening. "People talk. They'll always talk. What matters is how we carry ourselves, how we prove our strength—not just in fights, but in how we treat others."
Zoro looked down, the weight of her words sinking in. He felt a prickling sense of shame, the realization that maybe, just maybe, he'd gone too far.
After a long silence, he finally muttered, "...I get it. I'll… try to be better about it."
Kuina offered a small, approving nod, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Good. Because one day, when you're the strongest swordsman in the world, you'll need to remember that strength isn't just for yourself. It's for everyone who believes in you, everyone who's ever looked up to you."
She turned her gaze back to the sunset, her eyes distant, thoughtful. "And that includes me."
Zoro's breath hitched, the weight of her words settling over him. For the first time in a long while, he felt the fire of his ambition tempered by something deeper, something that felt like responsibility.
"What happened to you?" he murmured.
The question drew a questioning gaze from Kuina, not understanding where it was coming from.
"Ever since our last fight you've... changed," Zoro's voice was low, but there was a quiet anger simmering beneath his words. "I couldn't find you for days after that fight. The only time I even heard anything about you was from whispers at the dojo. People were saying you got beaten by some no-name brat, and it wasn't just once. Over and over, for the past two months, I kept hearing it. And every time, it made me angrier."
Kuina's face fell, but Zoro's words kept coming, fueled by frustration and something deeper. "I worked my ass off, training day and night to be strong enough to defeat you, to finally make that win mean something. But what do you do? The moment I manage it, you turn around and let every wet-behind-the-ears kid in the dojo do the same! Do you know how much that disrespects all the hard work I've put in?" He clenched his fists, his voice rough with emotion. "Do your blades mean anything to you anymore, Kuina? Does swordsmanship mean anything to you?"
Silence hung between them, heavy and unbroken, until Kuina finally took a shaky breath. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper, fragile as glass. "After our fight… that night… I ran into my father."
She swallowed, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the hilt of her sword. "We… we talked about what happened. I told him I was proud of you, of how strong you'd become. I told him that your victory inspired me, that it made me want to work harder so I wouldn't lose to you again, and leave no doubt that I would become the World's Strongest Swordsman."
Her voice faltered, and she looked away, her expression crumpling as the memory surfaced, raw and painful. "And do you know what he said, Zoro?" She let out a shaky breath, her eyes filling with tears that she could no longer hold back. "He… he told me that if I had been born a boy, my dream of becoming the World's Strongest Swordsman might have been possible."
Zoro's eyes widened as he watched her, his anger dissolving into something else—a mixture of confusion, disbelief, and a dawning understanding of the weight she carried.
Kuina's hands tightened around her sword as she continued, her voice breaking. "He looked at me… he looked right at me and said, 'Your breasts are starting to grow.' As if… as if that was all he needed to say to remind me I'd never be good enough. Just because I was a girl." She choked on a sob, pressing a hand to her mouth as the tears streamed down her cheeks, each one heavy with the pain she'd been trying to bury.
Zoro felt something twist in his chest as he watched her, a hollow ache he couldn't quite describe. He'd never seen Kuina like this, never seen the fierce, unbreakable Kuina reduced to tears. But he didn't interrupt. He just stood there, letting her words sink in, feeling a helplessness that clawed at his insides.
Kuina wiped her eyes, but the tears kept falling, her voice shaking as she continued, "I wanted to believe so badly that I could do it, that I could be strong enough to prove everyone wrong. But… my own father… he made it so clear that no matter how hard I tried, it would never be enough. Because I was born like this."
She looked up at Zoro, her face streaked with tears, her expression filled with a heartbreaking vulnerability he'd never seen before. "You're lucky, Zoro. You're lucky you were born a boy. You get to chase this dream without anyone telling you it's impossible just because of what you are." Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the sound of her tears. "For you, it's just about strength. For me… it feels like the world is set against me, as if every step forward is just another reminder of all the ways I'm supposed to fail."
Zoro's chest felt tight, his mind reeling. He wanted to say something, anything, to take away the pain he saw in her eyes. But the words wouldn't come. He realized, maybe for the first time, that the strength they both chased meant something entirely different to each of them.
"Kuina…" he began, his voice thick, unsure. But he didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to make any of this right.
Kuina took a shaky breath, her eyes locked onto his with a fierce, desperate determination. "That's why… that's why I let myself lose, Zoro. After what he said, it felt like nothing I did would ever matter. Like maybe… maybe I should just give up now and save myself the heartbreak of fighting a battle I'm destined to lose." She closed her eyes, her tears flowing freely. "I don't want to feel this way, but I don't know how to make it stop."
Zoro clenched his jaw, his heart pounding. He stepped forward, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder, firm and steady. "Then don't give up," he said quietly, his voice filled with a fierce resolve. "I don't care what anyone says, not even your father. You're the strongest person I know, Kuina. And I don't want to be the World's Strongest Swordsman if it means beating anyone less than that."
Kuina looked up at him, her tear-streaked face softening as a glimmer of hope flickered in her eyes. For the first time in a long while, she felt something other than doubt—a spark of strength, buried deep but still there, waiting to be reignited.
"Zoro…" she whispered, her voice trembling, but this time, it was filled with something closer to determination than despair.
Zoro's grip on her shoulder was firm, grounding her in the moment as his voice cut through the lingering weight of her emotions. "Don't let them take this from you," he said, his tone low but steady, every word carrying an intensity that made her heart pause. His dark eyes locked onto hers, fierce and unyielding. "Don't let anyone tell you what you can or can't be. Not your father. Not some punk at the dojo. Not even yourself."
For a moment, there was silence between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, suddenly, a spark lit behind Zoro's eyes, and the corners of his mouth tugged into a lopsided grin.
"Tomorrow," he declared, his voice brimming with newfound energy.
Kuina blinked, caught off guard. "...Tomorrow?" she echoed, her voice tinged with confusion.
"Yeah," he said, his grin widening. "Tomorrow, same time, same place—our old training ground. We'll meet there, every day, and we'll sharpen our blades together. No more running, no more second-guessing. We'll push each other until we're ready to leave this village and chase that dream for real."
His hand shot out toward her, rough and calloused from years of training, palm open in invitation.
Kuina stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in as her heart swelled with something she hadn't felt in weeks—hope. A long moment passed before her lips curved into a small, fond smile, one that softened her usually sharp features.
"You're such a dummy," she said quietly, though her voice was warm with affection.
And then she stepped forward, reaching out to clasp his hand in her own, her grip firm despite the tears still glistening on her cheeks. "I promise," she said, her voice steady now, carrying a strength that had been missing for far too long.
Their hands lingered for a moment, a silent pact forged in the glow of the fading sunlight. Neither of them spoke, but they didn't need to. They both knew that from this moment on, they would carry each other forward, blade against blade, dream against dream, until the world finally took notice.
A couple hours later...
A piercing scream shattered the stillness of the night, sharp and haunting, like a blade slicing through silence. Zoro's eyes snapped open, instincts honed by countless hours of training taking over. Without a second thought, his hands found the hilts of the katanas resting near his bed, the scabbards clattering to the floor as the naked steel gleamed faintly in the moonlight.
The room around him was bathed in shadows, but Zoro's gaze was razor-sharp as it darted from corner to corner. His breaths were measured, steady, as he crouched low, his movements fluid and deliberate. He crept toward the sliding doors, each step calculated, his bare feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor.
Reaching the door, he paused, fingers brushing against the edge of the frame. Slowly, he slid it open just enough to peer outside, his body rigid as he strained to hear anything beyond the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. The air was thick with tension, and the silence that followed the scream felt almost oppressive, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Nothing.
Zoro slipped through the door, landing silently on the ground below, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. The cool night air bit at his skin, carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant tang of steel. His eyes scanned the courtyard, sharp and unrelenting, and then he saw them.
Figures moved with purpose through the gloom, their shadows darting like specters beneath the moon's glow. Daiki and his cronies, their hurried strides unmistakable, were heading toward the dojo. Zoro's eyes narrowed, the sight confirming what he suspected—the scream had come from there.
His grip on his swords tightened, the weight of the blades grounding him as his mind raced. Whatever was waiting at the dojo, it had roused more than just him. But the question burned in his mind: What could have caused a scream like that?
Without hesitation, Zoro began to follow, his steps silent and his senses sharp, every nerve on edge as the suspense of the night hung heavily around him.
Zoro kept close behind the group, his eyes fixed on Daiki's hurried silhouette as they closed in on the dojo. The structure loomed ahead, its shadow stretching ominously under the moonlight. The faint creak of the wind against the wooden beams seemed to echo the tension coursing through the air.
Daiki reached the entrance first, his posture tense as he barked orders to his men. "Spread out! Search every room. If you find anything—or anyone—report back immediately."
He turned to Zoro, pointing with an air of authority that made the swordsman's teeth clench. "You too. Check the west wing."
Zoro's eyes narrowed, his grip on his swords tightening as his irritation flared. "I'll go," he said, his voice low and sharp, "but if you try ordering me around again, I'll cut something off." His tone left no room for doubt, and for a brief moment, Daiki faltered, though he quickly masked it with a scowl.
Without waiting for a response, Zoro turned toward the west wing, his movements fluid and purposeful. Despite his irritation, Zoro knew the situation called for focus, not grudges. Lives could be at stake, and he wasn't about to let his pride get in the way.
The hallways inside the dojo were eerily silent, the faint glow of lanterns casting long, flickering shadows along the walls.
He passed by a series of sliding doors, each door he passed seemed to hold its breath, the quiet amplifying every creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. The faint sound of muffled breathing catching his attention as he moved. Stopping at one of the doors, Zoro slid it open just enough to peer inside.
A small group of children huddled together in the corner, their wide eyes filled with terror. The eldest of the group clutched a wooden kendo stick, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly, holding it out defensively as Zoro stepped into view.
"Stay here," Zoro said firmly, his voice steady despite the unease creeping into his chest. "I'll send someone to get you. But if anyone comes in who you don't recognize…" He gestured to the kendo sticks scattered around the room. "Pick those up and fight like your lives depend on it. Don't hesitate. Understand?"
The eldest boy nodded, his grip tightening on the stick as determination replaced some of the fear in his eyes. Zoro nodded and stepped back, sliding the door shut behind him before continuing down the hall.
The tension in the air grew heavier with every step, the dim light from a single lantern casting flickering shadows on the walls. As he passed another junction, a figure at the far end of the corridor caught his eye. A boy—no older than ten—stood there, frozen in place, his hand clamped over his mouth, eyes wide with a mix of fear and horror, staring at something Zoro couldn't yet see.
Zoro's muscles tensed, his mind racing as he considered the possibilities.
'Is he hurt? Or is there something—' He didn't finish the thought, instead springing into motion, his footsteps light but deliberate as he closed the distance, his swords ready for whatever might lie ahead.
The boy didn't move, didn't make a sound, even as Zoro stopped in front of him.
"Hey," Zoro called softly, his voice firm but not unkind, as he approached. "What are you—"
He stopped short.
The boy's gaze flickered past Zoro, and for the first time, Zoro noticed the staircase just beyond. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes followed the line of the boy's horrified stare.
There, at the base of the staircase, her body lay crumpled at the base of the training platform, her hakama soaked with blood that pooled around her, glistening dark and wet under the moonlight.
"Kuina…"
The name escaped his lips in a whisper, a raw, disbelieving sound as the weight of the scene before him crashed down. Time seemed to slow, every detail searing itself into his mind—the way her hair fanned out on the wooden floor, the unnatural stillness of her form, the faint glimmer of her sword lying just out of reach and beside it, a tanto stained red with blood gripped in her hand.
Harakiri.
Zoro's world tilted.
His head throbbed violently as his heart raced out of control. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his chest tightening as if an invisible weight pressed down on him. His eyes stayed transfixed on her form, disbelief flooding every corner of his mind.
The katana in his hands clattered to the floor as his trembling fingers moved to clutch his head. His knees buckled, his entire body numb, and sweat slicked his forehead as a low, anguished groan tore from his throat.
No. This isn't real.
Just as the world around him threatened to collapse entirely, a firm hand gripped his shoulder, grounding him. Zoro's tear-filled eyes turned to meet Daiki's remorseful gaze.
"I… I'm sorry," Daiki murmured, his voice thick with remorse.
Zoro stared at him, his vision blurred by tears. He couldn't speak, couldn't find the words to match the storm of emotions raging inside him.
Daiki stepped past him, his expression grave as he removed his cloak and gently draped it over Kuina's lifeless body. Zoro's eyes followed the motion, his throat tightening as the finality of it settled over him.
Footsteps echoed down the stairs, each one deliberate and unhurried. Zoro's head snapped up, his blurred vision sharpening as Koushiro emerged from the shadows, his face impassive as he took in the scene.
The rage that surged through Zoro's veins was like nothing he'd ever felt before. A guttural cry erupted from him as he surged forward, his vision tunneling on Koushiro.
"This is your fault!" Zoro roared, his voice cracking as he stormed past Daiki and toward Koushiro.
But before he could reach him, a man's voice rang out from behind him, calm yet commanding.
"Zoro, stop."
The sheer authority in those two words froze Zoro mid-step, his fists trembling at his sides. Tears streamed down his face as he glared at Koushiro, his chest heaving with the weight of his grief and fury.
Koushiro's gaze shifted to Zoro, his expression still impassive. "Zoro—"
"Don't say my name!" Zoro roared, his voice cracking under the weight of his anguish. He took a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. "You made her believe she wasn't good enough. You made her think her dream was worthless. And now... she's gone!"
Tears streaked down his face as he glared at the dojo master, his chest heaving with the force of his emotions. "She promised me she wouldn't give up! She promised! But you broke her, just like you break everyone who dares to dream of something bigger than this stupid dojo!"
Zoro didn't want apologies or explanations. He wanted to scream, to fight, to make the man before him feel even a fraction of the pain that was tearing him apart.
His fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, blood welling beneath them. "I hope you see her face every time you close your eyes. I hope it stays with you every single day until the moment you die. And I hope it tears you apart, just like you tore her apart. "
Koushiro's impassive mask faltered—a shadow of guilt crossing his features and his eyes flickering with something that might have been regret. But Zoro didn't wait for a response.
He turned on his heel, his steps heavy with rage and heartbreak as he walked past Kouzaburo and into the night. The cool air stung his tear-streaked face, but he welcomed the pain—it was a distraction from the unbearable ache in his chest.
As he disappeared into the shadows, one thought burned in his mind, driving the pain even deeper into his heart.
'You promised.'
Kouzaburo watched his student disappear into the night, his heart heavy for the boy.
He turned back towards his son.
A small ways to his left, the lone boy whispered, his voice quivering. "I… I found her like this. I didn't know what to do…"
Kouzaburo's gaze lingered on the boy for a moment, his expression softening from the hard lines of his earlier confrontation. He crouched down to meet the boy's eye level, his voice low and steady.
"You did the right thing by staying here," Kouzaburo said, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Why don't you and Daiki go and tell all the other students that they can go back to sleep, huh?"
The boy hesitated, his small frame trembling as he glanced again at Kuina's body. Kouzaburo squeezed his shoulder gently but firmly. "Go. Now."
Daiki stepped forward, his hand replacing Kouzaburo's on the boy's shoulder as he steered the young boy away. The boy nodded shakily, his steps hesitant as he shuffled past Koushiro, he and Daiki's forms disappearing down the hall.
Kouzaburo rose slowly, his back straight despite the weight of the moment. He turned his attention to Koushiro, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like the sharp edge of a blade.
"You should have protected her," Kouzaburo said, each word deliberate, his eyes locking onto his son's impassive face.
"I tried," Koushiro replied, his voice calm but lacking its usual conviction. He didn't look away, even as his father's gaze bore into him.
"Tried?" Kouzaburo's tone hardened, his voice rising slightly. "You didn't try hard enough. A father doesn't try. A father does."
Koushiro's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Kouzaburo stepped closer, hand gripping the hilt of the blade at his waist. "She believed in strength, Koushiro. Not the empty words of ideals you preached to her every day."
"She was strong," Koushiro said quietly, his eyes momentarily flickering with a deep sadness before returning to their unreadable calm. "She was stronger than anyone realized."
"And yet, she's gone," Kouzaburo shot back. His grip tightened on the sword, his knuckles whitening. "Because you let her drown in doubts you planted. You think a dream can survive when the person meant to nurture it snuffs it out?"
"Where did I go wrong with you, my son?" the old man murmured, his grip on the blade weakening as if the strength had drained from his hands.
Koushiro flinched almost imperceptibly, but Kouzaburo caught it. His words grew softer but no less piercing. "She deserved better than what you gave her."
For a long moment, neither man spoke. The air between them seemed to vibrate with the weight of what was left unsaid.
Finally, Koushiro broke the silence. "I know," he admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "I know I failed her."
Kouzaburo's expression hardened, but he didn't speak. Instead, he turned toward the staircase, his steps measured as he neared the base.
Upon reaching it, he paused, glancing down at Kuina's still form. He knelt beside her, picking up Wado Ichimonji and placing it gently across her chest.
"This blade deserves to be wielded by someone who understands what it means to honor a dream," he murmured, his voice quiet but resolute. "And I will see that it finds such a person."
He straightened, his eyes momentarily lingering on the moonlight filtering through the window, casting pale light over Kuina's face.
"Take her body to the village crypt," Kouzaburo ordered, his voice steady but laced with sorrow. "She will be cremated by the end of the week. Her ashes are to rest alongside her mother's at the family grave. I'll carve her name into the gravestone myself." His eyes lingered on the girl's face, her serene expression frozen in death, a cruel mockery of peace.
Koushiro's face darkened, his jaw tightening as his father's final words struck a nerve. "That responsibility is mine," he said, his voice trembling with restrained emotion. "As her father, it is my duty—"
But Kozuaburo had already turned, his footsteps echoing against the wooden floor as he moved toward the door. Koushiro's words faltered, caught in his throat, the silence between them deeper than the night outside.
"You forfeited that right long ago, my son," Kouzaburo said without turning back, his voice cold and sharp as steel. He stepped out into the darkness, leaving Koushiro behind, standing motionless at the top of the stairs. The younger man's shoulders sagged under the weight of those words, a burden heavier than any blade he had ever wielded.
Beyond the house, Zoro's shadow melted into the forest, his retreating figure swallowed by the trees. The night air hung heavy, its silence as profound and unyielding as Kouzaburo's judgment.
Kouzaburo followed Zoro's trail through the darkened forest, his sharp eyes tracking the boy's heavy steps. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the branches, illuminating the crushed foliage and disturbed dirt where Zoro had stormed through. The old man's hand rested on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji, its polished white scabbard reflecting the pale moonlight. The old man's heart weighed heavily in his chest, a mix of grief for Kuina and concern for the boy she had left behind.
As Kouzaburo neared the clearing of the training ground, he paused at its edge, his sharp eyes finding Zoro instantly. The boy knelt at its center, one of his katana plunged into the earth before him. He leaned against the blade, his head bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the guard. His shoulders trembled, his entire frame shaking with barely suppressed sobs. The sight tightened something deep in Kouzaburo's chest.
For a moment, he simply watched, uncertain of how to approach the boy in his grief. Zoro had always responded best to sternness, to the harsh discipline of training. But now, the way Zoro gripped the sword, the tension in his small body—it wasn't the stubbornness of a warrior fighting back tears. Kouzaburo saw a child—a boy who had just lost a part of himself.
Steeling himself, the old man approached, his steps deliberate but soft, careful not to startle Zoro. The boy didn't react, his shoulders shaking as he continued to struggle against his tears, gripping the hilt of his katana as though it was the only thing tethering him to the earth, his mind drowning in a torrent of anguish. The old man's presence was nothing but a shadow on the edge of his consciousness, a faint echo of the world outside his pain.
"Zoro," Kouzaburo called gently, his voice stripped of its usual sharpness. But the boy didn't move, his grief so consuming that he seemed unaware of the old man's presence.
Kouzaburo sighed, coming to stand beside him. "Crying doesn't make you weak my boy," he said, his tone low and steady. "It's what makes us human. Your tears don't make you any less of a man—they make you stronger. Only by shedding them and confronting our pain can we begin to understand ourselves, to truly grow. It's okay to cry."
Zoro's breath hitched at the words and his resolve broke like a dam under pressure. The katana slipped from his grip, the blade embedding deeper into the earth as he turned toward Kouzaburo. His hands grasped the old man's robe, and with a sob that tore from the deepest part of his chest, Zoro buried his face in Kouzaburo's shoulder.
Kouzaburo placed a comforting hand on the boy's head in a rare gesture of comfort, his fingers lightly pressing against Zoro's hair. "Let it out my boy," he said softly. "Let it out."
The floodgates opened, and Zoro's muffled cries filled the stillness of the night. His tears soaked into Kouzaburo's robe as the boy clung to him, pouring out all the anguish, rage, and heartbreak that had been threatening to consume him since Kuina's death.
Minutes passed, though it felt like an eternity, before Zoro's sobs began to quiet. His grip on Kouzaburo loosened, and he pulled back slightly, wiping at his tear-streaked face with trembling hands.
Kouzaburo crouched slightly, meeting Zoro's gaze. The boy's face was streaked with grief, his eyes were red and swollen, and for once, no flicker of determination or purpose in them.
"You know," Kouzaburo began, his voice calm and deliberate, "in all my years in this village, you and Kuina are the only two people I've ever met who dared to dream of something greater. Something beyond these forests, these mountains, this life you've been taught to accept."
Zoro's gaze flickered with recognition as he sniffled, attentive to the old man's words.
"Two children," the old man continued, "who believed they could become the World's Strongest Swordsman. A dream so grand it scared even me." He chuckled faintly, though there was no humor in the sound. "But it was a dream worth chasing."
The boy remained silent as slight hiccups escaped him.
"I won't tell you to keep fighting," Kouzaburo continued, his tone softening. "That choice doesn't belong to me. But what I will say is this—you have a decision to make. Will the dream you and Kuina shared stay here, trapped in this village and buried alongside her? Or will you carry it with you, beyond these shores, into the world where it can truly live?"
As he spoke, Kouzaburo removed Wado Ichimonji from his belt, lifting the sword with both hands. The polished white scabbard gleamed in the moonlight, its craftsmanship a testament to its importance. He extended it toward Zoro, his hands steady.
"This sword belonged to someone who understood the weight of a dream," he said. "And now, it belongs to you."
Zoro's eyes widened, his hands hesitating as they reached for the blade. He looked up at Kouzaburo, searching for confirmation, and the old man gave him a single nod.
Tears welled in Zoro's eyes again, but this time, they didn't fall. He gripped the sword firmly, feeling its weight in his hands, a tangible reminder of the promise he had made to Kuina.
Kouzaburo straightened, his gaze lingering on the boy for a moment longer before he turned to leave.
"Remember, Zoro," Kouzaburo said. "The world will never understand the weight of that dream. But if anyone can show them its worth, it's you."
And with that, he disappeared into the darkness, leaving Zoro alone in the clearing, clutching Wado Ichimonji as the weight of his grief began to transform into something else—a purpose.
At the end of that week
The rain fell steadily, soft yet relentless, as if the skies mourned Kuina alongside those who had gathered to honor her memory. The entire village turned out despite the dreary weather, their faces heavy with sorrow as they paid tribute to the young swordswoman who had embodied strength, determination, and promise. Among the crowd stood merchants and swordsmiths—some of whom traced their roots back to Shimotsuki Village—united by their connection to Kuina's family and the dojo, whose teachings had supported their livelihoods for generations.
The procession began at the Isshin Dojo, Kuina's body wrapped in pristine white and placed upon a simple wooden platform. Her serene expression, now forever at peace, was illuminated by the flickering glow of lanterns carried by the villagers. The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and faint traces of incense, creating a solemn and reflective atmosphere. Quiet murmurs and muffled sobs broke the stillness, a testament to the shared grief that bound the village together.
Leading the procession was Koushiro, his face a carefully maintained mask of stoic grief. He walked with deliberate steps, the weight of his daughter's loss palpable in his movements. Beside him, Daiki kept his head bowed, his silence unbroken, though his posture betrayed the guilt and regret lingering from the night of Kuina's death. A few steps behind them followed Kouzaburo, his expression somber yet firm, his presence radiating an unspoken strength. By his side walked Zoro, holding Wado Ichimonji close to his chest. Though his hands trembled slightly, his expression spoke of a resolve forged from the loss of his only friend and rival.
The procession wove through the village streets, lined with mourners. Some villagers held umbrellas or improvised coverings against the rain, while others stood unshielded, letting the rain soak them as they bowed their heads in prayer or pressed their hands together in silent respect. Elders who had watched Kuina grow into a prodigy stood alongside children who had admired her strength and resolve, each touched in some way by her life and her dream.
As the procession reached the burial site, the rain softened, a light drizzle now falling as if the skies were bidding a quiet farewell. Kuina's ashes were to be placed in the family grave, beside those of her mother. Her body, like those of all the villagers, is cremated in the village crypt, located near the cemetery. This allows the ashes to be placed in an urn and immediately interred in their grave. The villagers formed a wide circle around the burial site, their collective grief echoing in the silence. Kouzaburo stepped forward, his hands steady as he positioned the grave marker he had personally prepared. The gravestone stood modest but elegant, carved from a polished gray stone that gleamed faintly under the rain. It bore her name, her place of birth, her age, and the date of her passing. At the bottom of the marker, the name Shimotsuki Kouzaburo was inscribed—a silent acknowledgment of his role in honoring her memory.
Kouzaburo stepped forward to address the gathered crowd. His voice, though weathered, carried clearly over the rain. "Kuina was more than a daughter or a student. She was a dreamer, a warrior, a reminder of what it means to believe in something greater than oneself. Let her legacy be one that inspires us to hold fast to our dreams, no matter the odds."
Having spoken the final words of the ceremony, his weathered hand rested briefly on the marker. He glanced at Zoro, who stood a few paces away, his head high and his grip on Wado Ichimonji unwavering.
As her body was placed in the crypt to await cremation, Zoro stepped closer, his head bowed in silent tribute. The rain traced paths down his face, indistinguishable from the tears that threatened to fall. He didn't look at Koushiro, nor at Daiki. His focus was on Wado Ichimonji, the blade now a symbol of everything Kuina had left behind.
Zoro's gaze was steady, filled with purpose. The dream he now carried—the dream he and Kuina had once shared—would not end here. It would endure, fueled by the fire she had ignited in him the first time he lost a fight against her.
When the ceremony ended, the villagers lingered briefly, offering their prayers and condolences before departing, leaving the family and closest mourners to linger. The weight of Kuina's absence pressing on them like the rain-soaked sky above.
After some time, Kouzaburo placed a steady hand on Zoro's shoulder before turning to leave. Zoro remained behind a moment longer, gazing at her name on the gravestone.
At the Shimotsuki Family home
The soft glow of lanterns illuminated the gathering of villagers seated around the spacious common room, gathered in hushed reverence. The rain from earlier had given way to a cool evening breeze, and the air was thick with incense and the muted murmur of conversation, the kind of subdued chatter that follows a communal loss. Lanterns cast a warm, flickering glow over the somber faces of those who had come to honor Kuina's memory. At the center, a low table bore bowls of purifying salt, with each villager bowing deeply as they took a handful to brush over their shoulders and arms and lastly, to sprinkle lightly across their foreheads, a ritual meant to cleanse their spirits and rid their bodies of lingering impurities and defilement.
Zoro watched the solemn process with a mixture of curiosity and impatience, his young hands twitching by his sides. He lingered just outside the main room, hesitant to step in, his mind still heavy with the events of the past week.
Turning to head inside, Zoro's sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement to the side of the house. His curiosity piqued, he quietly padded over, the sounds of the gathering fading behind him.
There, just beyond the threshold, he spotted Kouzaburo standing with a man who seemed distinctly out of place. The man's distinctive bald head was flanked by hair styled to resemble wings sprouting from the sides. His thin face, piercing eyes, and furrowed brows gave him an air of nervous intensity.
The man shifted anxiously, his fingers twitching against the folds of his black outfit, his narrow eyes darting toward the stacked straw case beside him.
Zoro hung back, his curiosity piqued. He caught snippets of the exchange.
"Sensei," the man said, his tone wavering. "I'm not asking for much—just enough to cover my costs."
Kouzaburo's gaze was as sharp as ever. "Seven hundred Berries," he said firmly. "Not a single coin more."
The man stiffened, his mouth twitching as if preparing to argue, but the old swordsmith's commanding presence seemed to sap his courage. His shoulders slumped, "But it cost me 1000 Berries to produce those swords," he mumbled, barely above a whisper.
Kouzaburo's ears, however, missed nothing. As he turned to leave, he called back, "You should've thought about that before trying to swindle me. Business, boy, is as much about skill as it is about character."
Without looking, Kouzaburo added, "Zoro, pick a sword you like from his batch."
Zoro flinched, startled. He hadn't realized Kouzaburo had noticed him. But the old man's words, so casually spoken, carried an undeniable authority. Zoro approached the straw case where the man, now startled by Zoro's silent approach, had stored his swords.
"H-hey, kid," the man stammered, visibly unnerved. "I'm Ipponmatsu, by the way. A swordsmith. What's your name?"
Zoro didn't reply, his focus entirely on the swords. Ipponmatsu let out an awkward laugh, scratching his head. "Right, not much of a talker, huh? Well, pick carefully. Not every sword in there is... ordinary."
Still keeping his silence, Zoro's focus was solely on the blades as his fingers brushed against their sheaths. Ipponmatsu cleared his throat nervously and tried again. "You're lucky. Sensei doesn't usually buy my swords… let alone for someone else. Every time I come here, he usually just acts as a liaison between me and the dojo for the senior students."
That caught Zoro's attention. "You know Master?" he asked, sparing a brief glance toward the man.
Ipponmatsu hesitated, his expression a mix of embarrassment and nostalgia. "He taught me everything I know about sword smithing," he admitted. "But… I wasn't much of a student. Even after I left this village to open a shop in Loguetown, I couldn't make it work. So now… well, now I just travel back here to sell what I can."
Zoro returned his attention to the swords, his expression unreadable. "No wonder these swords are trash," he muttered, earning a startled yelp from Ipponmatsu.
Zoro paid the man's reaction no mind, too busy sorting through the weapons with a practiced eye. Most were serviceable but uninspiring. Until his hand brushed against a hilt. It was cold, almost unnaturally so. He drew the sword partially from its sheath, and his breath caught.
The blade was mesmerizing, its white edge gleaming under the lamplight, the blue hamon curling like flames. The hilt was wrapped in reddish-brown with a golden clasp at its center and a matching kashira pommel. Its deep red sheath mirrored the hilt's design, accented by two golden clasps and a golden kojiri end cap. A golden tsuba, shaped like a cross pattée, added an air of regality. As the sword was fully unsheathed, a shiver ran through Zoro and the atmosphere seemed to shift, the air growing heavier and charged with an almost palpable energy.
Ipponmatsu paled, his earlier nervousness giving way to outright fear. "T-that's Sandai Kitetsu," he stammered. "A cursed sword. Dangerous. Lethal. Every swordsman who's tried to wield it has—"
"Died," Zoro finished, his voice calm, his eyes locked on the blade. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Perfect."
"What? No! Not perfect!" Ipponmatsu cried, stepping back. "You're just a kid! You don't know what you're dealing with!"
Zoro ignored him, his attention fixed on the sword. He walked outside, holding the blade upright. Without a word, he tossed it into the air, the blade spinning as it ascended. Ipponmatsu let out a strangled gasp as Zoro extended his arm, directly in the sword's trajectory.
"Kid, don't—!"
Time seemed to slow as the blade descended, glinting ominously under the lantern light. Ipponmatsu squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the worst.
With a sharp thunk, the sword embedded itself into the ground, mere centimeters from Zoro's arm. Not a single scratch marred his skin.
Zoro grinned, triumphant. "Looks like it chose me."
Ipponmatsu gawked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Y-you… You're crazy," he stammered. "No one's ever survived that sword's curse!"
"I'll take it," Zoro declared, his tone final.
His fear slowly giving way to awe, Ipponmatsu closed his mouth. "Y-you… You're insane. But…" He swallowed hard, his expression shifting to respect. "You're something else, kid." His expression shifted, as if struck by an epiphany, "Wait here."
He retrieved another sword from his collection, this one wrapped in a brown vertical box, as if to keep it separated from the other swords.
"This is Yubashiri." He said as he unboxed the sword, "It's been in my family for generations. I'd rather give it to someone who can tame Sandai Kitetsu than let it gather dust."
Yubashiri was a long katana with a black handle. It had a cross-shaped guard and a black lacquered sheath. The blade itself was simple in appearance, but no less exquisite and its pattern was midareba or irregular pattern. Though mostly black, the sheath and the handle both had thin yet elaborate gold designs on them.
As Zoro accepted the blade, Kouzaburo reappeared, carrying Ipponmatsu's payment. His sharp gaze landed on Sandai Kitetsu in Zoro's hand.
"A dangerous sword," Kouzaburo said, his tone neutral. "But not a cursed one. Only the weak call it cursed because they fear it. The strong see it as an honor—a blade that yearns to be deadly is a blade worthy of respect."
"But, Sensei," Ipponmatsu protested, "every swordsman who's tried to wield it has died!"
Kouzaburo shrugged, his tone dismissive. "Swords are weapons, boy. They're meant to kill. A swordsmith's duty is to make them as deadly as possible. Every blade has a personality. It's up to the swordsman to decide whether they'll tame the sword—or let the sword tame them."
He turned his attention to Zoro, his gaze thoughtful as it fell on the three swords now in the boy's possession: Wado Ichimonji, Yubashiri, and Sandai Kitetsu. "Three swords, huh?" he mused. " Tell me, Zoro, how do you plan to wield them all?"
Zoro didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took Wado Ichimonji and, with a resolute expression, placed its hilt between his teeth. Holding Yubashiri in his right hand and Sandai Kitetsu in his left, he turned to face Kouzaburo.
"This is how," he said, his voice slightly muffled but brimming with determination. "From now on, I'm going to master the Santoryu."
Kouzaburo chuckled, a rare glimmer of pride in his eyes. "Then you'd better prepare yourself, boy," he said. "You've got a lot of work ahead of you.
Zoro's gaze hardened, his mind flashing back to his promise to Kuina. "I'm ready."
And with that, his journey as a practitioner of the Three-Sword Style truly began.