This morning, the courtyard behind the abandoned tannery—our chosen training ground—hummed with raw, unshaped energy. Gloves slapped against skin. Boots scraped dirt. Someone cursed; someone else wheezed like a bellows on its last breath. It was messy, chaotic... but alive.
We were thirteen. Just thirteen—a pitiful fraction of the two hundred or so native youths in Ranoa, yet the largest gathering of fighters since the war's end. Seven of them were still gangly with growth: George and Nate—fierce as twin mastiffs; Jay and Horace—mischief in motion, thinking they were subtle with their whispered jokes; and three newcomers, the youngest being Annabelle, Ludnica's freckle-spattered daughter.
The other four were like me—young adults who trained in the war's final years but never saw battle. No elders. No parents. I'd told George explicitly not to say a word about this to anyone unwilling to attend. Carlos didn't need the reminder—he knew.
I intended to keep us invisible… until we were impossible to ignore.
The seven kids stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a crooked line. I felt something like nostalgia stir in my chest as I walked in front of them, counting the beats aloud.
"One—jab. Two—cross. Three—hook. Four—uppercut. Five—knee. Six—elbow. Seven—leg kick. Eight—front kick."
They moved—out of sync, awkward, but eager.
I prowled the line, corrections snapping off my tongue.
"Jay—front foot springy, not rooted." I tapped it lightly.
A strangled laugh came from my left—Horace. His next uppercut was a full second late and stiff.
"You're amused?" I asked, and he froze mid-motion. "Shoulder's tense." I pressed it down. "Guard's missing." I mashed his right hand to his cheek. "Lead foot's crooked." A nudge of my boot showed him how quickly imbalance would drop him.
Jay wisely kept quiet.
Nate's hips didn't turn—nudge. George's heel dragged—kick of dust.
Annabelle's punches were straight, but her fists were loose. I gently folded her knuckles inward, tucking her fingers beneath her thumbs. "Lock the fist or break the hand. Your choice."
They reset. Sweat already beaded on their foreheads, but for the moment, their spirits held.
"You're all beginners," I reminded them, my voice hard but even. "You're supposed to be useless right now. Skill comes from repetition. Again—but lead with your right this time."
Behind them, the older group trained in pairs. Alki and Jamie were locked in a clinch drill—Alki, all immovable strength, Jamie a blur of kicks when he broke free. Carlos worked pads with a wiry lad named Bowen, each thud echoing like distant artillery.
It was all advanced work.
All extremely nostalgic.
After forty minutes, the cracks began to show. Shoulders slumped. Footwork tangled. The brightness drained from their eyes. Jay stopped trying to sneak jokes. Horace's smirk faded. Nate blinked sweat that looked a little too much like tears. Even George's ironclad stare began to flicker.
And when the kids started gathering their things to leave, the doubt crept in.
How many would even show up tomorrow? Six? Less?
Panic stabbed at me—a rare, unwelcome visitor. This was the first real hope I'd seen in six years. I wasn't going to watch it gutter out in silence.
"Kids!" I barked.
George's group stopped, eyeing me. George scowled—he hated being called a kid. I pointed to the ground. "Circle up. Ten paces across."
Grumbling, they obeyed.
The older fighters continued nearby, sparring, grappling, working through complex combinations. The kids kept sneaking glances at them. Good for inspiration, sure—but it grated on my nerves.
"Jamie!" I shouted.
The black-haired youth—just a year younger than me—paused mid-motion, still catching his breath from a jumping back kick that Alki had just blocked. Alki turned too, curious.
Jamie trotted over, his chest rising with easy confidence, sweat darkening his brow. He was a quick learner. Talented. Sharp.
"What's up?" he asked.
"You've seen Jamie train all day," I told the kids. "What stands out?"
George's hand shot up. "His flying kicks," he said, voice rough with awe. "Quicker than my jab."
Nate chimed in, "He chains moves together. Real fast."
Jay elbowed Horace. Never one to miss a cue, Horace added, "Flashy and hits like a horse."
"At least that's what it sounds like," Jay followed up.
Jamie's grin widened, ego puffing like a sail. I let it inflate for a moment... then pricked it.
"Jamie and I will spar," I announced.
Gasps. Even Jamie blinked in surprise.
"Eyes open. When we're done, I'll ask you a question."
Jamie swallowed but squared up. I dropped into the exact stance I'd drilled into the kids—square, balanced, plain. Right foot back, weight light on the lead. I didn't move. I just watched.
Jamie attacked first. Low kick—checked. Backfist—slipped. Spinning heel kick—barely missed.
My jab answered with surgical timing, stopping just short of his cheek. No damage. Just punctuation.
We reset. Again. And again.
For three straight minutes, Jamie unleashed every combination in his arsenal. Tornado kicks, cross-hooks, feint elbows, flying knees. Each one technically sound—but just a fraction off. A beat late. A step shallow. A guard too wide.
I parried. Blocked. Countered with nothing but the fundamentals: jab-cross, leg kick, uppercut, elbow. No flourishes. Just timing, form, and control.
Jamie's breathing turned ragged. My lungs stayed steady.
Then I shifted gears. A feinted jab drew his guard high. A front kick landed solidly on his gut. He grabbed for my ankle—too slow. I pivoted and snapped a question-mark kick over his shoulder. It clipped his temple, dumped him on the dirt.
"Up," I said.
He rose—shaky, winded, but with fire in his eyes.
I approached again. This time, I mirrored his combinations, one by one. Inside-low kick, cross, elbow, spinning back kick. All his favorite moves, delivered at full speed—on a foundation that never faltered.
Jamie covered. Stumbled. Covered again.
Until a final sweep dumped him flat on his back.
I clapped once. The spell broke. Jamie stayed down, chest heaving.
"George," I said.
He snapped upright, knuckles white on his trouser seams.
"Why did Jamie lose?"
"Uh… his combos were good," George began, "but your moves were… cleaner?"
"Insufficient." I pointed to Nate.
He rambled about speed, experience, reach—missing the mark.
Then, from the back, a small voice spoke:
"It was the basics," Annabelle said. She stared at the ground until the silence made her glance up, cheeks flushing.
I nodded. "Exactly."
I jabbed. Hooked. Threw a clean leg kick.
"Roots before branches. Foundation before walls. Jamie's fundamentals aren't weak, but mine never stopped sharpening. That's why he lost. That's why you will lose, until your own basics are unbreakable."
A hush rippled through the circle. Even the older fighters grew still.
I let it breathe.
"Fundamentals are metal," I continued. "Advanced technique is the blade—the finished product. An ornate sword forged on sand shatters on first clash. But a plain blade, forged well, sharpened daily? That cuts. Practice is the whetstone."
Jay and Horace exchanged wide-eyed looks. Nate nodded to himself. George's eyes burned like coals.
Even Jamie, from where he sat in the dirt, managed a determined grin.
The spark lived.
I swept my gaze across them all. "Tomorrow. Same hour. Bring anyone willing to learn."
My voice cut through the quiet.
"We Ranoans are strong. We are not people to be cast aside. And I am here to teach you that."
The circle broke with a buzz of conversation. Laughter. Excitement.
The spark was catching.
And I would feed it.
Until the whole rotten kingdom burned.
~oOo~
The port of Ranoa curves like a half-moon, where cliff and sea decided—reluctantly—to share the shoreline. Naturally, every business that matters crowds along that arc: shipwright lofts, chandleries, cafés where coffee is served with a side of sailor gossip. All of it hugs the boardwalk like barnacles on the hull of the city.
From the harbor, the so-called King's Road cuts straight inland—a polished stone spine aimed like a spear at the castle gates. Travelers never shut up about its "artistry," and I've heard the same breathless commentary so many times I could recite it mid-sleep.
This, they say, is where the most reputable and flourishing businesses thrive. And they're not wrong. The King's Road is where you go to find "the best." But only because the nobles decided "best" means "owned by us."
Four lesser roads flank the boulevard—two on each side. They're neat enough: respectable signage, oil-lit lanterns, doors that don't creak when opened. Between them stand neat rows of townhouses built piecemeal after the war—quiet years full of false hope and even falser promises.
And then there are the outer streets.
The ones so far from royal eyes that even the pettiest barons can't be bothered to sabotage us anymore. That's where native Ranoans are "permitted" to open shop. Not by law, of course—just by the invisible arithmetic of noble bullying. It's hard to scare off customers when you'd have to march an hour just to find them, and harder still to open a competing shop no one will visit.
Our exile is the result of their laziness, nothing more.
If they had the energy, they'd push us straight into the forest next. Maybe then the old heroes would remember how to bare their teeth.
These days, you rarely see a native on the King's Road. Rarely even at the port—unless they're fishermen, and even then, they're expected to leave swiftly with their catch and disappear again like ghosts.
Jamie and I hauled a net heavy with bluetail salmon off of his deck while Alki, red-faced and swearing, heaved from the dock above. One last pull and the wriggling bundle slapped onto the planks with a wet thud.
Alki flopped beside it, wheezing.
Jamie bent over, grinning through the sweat. "Sea's in a giving mood today, boys!"
"Blessed be," I said, clapping his shoulder. A haul like this would line all three of our pockets for weeks.
Alki rolled onto his back and glared at the clouds like they'd personally wronged him. "Cart first, celebration later," he groaned.
"Agreed." We got to work.
It's been a week since the training circle began, and the progress has been startling. The kids learn faster than I dared hope—partly because I drill them into the ground, partly because exhaustion sends them home to sleep like corpses. Good sleep cements practice. I've tested that theory a hundred times.
What they fail a thousand times today, they land clean on the first try tomorrow.
We've moved past static drills. Sparring is next. With live partners, I'm sharpening too—rebuilding combinations I once shadow-boxed alone in alleyways.
More recruits trickle in each evening—old friends, children of former rebels—and my rhythm settles into place. I train the kids first, then spar the adults until the moon rises. The youngsters linger to watch, eyes wide, and their awe feeds their resolve. Their resolve feeds mine.
I haven't stepped into Miles's bar since the night I walked out. That place is a tomb of regrets and excuses. Better to pour my time into what works than waste it shouting at ghosts.
By the time the fish are iced in Alki's cold room and the rest limp home, it's barely past noon. Training doesn't start until later, so I wander through our quarter, letting the city breathe around me.
In a narrow lane, I spot Jay and Horace chasing Nate, mock-sparring with sloppy jabs and exaggerated dodges. They vanish between houses, laughing. A block later, I catch Bowen helping his mother tally crates outside their grocery. He sees me, nods once, and returns to his ledger.
At a fruit stand, I find old Vesper—thin as ever, moustache immaculate, cap tilted with soldierly precision, cigar smoldering as always. He flips through today's News Coo like he's reviewing troop formations.
"Commander," I say, offering a salute.
He snorts without looking up. "At ease, Private Roderic. State your business."
"Juiciest apple you've got, sir. And any juicy news while you're at it."
He selects a glossy red one from the vendor's side of the stand—never the customer's side; Vesper doesn't trust anyone's judgment but his own—and flips it to me. First bite: crisp, sweet, and mercifully not blue.
He taps the paper and tilts it toward me.
"Recognize this face?"
The article shows a towering man with a book in one hand and a face carved from stone. The caption reads: Bartholomew Kuma—Newly Appointed Warlord of the Sea.
I skim the column. Kuma's first act as a pirate was to sink three Navy galleons. Alone.
My fists curl without thinking. I glance at them—scarred and calloused—but still very much human. I couldn't punch through stone. Kuma punches through warships.
And he's not alone. The Shichibukai—the Seven Warlords of the Sea: Boa Hancock. Dracule Mihawk. Crocodile. Doflamingo. Jinbe. Moria.
All monsters. All pardoned by the Navy in exchange for keeping other monsters in check.
Then there are the Emperors of the Sea. The untouchables.
I take another bite of the apple, forcing myself to chew slowly.
Men like Kuma exist. Fortresses topple beneath their hands. Armies crumble before their steps. And what am I? A rebel with a circle of half-trained kids and a hope that could break if I breathe too hard.
I stare at my hands again. I either lack context or training. I cannot picture punching through stone as I am now, but I know it can be done. I cannot, however, do anything about the knowledge I'm missing—but I can control my training.
I resolve to double it.
"Thanks, Vesper," I murmur, turning to go.
A hand—sharp and sudden—grabs the back of my collar like a hawk snatching prey.
"You."
Venom wrapped in syllables.
I wrench free and spin. Ludnica stands in the street, red hair blazing under the sun, fury in her stance, her eyes like coals beneath glass.
"What the hell—"
"How dare you speak to Annabelle!" Her voice cuts through the market. Heads turn.
I peel her grasping hand from my coat, jaw set. "She came to train. It was her choice."
"She's thirteen."
"So were half our messengers in the war," I reply, tone measured but cold. "Including me. The monarchy didn't care how old I was. It won't care how old she is."
"She's a child, Roderic."
"She's a Ranoan," I snap. "One of the few who still remembers what that should mean."
Her mouth opens to argue—
"Do not interrupt me."
The words crack like a whip. The market stills.
"You veterans—once lions—now curl at the palace door like house cats, declawed and docile. You call it caution. But what you really serve is comfort. You'd rather polish the king's boots than risk scuffing them in a fight. So afraid of getting the boot."
Ludnica draws breath, sharp as a blade.
"I'm not finished."
More silence. Even Vesper lowers his paper.
"You and the rest of the old guard watched everything we bled for get peeled away. Inch by inch. If my father were alive, he'd have driven a blade through the first boot to cross the line—and dared the rest to follow."
A shadow crosses her face, and her voice drops low. "It must be easy for you to gamble. You've got nothing left to lose."
Even she seems surprised at her own words.
"Ludnica!" Vesper barks. The name stings like a slap in the air.
She turns to leave, but I reach for her shoulder.
She gasps, recoiling as my fingers dig in. She twists free—but stumbles, unprepared, and hits the cobblestones with a sharp grunt. Shame and rage light up her cheeks as she pushes herself upright.
I stare down at her—and what I see is no hero. Just a ghost in borrowed skin.
Whatever part of Ludnica once mattered to the revolution… it died years ago. Whatever part of her was left, my rebellion did not need it.
I turn away, fury still thrumming in my bones.
"To hell with the old heroes," I say, to every open ear on that street. "If they won't rise for their children—then the children will rise without them."
I'm done begging ghosts to lend a hand.
~oOo~
We are on pace everybody. What do you think? We are beginning to scale!
Part of this chapter is of course a reminder that this is a one piece story, it just has a bit of exposition to get through. First arc goodness.
Let me know your thoughts in the reviews. Positive and negative, I can handle it!