The river's current murmured softly, carrying with it the scent of pine and wet earth. Somewhere nearby, a bird cried—but the sound didn't reach the small clearing where a figure lay half-submerged in mud.
Mina stumbled through the underbrush, her bundle of firewood slipping from her arms, thudding into the dirt. Her heart raced, half from exertion and half from fear. She hadn't expected to find anyone here, and yet… there he was.
The man looked impossibly large—muscles knotted under his travel-worn clothes, three swords lying at odd angles around him. One rested in his hand as if it were part of him, refusing to be left behind.
Mina's stomach twisted. "He's… alive?" she whispered. His chest rose and fell slowly, rhythm steady but unnaturally slow. Her instincts screamed danger, but something in the way he breathed, how he clutched the sword, told her he wasn't an ordinary man.
Behind her, Jiro limped into view, his face lined with years of surviving too long. "That's no farmer," he muttered. "Look at the size of him. Look at those arms."
Mina glanced at the swords again, feeling the weight of risk settle over her. The world beyond the village was dangerous enough without inviting it here. But he… he was wounded. Vulnerable. And still breathing.
"I… I can't just leave him," she said, her voice trembling, more with resolve than fear.
Jiro grunted. "If we touch him, we might draw the clans down on us."
Mina's gaze hardened. "He looks more like a wandering ronin than a shinobi. We can't just let him die."
Jiro's eyes softened, just slightly. Against his better judgment, he knelt down. "Fine. But we do it smart. Quiet. No one sees."
---
Hours later, Zoro's eyes snapped open. The ceiling was low, rough wood above him. A faint scent of smoke and herbs lingered in the air. His body ached, but the pain was different now—sharp, steady, as if his muscles and bones were remembering themselves after a long silence.
His hand went to Wado Ichimonji, still leaning against the wall. The other two swords were within reach, as if placed deliberately. Someone had thought of everything.
Mina froze in the doorway, holding a steaming bowl of broth. Her eyes widened at his sudden movement.
"…You're awake," she stammered.
Zoro's eyes scanned her quickly. Alert, calculating. "…Yeah. You're the one who dragged me here."
She nodded, careful not to move too quickly. "I—yes. I didn't know what else to do."
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "…Tch. Thanks."
Mina's lips quivered in relief. "Be careful. The river… Senju territory… you wouldn't have lasted another hour."
Zoro raised a brow. "Senju?"
"Yes," she said softly. "One of the clans at war. We try to stay out of their fights. But you… you weren't like them. Not a shinobi. I didn't know what you were, but I couldn't leave you."
He studied her for a moment. There was fear in her eyes, yes, but also… determination. She risked herself for a stranger. His jaw tightened. "…Tch. Don't get used to it," he muttered, though the words carried weight.
From the corner, Jiro muttered something under his breath, but his eyes betrayed concern. The old man had grumbled every step of the way, warned Mina against foolishness—but he had helped too. Every movement, every placement of blankets, every adjustment of the bandages had been deliberate. They had saved him without asking, without hesitation.
Zoro's fingers flexed around the hilt of Ichimonji. His voice was low, rough. "…You two… didn't have to."
Mina smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Maybe. But someone had to. And… you needed it."
The words barely registered in Zoro's mind. He didn't dwell. He felt respect, a rare recognition, and a tiny spark of obligation. He would repay this, not with speeches or promises, but with action—the only language he knew.
---
The days passed. Zoro's body adapted painfully, slowly, as the strange energy from the island merged with his Haki and physical form. Wounds healed faster than nature should allow, muscles strengthened, bones realigned—but nothing was instantaneous. The first steps were agonizing. He stumbled, gritted his teeth, fell to his knees, and pushed forward again, driven by nothing but stubborn survival.
Mina would appear quietly with food or water. Jiro would grumble from the doorway, scolding both of them, yet quietly making sure he had blankets, that the fire burned. No words of pity, no lectures. Just action. That was kindness in this world—a kindness that Zoro understood instinctively.
He noticed everything. The careful adjustments of the bandages, the way Mina stayed near without crowding him, the old man's watchful eye. This was trust. Courage. Humanity in a world that had long forgotten it.
Zoro didn't speak much. He observed. He practiced movements when he could, flexed his legs, rotated his shoulders, lifted stones and logs to rebuild strength. His Haki hummed faintly inside him, attuning to the new energy, resisting, pushing, learning.
Each day was a trial. The pain came in waves, sharper than anything he had felt at sea. Yet he endured. Every stumble, every groan, every silent night spent watching the fire burn was a step toward reclaiming his body—and understanding this new world.
And all the while, Mina and Jiro acted like nothing extraordinary had happened, their courage and kindness quietly shaping him, without him ever needing to ask.
By the end of the month, Zoro could move freely again. His body had fully adapted to the new energies. His strength had returned, and yet… there was something different. A wild, untamed force pulsed beneath his skin, untested, waiting.
He flexed his fingers around Ichimonji. "…This… energy. What the hell is it?"
For the first time since arriving, a small smirk touched his lips. His voice was low, almost amused: "…Looks like I'm not done climbing yet."
Outside, Mina placed the bowl on the table, glancing at him with quiet pride. Jiro muttered something about reckless fools, but his eyes softened.
Neither of them spoke of the risk they took. Neither asked for gratitude. Zoro didn't need to hear it. He knew. He felt it. And he would repay it—later, in the only way he could.
To be continued...