Author's Note
Hello, dear readers. I'm Wissumi Wizaki—just a beginner in this whole writing thing. Honestly, literature used to be one of my worst subjects back in high school (yeah… big XD).But that changed when I discovered the power of literary language—it planted a spark in me, a quiet fascination that grew into love. So yes, the fact that I'm now writing fanfiction feels like a small miracle.
Each chapter will be uploaded either weekly or every two weeks, depending on life's chaos. I work as a waiter, I go to university, I help out with chores at home… and still try to make time for my hobbies—like hitting the gym.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this journey as much as I've enjoyed creating it.
—Wissumi Wizaki
Chapter 1
Year 276 AC
In the misty north of the Iron Islands, just south of Westeros' frozen heart, a singular island lay hidden: Mirror Isle.
It was the first day of the new year. The icy northern winds battered the coast, and the darkness of night blanketed the land. When the sun rose, Mirror Isle would be the first to receive its warmth in all of Westeros.
High atop its cliffs, under the faint glow of the moon, stood the city of Tokiyo, founded by the legendary swordsman Zoro Roronoa.
Several noble families lived on the island: the Stormfyres, the Saltwaves, the Highveils... but above them all loomed a single name: the Roronoa clan.
And that night, the clan was in an uproar.
On the beach, the sound of drums and chanting rose to the starry sky. The wind carried the scent of incense and the tension of an ancestral ceremony.
A newborn, son of Ryoma, current head of the clan, and his wife Himiko, was to be baptized according to ancient custom.
The child had been born an hour earlier. And had yet to cry.
Himiko, eyes brimming with tears, clutched her son as she walked toward the beach. As tradition demanded, she had to bathe him in the sea to awaken his spirit. Failing to do so would bring dishonor—possibly exile.
The priest raised his voice, grave and solemn:
"Today, under the first full moon of the year, the firstborn of Ryoma is born. As our ancestors did, he shall be bathed in the salty ocean. May the Sea God and our ancestor Zoro Roronoa watch over him... and awaken him from his slumber upon entering this world. May he be blessed as a true child of the clan."
As the priest spoke, a man approached Ryoma from behind, whispering into his ear:
"Congratulations, brother. As soon as I heard the news, I ran from the far end of the island to witness this ceremony."
Ryoma barely turned his head and saw his younger brother, pristine as always. Trimmed beard, hair neatly combed—unusual among islanders.
"Mihawk... you came. I didn't think it necessary. Besides, it's late. I thought you'd be asleep," Ryoma said, stoic but with a hint of humor.
Mihawk smirked with mock indignation.
"My feet ache from running. You owe me a bottle of your finest sake. This calls for celebration: a Roronoa birth doesn't happen every century!"
Ryoma didn't respond. He merely watched Himiko step toward the sea with their child in her arms.
Mihawk, ignored, turned his gaze toward the ritual. In the distance, Himiko's figure stood out between torchlights, her steps trembling.
A man's voice rose among the onlookers:
"Why is there no surf? This time of year, the sea is always rough..."
"Soff... this part of the island is sacred," replied an expressionless red-haired woman. "They say this is where the Grey King bid farewell to our ancestor, millennia ago."
She continued, in a dry tone:
"It's said that newborns of the Roronoa clan float when bathed. That their consciousness awakens through the ancestor's blessing. But if the child is not the leader's... they sink. And the mother pays the harshest penalty this island knows."
Mihawk stepped closer, commenting:
"Nery, your jealousy toward Himiko hasn't changed, has it? You should've picked me, not that husband of yours..."
The redhead didn't reply. She stared at the water. She had never wanted Mihawk. Her eyes had always been for Ryoma. But she was married to another. And she had to forget... just as she had to forget that bitter reflection.
And so, with the soul in suspense and the night holding its breath, Himiko took a deep breath. She knew what she had to do.
Silently sobbing, she walked forward until the water reached her waist. She turned to face her husband. Ryoma nodded gravely.
She closed her eyes. Her hands trembled. So did her soul. Since childhood, she had been sweet... but fearful.
And still, she let the power of her land grant her courage. With a final exhale, she placed the baby on the surface of the sea.
The child sank instantly.
The chants ceased.
Silence fell, cold and absolute.
Ryoma furrowed his brow. Himiko trembled. She felt her soul slipping away.
One second. Two. Three...
And then, the baby surfaced.
His cry shattered the stillness like a bolt in a storm.
A loud cry. Alive. Blessed.
And with that cry, fate stirred.
Himiko ran to him, soaked and desperate. She embraced him tightly, afraid the sea might claim him again.
Ryoma approached slowly and kissed her forehead. Then, in a firm voice, he whispered:
"You did well, Himiko. You must be tired... but wait a little longer. This ceremony is also your trial. Our son cannot have a weak mother. Show them your strength. Do it for him... and for me. When all is over, you may rest."
Then, an old man in monk's robes approached them.
"It's time to see the future leader of Mirror Isle."
Himiko nodded, revealing her son.
And all saw it. The old man's eyes. Ryoma's. Mihawk's.
The baby's hair, black at birth, was slowly turning green under the moonlight and seawater.
Ryoma smiled. Not a common smile. It was wide. Instinctive. Pure.
A smile neither Himiko nor Mihawk had ever seen on his face.
"I, Ryoma Roronoa, twenty-third chief of Mirror Isle, head of the Roronoa clan, name my son... ZORO RORONOA II! In honor of our ancestor."
There were murmurs. Surprise. Silence.
The baby's hair changing color was unheard of. Until now, only clan leaders had some green strands after the baptism.
But this child... his hair was entirely green. From the roots.
A clear message from the ancestor.
The clan's glory... could be reborn in Westeros.
...
And yet, that night was only the beginning.
On Mirror Island, a land steeped in deep Japanese heritage, nearly a million people made their home. Every single one of them, without exception, was trained from childhood in the art of combat. Men and women. Samurai and ninja. Even priestesses, who mastered ancient forms of magic.
Among them all, the Roronoa family was the most feared... and the most revered.
Within the Parago Ancestral Castle—sacred home of the Roronoa clan since time immemorial—a faint winter breeze slipped through the carved stone frames. In one of its many rooms, warm and quiet, a green-haired boy sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by cushions and rice paper.
With hands still small but already resolute, he opened a book bound in old, timeworn leather. Dust danced in the candlelight as he lifted the cover.
His lips, barely whispering, spoke the first words he read:
Chronicle of the First Roronoa
In the eldest of days—when the stars still whispered the secrets of dawn, and the North had barely begun to dream its first prophecies—there existed a land so distant that not even the gods of Westeros could reach it.
That world, ordinary to those who dwelled in it, was simply called Earth. And I, a soul as unremarkable as any among millions, bore the name Johnny Smith.
I was no genius. No armies revered me. No nations praised my name.
What set me apart lay deeper: a burning passion—almost an obsession.
Trapped in grey routines, I clung to stories that made me feel alive.The legends of Westeros consumed me. Its past, its present, its future…No tale escaped my hunger: not the gods of the Andals, nor the Old Ones of the First Men, nor even the Others.
And my devotion was not confined to a single world.There was another universe I worshipped with equal fervor:the vast ocean of adventure that is One Piece—where warriors defied islands and seas with nothing but the steel of their convictions.
An absurd death—a senseless accident without glory—brought my life to an end. Darkness took me in silence.
And in the abyss… a voice spoke.
I never knew if it was a god, a demon, or fate wearing a clever mask.But it offered me something impossible: a second chance.
I awoke… not on Earth, but in another world.A world I had only traveled in dreams and lore—Westeros.
I was no longer Johnny Smith.My soul now inhabited a new body—one forged for battle against the most powerful creatures to walk this realm.
My new name: Zoro Roronoa—a name destined to become one of the greatest legends Westeros would ever know.
Year ~13,000 B.C.
My arrival preceded even the crossing of the Broken Arm by the First Men.
There, my story began—an age of valor and sacrifice.
This new body of mine retained perfect muscle memory.And along with it, an unexpected gift:the swordsmanship of a warrior ripped straight from myth.
I didn't wield blades out of vanity, but for what they stood for:an unbreakable spirit that knew exactly who it was and where it was going—even in the darkest storm.
My strength was never mere brute force.It was discipline, instinct, perseverance…a silent code that guided my every action.
I trained for years—until war broke out across a continent that had known peace for millennia.
The Children of the Forest—magical beings—lived there alongside unicorns and ancient creatures.The conflict began with the arrival of the First Men.They waged a brutal war against the Children,who defended their sacred woods with enchanted arrows and old magic.
The moment I set foot on this land, the leaf-clad guardians attacked.Their arrows hissed past me; living roots rose to bind me.I defeated them with my blades—but I never killed.
I understood why they fought. I respected their cause.Something inside me—perhaps a remnant of my old humanity—refused to spill blood without meaning.
In time, the First Men recognized my skill.And by their ancient law—"the strongest shall lead"—they named me chieftain.
My first act was to bring peace to that hell.
It took one hundred years.A hundred years of bloodied duels, failed truces, and words fragile as glass.
But I did it.
The Children retreated to their sacred groves.The men claimed the coasts, the mountains, the swamps.
Millennia passed.
And the Children—long-lived and wise—gave me a title heavier than any crown:The Eternal.
My youth refused to fade.Why? I did not know. Perhaps my human soul, grafted into a body destined for greatness, broke the rules of time.I aged so slowly, it mocked the world—as though some forgotten blessing had brushed me in passing.
For centuries, I had no children.War, duty, ambition… they consumed me.But my heart, I'll admit, leaned toward women.
I formed a harem that would shame the most decadent lords of Westeros.Among them were Daughters of the Forest with starlit eyes and hips of abundance…a giantess who nearly shattered my pelvis with her strength…and women from lands as remote as they were exotic.
But one night, after lying with a hundred of them, I felt a deeper calling—beyond pleasure.
Adventure still whispered my name.
Year ~11,000 B.C.
It took me five centuries to craft a ship with my own hands.And I sailed toward the unknown.
First, I crossed the Narrow Sea—simple.
Then came the Sea of Chills.Sea beasts, tempests, nightmares from beneath the waves…I nearly died.
When I reached Essos, I made a name for myself by dueling the first Dothraki chieftains—warriors of flame and light, living myths.I journeyed to Yi Ti, to Sothoryos…
Lands overflowing with magic and wisdom.I learned from their sorcerers, ruled as a king for a time…and continued onward.
Across the Jade Sea, I fought swamp nagas, faced warlocks with hollow eyes who sought to bend my will…even demons.
Even dragons.
Serpent-dragons of Yi So—bodies like titanic snakes, flame in their throats.
Further south, I crossed the Summer Sea and reached a land where dragons were born.It had no name then.One day it would be called Valyria.
But in my time… they called it The Nest.
There ruled a demigod: Vyrakar.The so-called Dragon Creator.A beast of scaled skin, volcanic eyes, and a soul of iron.
I thought he'd kill me. He didn't.My strength impressed him.And in his world, the strong respected the strong.
All would have ended peacefully…if not for her.
Lysara.
His betrothed.
Silver hair. Eyes of sorrow.A soul caged by duty.
We fell in love in secret.And before they could force her hand, we lay together.
When Vyrakar learned the truth, he unleashed hell.The city burned. Dragons shrieked.
He challenged me to a duel that lasted six months.Mountains crumbled. Beasts perished.And in the end… I split him in two with my swords.
With his final breath, he cursed me.A curse I still don't fully understand.
And a vow of vengeance.
I freed Lysara.Freed her people.
And the grateful survivors began taming the orphaned dragons.
Unknowingly, I sowed the seed of the Valyrian Empire.
From that day forth, they gave me a new title:
The Dragon Slayer.
Lysara stayed with me.Her presence became my anchor.
We sailed beyond known shores—even where no one had ever dared venture.I circled the globe. Found untouched lands, unspoiled by men.I fought dragons with minds of their own…but none were like Vyrakar.
That battle proved he had been something… other. Something divine.
Year ~9,000 B.C.
I returned to Westeros from the East, crossing the Sunset Sea, just as the Age of Heroes began.
There, I settled in the region that would one day become the Iron Islands.
And there, I met a young warrior of the sea—a man who, centuries later, would be remembered as the Grey King.
He was deeply connected to the Sea God.
The Grey King, messenger of the Sea God, revealed to me that his deity admired my deeds. He said I would be rewarded for being the first to survive and sail every corner of his watery domain.
He granted me a gift: immunity to drowning.Not just for me, but for all future generations—so long as the bearer was the firstborn of the bloodline.
Storms, whirlpools, shipwrecks… the sea always returned me, as if afraid to lose me.It was a blessing every sailor would dream of—to brave the most treacherous and unforgiving waters.
After countless adventures, I longed for a stable home.A place where my legacy could take root.Lysara was the first woman to give me a child in this world. But being human, she passed away long ago. Some of my children followed her into death. Others had children of their own.And now… those children are my grandchildren.
I knew my home needed to remain hidden—far from the future wars that would ravage Westeros.I chose a point between the North and the Iron Islands to build my refuge.
I dove deep into the ocean's floor and discovered dormant volcanoes.With my might—the greatest in this world—I triggered a colossal eruption.
For years, the world was wracked by tsunamis and rains of volcanic ash.Little by little, the rising magma hardened into solid land.
Years passed. And from that brutal defiance of nature, an island was born.
But I knew it was not yet ready.So, I prayed to the Sea God to shroud it from human eyes.And with a powerful spell, I sealed its presence—visible only to the Roronoa bloodline.
Thus it came to be known as Mirror Isle.And it became the largest island in Westeros—a hidden refuge for those the world rejected.
With a home at last, I focused on building a family and a worthy bloodline.
Five hundred women from many lands joined me.From them were born five thousand children.
My lineage surged like a storm tide: warriors, scholars, seafarers, priestesses...Each carrying in their veins the knowledge I had gathered over centuries of exploration.There was no other place in the world that held such concentrated wisdom.
But peace… is never eternal.
8000 B.C.
The Long Night came.Also known as the age of the Others.
The dead swept across the North.I led the resistance, halting many of their advances.It was then I earned another title: God of War.
My sword tore through legions of wights.My voice inspired giants and men alike.
It was I who first proposed the Wall to contain the threat.With Brandon the Builder and the Children of the Forest, using the strength of giants as our workforce,we raised the Great Wall—from east to west, severing the continent's access.
After that victory, the weight of endless wars—against the dead, dragons, and beasts of madness—finally caught up with me.My strength faded.And I retreated to my home on Mirror Isle, to prepare one last spell that would aid the world... and its future generations.
6000 B.C.
Millennia passed. The Andals invaded Westeros, bearing the Faith of the Seven.
With my last reserves of power, I rose again.I aided the North, saved the First Men, and rescued many of my kin who had joined the battle.
Many expected me to be the hero once more…But my body could no longer obey.I could no longer fight.
This decision disillusioned many.Some First Men leaders branded me a coward.The Andals, for their part, hated me.My power and magic were a blasphemy against their faith.
I realized I was no longer welcome.
So I gathered all who bore my blood.I also took with me giants and Children of the Forest from the southern realms of Westeros.I brought them to my island—where they could live free of persecution from the invading faith.
There, I began writing the Book of Laws for Mirror Isle,and another for my clan—one that would guide them across the ages, shaped by my legacy.
A legacy with a single command:
"Survive what is to come. Never kneel before foreign kings."
I knew the end was near.
And before I departed, I cast one final, prophetic spell.I sealed its words within the book—words that still echo:
"When a child with my blood and fully green hair is born upon my lands,that child shall awaken with my body and my memory.And he shall face the shadow of the future that may yet destroy this wondrous world."
Once I left that message for my descendants, and with no ties left to bind me,I died in silence on Mirror Isle.
My name echoed through time:
Founder of House Roronoa
Creator of Mirror Isle
World Explorer
The Eternal
Dragon Slayer
God of War
My titles endured for centuries.
And so my legend was born…
The legend of the first Roronoa, the Three-Sword Rōnin.The man who took swordsmanship to heights the world had never imagined.
...
Zoro, upon finishing the final lines, let out a quiet sigh.His fingers traced the engraved letters on the last page one final time. Then, with the utmost care, he closed the thick, timeworn book.
The sound of the leather binding folding shut echoed like a sacred whisper through the empty room.Outside, the wind battered the windows, as if ancient spirits were trying to slip inside to listen as well.
Zoro lowered his gaze, lost in thought.—"So this is how it all began…?"—he murmured to himself, the weight of his ancestor's words sinking into his bones.
The tale of El Eterno, founder of the Roronoa clan, pulsed in his mind—battles, sacrifices, the prophecy of the green hair that now crowned his own head.It wasn't just a story. It was his blood. His destiny.
Zoro's growth... well, let's just say it was more than healthy.Something beyond normal, even, if compared to other children. He started walking at five months. And no, that's not an exaggeration.The little rascal wanted to run before he ever learned to crawl.
By the age of two, he was already training with small bamboo swords.Nothing serious at first, of course—but his determination was as stubborn as that of his legendary ancestor.By the time he turned three, his training was split: half the day with the sword, the other half with basic physical exercises.All to build a solid foundation, as his grandfather used to say.
At four, the load increased once again.Mathematics, geography, navigation... and other disciplines the island's sages deemed essential for someone born to lead.
Despite the rigid path set before him, Zoro never gave up.There was something inside him that pushed him to give everything, without complaint.
For a moment, he let the silence wrap around him.The book rested heavy in his lap. The wind outside grew stronger, rattling the shutters as if urging him to move.
—"Zoro!"—Himiko's voice called from the hallway, soft yet firm.—"Your friends are here. They're waiting for you."
He turned his gaze toward the closed door, where the flickering shadows of his friends danced just beyond it, and their laughter echoed faintly in the background.
Zoro had never been alone.He had true childhood friends: Naerys Saltwave, Rhaenora Highveil, and Uzzaro Windarrow.
The three of them were like siblings to him, even if not by blood.Rhaenora, the eldest at eight, was sharp and intuitive, always knowing what to say.Naerys, the youngest at six, was sweet, endlessly curious, and obsessed with sea routes.
He could still hear Naerys' voice echoing in his memory, plotting imaginary but well-structured sea maps for fun;Rhaenora's calm advice about the island's history;Uzzaro's boastful tales of his latest shot with the bow.
Uzzaro, now, was something else entirely.A natural genius with the bow. According to the veteran warriors, probably the finest archer ever born on Mirror Isle.
The Windarrow, Saltwave, and Highveil families were ancient branches of Zoro's own clan—nobles in both blood and spirit.The kind of bonds forged over time... and, when necessary, with steel.
They were his strength, his anchor.In moments like this, the prophecy didn't eat away at him—he felt free.But deep down, he knew something was calling to him... toward a destiny he still wasn't sure he wanted.
Zoro lifted his head.His mother's second call pulled him from the trance he had fallen into.
For a brief moment, he hesitated.He looked down at the closed book on his lap, as if the answers he sought were still hidden within its pages.
He sighed, stood calmly, and slid the book under his arm.His fingers closed firmly around the bamboo sword resting beside him.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
—"If this is where it began…"—he whispered to the empty air—"then where does it end?"
With one last glance toward the window, where the wind still howled, Zoro stepped toward the door.As he opened it, the light from the corridor wrapped around him, and the echo of his friends' laughter welcomed him—a sign of everything yet to be written.