Zoro's feet left the ground. His body pitched forward. He had just enough time to think oh no before gravity took over.
THUD.
He face-planted into the dirt with the heavy, graceless sound of a sack of potatoes being dropped. Dust puffed up around him.
Argentus stood over him immediately, moving with predatory speed. The sharpened tip of his spear came to rest gently but firmly against the back of Zoro's neck, right where the spine met the skull. One thrust, and it would be over.
"Dead," Argentus said simply, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "If this were a real fight, your head would be rolling next to that rock you're so fond of."
Zoro froze. The cold metal of the spear tip pressed against his skin, and the reality of the loss settled over him like a heavy blanket.
He pounded his fist into the dirt in frustration, his knuckles splitting slightly against a rock. "Damn it!"
His pride stung worse than any physical injury. He'd been bested. Completely. Thoroughly.
Suddenly, a polite, calm voice drifted from somewhere to the side, cutting through the tension.
"My, my. It seems we have a lively guest today."
Argentus looked up, his spear still held steady but his attention shifting.
Standing at the wooden gate that led to the dojo proper was a tall man with long black hair tied back in a neat ponytail. He wore simple traditional clothing—a dark hakama and a white gi—and round glasses that caught the afternoon sunlight. His expression was gentle, almost grandfatherly, with a closed-eye smile that radiated peaceful warmth.
It was Koushiro, the master of the Isshin Dojo.
Koushiro adjusted his glasses with one finger, pushing them slightly higher on the bridge of his nose. The sunlight glinted off the lenses for a brief second, completely hiding his eyes behind twin circles of reflected light.
On his face, the gentle, closed-eye smile remained perfectly fixed—the practiced mask of a simple village instructor who taught children how to hold wooden swords and bow properly.
But behind that mask, behind the calm exterior, his mind was racing with a shock he hadn't felt in years. Possibly decades.
He didn't just dodge, Koushiro analyzed, his sharp eyes hidden behind the glasses tracking every detail. His gaze drifted from Zoro's dirt-covered face and bruised knees to Argentus's steady, controlled breathing—not even slightly labored despite the intensity of the spar.
He moved before the intent to strike had even fully formed in Zoro's mind.
Koushiro knew talent when he saw it. He had been blessed—and cursed—to see it twice in his life.
He had seen it in his daughter, Kuina, whose natural aptitude with the blade had surpassed students twice her age before she'd even reached her tenth birthday.
He saw it now in Zoro, a raw and unpolished diamond who attacked the world with the stubbornness of someone who refused to accept the concept of limits.
But this... this was different.
This was something that transcended simple talent or hard work.
Haki.
The boy wasn't just fast. He wasn't just skilled. He was using Observation Haki—Kenbunshoku—the ability to sense intent and predict movement before it happened.
And what terrified Koushiro—in the quiet, intellectual way that a master swordsman experiences terror when confronted with something that rewrites his understanding of the world—was the boy's control.
Usually, when a child awakens Haki, it happens during extreme trauma or in the heat of life-or-death battle. The power erupts violently, uncontrolled, and then immediately drains them. They collapse. They sleep for days. Their spirit needs time to recover from being forcibly awakened.
But this boy...
Koushiro watched Argentus casually spin his spear and clip it back onto his back with practiced ease, his movements relaxed and fluid.
He isn't even winded. His breathing is calm. His spirit is stable. He used it as naturally as breathing, integrated it into combat without wasting a single drop of unnecessary energy.
Koushiro's internal thoughts grew heavy, weighted with implications.
To awaken Haki at this age—thirteen, maybe fourteen at most—is almost impossible, even in the chaotic fires of the New World where monsters are born from violence.
To control it? To integrate it seamlessly into combat technique without waste or strain?
Either this child is a natural-born monster, blessed with the spirit of a conqueror from birth...
...or he is a monster among monsters who forced an awakening through sheer, brutal will and survived the process.
Neither option was comforting.
Outwardly, Koushiro allowed himself a soft chuckle, the sound deliberately warm and disarming. It cut through the lingering tension in the forest clearing like a warm breeze.
"Zoro," Koushiro said gently, his tone carrying the patience of a teacher who had repeated the same lesson a thousand times. "I believe I have told you, many times, that anger clouds the mind. When you attack with rage instead of clarity, your sword becomes heavy and slow."
Zoro clicked his tongue in annoyance, pushing himself up from the dirt and dusting off his pants. He sheathed his three swords with a series of sharp clack sounds, the steel sliding home into their scabbards with practiced precision.
"He... he fights weird," Zoro muttered defensively, avoiding eye contact with his master. "He knew where I was going. Every time. It's like he was reading my mind or something."
"He simply watched you, Zoro," Koushiro said, though the explanation was deliberately incomplete. His eyes opened slightly—just enough to look directly at Argentus with an assessing gaze that carried decades of experience.
"Some warriors have eyes that see more than just the surface of things. Isn't that right, young man?"
The question was gentle, but it was also a test.
Argentus met his gaze without hesitation, his silver eyes sharp and unwavering.
"I just pay attention," Argentus replied smoothly, his voice carefully neutral. He wasn't about to explain the full extent of his abilities to a stranger, master or not. "Your student has a strong arm and solid fundamentals, but he lacks... direction."
The double meaning hung in the air for a moment.
"In more ways than one," Koushiro added with a light chuckle, though his mind was still calculating, still measuring the boy standing before him.
He stepped fully into the clearing, his wooden sandals making soft sounds against the packed earth.
"I am Koushiro, master of the Isshin Dojo," he introduced himself with a respectful half-bow. "Welcome to our humble training grounds. May I ask the name of the traveler who so thoroughly humbled my student?"
"Argentus," the boy replied without ceremony. Then, after a brief pause, he added: "Argentus D. Drake."
Koushiro's gentle smile didn't falter. His posture didn't change. His breathing remained calm and measured.
But inside his mind, alarm bells that had been ringing softly suddenly began to scream.
D?
So he carries that name, too...
The "D" clan. The mysterious lineage that appeared throughout history like a recurring storm. Monkey D. Luffy. Gol D. Roger. Portgas D. Ace. Monkey D. Garp.
People who carried that initial seemed to attract destiny—or perhaps they created it through sheer force of will. They toppled kingdoms. They defied gods. They burned the world's expectations to ash and walked through the flames laughing.
And now, standing in his quiet dojo in a peaceful village far from the chaos of the Grand Line, was another one.
A child with silver hair, Observation Haki, and the ambition burning in his eyes like cold fire.
What storm have you brought to my doorstep, Argentus D. Drake?
"Well then, Argentus-kun," Koushiro said aloud, his voice warm and welcoming despite his internal concerns. He gestured toward the path that led deeper into the dojo grounds.
"It would be rude to keep a guest standing outside after such an... energetic workout. Please, come inside. Perhaps we can offer you some tea? And..."
He paused deliberately, his gaze shifting to the iron spear strapped to Argentus's back—battered, dented, clearly well-used.
"...Perhaps you can tell me what brings a warrior of your considerable caliber to our quiet village?"
Argentus didn't hesitate. He followed Koushiro without a word, his boots crunching on the gravel path.
Zoro fell into step behind them, still rubbing dirt off his face and muttering under his breath about "cheap tricks" and "lucky shots."
Soon, Argentus stepped through the main gate and into the dojo's inner courtyard.
His boots thudded softly on the pristine stone path, each step echoing slightly in the open space. The courtyard was immaculate—swept clean, with carefully maintained gardens flanking either side and a small pond where koi fish swam in lazy circles.
The sound of bamboo swords striking wooden targets stopped abruptly as the students training in the open area noticed the stranger. A dozen pairs of eyes turned to stare at the silver-haired boy with the battle-worn spear.
But Argentus only had eyes for the dojo master walking ahead of him.
"I'm not here for tea," Argentus said, his voice lowering so that only Koushiro could hear. "Though I won't refuse it if offered."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
"I'm here because I've hit a ceiling."
Koushiro led him into the main hall without comment.
It was a vast, open space that smelled of fresh tatami mats, incense, and the peculiar scent of disciplined sweat—not the rank odor of unwashed bodies, but the clean smell of effort and training.
Wooden pillars supported a high ceiling. Natural light filtered through paper screens, casting the room in soft, diffused illumination.
At the front of the room, on a small shrine built into an alcove, sat a framed picture of a young girl with dark blue hair and a gentle smile. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen in the photograph. A fresh stick of incense burned before the image, thin wisps of smoke rising toward the ceiling.
Argentus noted the shrine with a respectful nod, understanding instinctively what it represented.
He didn't ask. Some wounds weren't meant to be prodded by strangers.
Before sitting down cross-legged on the tatami mat opposite Koushiro, he carefully placed his heavy iron spear on the floor beside him with deliberate care, ensuring it wouldn't roll or make unnecessary noise.
Koushiro knelt gracefully, his movements carrying the practiced ease of decades of repetition. He reached for a small iron kettle that had been warming over a charcoal brazier and poured steaming green tea into two small ceramic cups with precise, measured movements.
"A ceiling?" Koushiro repeated, his tone mild but genuinely curious. He slid one cup across the low table toward Argentus. "For a boy who can sense the intent of his enemies before they move, that is a... surprising admission."
Argentus picked up the cup, feeling the warmth seep into his calloused fingers. He took a small sip—it was bitter, earthy, with a faint sweetness underneath.
"My eyes are open," Argentus said carefully, "but my technique is stagnant. I can see attacks coming. I can predict movement. But when I strike..."
He gestured vaguely with his free hand.
"I use a spear. It's a weapon of reach and momentum. Distance and leverage. But lately, I find myself just... hacking at the world like a butcher chopping meat. There's no elegance. No efficiency. Just brute force."
He gestured toward the wooden practice swords hanging on the wall, their hilts worn smooth from thousands of hours of use.
"I know what you teach here. I've heard stories. The ability to cut nothing and therefore cut everything. To hear the rhythm of steel. To find the breath of an object and sever it."
Koushiro adjusted his glasses, the afternoon light catching the lenses and hiding his eyes again.
"The Breath of All Things," he said quietly. "The pinnacle of swordsmanship. The moment a blade transcends being merely sharp and becomes absolute."
He paused, setting his own cup down with a soft clink.
"But you, Argentus-kun... you are a spearman. A lancer. The mechanics are fundamentally different. The soul of a sword and the soul of a spear are not the same."
"The soul of the warrior is the same," Argentus countered immediately, his silver eyes intense. "I don't want to abandon the spear to become a swordsman. I don't want to copy what you do."
He leaned forward slightly.
"I want to adapt your teachings. I want to create something new—a style where the piercing power of the spear meets the cutting philosophy of the sword. I want to learn to cut steel with a thrust."
Against the far pillar, Zoro—who had been leaning there nursing his bruised ego and pretending not to listen—suddenly looked up sharply.
He gripped the white-hilted Wado Ichimonji tighter, his knuckles going white.
Cut steel.
That was his dream. His goal. The barrier he'd been throwing himself against for years without success.