The wild laughter behind Aren, the clinking of bottles, were quickly swallowed by the roar of the sea.
The little boat rose and fell between the crests of the waves, every drop met with a groan from the overburdened planks.
Aren sat cross-legged at the stern, fingers clenched tightly around the rough wooden oar.
That last Ultimate Fire Technique had practically drained every drop of chakra he had just forged. The ache in his muscles and the emptiness in his mind crashed over him together.
But he could not sleep.
On this sea that only seemed calm, something could leap out at any time and swallow this battered little boat whole.
He drifted on the water for two days.
When a band of deep green finally appeared at the edge of his vision, outlining a coastline, Aren let out a long breath.
Unlike the spirited bustle of Foosha Village, the island before him radiated a quiet calm.
The sea breeze carried less salt and fishiness here. In its place was the dry, clean scent of bamboo leaves and the earthy fragrance of soil.
Shimotsuki Village.
The small boat nudged up against a secluded stretch of rocky shore.
Aren jumped ashore. His feet sank slightly into the damp sand and gravel, and the solid feel beneath him made him exhale in relief.
[Ding! Host has arrived at key sign-in location: Shimotsuki Village.]
[Sign-in successful.]
[Reward obtained: One of the 21 Great Grade Blades, ultra-hard Blade "Starshatter" (disguise name: Lake Toya).]
[Skill obtained: Basic Swordsmanship (Lv.1, First Glimpse at the Gate).]
[Skill obtained: Basic Observation Haki]
As the system's chime faded, Aren suddenly felt a weight at his waist.
A sheathless wooden sword, its entire body a reddish brown, had appeared out of nowhere, hanging from his belt.
Two slightly sloppy words were carved into the hilt: "Lake Toya." At first glance it looked exactly like a cheap souvenir you could find at any tourist spot. The grain of the wood even seemed to carry a faintly sweet scent, like strawberry milk left out for too long.
Aren reached down and wrapped his hand around the hilt.
The moment his fingers closed, a jolt like electricity ran from his palm up his arm.
His clumsy, novice grip shifted on its own; his fingers naturally settled on the weapon's true center of balance.
It was only Lv.1 swordsmanship, yet his mind was suddenly filled with muscle memory: slashes, parries, angles, footwork, as if he had been training for months.
He gave it a casual test swing.
There was a low hum as the heavy wooden sword cut through the air, a sound disturbingly close to metal vibrating.
A protruding rock ahead of him was grazed by the tip. It slid apart as silently as tofu, the cut surface smooth as a mirror.
This thing was harder than steel.
Aren raised an eyebrow and ran his thumb over the row of unserious-looking words carved into the blade.
In a world full of famed swords and Haki, a wooden sword that looked utterly harmless really was the perfect cover for a traveler.
He straightened his collar, which the sea wind had left rumpled, and followed the scent of bamboo, heading up the mountain path toward the heart of the village.
Shimotsuki Village was very quiet, disturbed only now and then by a few distant dog barks.
On either side of the path stretched vast bamboo groves. Sunlight poured through the gaps in the leaves, scattering dappled shadows across the ground.
He had not gone far when a chorus of sharp kiai cries shattered the stillness.
"Face...!"
"Hands...!"
"Waist...!"
The voices were loud and young, brimming with energy.
Aren stopped in front of an old-fashioned dojo gate.
Hanging above was a massive wooden plaque. Two bold words read "Isshin Dojo," the brushstrokes full of edge and force, so sharp they almost made his eyes sting.
[Ding! Host has arrived at special location: Isshin Dojo.]
[Chain sign-in reward triggered.]
[Skill upgrade: Basic Swordsmanship has risen to Lv.2 (Entering the Hall).]
This time, the warm current rushing into his body was even stronger.
Aren unconsciously straightened his back. The slightly relaxed, wandering stance he'd had at the gate vanished in an instant.
His breathing pattern shifted subtly. The pressure of his feet against the ground grew firmer, more rooted.
If earlier he had been just a beginner who had learned how to hold a sword, then now, simply by standing there, there was already a faint, indescribable aura around him.
He stepped over the threshold, and the scene inside the dojo unfolded before him.
The wide wooden floorboards gleamed, polished to a shine. Dozens of children in white clothes were sparring in pairs with bamboo swords, clacking and shouting as they crossed weapons.
The air was thick with the mixed smell of sweat and wood oil.
In the most eye-catching spot among them, a short-haired boy with green moss-like hair was hacking away at a practice pillar with his teeth clenched, as if he bore a grudge against the world.
Every swing was made with every ounce of strength he had. Sweat rolled down his chin and dripped from his jaw, pooling into a small puddle at his feet.
That back was as stubborn as a wild bull.