Chapter 13: The Village of Blades
The smell of salt and battle still clung faintly to Ashen's skin as he stood at the railing of the Marine ship, eyes scanning the far-off horizon. His body ached with deep bruises and internal fatigue—remnants of his fight with Vice Admiral Garp—but it wasn't pain that weighed on his mind.
It was purpose.
The Straw Hats had slipped away under cover of chaos. Their tiny ship vanished into the horizon while Ashen's consciousness faded into darkness. But Garp had kept his word—there was no pursuit.
And now, Ashen had awoken. Not in a cell. Not in chains. But on a bench inside the ship's medical bay, patched up and left alone with silence and his thoughts.
The ship had docked along a quiet cape to resupply. Most of the Marines were too wary—or too respectful—to question why the strange young man had been left unharmed. Garp hadn't spoken to him since their brief exchange upon waking, but the message had been clear.
"You're not a pirate. Not yet. So don't give me a reason to hunt you."
Ashen stood now on the pier, watching the Marine vessel slowly drift away.
His coat fluttered in the sea breeze, tattered and stained, but still hanging on. Much like him.
The system window appeared before his eyes as he mentally summoned it.
---
Status Window
Name: Ashen Veyr
Level: Master
Strength: 7.5
Endurance: 7.9
Durability: 8.0
Agility: 8.2
Skills:
Soru: 68% Efficiency
Tekkai: 42% Efficiency
Busoshoku Haki: 23% Efficiency
Berry: 110,000
---
He dismissed it with a blink.
That last fight... he had been crushed.
Even with Soru and Haki, Garp had been a mountain that wouldn't budge. Every punch felt like a cannon. Every block rattled his bones. His Tekkai had cracked under the strain. His haki flickered too faint to make a difference. He had stood for less than five minutes.
But he had stood.
That mattered.
And now... now he walked east.
The road led him away from the coast, through gentle forest and rice paddies, until finally, he arrived.
The wind smelled of pine and iron as Ashen trudged along the winding country path, the soles of his boots worn from the journey. A faded sign swayed gently overhead, the kanji etched into the wood:
Shimotsuki Village.
It was quiet here. Too quiet.
Nestled between the forested hills and a meandering river, the village seemed untouched by the chaos of the seas. But to Ashen, the silence was a veil stretched tight—ready to snap at the first disturbance.
He passed simple homes with thatched roofs, villagers pausing to glance up from their fields or firewood. Most stared openly. Some with caution, others with suspicion. His lean, travel-worn frame and distant eyes didn't help. Nor did the twin swords at his waist.
A few children whispered as he passed.
"He's not from here."
"Another bounty hunter?"
"Do you think he's looking for the dojo?"
Ashen stopped near the village square where a water pump stood. An old man seated on a bench near the well eyed him curiously, puffing a long-stemmed pipe.
"You look lost, boy," the man said, voice gravelly.
"I'm looking for the dojo," Ashen replied calmly. "I heard it was once home to a great swordsman."
"Zoro, eh?" the man said, nodding. "Yeah… he was one of ours. Left some months back chasing dreams bigger than this village."
Ashen's gaze flicked toward the eastern ridge, where he could hear the faint, rhythmic clash of wooden swords.
"Will the dojo master see a stranger?"
The man let out a low chuckle. "That depends. Koshiro doesn't take kindly to drifters. Especially ones with steel on their belts."
Ashen gave a quiet nod of thanks and began walking uphill, the dirt path narrowing between tall bamboo as he approached the dojo grounds. The building came into view—simple, wide-roofed, with an open yard where several teenagers sparred under watchful eyes.
The moment Ashen stepped into the courtyard, the practice stopped.
Eyes turned toward him.
Several of the young trainees stiffened. One of the instructors—a stern man with a shaved head and scar across his chin—stepped forward.
"You're not from here. State your business."
Ashen bowed slightly. "I'm seeking permission to train."
The instructor frowned. "We don't offer lessons to just anyone. Especially not swordbearers who wander in off the road."
Ashen unhooked his swords slowly and laid them on the ground beside him.
"I'm not here to challenge anyone," he said. "I came to learn. If that's not possible, I'll leave."
A pause.
Then a soft, even voice cut through the tension.
"That won't be necessary."
A man in a dark blue gi stepped out from the main hall. Thin-framed glasses. Calm posture. Eyes like still water. Koshiro.
Ashen straightened as Koshiro approached, studying him quietly.
"You have a bit of fighting experience already," the swordmaster said. It wasn't a question.
Ashen blinked. "You can say that."
Koshiro gestured to the courtyard. "Leave your steel for now. If your heart is sincere, you may train with us."
Ashen bowed again, deeper this time.
"Thank you."
Koshiro turned and walked back toward the hall.
"Don't waste the opportunity. Zoro didn't."
---
That night, Ashen sat alone near the edge of the training yard, the soft chorus of crickets rising around him.
He pulled up his status window silently.
---
Status Update
Name: Ashen Veyr
Level: Master
Strength: 7.5
Endurance: 7.9
Durability: 8.0
Agility: 8.2
Skills:
Soru: 68%
Tekkai: 42%
Busoshoku Haki: 23%
Berry: 110,000
Passive Bonus Active: Swordsmanship EXP +25% (Shimotsuki Dojo)
---
He glanced toward the courtyard, where wooden swords waited under moonlight.
Tomorrow, he will start over.
Not as a warrior.
But as a student.
-------------
Ashen rose before dawn, his body stiff from sleeping on the firm tatami mat he'd been offered in the dojo's modest guest quarters. The scent of morning dew mixed with oil from the wooden floors as he stepped outside, already dressed in a simple gi Koshiro had lent him.
The sky was still grey, the first hint of gold stretching along the ridge when the sound of wooden swords cracking against one another echoed faintly from the courtyard.
Training had already begun.
Ashen walked down to the yard in silence. Students were lining up in formation, most of them teenagers—some perhaps younger than he was when he'd first killed a man.
Their eyes flicked toward him again.
They hadn't forgotten the swords he wore yesterday.
Nor the whispered rumor that he'd fought Vice Admiral Garp and lived.
Koshiro stood at the front, arms crossed, his expression as neutral as ever. His gaze moved to Ashen as he approached.
"You're late."
Ashen stopped beside the line of students and bowed respectfully. "I'll be earlier tomorrow."
"No swords today," Koshiro said. "You begin where all others begin. With balance. Posture. Discipline."
Ashen nodded and took his place at the end of the line.
What followed was not swordplay—but hour after hour of foundational exercises. Stances held until the legs shook. Movements repeated again and again with wooden swords that were heavier than they looked. No shortcuts. No flashy techniques.
By midday, sweat poured from Ashen's brow. His body protested—more from the sheer repetition and mental focus than from exertion. It was different from combat. In battle, he moved on instinct and pressure.
Here, he was expected to empty himself.
Koshiro walked among the students, occasionally correcting a form or silently nodding. When he reached Ashen, he stood behind him for a long moment.
"You're used to fighting with power and speed. But those can become crutches. Your footwork is too aggressive. Relax your center."
Ashen exhaled, adjusting.
Koshiro tapped the back of his leg with a wooden sheath. "Too stiff. You're preparing to kill. Prepare to learn instead."
A few students nearby smirked at the correction.
Ashen didn't flinch. He repeated the motion again. And again.
By sunset, the group was dismissed. The others dispersed quickly, most chatting, some exhausted, others proud. Ashen remained behind, his wooden bokken planted beside him in the earth as he knelt.
Koshiro approached once more.
"You endured. That's rare in someone who's already tasted blood."
Ashen didn't look up. "Power without control is wasted. I've learned that much."
Koshiro studied him in silence, then finally asked, "Why do you seek the sword?"
Ashen paused.
"To cut away the weakness in myself."
It wasn't the whole truth. But it was enough.
Koshiro gave a faint nod. "Then stay. For now. Let's see if you can forge something better than just another blade."
---
Later that night, Ashen stood near the riverbank behind the dojo, practicing the same motion over and over. Slashes in the air. Breathing in rhythm. Correcting his stance.
The system had begun to register the precision.
---
Skill Progression
Soru: 69% → 70%
Tekkai: 42% → 43%
Busoshoku Haki: 23% → 24%
Status:
Strength: 7.6
Endurance: 8.0
Durability: 8.1
Agility: 8.3
---
He watched the water ripple under the moonlight.
For the first time in a long while, Ashen wasn't running.
He was sharpening.
Three days passed.
Ashen kept to the schedule with rigid precision—rising before the others, practicing silently into the night, and following Koshiro's teachings without protest. Every mistake he made was corrected. Every habit from real combat was broken down and rebuilt.
He became a quiet presence in the dojo. Distant, yet unmistakably focused.
Some of the students had begun to warm up to him, though most still eyed him with caution.
Especially after word spread about who had brought him in.
"Did you hear he trained under Vice Admiral Garp?"
"No. He fought Garp. That's what Sora from the general store said."
"Bullshit. He'd be dead if that was true."
"Maybe. Or maybe Garp let him live."
Ashen ignored them.
Not out of pride—but because he understood what they didn't. That power wasn't something you flaunted here. It was tempered like steel in the forge. Hidden beneath technique and control.
Still, not everyone in the village was so philosophical.
On the fourth afternoon, while he was sweeping fallen leaves from the inner courtyard, a shadow crossed the gravel.
He looked up to find a tall young man standing there—older than most students, wearing a sleeveless gi with his arms crossed and a bokken slung over one shoulder.
His face was sharp, eyes hard. His name was Toma—Koshiro's senior student and one of the dojo's future instructors.
"I've been watching you," Toma said.
Ashen rested the broom. "Is that so?"
"You don't belong here."
Ashen's expression didn't change. "Then Koshiro should be the one to tell me that."
Toma stepped forward. "We've trained under Master Koshiro since we were children. We've earned this place. You show up out of nowhere, and suddenly you're given the same space, the same respect."
"I didn't ask for respect," Ashen said simply. "And I didn't come to take anything from anyone."
"You fight like a pirate," Toma growled. "You've got the aura of one. You can't hide it."
Ashen looked him in the eyes then. Calm. Even.
"I'm not a pirate. But I've killed before. If that makes you uncomfortable, you're free to stay out of my way."
For a moment, silence. The air between them thickened.
Toma's grip tightened on his bokken.
Then a voice cut in from the porch.
"That's enough."
Koshiro stood there, arms folded.
"You'll settle this the proper way. If you have a grievance, resolve it tomorrow at sunrise. Sparring match. Controlled. No injuries. If I see one drop of blood, you're both out."
Toma nodded stiffly.
Ashen bowed slightly. "Understood."
---
That night, Ashen sat by the river again. His muscles ached. His body felt heavier than usual. Not from fatigue—but from the restraint he was forcing on himself.
He opened the status window.
---
Status Update
Strength: 7.6
Endurance: 8.1
Durability: 8.2
Agility: 8.4
Skill Progression:
Soru: 70%
Tekkai: 44%
Busoshoku Haki: 25%
---
"A proper match this time," Ashen thought, gripping the bokken beside him.
No life on the line.
Just pride.
And perhaps the first test of whether he could learn to fight without killing.
The courtyard was silent at dawn.
Mist clung to the earth, curling like a living thing across the gravel and wooden walkways. Students ringed the sparring circle with hushed excitement, their breath misting in the morning air.
Koshiro stood at the edge, arms folded, gaze sharp.
Ashen stepped into the circle first, barefoot, his bokken held loosely in one hand. He wore a simple black gi tied at the waist, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Toma followed soon after, his expression taut with tension, shoulders brimming with muscle and confidence. He held his bokken in both hands and stopped across from Ashen.
"This isn't personal," Toma said lowly, "but I won't hold back."
Ashen didn't reply. He simply adjusted his stance and exhaled once.
Koshiro raised a hand.
"Begin."
Toma lunged with speed honed through years of repetition—his initial slash a horizontal cut meant to test Ashen's guard.
Ashen didn't block.
He vanished.
A blur of motion—a streak on the edge of perception.
Soru.
Gasps erupted from the students as Ashen reappeared at Toma's side, bokken aimed for his ribs.
But Toma twisted mid-step, parrying the strike and countering with a downward arc.
Ashen met the blow with his blade, the wood shuddering in his hands.
Strong, he thought. But not unpredictable.
They exchanged five, ten, fifteen strikes in rapid succession—Toma's swordplay precise and disciplined, honed by tradition. Ashen's movements were sharper, more efficient, forged through experience and survival.
But he held back.
He had to.
If he struck like he did in real battle, Toma would've already been unconscious.
Instead, he fought to match—not overwhelm.
And Toma noticed.
"You're playing with me," he snarled between strikes. "You think you're above us?"
Ashen ducked low and swept Toma's leg—but pulled the strike halfway through, letting the man recover his balance.
"I'm trying not to break you," he said calmly.
With a frustrated roar, Toma drove forward, abandoning form in favor of power. His strikes became heavier, wilder.
Ashen pivoted and raised his bokken just in time to parry an overhead blow—and the shock drove him back three steps.
He's not bad, Ashen thought. But he's emotional. That's what'll end this.
He circled slowly now, breathing measured, then darted forward and struck—not with brute force, but with perfect timing.
The bokken hit Toma's wrist. His grip faltered.
Ashen flowed into the next motion—striking the side of his gi just hard enough to push him off balance.
Toma fell backward, hitting the dirt with a grunt.
Silence fell.
Ashen lowered his bokken and bowed respectfully.
Koshiro stepped into the circle.
"Enough."
Toma sat up, sweat dripping from his brow, eyes burning—not with hatred, but something else.
Humility.
Ashen turned to leave the circle, but Koshiro spoke again.
"Wait."
Ashen stopped.
"You fought with precision and restraint. That's more telling than raw strength. Most powerful men I've met fail that test."
Ashen inclined his head slightly.
"I'm not here to prove power," he said. "I'm here to rebuild it."
Koshiro smiled faintly. "Then you're in the right place."
---
Later that day, as the sun filtered through the maple leaves, Ashen sat alone under the dojo's old tree. His body ached—but not from exhaustion.
It was the weight of control.
Of fighting like a swordsman, not a killer.
Maybe, he thought, this really is the beginning of something different.
He opened his status window.
---
Status Update
Strength: 7.8
Endurance: 8.2
Durability: 8.3
Agility: 8.6
Skill Progression:
Soru: 73%
Tekkai: 45%
Busoshoku Haki: 27%
Days passed like gentle ripples on a pond.
Ashen settled into life at the dojo quietly, training alongside the students without demanding attention. Despite his obvious edge in ability, he never boasted nor outpaced them deliberately. He followed instructions with precision, accepted corrections from Koshiro without resistance, and even helped younger students refine their forms after lessons ended.
Whispers followed him nonetheless.
Some students called him "the Shadow Blade." Others said he was once a bounty hunter or an outlaw.
Toma, after their duel, kept his distance—but the coldness in his eyes had faded, replaced by reluctant respect.
One morning, Koshiro approached Ashen while he was sweeping the courtyard.
"I've taught many," the older man said, hands behind his back, "but very few understand restraint the way you do."
Ashen didn't look up. "It was forced on me. By the world."
Koshiro stood beside him in silence for a moment, watching the trees sway in the breeze.
"When restraint is forged in hardship," he said, "it becomes something more than control. It becomes compassion."
Ashen met his gaze then, searching for sarcasm or judgment—but there was none.
"You fight like a man afraid to lose something," Koshiro continued. "Not your life. Something more… abstract."
Ashen thought of Orven's corpse. Of Garp's fist. Of the Straw Hat ship vanishing into the horizon.
"I've already lost too much," he replied.
Koshiro nodded once. "Then use that loss. Sharpen it—not into hate, but purpose."
---
The next few days introduced him to the Shimotsuki Scrolls, a lineage of sword forms unique to the village. Koshiro offered him access to them after seeing his discipline.
Ashen studied them under candlelight, tracing the calligraphy with one finger. The forms were elegant—less brute strength, more precision and footwork.
One in particular caught his attention.
"Kaze no Seigetsu" — The Wind Beneath the Still Moon.
It wasn't a technique of slashing—but one of reading the wind, stepping into gaps, striking in silence.
It reminded him of Soru, but gentler. More... poetic.
The fusion of instinct and discipline.
Ashen began to experiment with it in his training, layering its soft movements over the brutal acceleration of Soru, the rigidity of Tekkai, and the invisible build-up of Haki.
Koshiro watched from afar but did not interrupt.
He merely nodded once, as if recognizing a path being born.
---
One evening, Ashen sat beneath the tree again, watching the moonlight glint off his bokken's worn surface.
A soft voice broke his solitude.
"You don't talk much."
He looked up. It was one of the younger students—a boy named Ren. Maybe ten or eleven. Serious eyes. Always watching.
Ashen gave a small smile. "I talk enough."
Ren sat beside him.
"Are you gonna stay here forever?" the boy asked.
Ashen didn't answer for a while.
"No," he finally said. "But I'll stay as long as I need to."
"To get stronger?"
Ashen's gaze lifted to the stars.
"To understand why I need to."
---
Status Update:
Strength: 7.9
Endurance: 8.3
Durability: 8.5
Agility: 8.9
Skill Progression:
Soru: 75%
Tekkai: 47%
Busoshoku Haki: 30%
Swordsmanship – Shimotsuki Style (Base Form): 3% unlocked
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