Shimotsuki VIllage, East Blue
The Isshin dojo fell into silence. Only the faint whistling of cicadas outside dared to intrude as every eye inside was fixed upon the two children standing at the center of the polished wooden floor.
On one side stood Kuina—a girl of six years, her dark hair tied neatly behind her head, her posture straight, her small hands gripping the hilt of her katana with an elegance far beyond her age. Her eyes were sharp, clear as mountain water, unblinking. Though her frame was slight, the aura she projected silenced even the older disciples, who suddenly felt the pressure of a true duel.
Opposite her, a boy barely five years old stood barefoot, his emerald hair messy, his stance raw and unrefined but burning with something primal. Roronoa Zoro or rather Kozuki Zoro. His tiny hands gripped two blunted katanas, one in each fist, the weight far heavier than any child should have been able to carry—but the boy bore them with an unnatural ease, his muscles trembling with strain yet refusing to falter.
The older disciples exchanged glances. Just holding real steel at that age was something to boast about. But these two weren't simply holding swords. They were about to clash.
"Begin," Koushiro, the dojo master, said softly. The still air shattered in an instant.
Clang!
Kuina's single blade met Zoro's twin strike, sparks leaping as steel screamed against steel. The boy's raw power surged forward, driving her back half a step, but she twisted her wrist with practiced grace, redirecting his strike upward. With a fluid pivot, her sword cut low, aiming for his ribs.
Zoro blocked clumsily, his second blade clashing against hers just in time. His teeth clenched, a guttural growl escaping his throat, and he shoved forward with both swords, forcing her to disengage. The dojo floor echoed with rapid footsteps as the two children darted in and out of range, their blades flashing like silver lightning.
"Impossible…" one of the senior students whispered. "They're children—!"
But no one dared interrupt. Kuina's strikes were sharp, precise, each swing measured, her form already resembling the teachings etched into her bones. Every angle was efficient, every step deliberate, her breathing steady. She was the image of discipline.
Zoro was the opposite. His attacks were raw, wild, filled with reckless strength. He slashed with abandon, his twin blades carving through the air in unrelenting arcs, as if each strike alone could end the fight. His technique lacked refinement, but his tenacity—his refusal to bend—was terrifying.
Clang… Clang… Clang…!
Their swords rang louder and louder, the rhythm like a drumbeat, each impact rattling the rafters of the dojo. The spectators leaned forward unconsciously, their bodies tense with every exchange.
Kuina darted in, her small frame weaving like a dancer, her blade thrusting for Zoro's shoulder. He crossed his twin katanas in an awkward but effective block, the force of her thrust rattling his arms, but he didn't break. Instead, he pushed back, twisting, bringing his second sword down in a heavy counter.
She slipped aside, the blade grazing past her sleeve, and retaliated with a horizontal slash aimed at his midsection. Steel screamed as Zoro caught it with his other blade, his tiny muscles straining as sweat beaded on his forehead.
The duel was ferocious. Neither yielded an inch. Minutes stretched like hours.
The children's arms trembled with exhaustion, but their eyes—sharp, blazing—refused to waver. Kuina's breaths came shorter now, her strikes still precise but fueled by sheer will. Zoro's chest heaved like a bellows, but his grip on both swords never faltered.
The older students whispered in awe, their voices hushed as though speaking louder might shatter the spell.
"They're… still going…"
"At that age…?!"
"Neither of them is giving up!"
And still the two bladesingers danced.
Zoro lunged with a roar, both katanas swinging in a brutal overhead cross. Kuina bent low, sliding beneath his strike, the steel grazing her hair as she spun, her blade flashing upward. He blocked on instinct, but the sheer elegance of her timing forced him back.
"Damn it!" he spat, his small face twisted in frustration, yet his eyes burned brighter. He charged again, slashing left, right, down, his twin blades a storm of steel. Kuina's sword whirled, deflecting each strike with an almost effortless grace, her feet gliding across the floor.
"Your form is all over the place," she said between breaths, her voice calm, unwavering. "You'll never beat me like that."
"Shut up!" Zoro barked, sweat dripping down his chin. "I'll beat you—no matter what!"
Their blades met again, the impact thunderous, the vibration rattling through their tiny bodies. The duel reached its crescendo.
Both were exhausted, their arms heavy, but neither child relented. Kuina's blade darted forward, a thrust aimed straight for Zoro's chest. He twisted, barely parrying with his right blade, then countered with his left in a wild slash that forced her to leap back.
They circled, eyes locked, sweat soaking their small frames. The dojo was silent, every student holding their breath. Zoro charged, his twin blades spinning in a desperate final offensive. Kuina braced, her eyes narrowing, and met him head-on.
Steel clashed in a storm—strike against strike, thrust against slash, parry against parry. Sparks danced like fireflies, the air itself trembling with each collision.
And then— With a flick of her wrist, Kuina slid her blade past his guard, hooking the first of his katanas and sending it clattering across the floor. Zoro's eyes widened, but before he could react, her sword twisted again, disarming the second with a metallic cry.
Both of his blades flew from his hands. And in the same motion, Kuina's katana stopped an inch from his throat, the cold steel resting against the pulse of his neck. The dojo exhaled as one.
Zoro froze, chest heaving, eyes locked on the edge poised against him. His small fists clenched at his sides, trembling—not from fear, but from sheer frustration.
Kuina didn't gloat. She simply lowered her blade, her face calm, composed, though her own arms trembled from exertion.
"By a hair's breadth," one of the seniors whispered, his voice tinged with awe.
Zoro dropped to his knees, sweat dripping onto the floorboards. "Damn it… I lost…" he muttered, voice thick with frustration.
Kuina sheathed her blade with steady hands. "Next time, Zoro," she said softly, her clear eyes meeting his. "You'll have to train harder if you want to win."
The boy's fists tightened. He glared at her, not with hatred, but with burning determination. "I'll beat you. No matter what. One day, I'll surpass you, Kuina!"
She gave the faintest of smiles. "I'll be waiting."
The dojo was still humming with awe from the clash when Kuina suddenly broke character. The disciplined prodigy who had just wielded her katana with the grace of a master turned into nothing more than a bubbly six-year-old. She sheathed her blade clumsily, barely able to hide her grin, and sprinted barefoot toward the viewing area.
"Grandpa! Grandpa, did you see me? I beat Zoro again!" she chirped, her cheeks flushed, her ponytail bouncing wildly as she dove into the mat where the elders sat.
The stern old man, Shimotsuki Kozaburo, burst into laughter, his weathered face glowing with pride. "Yes, yes! My granddaughter Kuina is the best. Even the Kozuki clan's heir is no match for her!"
His eyes twinkled mischievously as he turned his head ever so slightly toward the man seated beside him—Kozuki Sukiyaki, the former Shogun of the Wano country. The jab landed perfectly. Sukiyaki twitched, his proud samurai composure cracking as he mumbled something unintelligible about next time.
"Hmph… winning by a hair is still barely winning," Sukiyaki grumbled under his breath, though his ears burned red.
Kozaburo slapped his knee and roared with laughter. "Bahahaha! A loss is still a loss, old friend! Admit it—our Kuina is a prodigy! Even your heir, even Wano's future hope, pales before my granddaughter's blade!"
The two old masters bickered like children while Kuina basked in the praise, hugging her grandfather's sleeve tightly. Meanwhile, the other students began dispersing, some shaking their heads in disbelief, others muttering about extra training, as Koushirou, the dojo master, calmly rose to help them.
On the far side of the dojo, Zoro stood alone. He bent to retrieve his fallen blades, his small hands gripping the hilts tightly, his emerald bangs hiding the frustration burning in his eyes. He did not sulk, nor did he pout like the child he was. Instead, he clenched his jaw, lifted both swords firmly, and walked out of the hall with his head held high—toward the lone figure standing beneath the crooked pear tree just beyond the sliding doors.
That figure was unlike anyone else in the dojo. Dracule Mihawk.
The man stood with the stillness of stone, his presence alone commanding silence. He wore a long, black trench coat lined with crimson, a wide-brimmed hat casting shadows over his hawk-like golden eyes. The great black blade, Yoru, rested against his back, its cross-shaped hilt gleaming faintly in the sunlight. Every inch of him exuded elegance, lethality, and a kind of solitude that weighed heavier than any steel.
He had not moved once throughout the entire duel, yet Zoro knew he had watched every strike, every falter, every clash.
Zoro came to a stop before him, his fists trembling around his swords. He couldn't raise his head to meet those piercing eyes.
"I… I'm sorry, Master," Zoro muttered, the words choking in his throat. "I lost…"
The boy's voice cracked. It wasn't just disappointment—it was shame. Shame that Mihawk had witnessed his first true duel against Kuina and seen him fail.
Mihawk studied him in silence, his sharp gaze sweeping over the child. He saw the sweat dripping from Zoro's chin, the way his arms quivered with exhaustion, the stubborn defiance simmering in his young eyes despite his bowed head. At length, Mihawk's lips curved into the faintest of smirks.
"You apologize… for losing to someone as talented as you are?" His voice was low, smooth, yet carrying the weight of steel.
"Shouldn't you be thinking about how to win the next duel instead?" Mihawk's voice cut through the silence, sharp and precise as his blade. His golden eyes narrowed ever so slightly, pinning Zoro in place. "Remember this—every defeat is a lesson. As long as your will does not falter, as long as your resolve remains unbroken, someday… you will outlast your opponent."
The words struck Zoro like steel against steel, but what the boy could not know was that Mihawk was not speaking to him alone.
For the briefest moment, the world's greatest swordsman let his gaze drift beyond the dojo, beyond the pear tree, beyond even the boy before him. His mind's eye conjured a figure cloaked in memory—Rosinante.
Mihawk had crossed blades with that man dozens of times. And dozens of times, he had been humbled. Each clash had ended with his defeat, his body marked, his pride tested, his skill outmatched. Yet not once had his spirit cracked. On the contrary, those defeats had been his crucible.
If not for Rosinante, Mihawk knew he might have stagnated long ago, content to stand atop the peak with no rivals to challenge him. But Rosinante was different—an insurmountable wall, a rival who forced him to sharpen his edge beyond what he once thought possible.
Every swing of Yoru was now a step forward. Every scar was a lesson etched into his flesh. And with each defeat, Mihawk's hunger grew, his blade carving closer to the day he would finally stand equal to that one opponent who had always humbled him.
His eyes refocused on Zoro, the boy's small frame trembling with frustration yet brimming with fire.
"That is the path of the sword," Mihawk finished, his tone softer now, though no less absolute. "To be defeated, to learn, to rise again—until the day you carve victory with your own hands."
For a heartbeat, Zoro could only stare at him in silence. And then, his tiny fists clenched tighter around his blades, his jaw set. The boy's answer wasn't spoken aloud—it burned in his eyes.
And Mihawk, seeing that fire, allowed the faintest curve of a smile to ghost across his lips.
Zoro's head shot up, eyes wide. Mihawk's smirk faded into something colder—measured. "What I saw in ther was not weakness or defeat. It was potential. She has trained as hard as you have, but more refined. However, compared to her, you are raw. Rough steel. But even rough steel, when tempered properly, can become a blade that cuts the heavens."
The boy's fists tightened. "Then I'll temper myself, master. I'll beat her. I'll beat everyone! I'll… I'll become the world's greatest swordsman!"
The fire in his emerald eyes burned so fiercely that even Mihawk's stoicism cracked for the briefest moment. His golden gaze narrowed—not in disdain, but in interest.
"…We shall see. And during this time I will personally take over your training."
Back inside, Kozaburo and Sukiyaki's bickering reached its peak.
"Sukiyaki, you should just admit it already!" Kozaburo guffawed, pounding the tatami with laughter. "The Kozuki heir is leagues beneath my Kuina!"
"Hmph! You sound like a drunk merchant, bragging about his cheap wares," Sukiyaki snapped, crossing his arms with theatrical indignation. "Next time, Zoro will win. Mark my words. You won't be laughing then."
Kozaburo's grin widened, his white beard quivering. "Bahahaha! Then I shall laugh louder, old friend!"
The students who lingered couldn't help but exchange nervous glances. The two legends' banter carried the sharpness of their own blades, each word a playful slash in a duel that had lasted decades.
Kuina, meanwhile, hid her giggles behind her hands. For all her grace in battle, in this moment she was just a little girl, basking in her family's pride.
****
Dressrosa, New World
"Ahhhhhh—!"
The piercing cry shattered the calm of the chamber. Shyarly collapsed to the floor, clutching her head as if unseen daggers were being driven into her skull. Her long, raven black hair spilled forward in a tangled curtain, beads of sweat running down her pale face. The crystal ball on the table beside her flickered ominously before dimming to nothing.
"Shyarly!" Yamato lunged forward, catching the mermaid before she struck the floor. The usually composed oracle trembled in her arms, her breathing ragged, as if the very act of seeing had torn something vital from her.
"Go—call someone!" Yamato barked, her voice cracking with urgency.
Little Anya, who had been happily perched on the windowsill only moments before, bolted from the room. Her tiny feet slapped against the polished wood of the corridor as she sprinted, her small voice echoing through the palace:
"Help! Hurry—Shyarly-san's in trouble!"
Within moments, the heavy tread of boots thundered down the hallway. The door slammed open, and Senor and Miyamoto strode in.
Shyarly was upright now, barely, her back pressed against a wooden drawer. Her breath came in shallow, trembling pulls as Yamato gently tilted a pitcher to her lips, letting her sip the cool water in tiny gulps. The glass clinked softly against her teeth.
"What happened!?" Senor's gravelly voice roared as his eyes took in the sight of Shyarly's ashen face. Panic rippled across his normally unshakable features. Without hesitation, he snapped open his Den Den Mushi, barking orders across the lines. Within seconds, alarms rang through the palace—sharp, shrill notes that sent servants and soldiers alike scattering to their posts.
He turned to Miyamoto, his voice a low growl. "Scour every hall, every passage, every shadow. I want this palace torn apart if you have to. If there's even a chance this was an intruder…"
Miyamoto didn't waste a breath on reply. His blade gleamed briefly as he vanished from the room, already executing the command.
The tension was a living thing now, coiling through the palace. Footsteps thundered, doors slammed, steel rang as guards unsheathed weapons. The Donquixote family had weathered countless storms, but Shyarly was different. She was not just another ally—she was their compass, their seer, the quiet anchor that made the empire's ambitions tangible.
Minutes later, the alarms began to fade, though the tension did not. Shyarly now rested on a silk-draped bed, her color returning by degrees. A basin of water sat at her side, Yamato still hovering protectively near her.
The heavy air in the chamber grew heavier still as the door opened once more. Doflamingo entered. His imposing silhouette cut across the candlelight, his sharp grin noticeably absent. Every thread of his presence radiated control, but the faint twitch in his fingers betrayed his irritation at being pulled from his affairs by something so urgent.
At his side stood Issho, calm as ever, though his hand still rested lightly on his sheathed blade. He had already swept the palace with his senses, his Observation Haki confirming that no enemy lurked within their walls. The danger, whatever it was, had not come from without.
And that truth only made the atmosphere more suffocating. The room fell utterly silent as Doflamingo's sharp eyes fixed on Shyarly. Every member of the family who understood her value knew one thing: if Shyarly fell, their empire's foresight would crumble. The entire machine of Dressrosa—their schemes, their dominance, their control over tides yet to turn—depended on her visions.
Yamato tightened her grip on the water pitcher, sensing the storm building in the air. Senor stood at rigid attention, his jaw tight. Even the ever-stoic Issho tilted his head slightly, his blind eyes narrowing as if trying to read the fate that had nearly torn the mermaid apart.
Shyarly stirred, her voice hoarse but steady as her gaze slowly lifted toward them. The flicker of fear in her eyes was something none of them had ever seen before. And in that moment, the Donquixote family realized—whatever she had seen was enough to shatter even her composure.
The silence stretched like a blade ready to fall.
"What happened, child…?" Giolla's voice trembled as her wrinkled hand gently caressed Shyarly's damp hair. The old woman's usual flamboyance was nowhere to be found—only worry etched deep into her face as she gazed at the mermaid, still trembling against the silk sheets.
Shyarly's breathing was shallow, every inhale accompanied by the lingering throb of pain behind her eyes. But she forced herself upright, her gaze locking onto Doflamingo. Her voice was hoarse but firm, every word cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.
"Master Doffy… someone has entered Dressrosa. Someone I cannot see."
The room tensed at once. Senor's fists clenched at his sides. Yamato's grip tightened on the water pitcher until it creaked under her strength. Even Issho's blind eyes shifted toward her, his brow furrowing slightly.
"I tried to forcibly scry them," Shyarly continued, her voice laced with urgency. "But it was as though they reached back. The moment I searched… they found me. They are already inside Dressrosa."
A heavy silence followed. For the first time in years, Doflamingo's grin faltered. His shades reflected the dim candlelight, but the sharp line of his mouth revealed the depth of his irritation. Within Dressrosa, Shyarly was their omniscient eye. No one had ever moved unseen under her watch—not pirates, not marines, not even Cipher Pol agents.
For someone to not only resist her sight but strike back at it was unprecedented. It wasn't just a mystery. It was a direct challenge. His voice was low, dangerous. "So… someone formidable dares to step into my kingdom and hide from my gaze."
He turned sharply to Senor, the air itself tightening with his killing intent. "It seems we have a guest, Senor. Perhaps it's time we give them the kind of welcome only the Donquixote family can provide."
The words carried the weight of an impending bloodbath. Already, Senor's hand twitched toward his weapon, ready to carry out an island-wide hunt that would set Dressrosa aflame. The atmosphere thickened, soldiers on edge, their instincts sharpening for war.
But before the order could be sealed, Shyarly's hand shot out, clutching Yamato's sleeve. Her eyes, though strained, gleamed with a conviction that silenced the room.
"There is no need, Master Doffy…" Her voice steadied, the earlier panic giving way to something else—something far stronger.
She drew in a breath and spoke the words that shifted the room's very foundation.
"Young Master Ross has returned."
For a moment, the chamber was frozen in disbelief. Then, like the tide pulling back before a tidal wave, the murderous tension evaporated. Senor's clenched fists loosened. Yamato's shoulders eased. Even Issho allowed the faintest curve of a smile to touch his lips.
And Doflamingo… he leaned back slowly, the storm behind his shades dissipating. That grin returned—sharp, wide, and brimming with amusement.
"Fufufufufu… So, that's why." He spread his arms as though embracing the very air, his flames twitching at his fingertips before retracting harmlessly. "For someone to slip Shyarly's gaze, it takes a peerless monster. But if Ross has returned…"
He chuckled darkly, the confidence in his voice absolute. "…then even peerless monsters have something to fear."
The threat of an unseen enemy still lingered, like a shadow at the edge of the light. But the moment Rossinante's name was spoken, it no longer mattered. His return was worth more than any army, more than any precaution. In the heart of the Donquixote family, his presence alone was enough to tilt the scales back into certainty.