The old wooden door creaked open as Shiro stepped inside.
At the center of the shabby hut sat a broken table, its legs uneven, surrounded by a pack of sneering thugs. They clutched greasy cards in their hands, laughing loud and mean, too caught up in their game to notice a newcomer.
But Shiro's eyes quickly found the real anomaly in the room.
Seated in the corner was a man who looked nothing like the others. Nearly three meters tall, his frame was massive and solid. He wore a weathered kimono faded from years of use, and at his side rested a cane-sword, its old scabbard etched with delicate patterns.
The instant Shiro entered, the man's head tilted slightly, the corner of his lips curving into the faintest smile. He had already sensed Shiro's presence—not with sight, but through sound and the subtle stirrings of the air.
Shiro squinted, recognition sparking in his mind. Though the man's eyes remained shut, his calm expression carried neither anger nor frustration, but a deep, unshakable serenity—as if the coins he'd been steadily losing didn't matter at all.
Then it struck him. Shiro slapped his forehead.
"That face…! I've seen it before."
Yes—he remembered. Years from now, this man would rise through the Navy's "World Military Draft," becoming an Admiral known far and wide for wielding the power of the Gravity Fruit.
Shiro's lips tugged upward in a sly smile.
"Ain't no mistake. That's Issho… the man the world will one day call Admiral Fujitora. What a surprise—running into the younger version here of all places. Heh… maybe instead of a Marine, I should make him a pirate."
The air reeked of cheap smoke and sweat. A green-haired punk banged his heel against the table leg, waving a few crumpled notes in Issho's face, spittle flying as he jeered:
"Oi, blindy! This is your last coin. Wanna bet it all again?"
His cronies laughed, spouting insults.
Issho sat quietly, fingers brushing the worn coins in his hand, face unchanged by their mockery. Then, with a steady motion, he slid his last bet onto the table.
"Deal." His voice was calm, unyielding.
The thugs exchanged greedy looks and dealt the cards. When the round ended, Issho's hand was clearly an eight—but the green-haired leader slapped his own card down, covering part of Issho's and sneering:
"Wrong again, blind man. You've only got four! We're six. You're broke. Get lost!"
He reached for the pot, but Issho's broad hand clamped down over his wrist like iron.
The gang froze. Even the village boy, Jiren, who had followed Shiro inside, tensed to step in. But Shiro stopped him with a raised finger, leaning lazily against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on his lips.
"No," Issho said softly, tapping the card face with a knuckle. "I've got eight. You only have six."
The gang sputtered, insisting otherwise, shouting to cover their fear.
Issho chuckled low, the sound dry and knowing. At last, he raised his face. Though his eyes were closed, his words cut sharp:
"I blinded myself… because this world is too filthy to look at. But don't mistake that for weakness. I can see everything you do."
The thugs burst into cruel laughter—until a cold, steady voice broke the air.
"I think you've had your fun."
The laughter died instantly. The punks turned and froze—Shiro stood in the center of the room now, his white doctor's coat swaying lightly, his smile anything but kind.
The green-haired thug stammered, paling. "D-Doc… we were just joking around with this guy, that's all…"
Issho turned his head toward Shiro, calm as ever. "If it's you, I suppose it'll be over in an instant."
Shiro's eyes narrowed, a storm of black-red will spilling into the room. In the blink of an eye, every thug collapsed to the floor, snoring like children.
Issho's closed eyes tilted toward him, surprise flickering for the first time. "That's Conqueror's Haki… and so young, too. You're no ordinary doctor."
Shiro stepped forward, hands buried in his coat pockets. "And you? With Observation Haki that sharp, you could have beaten them easily. Yet you let yourself lose. Why?"
Issho's fingers brushed the hilt of his cane-sword. "…I don't gamble for money. I gamble for the experience. Winning and losing mean little."
Shiro grinned, leaning in. "Sounds to me like you're just bored."
For the first time, Issho's shoulders eased, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"If boredom is what you call it, then maybe so."
Shiro's voice dropped, sly and deliberate.
"Well then… if you're really that bored, why not join my pirate crew?"
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