Belle-Mere couldn't understand why her adopted son was so focused on the newspaper, always feeling that those major events on the sea were so far away from them, who were planting oranges in the countryside.
Her nagging went in one ear and out the other. Shano murmured a couple of times and started skimming through the newspaper.
——He only read a few lines before his gaze was instantly drawn to the report at the bottom of the front page.
"Agreement Reached! Sun Pirates' Captain Jinbe has become the new Seven Warlords of the Sea!"
Beside it was a picture. Accompanied by several Navy officers, the blue fat Fishman was wearing a yukata, standing on wooden clogs, calmly staring at the camera.
Shano fixated on this photo, unable to look away for a long time.
The hand holding the edge of the newspaper unknowingly clenched tightly.
"Is it coming…" He murmured softly.
"What?" Belle-Mere tilted her head in confusion.
"Nothing."
Shano shook his head slightly, quickly flipping through the remaining pages.
After confirming there was no other worthy news to focus on, he glanced out the window, pushed back his chair, and stood up.
"It seems the rain has stopped. I'll go to the garden to practice sword for a while. If it gets late, you can go to bed without waiting for me."
He smiled, grabbed the Wooden Sword from the corner of the wall, and stepped out the door, leaving a gradually receding figure beyond the glass window.
"Hmm…"
Belle-Mere withdrew her gaze, pinching her chin in deep thought.
She wasn't a person with sharp instincts. Even as a child, elders in her hometown would call her a brainless fool.
Yet, having lived day and night together for so many years, she understood Shano too well, always feeling that there must be something he was hiding from her with such reactions.
Suddenly, she remembered vaguely.
When he was ten years old, one day during a nap, he seemed to have had a long and vivid nightmare.
Then he suddenly awoke, drenched in sweat, and came to her, saying that in the future, there would be a group of hideous and frightening pirates who would come to occupy this island.
He wanted her to move away, far away, to find another place to start life anew on another island.
Naturally, that was impossible. This was her hometown. How could she move away just because of a child's irrational nightmare?
Besides, the East Sea Branch 16 where she used to serve was very close by.
If any pirates really came, could the Navy from Branch 16 just ignore it?
At that time, Belle-Mere comforted him for a long time before the little guy finally calmed down.
And from that day, this child's temperament became increasingly steady, never mentioning moving again. As time passed, he gradually became the pillar of the household.
All along.
She just thought Shano had grown into adulthood and, having come from hardship, was far more mature than his peers, feeling only gratified.
Could it be…
The impact of that nightmare was far greater than she thought, and it continues to this day?
————
"Hoo!"
On an autumn night transitioning into winter, the temperature had plummeted to around zero degrees, with visible white breath exhaling from the nose.
Shano ran laps around the Orange Garden for a while, digesting dinner and warming up in the process.
Then he came to an open space, undressed, revealing a well-built chest.
He steadied his stance, setting the Wooden Sword aside, and began practicing the Breathing Fist Technique.
This technique was purchased last year after saving points for a long time, spending a hefty sum of seven hundred points at the trading market.
The core seemed to have some relation to the breathing methods from the Demon Slayer World, yet distinctly different.
At the edge of the orange grove was a deliberately cleared circular area.
Nine thick wooden stakes were buried in the ground in a formation, varying in height and distance, both ends tightly bound with iron hoops.
This was commissioned by Shano from the village carpenter, made from last year's discarded old variety of orange trees.
If not for each stake being covered with doodles drawn by Nami with crayons—clouds, moons, little bunnies—it would indeed have a certain aura of a master's dojo.
Within the stake formation, there was also half a basket of oranges.
Mostly with wormholes or rot, these were defective products discarded during the past days' harvest.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Three rotten oranges were tossed into the air as the black-haired youth moved at the moment they landed.
The right foot suddenly stomped on the rings of the stake, with a swoosh of the wind, his elbow precisely struck the first descending fruit.
The Qi flow driven by the seventh form of the Breathing Fist Technique frantically surged under the skin, explosively splitting the orange into several pieces.
Before the juice could splash onto his lashes, his left knee had already broken through the husk of the second orange.
As for the third orange…when it was still thirty centimeters above the ground, Shano suddenly stopped, his right foot steadily landing on the ground when it was close and about to shatter.
Drip.
Sweat dripped from the chin onto the dead leaves, evaporating into a faint white mist.
The reason for suddenly stopping was simple.
According to the manual, relaxing abruptly when muscles are swollen to the limit, repeatedly, greatly aids in enhancing muscle control.
Shano didn't pause, picking up three more oranges from the nearby bamboo basket, repeating the previous process again and again.
Until the basket was almost empty, he finally stopped, going to the faucet to wash his face with a handful of water.
Whoosh!
With one kick, he knocked away the empty basket, and after a brief rest, the black-haired youth turned his target to the nearby orange trees.
These were also varieties Belle-Mere had purchased years ago, with productivity and taste far inferior to the batches planted later.
When winter passes this year, they should be discarded.
Just like some inherently vile Fishmen who deserve to be torn into sashimi!
Breathing Fist Technique, Form Eight!
"Ah!"
Shano roared lowly, crushing dead leaves beneath his sole, and his right fist struck the trunk with the arc of a seagull dive.
Where the fist passed, the knuckles snapped like popcorn.
Bang! Bang! Punch after punch, like a storm, the fist bones and trunk collisions unknowingly turned iron grey.
This hue was a characteristic of the Breathing Fist Technique stimulating subcutaneous tissue hardening, similar to Armament Haki entwining.
But the coverage was extremely small, and the strength was somewhat inferior; it is currently only a low-end version.
Continue!
After a brief rest, just seconds of pause, the old orange tree once again let out painful groans.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Under the originally quiet night sky cloaking the orange grove, a muffled and urgent battering sound was continuous.
"One thousand nine hundred ninety-six, one thousand nine hundred ninety-seven... two thousand!"
End!
Shano returned to his stance from afar, steadying his footing, and exhaled deeply.
His shoulders and forehead each emitted wisps of nearly transparent white breath, disappearing into the night.
From shoulder down, his torso quivered violently, persisting for several seconds before gradually weakening.
"Progress is quite good!"
Feeling the sense of power transmitted clearly from all over his body, even under extreme exhaustion, Shano twisted his neck like he was reborn, couldn't help but grin in delight.
He had to admit.
He indeed had some talent in body techniques training.
Practicing the Breathing Fist Technique for a whole year and a half.
Starting from clumsy beginnings, to his current increasing proficiency, the speed of progress seemed to accelerate like an open booster.
Going from zero to being in the door cost him a year, then another three months over the late summer and early autumn before he finally achieved minor success.
And now, not even fully winter, he already felt the barrier to breaking through the limits.
At this pace.
He had confidence that if he continued this rigorous training for ten more days, he could achieve Great Success in the fist technique.