Sure enough, as the Slow-Slow beam struck the spotted deer, its movements visibly slowed — like a snail trapped in molasses.
Without hesitation, Foxxy burst out from the bushes. With a vicious look on his face, he swung the machete straight at the deer's neck.
Sensing danger, the deer's eyes widened in panic.
It wanted to flee — its instincts screamed at it to run.
But its body moved at a snail's pace. Its proud agility couldn't save it this time.
A streak of blood appeared as the blade sliced through.
Instead of spraying violently, the blood oozed out slowly, like sluggish syrup.
Ten seconds passed in the blink of an eye.
The effect lifted.
The deer collapsed heavily, fresh blood finally spurting out and staining the earth in bright red.
Foxxy stood over it, chest rising and falling, gripping the machete with trembling fingers. His face was noticeably pale.
The deer's body twitched a few times before falling still.
Thankfully, he had sharpened the blade before heading out. Otherwise, a clean kill would've been impossible — and with only five Slow-Slow shots available per full exertion, he wouldn't have had a second chance.
The slow duration was only ten seconds.
Compared to Foxxy, twenty years later, who could slow opponents for thirty seconds, this was pitiful.
This was why he cursed the Slow-Slow Fruit so much. Yes, it was strong. But it was also ridiculously weak.
Still, Foxxy believed things would change.
One day, he'd fire beams in an instant, stretch the slow duration to minutes — maybe hours.
He refused to be a "ten-second man forever."
And that orchid-finger pose?
That absolutely had to go. His dignity depended on it.
With a heavy sigh, he sheathed the machete and began dragging the deer by the legs toward the village.
It weighed at least 200 jin (roughly 100 kg). For a fourteen-year-old with Foxxy's physique, it was exhausting.
In this world, fourteen often meant "young elite."
Rob Lucci annihilated 500 soldiers at the age of thirteen.
Luffy, Ace, and Sabo were undoubtedly dominating animal territories by now — scaring off tigers, wrestling crocodiles, and doing ridiculous things as if it were casual play.
Meanwhile, Foxxy struggled to drag a corpse.
The difference was… painful.
No, he had to work harder. If he wanted a comfortable life someday, this was the price.
His resolve firmed once more.
Thirty Days Later
Time passed quietly, as it always had — the shameless sun chased after the shy moon, day after day, for billions of years.
Morning dawned.
The sky brightened.
A new day crept gently over the horizon.
On a mountain path, a figure ran swiftly while carrying two massive water buckets — each over a meter tall, filled to the brim. Together, they weighed well over 100 kg, yet the boy ran as if weightless.
This was Foxxy.
From his home to the spring was over ten kilometers.
He had already filled his own water tank. These trips were for the neighbors.
For an entire month, he trained relentlessly — frog jumps, push-ups, sit-ups. From just a few dozen reps at the start, he now does hundreds.
He carried water, tilled land, and moved heavy things. Anything that trained his body, he volunteered for.
His philosophy was simple:
Training while helping others — why not?T
Hardworking people always reap rewards.
This month, Foxxy has helped so many villagers that they repaired his rundown hut.
They brought him vegetables, salt, oil, and rice — enough to live comfortably for a month.
To the villagers, he had become the neighborhood's hardworking kid — the kind who warmed hearts.
But the greatest reward was his body.
The potbelly that once made him look eight months pregnant had flattened noticeably.
Faint outlines of four-pack abs had begun to form.
His once chubby frame was becoming lean and upright.
He looked significantly better.
His face, though…
Still a tragedy.
The split pompadour was stubborn. Half a month ago, Foxxy had nearly branded his scalp with a heated iron to force it down. It worked for a few days — then the cursed style returned.
He almost shaved his head in rage.
But when he let his hair grow long, the split became less obvious. So he decided to let it grow
Next problem:
His bright, witch-like red nose.
He tried everything — nothing worked.
Then those drooping brows and triangular eyes…
Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw a sly fox spirit staring back.
Shame there wasn't a plastic surgeon in the village.
On the bright side, his stamina had multiplied.
His Slow-Slow Fruit had improved too — he could now fire ten beams instead of five.
And the slow duration?
From ten seconds…
…to eleven seconds.
Just one second, but it was a second squeezed out of a month of sweat and bitter perseverance.
That one second meant progress.
Foxxy's month of training taught him something important:
Weak Devil Fruit users weren't weak by choice.
They were weak because the training was hellishly hard.
Developing a Devil Fruit required imagination, repeated practice, and extreme physical endurance.
They say, "There are no weak fruits, only weak users."
That wasn't entirely true.
If someone offered you a normal Zoan fruit or a Logia fruit, which would you pick?
No matter how strong your haki or martial arts, the base strength difference still existed.
Still, the Slow-Slow Fruit was especially difficult. Time-related abilities were naturally tricky.
Even so, if Foxxy ever accidentally awakened his fruit…
Who knew what it might become?
Every Devil Fruit had flaws, but every one also possessed terrifying potential.
Used correctly, the Slow-Slow Fruit could one-shot opponents with ease — but only if Foxxy himself became strong enough.
If he had Garp-level physique and haki, paired with the Slow-Slow Fruit?
He would walk sideways across the sea — literally backwards if he wanted — and no one would dare complain.
Because in the end…
Strength came from oneself.
A fruit alone wasn't enough.
Without martial arts and haki, you couldn't even touch your opponent, let alone defeat them — especially when Observation Haki existed.
Some masters could even see moments into the future.
How do you fight that?
Still — Foxxy's efforts were paying off. His aura was different now.
Sharper.
More alive.
Almost… charismatic.
He felt like a new person.
And with that, he set three firm goals:
First — get plastic surgery.
Jesus himself couldn't stop him.
Second — join the Navy, get stronger, and steal every technique they had:
Six Powers, Armament Haki, Observation Haki.
Third — survive the next twenty years.
He clenched his fists.
This was his path.
No turning back now.