Dragon's voice grew harder.
"If we were to engage in a head-on military conflict today—armies clashing, ships burning, Haki users fighting in the streets—the Revolution would be crushed before the sun set. Utterly. Completely. Without mercy."
Argentus nodded slowly, understanding the calculus.
"So you stay in the shadows," he said. "You chip away at the foundation until the whole structure collapses from within."
"Precisely," Dragon confirmed, a hint of approval in his tone. "We liberate small nations one at a time. We expose corruption where we can. We distribute banned books and forbidden history. We build our strength in the margins—the places where the Government's eyes don't look because they're too 'insignificant.'"
He gestured toward Koushiro, who sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, the picture of a humble village teacher.
"But an army—even a revolutionary one—cannot run on ideals alone. Ideas don't fill stomachs. Philosophy doesn't stop bullets."
Dragon's voice grew quieter.
"We need steel for weapons. We need information from inside the system. And above all, we need food."
Koushiro adjusted his glasses with one finger, that gentle, self-deprecating smile returning to his face.
"I am a teacher, Argentus-kun," Koushiro said softly, his tone apologetic. "My duty is to this village and to the children in my dojo. I cannot abandon them to take up the sword against the Marines and wage open war."
He looked toward the shrine where Kuina's picture sat.
"If I were to leave, who would guide the next generation? Who would preserve these techniques? Who would protect this small pocket of peace we've carved out?"
His smile grew sadder.
"I am not a warrior anymore. I am a teacher. That is my path now."
"There are many like Koushiro scattered across all the seas," Dragon explained, his voice carrying deep respect. "People who cannot leave their lives, their villages, their students. People who have families, responsibilities, roots too deep to tear out."
He paused.
"But who still see the rot in the world. Who still understand that the system is broken. Who still want to help, even if they cannot hold a banner or fire a rifle."
Dragon's expression grew intense.
"They are our lifeline. Our foundation. The invisible network that keeps the Revolution alive."
He gestured to Koushiro.
"They cannot hold a revolutionary banner in the streets. So instead, they hold the supply lines."
"Rice, dried fish, medical supplies, clean water, bandages, ammunition," Koushiro listed quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "The villagers believe we are simply stocking up for harsh winters or trading surplus with merchant vessels that pass through."
He poured more tea with steady hands.
"In truth, every few months, we fill the holds of Dragon-san's ships with everything we can spare. We ask no questions about where it goes. We keep no records that could be discovered."
His voice dropped even lower.
"It is a silent rebellion. An invisible war fought with kindness instead of swords."
"Koushiro risks execution simply by pouring me this tea," Dragon said, his eyes darkening with the weight of that reality. "If the World Government discovered his connection to us, they would raze this village to the ground. Kill everyone. Burn the dojo. Salt the earth."
He looked around the table.
"That is the reality of our war, Argentus. It is not just fought by Haki users and Devil Fruit wielders clashing in grand battles. It is fought by farmers who hide our wounded. By teachers who spread banned books. By blacksmiths who repair our weapons in secret."
Dragon's voice grew passionate despite its low volume.
"By ordinary people who are simply tired of the Celestial boot pressed against their necks. Who are exhausted from watching their children starve while nobles feast. Who have finally said 'enough.'"
"I see," Argentus said quietly, taking a slow sip of the green tea.
The liquid was bitter, earthy, grounding. It gave him time to process the information.
He'd always thought of revolution as something loud.
But this was different. This was a thousand small acts of defiance building toward critical mass. A slow-burning fuse rather than an explosion.
Dragon stood up, the movement fluid despite his size. The heavy green cloak settled around his broad shoulders like folded wings.
He turned to face Koushiro directly and offered a deep, respectful bow—not the casual nod of social courtesy, but the profound acknowledgment of one warrior to another.
"Thank you, Koushiro," Dragon said, his voice carrying genuine emotion. "The supplies you've provided will keep the flame alive for another season. Your conviction is as sharp as any blade in this hall. Perhaps sharper, because it cuts without drawing blood."
Koushiro returned the bow even more deeply, his forehead nearly touching the tatami mat.
"May the wind guide you to a dawn where such secrecy is no longer needed, Dragon-san," he replied quietly. "Where teachers can simply teach, and freedom is not a crime."
Dragon straightened and signaled to Sabo and Ivankov with a subtle gesture.
The three Revolutionaries moved swiftly and silently, gathering their minimal belongings. They exited the dojo through a side door, moving like shadows through the darkened grounds, heading toward the hidden cove on the north side of the island where their ship waited.
Argentus followed them at a distance, curious despite himself.
He trailed them to the edge of a cliff overlooking the cove, staying back in the tree line. From this vantage point, he could see the Revolutionary vessel clearly.
It was magnificent in its dark majesty—a ship painted in blacks and deep greens, nearly invisible against the night water. Its sails were furled but shaped like dragon wings when deployed. No flag flew from its mast. It was a ghost ship, designed to appear and disappear without trace.
The silhouette of the massive vessel began to move, silent as a phantom. No bells. No shouted orders. Just coordinated, practiced efficiency.
It cut through the black water, leaving barely a wake, heading toward open ocean.
Argentus leaned against a tree, his silver eyes fixed on the figure of Dragon standing at the prow like a figurehead.
That man, Argentus thought, the weight of realization settling in his chest like a stone. He's walking the loneliest path in the world.
He thought about Garp—the "Hero of the Marines." The man who was practically a living god of justice in the eyes of the public. The legend who'd cornered the Pirate King himself.
Dragon had been born into that legacy. Born into greatness, into expectation, into a clear path toward glory.
He could have been an Admiral. Could have been the next Hero. Could have had statues erected in his honor and songs sung about his victories.
Instead, he had chosen to become the "World's Worst Criminal."
He had disappointed his own father—perhaps the only person in the world whose approval might have actually mattered. He had shattered the family lineage to pursue a vision of freedom that the World Government had deemed illegal.
And yet...
Argentus recalled the moment earlier in the room. When he had described Garp as "loud and noisy," when he had mimicked the "Fist of Love" with exasperation in his voice.
Dragon hadn't scoffed. Hadn't looked disgusted or resentful at the mention of his father.
Beneath that stoic revolutionary mask, Argentus had seen something genuine flash in those storm-grey eyes.
Admiration. Respect. Perhaps even love, twisted and complicated as it might be.
Dragon admired the old man. He respected Garp's strength, his absolute conviction, his chaotic but genuine sense of justice. He loved his father even as he systematically dismantled the very institution Garp had sworn to protect.
"To love your father but destroy his world..." Argentus whispered to the night wind, to the ocean, to no one. "That is a heavy resolve, Monkey D. Dragon."
He shook his head slowly.
"I don't know if I could do it."
He turned to leave, assuming the interaction was over, when a voice suddenly tore through the coastal mist—loud, raspy, and desperately earnest.
"ARGENTUS!"
Argentus stopped and looked back toward the cove.
On the stern of the disappearing ship, now barely visible in the darkness, a figure was standing on the railing. Balanced precariously, waving one arm frantically above his head in wide, sweeping motions.
It was Sabo—the boy with the yellow hair and the broken pipe and the memories he couldn't quite reach.
"WE WILL MEET AGAIN!" Sabo shouted, his voice echoing off the cliffs and carrying across the water. "I PROMISE! NEXT TIME, LET'S TALK MORE!"
Dragon, standing at the prow, didn't stop the boy.
He simply stood there, allowing Sabo this moment.
Argentus stared at the distant silhouette for a long moment.
Then a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—barely visible in the darkness, but genuine.
He simply raised one hand in a lazy, acknowledging wave.
"Yeah," Argentus muttered to himself, turning his back on the sea and heading back toward the dojo. "Don't die before then, amnesia boy. The world's going to need people like you."
One Month Later
The month that followed flew by in a blur of sweat, bruised ribs, split knuckles, and the endless, rhythmic clashing of steel against iron.
Argentus didn't just train during this period.
He obsessed.
He spent his days sparring with Zoro until they both collapsed from exhaustion, neither willing to be the first to quit. He spent his nights sitting alone in the forest, cross-legged in front of various rocks and trees, listening to the "hum" of the world until his ears rang with silence and his head throbbed from the sustained mental effort.
He barely slept. Barely ate beyond what was necessary for fuel.
Every waking moment was dedicated to understanding the Breath of All Things—to translating the philosophy of the sword into the language of the spear.
Finally, on the thirtieth day since Dragon's visit, the breakthrough happened.
It was late afternoon. The sun was dipping low toward the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the dojo courtyard. Golden light painted everything in shades of amber and bronze.
The students had gone home hours ago, leaving the training grounds empty except for two figures facing each other in the center of the ring.
Koushiro watched from the covered porch, sitting in seiza position, his hands folded in his lap. His face was calm, but his eyes were intent.
Zoro stood across from Argentus, panting heavily. His chest heaved with exertion. Sweat dripped from his moss-green hair, staining his white shirt dark.
He had grown noticeably stronger over the past month, pushed to his absolute limits by Argentus's relentless pressure. His muscles were more defined. His reactions faster. His techniques sharper.
But more importantly, his eyes had changed. They carried a new weight. A new understanding that combat wasn't just about swinging swords—it was about reading the invisible currents of intent and will that flowed beneath every clash.
"Last one," Zoro grunted, breathing hard through his nose.
He clamped the Wado Ichimonji firmly between his teeth, biting down on the wrapped hilt with audible force. He raised his two ordinary katanas—good blades, but unremarkable—in his hands, settling into his signature stance.
"I'm going to break that spear of yours, Argentus!" Zoro declared, though there was respect beneath the competitive fire in his voice. "I'm going to shatter it and prove that three swords beats one spear!"
"Try it," Argentus replied simply.
But this time, something was different.
Argentus didn't brace himself for impact. Didn't tighten his muscles in preparation for a clash of raw strength. Didn't shift his weight into a defensive stance.
Instead, he relaxed.
He let his shoulders drop. Let his breathing slow and deepen. Let his Observation Haki expand outward—but not to predict Zoro's movement or read his killing intent.
He was listening to something else.
Something quieter.
There, Argentus thought, his silver eyes half-closing.
He heard it.
The faint, almost imperceptible hum resonating from the two ordinary katanas in Zoro's hands. Each blade had its own frequency, its own rhythm. They weren't perfectly forged. They had microscopic imperfections in the metal—grain lines, stress points, places where the steel was fractionally weaker.
They had breath.
And for the first time, Argentus could hear it clearly.
"Santoryu... Oni Giri!"
Zoro launched himself forward with explosive force, his boots leaving cracks in the stone courtyard.
The three blades converged on Argentus with crushing, coordinated force—a pincer attack designed to either cleave him in half or force him into a desperate defensive position that would leave him vulnerable.
It was Zoro's most powerful technique. The attack that had ended dozens of fights before they truly began.
Argentus didn't dodge.
Didn't leap backward or sideways to create distance.
Instead, he stepped forward, directly into the path of the descending blades.
His iron spear moved in a blur—not a wild swing, not a desperate block.
An interception.
He guided the blade of his spear with surgical precision, aligning it perfectly with the frequency he heard resonating from Zoro's steel. He didn't try to stop the swords. He didn't try to break them through overwhelming force.
He simply matched their rhythm exactly and slid through them.
SHING.
The sound that rang out was unlike anything that had echoed in this courtyard before.
It was high-pitched and pure—crystalline, like a perfect bell chiming in an empty cathedral. The kind of sound that resonated in the bones and made the air itself seem to vibrate.
It was the sound of steel being severed.
Zoro flew past Argentus, carried forward by his own momentum, unable to stop mid-technique.
He landed in a low crouch several meters beyond, his three swords still raised.
For a single heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then—
Clink.
Clink.
Two metallic sounds echoed across the stone floor.
Zoro stood up slowly, confusion crossing his face.
He looked down at his hands.
The Wado Ichimonji—his precious inherited blade, the sword that carried his promise to Kuina—remained perfectly intact, still clamped firmly between his teeth.
But the two ordinary katanas he'd been holding in his hands...
They had been sheared cleanly in half at the midpoint.
The cuts were impossibly smooth—so precise they looked like they'd been sliced by a laser rather than another blade. The cross-sections gleamed in the fading sunlight, showing the internal structure of the steel.
The severed halves lay on the stone floor, still ringing faintly from the impact.
Zoro stared at the broken blades in his hands, his eyes trembling.
His mouth opened slightly. The Wado Ichimonji nearly fell from his teeth.
"You..." Zoro finally managed to speak, spitting the white-hilted sword into his hand.
He looked up at Argentus, and there was something in his expression—not anger or frustration, but genuine, profound awe.
"You actually did it."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"You cut steel."