Tachibana Kyūjō was not an ordinary child.

Unlike the other kids at Shimotsuki Village, who were all born and raised in this quiet corner of East Blue, Kyūjō was… different. A boy from elsewhere. A stranger with the gaze of someone who had seen too much.

That's why Shimotsuki Kōshirō—the head of the famed Isshin Dōjō—decided to let the boy stay within the dōjō grounds themselves. It was rare, but something about the child told him this wasn't a decision to be made lightly.

As the sun began to dip toward the western horizon, signaling the approach of dinner, Kōshirō watched from a distance as Kyūjō quietly arranged his few belongings in a small guest room.

There was something calming about the way he moved. Quiet, but focused. Calm, but firm.

"Kyūjō… May I call you that?" Kōshirō asked gently from the doorway, his tone warm and inviting.

"Of course, Kōshirō-sensei," Kyūjō replied with a small smile.

The swordsman nodded and took a seat on the wooden porch, folding his arms comfortably.

"If you don't mind me asking… how did you find out about this place? Isshin Dōjō isn't exactly famous. Especially not outside the village."

It was something that had been bothering Kōshirō ever since their first meeting. Almost all the students here were local kids. No one ever just showed up unannounced—especially not a child traveling alone.

Kyūjō paused, blinking slowly as he quickly pieced together a believable lie. He couldn't possibly tell the truth. That he was from a different world entirely. That some unknown force had thrown him into this universe. Into the world of One Piece.

There was no way anyone would believe him.

But before Kyūjō could speak, Kōshirō let out a soft chuckle and gave the boy's shoulder a gentle pat.

"No need to explain now," the man said kindly. "What matters is that you're here. Come on. It's time for dinner. You need to try my wife's cooking."

Kyūjō followed without hesitation, though a quiet thought drifted through his mind.

Kōshirō in real life… feels so much warmer than his anime counterpart.

But before joining the table, Kyūjō turned and rolled his heavy travel trunk toward the teacher.

He opened the lid.

Inside were stacks of neatly organized Berry notes—millions of them, easily.

Kōshirō blinked, surprised. The amount wasn't absurd by East Blue standards, but still—how in the world did a child end up with this much money?

Before he could ask, Kyūjō spoke first. Calmly. Truthfully.

"There were a group of slave traders who tried to capture and sell me. I killed them. That money was theirs."

Silence.

Kōshirō stared at the boy, stunned.

That voice… that tone… so matter-of-fact. No pride. No fear. Just plain honesty.

You're only ten…

The swordsman's smile faded. His expression turned somber as realization sank in. This wasn't some made-up story. This boy had blood on his hands. Not out of malice, but necessity.

Without waiting for a response, Kyūjō stood and picked up the katana that stood nearly as tall as he was. He walked out toward the training yard in the back, where a wooden training post stood—weathered and carved with shallow cuts from past students.

Most kids struggled to leave even a dent on it.

Kyūjō stepped in front of it, closed his eyes, and took a slow, deep breath.

Then—

A single swing. Fast as lightning. Silent as breath.

No shout. No dramatic wind gust. Just the faintest hiss of air being sliced cleanly apart.

The blade slid back into its sheath.

The wooden post didn't move.

One second… two…

Then—crack.

The post split perfectly down the middle, the clean edges smooth like polished glass.

Kōshirō, watching from the side, was completely frozen. His mouth slightly open. His brows raised.

This kid… still wants to learn from me?

Kyūjō turned back, scratching his head awkwardly.

"Sensei… Was there something wrong with my form?"

Kōshirō didn't answer.

Instead, he turned away, placing a hand over his forehead with a long, deep sigh.

What kind of person slices through solid wood like that and then asks if there was something wrong…?

With a dry chuckle, he finally managed a reply.

"No, no. Let's eat first. We can talk about your form later."

Kyūjō gave a soft nod, still slightly confused. Had he done something wrong? Was his swing too aggressive?

As they walked to the dining hall, Kyūjō asked seriously,

"Kōshirō-sensei… Do you think I still need to refine my technique? Maybe the way I channel my strength isn't correct?"

There was no arrogance in his tone—just genuine curiosity and the desire to grow. To him, Kōshirō was the man who trained Zoro, the legendary swordsman of the future.

But Kyūjō had forgotten one important thing.

This Kōshirō wasn't a legend yet. He was still in his late twenties. And Kyūjō, despite having the mind of an adult, still looked ten years old.

Kōshirō cleared his throat twice and quickly changed the subject.

"We can discuss that after dinner," he said, clearly dodging.

---

Dining Room – Isshin Dōjō

The table was covered with homemade dishes—fresh fish, steamed rice, vegetables cooked to perfection. Kōshirō's wife had clearly put in effort to welcome their mysterious new guest.

But both she and her husband could only watch in stunned silence as Kyūjō began to eat.

No—devour.

Plate after plate disappeared. Bowl after bowl was emptied. Within minutes, nearly all the food prepared for five grown men had vanished.

Kyūjō himself was deep in thought, still analyzing the mechanics of his earlier sword swing. He barely even realized how fast he was eating.

"I'm full. Thank you for the meal, Sensei," he said politely, setting his chopsticks down.

Kōshirō looked at the table.

Nothing was left. Not even a grain of rice.

That was supposed to feed five people…

He looked back at Kyūjō again. In that moment, Kōshirō made a silent decision.

This kid's money… we might need to accept it. Otherwise the dōjō will go bankrupt just trying to keep him fed.

---

Private Training Yard – Isshin Dōjō

This space was usually off-limits to students. It was Kōshirō's personal training ground.

But Kyūjō wasn't an ordinary student.

Kōshirō had sensed something in the boy from the start—but now, he needed to be sure.

Kyūjō stood at one end of the field, took a slow breath, and drew his sword.

He dashed forward.

His movement was sharp—far beyond what any child his age should be capable of. Their blades clashed, the metallic ring echoing in the yard.

Kōshirō parried instinctively, eyes narrowing.

He's fast… and strong. Too strong.

The exchange intensified.

With each strike, Kōshirō's expression grew more serious. He was starting to feel pressure. Real pressure. If he didn't go all out… he might actually lose this spar.

Kyūjō's control over his body was flawless. His footwork, his timing—everything was refined. And beyond that… he was reacting before Kōshirō even attacked.

Could it be… he's awakened Kenbunshoku Haki?

The realization hit hard.

For the first time, Kōshirō felt like he was witnessing the birth of something extraordinary.

This boy…

He might grow to surpass even Shimotsuki Ryuma, the legendary Sword God of Wano.

Or perhaps… rise even higher, to the very peak of the world itself.

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