SEA CALENDAR YEAR 1508
Foosha Village, East Blue
The mountain bandits' home was little more than a ramshackle cabin wedged against the slope of a thick forest ridge. Smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney, carrying with it the scent of roasted boar and burning firewood. Inside, the air was heavy with laughter, curses, and the faint tang of alcohol—the unmistakable atmosphere of Dadan's rowdy gang.
Wooden beams creaked above, patched with old planks, and the furniture looked like it had survived as many brawls as the people sitting on it. The table in the center was cluttered with wooden plates, gnawed bones, and mugs of cheap ale, but to three boys at the far end of the room, it was a battlefield.
"Luffy, don't you dare—!" Ace snapped, his freckled face scrunching in frustration as he yanked his plate away. Somehow, the little runt had already inhaled half his serving despite scarfing down his own. "You glutton, do you even chew!?"
Across the table, Luffy's eyes sparkled with that single-minded obsession that only meat could bring out in him. He stretched out his tiny arms, lips smacking, practically vibrating with hunger.
"Meeeeeeat!"
Ace narrowed his eyes, holding his plate out of reach. Even he, who prided himself on being a big eater, couldn't keep up with this bottomless stomach of a brother. How does a three-year-old eat more than me? he thought, baffled. It's unnatural!
Sabo, meanwhile, leaned back with a smug grin, his blonde hair falling over one eye as he snickered at the spectacle. "Heh. Ace, you should just give up. You can't beat a wild animal at its own game."
But then Ace's smirk matched his, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. Without warning, he lunged—not at Luffy, but at Sabo's plate.
"Oi—what the hell, Ace!?" Sabo shouted, too late. Ace slid the heaping plate of roasted boar right into Luffy's waiting hands.
"Here, Luffy. Enjoy!" Ace said with mock generosity.
"Yaaaaaay! Meat!!" Luffy cheered, stuffing his cheeks until he looked like a chipmunk preparing for winter. Within seconds, half the plate was gone, grease smeared all over his face.
Sabo froze. His jaw dropped as the horror dawned on him. "N-No… My meat…!" His chair screeched against the floorboards as he shot forward, hands outstretched like a starving madman.
"Spit it out, Luffy! That was my plate!" Sabo cried, prying at his little brother's jaw, trying to wedge his fingers between Luffy's puffed cheeks.
"Mmmmmmph! Meat's mine!" Luffy protested through a mouthful, shaking his head violently as Sabo wrestled with him.
The bandits around them erupted into laughter, pounding the table and spilling their drinks at the absurd sight of two boys trying to wrestle meat from the smallest one's mouth.
"You idiots! Quit fightin' at the table!" Dadan barked from her chair, cigar dangling from her lips, though her voice was more weary than angry. Her words were promptly ignored, of course.
Ace crossed his arms, grinning wickedly at the chaos he'd caused. "Heh. Should've eaten faster, Sabo."
"You little—!" Sabo growled, finally giving up on prying Luffy's jaw open and instead tackling him to the floor, rolling across the creaky planks in a blur of limbs, smoke, and laughter. And through it all, Luffy chewed triumphantly, his muffled cry echoing through the cabin.
"Meat tastes better when it's stolen!"
Dadan pinched the bridge of her nose, smoke from her cigar curling in the dimly lit den. Around her, the once-peaceful meal had dissolved into complete chaos.
"Siiigh… why did I even agree to watch these brats while Agatha-chan's working?" she muttered under her breath. The sound of plates clattering and children shouting made her headache throb. "If they weren't Garp's grandsons, I'd have beaten some proper bandit manners into them with my club!"
Her eyes twitched as she watched Ace, Sabo, and Luffy—the trio of bottomless pits—now scaling the fireplace like wild monkeys, snatching the half-cooked meat straight from the spit.
"You little bastards… that's mine!" she roared, leaping up as grease dripped across the floorboards.
The den erupted in laughter. The bandits pounded their mugs on the table, egging the boys on rather than helping Dadan. "Hahahaha! Look at 'em go!" "Oi, save me a rib, you monsters!"
Before Dadan could wrestle the three into submission, the front door banged open. A breathless bandit staggered inside, shouting, "Dadan-san! A pirate ship's approaching the village shore—!"
The words froze the room. Even the boys paused mid-bite.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched, heavy with tension. Pirates rarely docked at their island, and when they did, it usually meant trouble. Then the bandit grinned, raising a finger dramatically. "—It's the Red-Haired Pirates!"
SMASH!
A plate sailed across the room and shattered against his face, sending him sprawling.
"You bastard! Next time, lead with that!" Dadan bellowed, still holding her follow-through stance like a seasoned pitcher. Her cigar nearly fell from her lips as her gang roared in fresh laughter.
Because if it was them—if it was Shanks—then there was no problem at all.
The Red-Haired Pirates had been using Foosha Village as a resupply harbor for months now. To the villagers, they weren't terrifying outlaws but rowdy guests who brought exotic booze, wild stories, and music that could shake the tavern rafters. To the kids, they were legends made flesh.
And to Luffy—
"Red-Hair…! Uta!" His eyes went wide as dinner plates, joy bursting across his face. Drool and grease smeared his cheeks as he clutched the boar leg in both hands. Without another thought, he bolted for the door, his tiny legs pumping like pistons. "Meat an' Uta! Meat an' Uta!"
"Oi, you idiot, wait up!" Ace snarled, snatching a hunk of meat for himself before sprinting after his little brother.
Sabo tore off another slab of boar, stuffing it into his mouth as he ran. "No way am I letting you two hog all the fun!"
The mountain den's door slammed wide open as the three boys barreled down the dirt path, half-eaten meat in hand, their laughter echoing through the forest. Behind them, Dadan shrieked after them in vain, her voice cracking with frustration.
"You brats—! Don't you dare come back here next time… I swear I will break your legs…!" she screamed, shaking her fist as cigar ash sprinkled on the wooden floor. But the boys were gone, their wild whoops echoing through the forest.
****
The Red Force rested at anchor off the Foosha Village pier, its scarlet sails furled tight, and the ship's mighty shadow stretching long across the midday waves. The salty breeze carried laughter, shouts, and the heavy creak of crates being dragged ashore as the Red-Haired Pirates worked with their usual rowdy cheer.
The villagers of Foosha had grown used to this sight — a pirate's crew treating their sleepy little harbor like a friendly port of call rather than a pirate stronghold. Children gawked as burly pirates rolled out barrels and stacked chests on the weathered planks of the pier, each chest glittering faintly with stolen trinkets and spoils from their latest voyage.
But today, the real spectacle wasn't the treasures. It was Shanks.
The red-haired captain stood squarely in front of an elderly fisherman with a crooked back, a grizzled beard, and a set of rheumy eyes that still sparkled with sharpness. The old man leaned on his fishing spear like a cane, a string of salted fish tied neatly behind him.
And here, at this unlikely marketplace on the pier, the most feared pirate in the world was locked in a battle far more humiliating than any clash on the high seas: haggling.
"You greedy old man…!" Shanks roared, waving his arms wildly, nearly toppling one of the glittering chests beside him. "We stole this thing from a Marine battleship! Do you have any idea what kind of hell we went through to get our hands on it?! Those aren't cheap wares, they're worth at least three hundred thousand berries!"
The chest at his feet was cracked open just enough to show what lay inside: stacks of neatly packaged contraband, naval steel fixtures, and even a ceremonial golden sextant gleaming in the sun. Any black marketeer worth their salt would drool at the sight.
But the old fisherman simply squinted, picked up one of his salted fish, and slapped it lazily against his palm.
"Three hundred thousand, you say?" His voice cracked like the planks beneath their feet, yet it carried a sly edge. "Just because I'm old and my eyesight is going bad, you think you can swindle me, brat? Pah. Fifty thousand berries' worth of salted fish. That's the best you'll get."
"Fifty thousand?!" Shanks' jaw dropped. He spun to his crew as though seeking witnesses to the injustice. "Did you hear that?! This old geezer thinks he can rob me blind!"
Around them, the villagers and pirates alike tried to suppress their laughter. Everyone in Foosha knew this fisherman — an old salt who had outlived sea kings, pirate raids, and the occasional tax collector from the Goa Kingdom. If anyone could outfox a pirate captain in a bargain, it was him.
"Fifty thousand," the fisherman repeated firmly, wagging a bony finger. "And that's premium. Because I know you boys. Don't forget what you're offering me are stolen goods. You expect me to take on the risk for your dirty little baubles, eh? That price includes my silence."
Shanks scratched the back of his head, his grin faltering. For all his fearsome might, the man was hopeless when it came to numbers. From the side of the pier, a voice piped up, dripping with mockery.
"Oye, Beckman! Shanks is getting cheated by an old codger out there, isn't he?" Buggy the Clown, with his ridiculous nose gleaming like a beacon, shoved his way past a few barrels and planted his hands on his hips triumphantly.
Beckman, overseeing the unloading, didn't even look up from the ledger he was marking. He only sighed, the long cigarette in his mouth trailing smoke as he muttered, "You're just realizing this now?"
Buggy stomped forward, puffing his chest out. "Tch! Leave it to Shanks to mess this up. Step aside, red-hair. This is clearly a job for someone with real brains."
The crew groaned as one. Yassop facepalmed so hard he nearly knocked himself off the barrel he was sitting on.
Buggy swaggered into the bargaining circle like a clown stepping onto center stage. He adjusted his coat dramatically, looked the old fisherman in the eye, and smirked. "Listen here, gramps. Unlike some people, I actually know the value of treasure. What you're seeing here isn't just a golden trinket — it's a relic of the seas! Priceless! But because I'm generous, I'll let you have it for… let's say… four hundred thousand berries' worth of salted fish."
The old man squinted, tilted his head, and gave Buggy a toothy grin.
"Four hundred thousand, eh?" he croaked, stroking his beard. "Hmm… Tell you what, boy. You look like a fine, honest young man. So I'll give you a special deal."
Buggy puffed up with pride, glaring smugly at Shanks.
"Thirty thousand berries' worth of fish."
Buggy blinked. "Wait, what—"
"Thirty thousand. Take it or leave it." The old man slammed his salted fish down onto the barrel like a judge's gavel.
The crew howled with laughter.
"Wait, wait, wait! How did it go down?!" Buggy screeched, his voice cracking, face red as his nose. "I said up! I said four hundred thousand!"
Shanks was bent double, clutching his stomach, tears streaming from his eyes as he roared with laughter. "Hahahaha! Even worse than me, Buggy! You're a natural at this…!"
The old fisherman shook his head, utterly unfazed. "Younglings these days. Can't haggle to save their lives."
By now Buggy was frothing at the mouth, yanking his saber from its sheath. "That's it! I'll carve you up like bait, you wrinkled scam artist!"
But Shanks grabbed him by the collar, still cackling. "Easy, Buggy! Don't kill him before we get the fish!"
Meanwhile, Beckman pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. "Did they both forget they're pirates? Since when do pirates haggle like desperate merchants instead of just taking what they want?"
Yassop sighed, adjusting the rifle slung over his back. "Honestly, if we let those two handle all the trades, we'd be lucky to keep a tenth of our hold filled. Might as well let the old man loot us at this point."
"Leave them be," Beckman said finally, gesturing for the crew to keep unloading. "Let them make fools of themselves. At least it keeps them busy."
Back at the pier's edge, Shanks and Buggy were now fully in the old fisherman's trap.
"Twenty-five thousand berries' worth of fish," the old man declared boldly.
"Wha—?!" Both pirates roared in unison.
"Final offer!"
The crew collapsed into laughter once again as Shanks and Buggy — a pirate feared across the Grand Line and his rival turned clown — were led around by the nose by a grizzled fisherman with nothing more than salted fish and the patience of age.
Just as Shanks and Buggy finally slapped hands on their catastrophically bad deal — having sealed away the last shred of their dignity for barely two dozen salted fish — the pier erupted with a shrill, excited scream.
"Utaaaaaa…!!!"
The voice was so high-pitched and desperate that every pirate, villager, and even the old fisherman turned toward the village road in surprise.
A small whirlwind of energy came barreling down the dirt path — a boy no taller than a barrel, his lithe form bouncing against the sandy beach, a fat boar leg still clenched in his tiny fist as he ran with all his might. Monkey D. Luffy, barely three years old, came storming onto the pier like a one-boy invasion, his eyes wide and shining brighter than the sea.
Standing at the very edge of the pier, balancing on her toes as she watched the unloading with her hands on her hips, was a girl. She looked no older than four, her hair tied up in a hasty ribbon, and her sailor's dress slightly frayed from the salt wind. She wasn't some delicate doll, though—her stance had all the confidence of someone used to bossing around grown pirates.
Her head snapped toward the voice. Her sharp green eyes blinked once, then narrowed in disbelief.
"…Luffy?"
****
Shimotsuki Village, East Blue
The moon hung high above the dojo, pale and unyielding, casting its light upon the training courtyard. In that silver glow, Dracule Mihawk sat cross-legged, his black coat draped around him like the wings of some celestial predator. His eyes—those infamous hawk's eyes that could pierce the bravado of kings and the steel of warriors—were fixed upon the two children who sat in a seiza before him.
Zoro, still small but already burning with the fire of unshakable ambition, clutched Wado Ichimonji across his lap. Beside him, Kuina's gaze was equally steadfast, her young hands folded over her knees, her breath held as though the very night would shatter if she exhaled too quickly.
Both of them waited. And Mihawk, the man the world whispered about as though he were a god of the sword, spoke.
"So, Master…" Zoro's voice broke the silence, curious, trembling with the weight of what he longed to understand. "Are you saying that if I want to turn Ichimonji into a black blade like Yoru… then I have to master Armament Haki?"
Even Kuina leaned forward, her eyes wide. She too carried the dream of wielding a blade beyond the realm of ordinary steel. In her heart, she envisioned Shirayuki—her meitō—shining as a black blade beside her master's own blades, Shusui and Akatsuki.
Mihawk's voice was calm, deep, and resonant, like steel ringing in the stillness.
"It is not so simple."
His words cut sharper than any blade. The children blinked, their anticipation almost quivering in the air.
"There are swordsmen in this world who have achieved mastery over Armament Haki—exceptional, terrifying mastery—yet even in their lifetime, they failed to forge a black blade. Understand this: Armament Haki alone is not enough. To transform a sword into a black blade, you must do more than wield Haki. You must master the blade itself."
His eyes shifted to Yoru, the enormous cross-shaped sword that rested silently in the earth beside him, its black edge gleaming faintly under the moon.
"Most swordsmen treat their blades as nothing more than tools. They swing, they slash, they kill. But if you desire to walk the path beyond mediocrity… if you truly wish to ascend into the realm of the great… you must realize that a blade is more than steel. It is not a mere extension of your hand. It is a part of you. It has a soul. And only those who learn to listen to that soul… will awaken the spirit slumbering within."
The children sat entranced, the silence around them magnified by Mihawk's words.
"But Master," Zoro pressed on, his eyes narrowing with determination, "your blade—Yoru. It's a black blade, right? Does that mean you forged it into one yourself? And… is nurturing a blade with your own Haki the only way to make it black?"
Mihawk regarded the boy. For a fleeting moment, the faintest curl of amusement touched his lips—gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Yes. Yoru became a black blade beneath my hand, through years of battle and my will poured endlessly into its steel." His tone grew heavier, colder. "But no, that is not the only path. A black blade, once forged, may outlive its master and can be inherited by a different master. Consider Shusui—the blade carried by Kuina's master; it was a black blade even before he was born. That sword was black long before it reached his hands. It was said to have been nurtured by Ryuma, the samurai of the Shimotsuki bloodline, centuries ago."
Kuina's heart leapt at the name. Her lips parted, and her question tumbled forth.
"But Mihawk-san… didn't you say a black blade must be continuously nurtured with Haki? If so, how did Shusui remain black for centuries after Ryuma's death? My grandfather told me there were no wielders in all that time. Shouldn't it have reverted to ordinary steel before it was unearthed again?"
Mihawk's eyes narrowed, and for the first time that night, his gaze seemed to drift into the distant past, as though seeing beyond time itself.
"Listen well, girl. Haki is will. It is the manifestation of the spirit—unyielding, unbreakable. And some wills are so absolute… they do not fade even after death. Ryuma was such a man. The black blade he forged through battle and spirit was elevated beyond mortal steel. It became something more—transcendent, eternal. And it's not just Shusui, every black blade is so…"
He lifted Yoru slightly, letting its edge catch the moonlight. The night seemed to still, as if the world itself bowed before the black blade's presence.
"In all my years, I have never once heard of a black blade reverting. When a sword transcends, it is transformed not only in body, but in soul. Such a blade is no longer merely forged by man—it is marked by destiny itself. That… is the legacy of the black blade."
The courtyard fell silent again. The children stared in awe, their hearts racing. For Zoro, it was the ignition of a lifelong vow. For Kuina, it was the whisper of a dream too sacred to abandon.
And Mihawk—cold, divine, untouchable—sat among them like a god who had, for one rare night, chosen to speak to mortals of truths only the sword could understand.
The cool night air, heavy with silence, was broken only by the faint rustle of the bamboo grove beyond the dojo walls. Zoro's small fingers tightened around Wado Ichimonji's hilt, his eyes shining with unshaken resolve.
"So, Master…" he asked, as if already forgetting the weight of Mihawk's earlier words, "how long do you think it would take for me to make Ichimonji into a black blade?"
The boy's question was naïve, but his gaze was steady. He had only just begun scratching at the surface of Haki, barely learning how to feel it stir within him, yet already his dreams reached toward the impossible. Before the words could settle, Mihawk flicked a single finger against Zoro's forehead.
Thwack!
"Gah—!" Zoro stumbled back, clutching his head, eyes watering against his will.
Kuina's soft chuckle rang in the still courtyard. "Dummy," she teased, her voice light, though her eyes remained fixed on Mihawk.
The world's greatest swordsman exhaled slowly, a rare sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh. "You can barely walk, and already you dream of soaring above the clouds. With that kind of impatience, your chances of nurturing a black blade…" He left the rest unsaid, his silence heavier than steel, the faintest curve of amusement on his lips.
Zoro scowled but said nothing.
Mihawk's gaze swept over both children, sharp as the edge of Yoru itself. "This warning is not for him alone—it is for you both. What you practice here, within the safety of these walls, is nothing more than the foundation. You must understand: the Haki you toy with now is pale, incomplete. Do not grow complacent."
His tone grew colder, deeper, resonating like thunder across the courtyard.
"The world beyond this dojo is merciless. Out there, Haki is not learned in comfort. It is awakened on the knife's edge of life and death—where a single heartbeat decides whether you live or rot in the dirt. The Haki you wield now… is but an ember compared to the fire kindled by those who fight with their lives at stake."
The words hung heavy, and for a moment, even the night seemed to hold its breath. Both children trembled, not with fear, but with anticipation.
Then, Mihawk's voice shifted, low but commanding. "For the next few months, I will take you to a place where your fundamentals will be tested… sharpened… and forged in earnest."
Both Zoro and Kuina's eyes lit up, the fire of youthful ambition surging. The dojo had become routine, the lessons repetitive. But now, there was promise—something beyond these walls, beyond monotony.
"I have already spoken with both of your grandfathers. They agreed."
Their hearts raced as though he had opened a door to another world. "Master… where are we going?" Zoro asked, his voice barely concealing his excitement.
Mihawk's eyes gleamed in the moonlight, a predator's glint, and his reply came like a blade cloaked in mystery.
"You will know… once we arrive."
His words closed the night like the swing of a gate, final and unyielding. Zoro and Kuina exchanged a glance—nervous, eager, and burning with the dreams that had been stoked anew.