The rowboat rocked gently as Ryan guided it around the backside of the island, away from the The rowboat rocked gently as Ryan guided it along the backside of the island, keeping well away from the main beach where the pirates had landed earlier. A salty breeze rolled off the water, sharp and cold, but it helped clear his head. There was something about the wind and waves that made it easier to think—like the ocean itself wanted him to stay focused.
Unohana sat quietly across from him, her posture straight despite the gentle rise and fall of the boat. Her long dark hair moved slightly in the breeze, and her pale eyes watched the horizon with a calm that almost unnerved him. Between them were their supplies—food, water, rope, and a few items they'd looted from the ship.
They reached a narrow cove surrounded by rock outcroppings and thick trees that reached over the shoreline like sheltering arms. No signs of footprints, no smoke. Perfect.
They reached a secluded cove shielded by jagged rocks and overgrown palms. Unohana helped drag the boat ashore, moving with practiced ease. Ryan took care to erase their tracks as best he could. They stashed what they could under a thick patch of ferns, then moved deeper into the woods.
He didn't speak much. Every step on earth felt heavier. His mind kept circling the same thought: this island wasn't just a hiding spot. It was where he would take his first real stand.
They found a small clearing a short walk inland. Just enough space to train and rest, but not so open it left them exposed. Ryan set down the bundle of supplies.
"We'll stay here for now," he said.
Unohana gave a slight nod. She stood motionless as he unrolled the map and compared it to the shape of the coastline they'd passed. Their position was secure—for now.
Once they had secured the area and ensured they were alone, Ryan's gaze drifted to the sword resting at Unohana's side.
He recognized the sword instantly—Minazuki. A Zanpakutō from her world, known not just for its deadly precision, but for its power to heal. It was a weapon with a soul, one that had seen centuries of both life and death. The long, curved blade gleamed like still water, reflecting the soft forest light as if whispering old memories. Unohana's hand rested on it not with pride, but with something deeper—reverence. Ryan knew what it meant to carry that kind of weapon, and the respect it demanded. If he was going to learn, he couldn't have asked for a better teacher. She wasn't just a swordswoman—she was history carved in steel.
"I want to learn. From you," he said. "That kendo ability I got—it's not enough on its own. I need to train it. Properly."
Unohana regarded him quietly. Ryan stepped over to the bundle of items he'd taken from the ship earlier and unwrapped pair of ordinary swords. He kept one for himself. Unohana, however, rested her hand on the hilt of the sword already unsheath at her side—her own weapon, unmistakably distinct in its quiet presence.
"Then we begin," she said, accepting it with a calm nod.
Her training was merciless.
She moved like a phantom, striking and stepping with rhythm he couldn't match. At first, she didn't even let him use the sword. It was footwork, balance, posture—again and again. He stumbled, fell, sweated through the stolen shirt, but he kept going.
By midday, the soreness had settled in. His arms trembled, his stance wobbled, and sweat clung to his brow, but there was a rhythm forming in his movements now—a sense of flow. Each correction from Unohana, each demonstration of her flawless technique, carved away at his mistakes. The kendo knowledge implanted by the system gave him a foundation, but Unohana's precision and discipline honed it into something real. She didn't coddle, didn't slow down. She showed him what it meant to wield a blade with purpose. And for the first time since arriving in this world, Ryan felt himself inching toward strength not granted, but earned.
They paused for water, sitting under the canopy.
Ryan was drinking water from the waterskin, when he saw distant smoke trail curling above the trees. The pirates had started a fire—maybe cooking, maybe just careless. Either way, it marked their position.
"When night comes," he said, "I want to move in. Scout them. Not fight yet—but see how many are left."
Unohana nodded. "Caution suits you."
Ryan took a deep breath. The memory of flames, the screams of his village, his mother's last cry—it wasn't gone. But it wasn't paralyzing him now either. It was fuel.
Ryan continued his training through whole afternoon, and in the breaks discussed strategy. Under the sparse canopy, he repeated footwork drills Unohana had shown him earlier, sweat beading along his brow despite the cooling shade. His body still ached from the morning session, but he pushed through, eager to imprint every step, every stance into muscle memory. Each swing of his sword grew a little sharper, more controlled, as he practiced the fundamentals she'd hammered into him.
Unohana watched in silence for a time, then occasionally stepped in, correcting his posture or tightening the angle of his grip with a quiet word or a pointed glance. It wasn't just repetition—it was refinement, and Ryan could feel the difference with each movement.
By the time the sun began to dip lower, casting longer shadows across the forest floor, his arms trembled from the exertion. But he stood taller, steadier.
He wasn't just preparing to survive. He was preparing to fight back.
That night, after a quiet meal beneath the stars and a final inspection of their supplies, Ryan sat cross-legged beside the low-fire, the dim orange glow dancing in his eyes. He unwrapped the cloth bundle and counted everything once more: the remaining food portions, the clean water in the skin, two spare shirts, a rope he had taken from the captain's quarters—all stacked and hidden in a false-bottom pouch. Also one million berries remaining after the first summon.
His gaze lingered on the money, thinking of the system and the cost it demanded. Five million had been used for first summon, twenty-five for the second.
He pulled out the newspaper again as evening settled in, staring at the image of Luffy grinning below the headline. The world was shifting. If someone like Luffy could topple a Warlord, then maybe, just maybe, Ryan could carve out his own place in it.
And if he had to spill blood to get there, he wouldn't hesitate.
Unohana sat beside the fire, slowly running a cloth along Minazuki, wiping away the remnants of the day's training. Her calm presence made the quiet feel more grounded, more real.
Ryan wrapped the pouch again and tucked it beneath his rolled cloak.
Tonight, he would scout.
Tomorrow, the real fight would begin.