The sun spilled over the quiet fields of Shimotsuki Village, its golden light brushing against the tiled roofs and swaying bamboo groves. The air smelled of earth and the faint sweetness of spring blossoms. In the distance, a boy with cropped green hair was kneeling before a flat stone, sweat dripping down his forehead. In his hands, a thick wooden branch—not even a proper bokken—was raised above his head.
It was Roronoa Zoro, a boy barely nine, but already marked by an intensity rare in any child. He wasn't from this village. He had wandered into it weeks ago from a smaller hamlet that sat along the winding river path. Nobody had sent him here—he had chosen to come, hearing whispers of a place where swordsmen were trained.
But before the dojo, before he knew the name "Koushirou," Zoro's days were spent in solitude, pounding his body against the limits of his own will. He would rise at dawn, sprint barefoot through uneven fields, slash at saplings until his arms ached, then drop for push-ups in the dirt. His palms were covered in blisters, some of them split and raw, but he never stopped.
He had no sword in fact he had never even held a sword before but he still believed himself to be the strongest
It happened one morning. Zoro, drenched in sweat from his own self-imposed drills, had stumbled into the village center, where laughter and the sharp clack of wood drew his attention. A wide building stood open, tatami mats visible inside, and within it—children in white gi sparring under the guidance of a tall man with a gentle, watchful expression.
Zoro didn't knock. He marched straight "I came to challenge your best swordsman!" he shouted, his hands in his pocket and a strand of grass he'd been chewing on.
The students laughed. The man—Koushirou—merely adjusted his glasses and asked, "Do you mean me?"
Zoro shook his head. "If you're the teacher, then I want your strongest student. If I beat them, you'll have to call me the strongest."
The man sighed, and from the corner stepped a girl. She was slender, her navy blue hair falling towards her neck, and she carried herself with quiet confidence. The way she held her bokken made Zoro's stomach twist—this was no amateur.
Her name was Kuina.
They faced off in the dojo. Zoro charged, his stick aimed straight for her shoulder. She didn't move until the last instant, her body turning as her bokken flicked upward. Zoro's weapon went flying into the dust. Before he could recover, she struck him straight in his face as he fell the wooden swords falling beside him
"You're too slow," she said simply.
Zoro's teeth clenched. The humiliation burned more because he lost before he even got to land a hit of his own .
They fought through rain and shine. Summer evenings smelled of grass and fireflies; winter mornings bit at their skin as they sparred in the dojo. Zoro attacked like a storm, Kuina parried like the eye of it. No matter how hard he tried, she always had the edge—until one day, he almost touched her.
A strike, fast, unrefined, but it grazed her shoulder before she pulled back. Her eyes widened—just a fraction—and Zoro felt a thrill, realizing his training was paying off.
"You're improving," Kuina said after that duel, smiling faintly. "Soon, you might be a worthy opponent."
wiping sweat from his brow. "Better isn't enough. I'll surpass you, one day.
Zoro's routine kept doubling. He woke before the roosters, strapped heavy rocks to his arms and ankles, and practiced swings until his muscles trembled. He ran the village perimeter over and over, each lap longer than the last. He snuck weights from the blacksmith's forge to increase his stamina. By night, his hands bled, and still he gripped the wooden sword.
His losses to Kuina piled up. Ten duels. Fifty. A hundred. Each time, she knocked him down. Sometimes she was playful; sometimes she was merciless. But Zoro noticed—his strikes grew faster. His stance steadier. Kuina began to sweat in their matches.
And each loss only sharpened his resolve.