The afternoon sun bathed Cocoyasi Village in gentle light, washing away the last shadows left behind by the Arlong Pirates. The breeze carried the smell of salt and citrus, drifting between rows of orange trees that now swayed in peace instead of fear.
For the villagers, life was finally quiet again. For Bell-mère, it was the kind of peace she'd almost forgotten could exist.
She leaned against the gatepost outside her house, a cigarette dangling between her fingers, watching Nami and Nojiko argue over something trivial—probably food. Their laughter echoed through the yard, and for once, Bell-mère didn't have to worry about pirates or taxes or survival.
But her gaze kept flicking toward the distant hill where the blacksmith's workshop stood—where Jin Akasa had been shut away for days.
The heavy door of the forge creaked open, and Jin stepped out. His shirt clung to his skin, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his dark hair disheveled and his violet eyes reflecting the dying sunlight. He looked exhausted—yet there was something dangerous and alive in that weariness, a sharpness that made even the air feel taut around him.
Bell-mère raised an eyebrow. "You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"Three days," Jin corrected with a faint grin. "I've been refining the blade. But before I finish it, I want to test something."
He turned his eyes toward the mountain ridge beyond the orange fields. "That hill over there—it's the one cutting off your river flow, right?"
Bell-mère followed his gaze, then frowned. "Yeah, that one. What about it?"
He folded his arms. "The villagers still fetch water manually, don't they?"
"Of course. The spring's on the other side of that hill, and digging through it is impossible. The rock's too dense. We've tried digging around, but that's a kilometer of slope to haul buckets up and down."
Jin nodded thoughtfully. "So if that hill were split open… the water could flow straight through into the fields."
Bell-mère blinked. "Hold on. Split open? You can't be serious."
He smiled—the kind of small, confident smile that meant he absolutely was. "It's my birthday. I figured I'd do something useful."
Bell-mère stared at him like he'd just declared he could part the sea. "That hill's at least five hundred meters wide! Even blasting powder wouldn't do it. You're not saying you'll—"
"Cut it," Jin interrupted simply. "With a sword."
Makino, who had been nearby preparing food, didn't even flinch. "If it's Jin saying that, I believe him," she said softly.
Kuina folded her arms, assessing the hill. "The density's high. Even with perfect form, you'd need more than swordsmanship—you'd need absolute control of inner force."
Tina snorted. "So… impossible for a normal human, basically."
Kuina's eyes didn't leave the ridge. "He's not normal."
"Exactly," Makino added, smiling.
Only Nami seemed genuinely thrilled. "You're gonna cut a mountain! That's awesome!"
Nojiko sighed. "You believe everything cool people say."
"I mean—he's Jin! Of course he can!"
Bell-mère groaned. "This boy's going to kill himself before he even finishes his fancy sword."
Jin turned to the massive brown bear sitting lazily near the forge entrance. "Kuma. Bring the blade."
The beast grunted. "The heavy one? The one that nearly cracked your anvil?"
"That's the one."
Kuma lumbered inside, shaking the ground with each step.
Makino glanced at Jin, half smiling. "You really don't rest, do you?"
"I did," Jin said simply. "For about six seconds."
Kuma returned moments later, carrying a long, half-finished sword wrapped in oiled cloth. The blade gleamed darkly beneath the setting sun, black steel threaded with veins of faint crimson.
When Jin grasped it, the air itself seemed to change.
It was like the world exhaled around him—the breeze, the birds, even the waves in the distance fell still. The calm that always surrounded Jin turned heavy, almost suffocating. His presence wasn't loud; it was dense, a quiet gravity that made everyone around him straighten instinctively.
Kuina's fingers twitched near her sword hilt. "That's new."
Tina let out a low whistle. "His pressure… it's like standing near a storm about to break."
Makino only smiled faintly. "That's Jin Akasa. When he stops smiling, the world stops too."
Jin's grip tightened. The veins on his forearm flexed beneath the skin as the blade hummed softly in response.
"Stay back," he said simply.
And then—he jumped.
The ground cracked beneath his feet as Jin soared upward. He didn't fall back down. Each step carried him higher, boots pressing against invisible footholds as if he were climbing the air itself.
Nami's eyes widened until they sparkled. "He's walking on the air! That's so cool!"
Bell-mère's cigarette nearly fell from her mouth. "That's… that's not human."
Kuina smirked. "No. That's training."
Jin stopped when he reached about thirty meters above the ground, floating silently against the fading orange sky. His coat flared in the wind, his hair swaying, and for a moment—he looked less like a boy and more like a blade given life.
He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. His heartbeat slowed.
Breathe. Focus. One cut.
The world narrowed to a single point between him and that mountain.
When his eyes opened again, they were glowing violet—like amethysts reflecting lightning.
"The last time," he murmured to himself, "I only used thirty percent."
A smirk ghosted across his lips. "Let's see what a hundred looks like."
The ground trembled. His aura flared outward in a torrent of invisible power. His inner force—his Qi—roared through his veins like a living storm, flooding every muscle, every nerve, every thread of his being. The air vibrated under the weight of it.
Below, the villagers could barely breathe.
"What… what's happening?" Nojiko whispered.
Makino raised a hand to shield her eyes. "He's gathering it all. Every ounce of strength he's honed these past years."
"Every bit of madness," Tina added.
"Every bit of him," Kuina finished softly.
Jin lowered his stance, the blade angled downward. The hum deepened, metal resonating with his pulse. Tiny pebbles rose from the earth around the hill, caught in the magnetic stillness that his energy created.
"Let's do this."
He moved.
The cut wasn't seen—it was felt.
A flash of blood-red light streaked across the air, so fast it seemed to tear through space itself. The sound followed half a breath later, a deafening crack that split the sky.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then, the mountain moved.
A line of perfect light traced its center—thin, clean, impossibly smooth. The hill groaned. And then, with a thunderous roar, it split open from crown to base.
The villagers screamed—not in fear, but disbelief. Water from the distant stream rushed through the new gap, cascading down toward the fields in a glittering torrent of silver.
Dust clouded the air. When it cleared, Jin was still standing there in midair, his blade resting against his shoulder, a calm smile on his face.
Nami was the first to speak, jumping up and down. "He did it! He really did it!"
Makino exhaled in quiet awe, her voice barely above a whisper. "He cut a mountain… with one strike."
Even Kuina, who rarely showed surprise, muttered under her breath, "Monstrous."
Tina crossed her arms, smirking faintly. "And people call me arrogant."
Bell-mère just stood frozen, cigarette falling from her lips into the dirt. "That… wasn't human."
"No," Makino said, smiling softly. "That was Jin Akasa."
Jin landed moments later, boots touching down lightly beside them. The earth where he'd landed cracked slightly beneath the pressure that still lingered around him. He exhaled slowly, the glow in his eyes fading.
Kuma lumbered up, carrying a massive wild boar over his shoulder. "I leave for ten minutes and you split a mountain. Typical."
Jin chuckled, rolling his neck. "You brought the pig?"
"Of course."
"Good. Then let's eat."
Nami ran forward, eyes wide with excitement. "Jin! Jin! How did you do that?! You just—boom!—and the mountain exploded!"
Jin crouched to her level, resting a hand gently on her head. "With training," he said simply. "And a lot of patience."
Nami pouted. "That's boring!"
Makino laughed softly. "Patience isn't boring, Nami. It's what lets people like him do impossible things."
Kuina crossed her arms, eyeing Jin. "You realize you just ruined the natural geography of this island, right?"
He shrugged. "Improved the irrigation."
Tina rolled her eyes. "You also scared every bird within ten kilometers."
"Consider it pest control."
Makino giggled, and even Kuina couldn't help but smile.
Bell-mère looked around at the cheering villagers, then back at Jin—the boy who had come to their quiet island and turned it into something extraordinary.
Her voice softened. "You've given them more than water, you know. You've given them hope."
Jin looked past her toward the glowing cut through the hill, where sunlight and flowing water gleamed together like molten silver. "Hope's good," he said quietly. "But strength is better."
That night, the hill of Cocoyasi burned with firelight. The smell of roast boar filled the air as villagers gathered to celebrate the boy who split a mountain. Laughter, music, and warmth filled the evening air.
Jin sat beside Makino, Kuina, and Tina, the reflection of the bonfire dancing in his violet eyes. For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like a weapon or a wanderer. He just felt… alive.
Makino leaned close and whispered, "Happy birthday, Jin."
He smiled. "Best one I've had."
The stars shimmered above, mirrored in the river that now flowed freely through the village—a scar of power, a mark of his existence.
And far away, on another shore, the waves whispered his name into the dark.
Jin Akasa.
The boy who cut the world open and smiled
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T/N :
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