His thoughts, now sharpened by a newfound purpose, raced ahead. Whisky Peak. Alabasta. The path was set, but the journey could be altered. Vivi was already with them, hidden within Laboon, her kingdom's fate a ticking clock. And then there was her—Ms. All Sunday. Nico Robin.
A complex wave of emotion washed over him. In his old world, she had been his favorite character, a figure of tragic grace, fierce intellect, and profound loneliness. Her smile was a shield, her wit a weapon, and her heart a fortress of scars. Now, she was a tangible person, an antagonist working for the very man who would threaten Vivi's home. The desire to reach out was a physical ache. He could warn her, try to shortcut her twenty years of suffering, to tell her that a future of companionship and belonging was possible.
But the cold, analytical part of his mind, the part that understood the delicate balance of this world, shut the fantasy down. Robin's entire existence was a masterpiece of survival through suspicion. A stranger approaching her with intimate knowledge? She wouldn't see a savior; she'd see a threat, a new puppet master, perhaps even a Cipher Pol agent. Her trust wasn't given; it was earned, painstakingly, over shared battles and unwavering loyalty—the way Luffy would earn it.
"I need to get stronger…. Much stronger…" Mario muttered, the words a mantra. But the thought expanded. It couldn't just be him. He was one man. The Straw Hats needed to be stronger, too. And they were learning. He had already noticed Zorro's sharp eyes observing his unconventional Haki meditations, a flicker of curiosity in the swordsman's gaze. Sanji, with his focus on speed and kicks, had started to take a keen interest in the principles of Soru that Mario had been practicing. The seeds were being planted.
The temptation was immense. He could hand them the Six Powers on a silver platter. He could explain the intricacies of Armament and Observation Haki years ahead of schedule. The power spike would be incredible.
And it would be a catastrophic mistake.
He couldn't give them all the techniques. He didn't know the consequences. The story was a fragile ecosystem. Their "luck" was often a byproduct of being underestimated. What if, by crushing Crocodile too efficiently, they drew the gaze of an Admiral after Alabasta? What if a flawless victory in Enies Lobby prompted a Buster Call on Water 7 instead? The World Government turned a blind eye to rising pirates until they became a undeniable symbol. If the Straw Hats became that symbol too soon, before they had the strength to back it up, it would mean total annihilation. They had skirted disaster by a hair's breadth so many times precisely because they never seemed like the primary threat until it was too late to stop them.
A grim clarity settled over him. The best course of action, the only safe course before the New World, wasn't to make them invincible. It was to make them more resilient. He couldn't change the battles they would fight, but he could change the cost. Less blood loss for Zorro, fewer broken bones for Luffy, a little more stamina for Nami. He would be the unseen reinforcement, the subtle boost that ensured they survived their ordained trials with fewer scars, emerging just as strong, but not so strong as to attract the world's wrath before they were ready.
His goal was no longer to rewrite the story….for now. It was to fortify its heroes, ensuring they were whole and ready for the true hell that awaited in the New World. He would be their safeguard, their secret edge.
For now, it was time for him to master another technique from the manual.
Shigan.
The Finger Pistol. A piercing attack that could puncture flesh, stone, and steel. In his mind's eye, he saw the cool, effortless precision of Rob Lucci, firing invisible bullets with a flick of his wrist. How cool would it be to replicate that? To have that kind of pinpoint, lethal force at his command?
"Ahem! Not cool. Useful," Mario corrected himself aloud, a faint blush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He was a grown man, not a kid playing make-believe. This was about survival, not style. A reliable, armor-piercing strike could mean the difference between life and death against a Logia user or an armored foe.
He pulled the weathered CP9 manual from his pack, its pages feeling more familiar with each passing day. He found the entry on Shigan and read it again, slowly, internalizing the principles.
Shigan is a close-quarters offensive technique, one of the two Rokushiki moves focused primarily on offense. When used correctly, this allows the user to easily pierce the human body, and even hard substances like stone and concrete with significant training. Its strength and accuracy allows it to pierce a target much like a bullet.
"So it is actually this simple," he murmured, the engineer in him deconstructing the technique. "Just use Tekkai on one part of your body, the finger, and you can pierce anything. Simple enough in theory." But the manual's margins held a crucial, unwritten warning. "You need immense strength in your entire arm, shoulder, and back to act as the cannon, so that you don't shatter your own finger from the force of the impact. That is the real challenge."
He focused, drawing on the familiar sensation of Tekkai. But instead of enveloping his whole body, he willed the rigidity, the iron-like density, to flow down his arm and condense into the single, rigid point of his index finger. It was strangely intuitive, easier than maintaining a full-body Tekkai. The concentration of will was more direct.
He thrust his finger downward, a swift, precise strike.
Thock. The hardened fingertip sank into the rocky ground as if it were soft clay, leaving a clean, finger-sized hole. A grin spread across his face. The foundational form was within his grasp.
But the true potential, the real utility, lay in the advanced application. He read on.
"But to make air bullets, you need to combine Tekkai and Rankyaku into one technique, using your finger as the barrel to compress and launch the air, sending it flying like a bullet."
This was the true test. It wasn't just two techniques used in sequence; it was a fusion. He had to create a hardened, unyielding finger-tip (Tekkai) while simultaneously generating a sharp, compressed blade of air (Rankyaku) and channeling it through that single, rigid point. The coordination was immense.
Mario took a deep breath, settling into his stance. He focused, first bringing the iron-like rigidity to his index finger. Then, he began the swift, cutting motion for Rankyaku, but instead of a kick, he concentrated the entire motion into the flick of his wrist and the extension of his finger.
Swish. Fwoosh.
The first few attempts were pathetic. A weak gust of air, barely enough to stir the dust at his feet. His Tekkai would falter as he tried to generate the Rankyaku, or the air blade would dissipate without the proper launch platform. It was like trying to rub his stomach and pat his head while also solving a complex equation.
But he didn't stop. He adjusted his stance, the angle of his finger, the timing of the hardening. He failed again and again, the silent, rocky shore witnessing his relentless effort. Each failed attempt was a lesson, each slight improvement in the force of the expelled air a victory. The dream of firing an air bullet was no longer just a cool fantasy; it was a tangible, grueling goal, and he would not rest until he had seized it.
The relentless training took its toll. In a moment of careless overexertion, the force he channeled through his index finger rebounded. There was a sickening, sharp tear, and a white-hot flash of pain shot up his arm. He looked down to see his fingernail had ripped cleanly from the bed, the exposed flesh raw and immediately welling with blood. The pain was intense, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
Mario gritted his teeth, hissing a stream of air through them. He didn't curse or scream. This was the price of progress. He simply walked to his pack, retrieved a roll of bandages, and wrapped the injured finger with practiced, if slightly clumsy, efficiency. Without a moment's hesitation, he shifted his focus, channeling Tekkai into his middle finger and continuing the precise, punishing motions of Shigan.
"I can't stop," he muttered to the empty shore, the words a promise and a command. The pain was just another sensation to be acknowledged and set aside.
The cycle continued: trial and error, failure and minor adjustment. In between the physical repetitions, he meditated, trying to fuse the newfound, nascent spiritual power of Haki with his muscles as Roger's journal described. It was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands, but occasionally, he felt a flicker—a momentary surge of heat and density that made his next Shigan thrust feel unnaturally potent. The progress was infinitesimal, but it was progress nonetheless.
Then, in a flash of exhausted, cross-wired inspiration, it hit him. A crazy idea, born from the fusion of two different worlds of martial arts.
"Wait... could I maybe do it like this...?"
Abandoning the precise, single-finger form of Shigan, he planted his feet firmly apart, adopting a wide, powerful stance. He brought his open hands to his side, cupping them together in a gesture iconic to another universe—the signature pose of Goku from Dragon Ball. Instead of focusing ki, he channeled Tekkai into his hands and forearms, tensing the muscles to their absolute limit. He visualized not a blade of air, but a massive, compressed sphere of force.
"What do I say? Kamehame... HA!"
With a grunt of pure exertion, he thrust his hands forward. The result was not the delicate swish of a failed Tobu Shigan, but a deafening BOOM of compressed air being violently expelled.
A visible, cannonball-sized projectile of air erupted from his palms, flying across the water at an impossible speed. It struck the sea's surface not with a splash, but with a concussive impact. A colossal column of water erupted skyward, shimmering in the sunlight before crashing down in a thunderous wave, a perfect rainbow arcing through the resulting mist.
Mario stood, stunned, his ears ringing. He had done it. He had created an ultimate technique!
Then the pain registered. A searing, tearing agony erupted in both his arms. His muscles spasmed violently, completely spent. Pinpricks of red appeared on his skin as smaller blood vessels burst from the unimaginable strain, trickles of blood weaving dark paths down his forearms to drip from his trembling fingers.
He collapsed to his knees, clutching his wrecked arms to his chest, a crazed mix of a grin and a grimace on his face. It was hilarious, in a painful way. It was easier for him to master a brutish, overwhelming cannon than the delicate, surgical precision of a finger pistol. The sheer, raw power required aligned more with his current, blunter understanding of force.
"Now THIS is an ultimate technique!" he wheezed, the thrill of the achievement warring with the acute agony.
But he knew the truth. This was a forbidden trump card, a move that came with a severe cost. He could not use it efficiently, not without destroying his own body in the process. At least, not for now. But he had proven the concept. He had taken the principles of Rokushiki and, guided by a spark of madness, forged them into something uniquely, devastatingly his own. The path was open; he just needed the strength to walk it.