Two years passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. Arthur was now seven years old, and his training with Rayleigh had become more rigorous than ever. At this point, it had become a tradition between father and son to swim across the Calm Belt once a week, traveling to a random island where they would spend two days sparring and honing their skills.
What always surprised Arthur was how no Sea Kings ever dared to approach them. The Calm Belt was known as the nest of monstrous sea beasts, yet whenever he and Rayleigh entered its waters, the creatures stayed away, almost as if they could sense a predator stronger than themselves in their midst. Arthur suspected that both his father's presence and his own aura contributed to the strange deterrence.
After several minutes of powerful strokes, they reached an island shrouded in snow. Despite being in the middle of the Calm Belt, the climate was harsh and wintry, with constant flurries whipping across the barren land.
Arthur still couldn't get used to how the weather worked in this world—climates that defied all logic, as if nature itself was divided into countless extremes.
The last two years had marked a turning point in Arthur's development. Under Rayleigh's guidance, his swordsmanship began to take its own form. Rayleigh had taught him the very style he once used to save Shakky in the past, something Shakky herself confirmed with a proud nod when recounting the story to Arthur.
Though Arthur respected his father's technique, he gradually adapted it into his own. Where Rayleigh's style relied on sharp precision and firm counters, Arthur altered the angles slightly, giving his movements a distinct rhythm.
He named this variation Aoi Higabana—the Blue Spider Lily. Ironically, it has the same name as the mythical flower that, in another world, had transformed Muzan into a demon.
Now, on the frozen island, father and son faced each other once more. This time, both carried real swords—wooden ones simply couldn't withstand the intensity of their sessions anymore. Their sparring matches routinely lasted for hours, and no practice blade survived such punishment.
Arthur moved first. In an instant, his figure blurred as he closed the gap between them, his sword flashing toward Rayleigh. The older man blocked and parried, sending a counter slash that Arthur narrowly avoided by twisting his body aside. Without pause, Arthur launched into a flurry of strikes, his blade darting toward Rayleigh's sides, head, and legs in a relentless rhythm.
The difference from two years ago was striking. His attacks were faster, sharper, and harder to read—not because of raw speed alone, but because there was no animosity in his movements. They were clean, controlled, and precise, flowing like water without wasted energy.
Rayleigh, however, was not merely defending. Even at his age, he was learning through each exchange, adjusting to the boy's rhythm. Arthur's style was like a dance, each strike building momentum for the next, compounding force as if every swing multiplied the weight of the one before. Rayleigh could feel the foundation of a completely unique sword style being formed before his eyes.
Hours passed this way. Snowstorms howled around them, but neither noticed. Arthur pushed his body to the limit, maintaining peak speed for over five hours, sweat steaming in the cold air. His breath grew ragged, his muscles strained, but his determination did not waver. Rayleigh, though also showing signs of exertion, held up far better, his seasoned endurance carrying him through.
Finally, the two clashed again. Their blades met with such force that both were knocked backward. Landing in the snow, Rayleigh was the first to recover. He dashed forward, his sword cutting with flawless precision.
"Higabana!" he called, invoking his signature strike.
Arthur steadied himself and countered with his own variation. "Aoi Higabana!"
Their swords collided, blue sparks of willpower flickering briefly as steel rang against steel. Arthur's strike was more refined, sharper in execution, but Rayleigh's attack carried a weight born not of technique alone, but of experience and spirit. The younger blade faltered, and Arthur's sword was knocked aside. Rayleigh's edge tapped against his son's shoulder—a clean hit.
"You lose," Rayleigh said with a grin, teasing his boy.
Arthur fell back into the snow, then sat up almost instantly, his breathing still heavy but his body recovering with frightening speed. The blow barely left a mark. His monstrous physique was already showing itself.
"I'm getting closer, old man. I can feel it," Arthur said, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Rayleigh couldn't help but smile at his son's determination. The two sheathed their swords and began their usual post-spar routine—hunting for food before making camp, planning to rest a bit before their long swim back to Sabaody.
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After two hours of rest, father and son dove back into the sea. Both knew Shakky would be waiting for them before eating—an unspoken rule in their little family. Neither Rayleigh nor Arthur dared test her patience again, not after the scoldings they'd endured in the past.
They cut through the waters with incredible speed, even faster than their swim toward the island earlier. Within the hour, the familiar lights of Sabaody came into view. When they stepped into their home, Shakky was already waiting at the table, dishes laid out in full.
"Eat, come on," she said warmly, ushering them toward their seats. The three of them sat down together, the room filled with the simple comfort of family.
"So, Arthur," Shakky began, her tone carrying both curiosity and care, "how was your day with Ray?"
Arthur grinned, puffing out his chest a little. "Pretty great. I can feel myself getting closer to his strength every sparring. And honestly—" he smirked at his father, "—he's getting older by the minute, so I'm taking it easy on him."
Shakky chuckled at her son's cheeky remark, while Rayleigh just shook his head, smiling.
"Is that so?" Shakky teased. "Sounds like Arthur will surpass you soon, Ray-san."
Rayleigh waved his hand dismissively. "If the younger generation can't surpass the old, then the world's doomed. But don't get it twisted—he's still far from me."
The playful banter continued, as it always did. To Arthur, moments like these felt priceless. They were more than just meals—they were reminders that, in this life, he finally had something resembling real parents.
Once the plates were empty, they began cleaning up together. That was when a sudden knock echoed from the front door.
The sound immediately drew suspicion. It was far too late for customers—everyone in Sabaody knew when Shakky closed her bar.
Rayleigh's face hardened, and Arthur instinctively tensed beside him. Without a word, Rayleigh moved toward the door, Arthur following quietly at his back, ready to act if needed.
When the door swung open, the sight froze them both.
Three young girls stood outside. Collars tightened around their necks, chains clinking against their wrists and ankles—signs unmistakable to anyone who lived in Sabaody. They were newly escaped slaves from the auction house.
Shakky's eyes widened. For a moment, her normally composed expression cracked, and she felt something stir deep inside her chest. She quickly stepped forward.
"Come inside," she urged, pulling them away from the open street. Meanwhile, Rayleigh slipped out past them, his presence vanishing into the night. He would ensure no witnesses lingered nearby—anyone who saw these girls here would be silenced before trouble could arrive.
As the girls were ushered into the warmth of the home, the one in the middle lifted her gaze toward Shakky. Her voice trembled with desperation, but also with a flicker of recognition.
"Are you… the former Empress Shakuyaku?" she asked. "We're from the Kuja tribe. We escaped… please, I beg you—help me and my sisters."