As Arthur observed the three unexpected visitors, he couldn't help but feel genuine pity for the condition they were in.
Their state was far from dignified. While Shakky moved carefully around them, preparing to tend to their immediate needs, Arthur took note of details that many might overlook.
The tension in their muscles revealed exhaustion far beyond simple travel fatigue, every twitch speaking of strain and prolonged suffering.
Their shivering bodies betrayed not only the cold of the night air but also the lingering fear that still haunted them.
Their lungs seemed ragged, heavy with smoke and dust from the oppressive environments they must have endured.
Even their heartbeats were rapid and uneven, pounding as if each second carried the threat of capture.
'Strength really does dictate everything around here,' Arthur thought grimly. 'Especially if you're not someone under the protection of the Celestial Dragons, or even remotely connected to their world. To be weak in this sea is to be hunted, traded, or discarded.'
As he continued to watch, his mother's voice broke his train of thought. "Arthur, can you tend to them for a while? I want to prepare food that will help them regain some strength." Shakky spoke in a calm, steady tone, but Arthur could sense the weight behind her words. She was entrusting this task to him.
Shakky had always insisted that Arthur learn the basics of first aid. She said it was something that might not seem important now but would one day prove invaluable, especially in a life surrounded by danger.
Taking the first aid kit from her hands, Arthur crouched down near the three sisters and carefully began his work.
But the moment his hand moved closer, Boa Hancock stiffened. Her entire body trembled, and she recoiled with wide, fearful eyes that were locked onto Arthur's face.
The reaction wasn't from him specifically but from the countless traumas she had endured—every gesture that reminded her of those who once held chains over her.
Arthur paused. Then, with the calmest voice he could muster, he said softly, "Don't be alarmed. I'm not here to hurt you."
It was something Shakky often told him—that his voice carried a natural soothing quality, one capable of calming even the most restless spirit. Now, he witnessed it in action again. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Hancock's trembling lessened.
Her sisters, who had mirrored her fear, also began to relax. Arthur, ever observant, noticed their breathing steadying, their heart rates slowing from panic to something closer to rest.
"You don't have to be scared," Arthur continued gently, his eyes glancing toward the door. "With my father outside, there's no chance anyone followed you here. You're safe, at least for tonight."
The three sisters said nothing in reply. Their silence was heavy, but Arthur did not press them. He understood it—words couldn't erase chains, nor could they undo scars etched into memory.
So he focused on tending to their wounds, wrapping bandages with steady hands. After several quiet minutes, their injuries were covered, if not healed.
Not long after, Shakky emerged again, this time carrying trays of food. The aroma filled the room, warm and inviting.
She urged the sisters to eat, assuring them that food would help them recover even more than medicine. Her tone left little room for refusal.
"You can sleep in my room if you want," Arthur added after they had eaten, his voice steady but firm. "I'll stay in the hall tonight."
At first, the sisters shook their heads, reluctant to impose further. But Arthur didn't waver, and eventually, they relented. Hours later, the three finally fell into a fragile sleep in the safety of Arthur's room, while Arthur stretched himself across the hall floor, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
It was there, in that quiet moment of solitude, that realization struck him.
'I'm not strong enough to do anything that matters,' Arthur thought bitterly. 'I've been complacent. Too comfortable with the protection my father provides. This world doesn't forgive weakness, and what happened to them could just as easily happen to me. If I remain satisfied with small steps forward, I'll be crushed when the time comes. I won't allow that. Not again. This is my second chance at life, and I won't waste it by being content.'
Arthur's thoughts spiraled. He knew Rayleigh would disagree—his father often pointed out how Arthur grew stronger with each passing day, his progress steady and undeniable. But Arthur could not see it that way.
To him, the pace was too slow. He measured himself against Rayleigh, and until he could surpass that mountain, all progress felt like crawling forward at a snail's pace. The pride of a prodigy demanded more.
His mind shifted to the power he inherited from Yoriichi. The greatest swordsman in another world had possessed more than raw strength—he had techniques that pushed the human body to transcend its limits. The answer was clear in Arthur's mind.
'Breathing techniques… that's the foundation. That's how others stood against monsters far beyond ordinary men.' Determined, Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and sat up.
Instead of surrendering to sleep, he closed his eyes and began to focus inward. He concentrated on the rhythm of his breaths, the expansion of his lungs, the steady flow of oxygen feeding his muscles.
He meditated, drawing from every fragment of knowledge he had, piecing together the beginnings of a technique that could carry him further than raw talent ever would.
Tonight, Arthur chose not to sleep. Tonight, he chose to build the foundation of the power he believed he needed.
Through the entire night, Arthur sat in quiet meditation, steadily adjusting and refining his own breathing pattern.
At first, it was awkward, uneven, and difficult to maintain, but with each passing minute, he grew more accustomed to the rhythm. He began taking in greater and greater amounts of oxygen, drawing deep into his lungs and allowing the air to fuel every corner of his body.
The more he breathed, the more he could feel subtle changes taking place inside him, as though his muscles, nerves, and even the flow of blood were being strengthened by each controlled inhalation.
But Arthur quickly realized something important. There was a fundamental difference between the body of an ordinary human in the world of Demon Slayer and the body of an ordinary human in the world of One Piece.
People here were naturally far sturdier, far more resistant to punishment, and capable of feats that would be considered impossible elsewhere.
On top of that, Arthur was not just any child. He carried the blood of Rayleigh, the man once known as the Dark King, and Shakuyaku, a former Empress of Amazon Lily.
Their genes flowed through him, making his foundation far stronger than what Yoriichi had started with in his own world.
Because of this, every breath Arthur took had a far greater impact.
The oxygen coursing through him did not simply fuel survival—it refined his body, reinforced his muscles, and awakened potential that lay dormant in his blood.
His breathing did not just maintain his strength; it actively elevated it.
By the first hour of the night had passed, Arthur had managed to push past the awkward beginnings and piece together the basics of his own breathing method.
He learned how to hold the rhythm without breaking, how to maintain a constant cycle that empowered him even while sitting still.
The act of breathing itself became a tool of training, each inhale and exhale sharpening his body further.
As dawn began to peek through the window, the change became visible. The sun-shaped mark on his shoulders, faint until now, burned with a vivid brightness.
Slowly, almost like creeping fire, the mark began to spread, extending across his skin in patterns reminiscent of the old tales of the Sun Breathing warrior.
Arthur opened his eyes, calm but resolute. He had only taken the first step, but the difference was already there.