The morning came with the gentle symphony of the forest. The soft, diffuse light filtering through the canopy stirred Blake from his exhausted sleep. The tent was still cool and smelled faintly of damp canvas and dried earth. He rose quickly, his six-year-old body already aching pleasantly from the previous day's exertions—a constant, low reminder that his new life demanded more effort.
His first order of business was to freshen up. The water was icy cold, a shocking slap that instantly cleared the lingering sleep from his mind. He scrubbed the grime and dried blood from the boar hunt off his skin, feeling a renewed sense of clarity as the cold water washed over him.
Afterward, he dressed. From his durable backpack, he pulled out his new attire: a simple white t-shirt and sturdy three-quarter brown shorts. The clothes were perfect for training—light, cool, and durable. He felt the familiar weight of Tensa Zangetsu in its black sheath resting at his hip, a silent, comforting presence.
His breakfast was purely functional. He went to the remains of the boar meat he had roasted the night before. It was cold and utterly bland, but it was fuel. He tore off a chunk and chewed methodically, washing it down with cool river water. He needed the protein for the grueling day he had planned.
Breakfast concluded, the real work began. Blake stood in the small clearing he'd established near his tent, facing the river.
"Alright, Shanks' potential, time to get to work," he muttered to himself.
He started with the basics, exercises meant to rapidly condition his tiny, underdeveloped body. He dropped to the ground and began push-ups. He could manage only a few before his arms shook violently and he collapsed. He rested for thirty seconds, then forced himself to do another set, pushing past the pain.
Next, he found a sturdy, low tree branch nearby. He jumped up and grabbed it, trying for pull-ups. His first attempt was a miserable failure; his hands slipped almost immediately. He tried again, focusing on the core strength he knew was latent within him. He managed to hang, then, with a grunt of pure effort, he pulled his chin up past the branch. One. He dropped, heart pounding, then pulled himself up again. Two. After five agonizing repetitions, his grip failed, and he dropped to the ground, his small hands raw.
He quickly transitioned to sit-ups, churning through them with relentless determination until his stomach muscles were screaming in protest.
He was sweating, breathing heavily, and his muscles felt like jelly, but he hadn't stopped for more than a minute. This was just the warm-up.
He now focused on the centerpiece of his training: swordsmanship. He drew Tensa Zangetsu, the black blade humming in the morning air.
He started with a basic, repeated motion: the vertical downward cut. He raised the sword high above his head, felt the perfect balance, and brought it down in a clean, forceful arc, stopping the blade inches from the earth. He focused on the form, trying to visualize the effortless power he knew Shanks possessed. Balance. Precision. Intention.
He repeated the motion. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.
He switched to a horizontal cut, then an upward slash. He moved through diagonal cuts, practicing the footwork he was doing unconsciously. His stance was wobbly, and his movements were jerky, but he pushed himself. He swung the sword until the blade felt like a bar of lead. His arms were burning, shaking, and his shoulders screamed. He pushed through the pain, picturing the vast, impossible power waiting to be unlocked.
He swung until he physically couldn't lift his hands anymore. The sword slipped from his numb fingers and clattered to the soft earth. He collapsed onto his back, staring up at the canopy, drenched in sweat.
After five minutes of lying flat, simply struggling to breathe, Blake knew the most effective way to condition his body now was through endurance training. He retrieved his water bottle, clipped his sword back onto his hip, and began his run.
He started down the path next to the river, ensuring he stayed close to the water's edge so he wouldn't get lost. The run was slow at first, his legs stiff and uncooperative. But soon, he fell into a rhythm. He focused on the sound of his own breathing and the crunch of leaves beneath his sneakers. He pushed himself past the discomfort, past the pain, trying to channel the sheer tenacity that defined the great heroes of the worlds he knew.
He ran what he estimated to be two kilometers—an incredible distance for a child of his age. When he finally slowed to a walk, his lungs were burning, his mouth was cotton-dry, and his legs felt heavy and unresponsive. He dropped onto a flat, mossy rock, gulping down the last of the water in his bottle.
He rested for ten minutes, letting his pulse return to normal. Then, knowing he couldn't leave his camp undefended, he turned and began to run his way back to his tent. The return trip was harder; his reserves were depleted. He forced himself to continue, walking only when he absolutely had to, fueled by the relentless mental willpower he was already beginning to inherit from his powerful, yet-to-be-mastered core.
He finally stumbled back into his camp, utterly spent. He collapsed into the tent, resting for a substantial period, letting his body recover.
The sun was nearing its zenith. He emerged and went straight for the remnants of his meal. He sat by the dead fire pit, tearing into the remaining meat from last night. He ate the rest of the cold, tough meat, chewing slowly, savoring the replenishment.
After his recovery period, Blake knew he couldn't just sit and wait. He needed to learn his environment and, crucially, he needed more food.
He ventured deeper into the forest. To ensure his safety, he took a knife from his pack and began to carefully mark the trees with small, easily identifiable notches and symbols, creating a crude path that led back to his camp.
He moved with a new stealth, trying to walk silently, stepping over dry leaves and dead branches. His small stature was actually an asset here, allowing him to slip through dense underbrush with ease. He was hunting, keeping his eyes and ears open.
After nearly an hour of careful, silent tracking, he saw it: a small wolf, roughly half his size but undeniably a predator. It was drinking at a small tributary, oblivious to his presence.
This was a much more dangerous opponent than the boar. The wolf was fast, agile, and smart.
Blake dropped into the low undergrowth. He was completely hiding, his eyes locked on the wolf. He knew he couldn't take this head-on. The instinct that surfaced now was different—it wasn't about raw power, but calculated opportunism. Wait for the perfect moment. Don't fight its speed; neutralize it with surprise.
He waited for what felt like an eternity. The wolf finished drinking, shook the water from its head, and began to turn, sniffing the air. Blake knew his window was closing.
As the wolf turned its back to walk away, Blake launched his attack. It wasn't a charge; it was a sudden, silent burst of speed. He closed the distance in three powerful, clumsy strides. He didn't draw Tensa Zangetsu; the blade was too large, too obvious. Instead, he lunged with his hunting knife, aiming for the spinal column just behind the head, a spot he had read about in survival guides.
His small hand held the knife in a tight, desperate grip. The wolf reacted, its ears twitching, but it was too late. The knife found its mark. The attack was swift, silent, and brutal. The wolf collapsed without a sound, a clean, sudden kill born not of strength, but of pure, patient hunting instinct.
Blake stood over the carcass, his heart hammering in his chest, his hands trembling. He had done it. Two days in, and he had secured a second kill.
He took a length of rope and tied the wolf's legs, then began the laborious process of dragging it back to camp, following the small, familiar notches he had carved into the trees. It was easier than dragging the boar, but still a heavy burden for his young body.
He reached the camp just as the sun began to dip below the towering trees, bathing the forest in deep orange and purple hues. He was exhausted, sore, and covered in mud and blood.
He immediately set about his night preparations. He quickly gathered more firewood, restarted his banked fire, and then turned his attention to the wolf. Skinning the wolf was easier than the boar; he was learning quickly. He expertly carved the meat into strips, taking care to discard the parts he couldn't eat.
As the scent of roasting wolf meat filled the air—again, sadly bland—Blake watched the sunset through the trees. He hadn't just survived; he had trained, hunted, and secured food for the days ahead. His small body was weary, but his mind was alert and determined.
Day two complete. One step closer to becoming the man I need to be in this world.
He ate his dinner, a quiet, solitary meal by the crackling fire, the sounds of the forest his only company. After eating his fill, he rolled into his tent, the comfort of his simple shelter a welcome relief.
He fell asleep quickly, the memory of his exhausting, productive day already firming his resolve for the challenges of tomorrow.