Inside the small room, Nico Robin crouched on the floor, rubbing the already-clean boards with slow, careful strokes. In the dim sunlight, her shadow paced across the wall like a second, quieter self.
She raised her slight face, wiped sweat from her brow, and noticed the sky had slipped toward evening. Pouring the water from the basin down the drain, she smoothed the room once more. A small smile ghosted across her features for a moment, but it faded quickly when she glanced back at the window.
Robin picked up another thick history volume and sat at the table, flipping the pages. The cramped room felt oddly still; the only sound was the soft rustle of paper. Then, suddenly, the silence was broken by a burst of quiet sobbing.
"My mother still hasn't come back… it's been two years…"
Robin covered her eyes with her small hand, letting the tears fall through her fingers and stain the page beneath. For years she had pored over historical texts and records, all in the hope of learning what her mother was doing and why she hadn't returned. What work could captivate her mother so completely?
Two years. Robin had gone two full years without seeing her mother. Her memory of the woman was growing faint. Ever since she'd been old enough to be sensible, her mother had been away more than home; whenever she did come back, she'd check notes and references, linger for a few days, then leave again in a hurry. There were never any real, leisurely times between them.
If only her mother knew how much those years of study had changed Robin. By reading and researching non-stop, she'd reached a level of scholarship far beyond her years. Though she had never formally applied, she was quietly confident she could pass O'Hara's scholar exams. If she passed and became a certified scholar, she'd be able—at fourteen—to follow her mother on actual field investigations. Then she could stop waiting.
Wiping her face with her sleeve, Robin forced herself to get a grip. But when she saw the tear-damp page beneath her hand, panic pricked at her chest. She grabbed a few loose sheets, fanned the wet page, and set them in the shade to dry—thankful that the ink used by navigators was millennia-resistant. If these books had been ruined… well, that would have been a catastrophe. Besides, they weren't technically hers; she'd slipped them out of the Giant Reading Tree and would have to return them someday.
Lying with her chin on the table, Robin let an imagined smile of a woman hover before her eyes—a gentle, irresistible smile that made her want to reach out and be held.
"Mother—"
A soft knock came at the door.
"It's Mom! She's home!"
Robin leaped from the high seat and flung the door open with giddy hope. She peeked out, only to find nothing at all—no figure, no welcoming silhouette. Her smile froze. Just as she was about to close the door in disappointment, she caught sight of someone sprawled comically in front of the threshold, legs twitching, muttering nonsense in a tongue she didn't recognize.
"'It's okay, little Hanako~ I just can't get in,'" Yashiro mumbled, half-asleep and dribbling nonsense.
Robin blinked. The knock must have been caused by Yashiro accidentally kicking the door. She sighed—then, seeing the foolish look on his face, a practical idea flitted through her head: Strange… why is he here? Maybe I should get him a job so he has somewhere to sleep.
But Robin's kindness warred with caution. In the end she decided not to bring him in; rather, she felt safer knowing someone was watching the door at night. She crouched beside him, pinched his cheek, and the corner of her mouth lifted into the first real smile she'd shown in days.
After three days, Robin let down her guard a little and began trying to teach Yashiro a few basic words. Yashiro, having resigned himself to his lot—washing dishes by day—liked to come to the beach where they'd met. There he would sit blankly on a rock in a strange, meditative pose, staring at the sunrise and breathing in time with the waves.
A week passed. Robin noticed that, beneath his rough exterior, Yashiro had no malicious intent. Though she sometimes wanted to bop the idiot on the head with a book for his clumsy behavior, she also found him unnervingly quiet at times, almost like someone you didn't approach. So she made another daily ritual of her own: whenever the sun wasn't too high, she'd accompany him to the shore, watch the sunrise by his side, then return to the grove to continue reading.
Unlike Robin, who was composed and serene, Yashiro was jittery—he hated feeling unable to protect himself. As an anime fan, he knew this island's fate would soon be grim; O'Hara's destruction, the coming crises… He could feel the threat like a knot in his gut.
After a week of trying, Yashiro found something that actually helped: sunrise meditation. When he practiced it, he felt the tightness around his chakra begin to loosen. But even if he fully recovered his previous strength, in the One Piece world he'd at best be comparable to a Rear Admiral. That was embarrassing.
It stung more to realize he had no golden finger. Learning a foreign language was a torment—painful and slow. Imagine how ancient emperors felt: Qin Shihuang supposedly unified six states not because learning six languages was easy, but because he could simply force unification. For him, founding an empire was easier than learning six tongues. If even a legendary emperor balked at languages, what hope did a worthless college guy like Yashiro have?
Without Qin-level power, he could only study. So he followed Nico Robin, picking up One Piece world vocabulary bit by tiny bit.
[Author's aside preserved:] The protagonist here may overestimate his own strength—after all, he hasn't actually faced the true heavy-hitters of the pirate world yet. Wrong judgments are normal and will be addressed later. With his bloodline limit and combat talent taken into account, things may turn out differently. He's a rare four-attribute chakra user, but his chakra reserves are small—this is explained in the background and some loopholes will be clarified patiently.