The Land of Iron was less of a "land" and more of a frozen hellscape inhabited by people who thought hypothermia was a cultural pastime.
"It is... cold," Zabuza stated.
The former Demon of the Mist was wrapped in three wool blankets he'd stolen from a passing merchant ship. His massive sword, the Kubikiribōchō, was frosted over with a layer of white rime. He looked less like a legendary assassin and more like a very angry, very armed burrito.
"It's crisp!" I countered, standing at the prow of our tiny boat.
I was wearing my usual white shirt (unbuttoned at the top, naturally), my cropped pants, and sandals. Snowflakes landed on my bare chest and melted instantly against my skin.
"You are not human," Zabuza chattered, his teeth clicking. "You have no chakra to warm yourself. You should be a popsicle."
"It's all about spirit, First Mate!" I laughed, pointing ahead. "Look! Civilization! And more importantly, booze!"
Ahead of us, looming out of the blizzard, was the jagged coastline of the Land of Iron. High stone walls protected a port city that looked like it was carved directly into the side of a glacier. The architecture was sharp, angular, and aggressive. The Three Wolves, the symbol of the Samurai, hung from banners that snapped violently in the wind.
"We can't just dock," Zabuza warned, standing up and shedding one blanket. "The Samurai are neutral. They don't like Ninja. And they especially don't like missing-nin with bounties."
"Good thing I'm a pirate then," I grinned. "And you're my... pet?"
"I will cut you."
"Bodyguard," I corrected. "Let's go with bodyguard."
The Port of Three Wolves
We docked the boat next to massive iron-clad warships. Our little fishing dinghy looked pathetic in comparison.
As we stepped onto the icy dock, we drew attention immediately. A six-foot-six redhead with one arm and sandals in a blizzard, walking next to a shirtless man with a sword the size of a door and cow-print arm warmers.
We were the least subtle spies in history.
Samurai in full plate armor patrolled the docks. They carried katanas at their waists, and I could feel their intent. It was different from Ninja. Less deceptive, more direct. Sharp.
"Halt," a Samurai captain stepped in front of us. His helmet had horns. "State your business. We don't get... tropical tourists here."
I stepped forward, flashing my most charming smile.
"Greetings! I am Captain Shanks. This is Zabuza. We're here for your famous rice wine and perhaps to recruit some strong warriors for a grand adventure!"
The Samurai stared at me. Then he looked at Zabuza.
"Zabuza Momochi," the Samurai recognized him. "The traitor of the Mist."
Hands went to sword hilts instantly. A dozen blades were drawn with a collective shing.
"We don't harbor criminals," the Captain snarled.
"Whoa, whoa," I raised my single hand. "He's retired! He's a changed man! He helps old ladies across the street now. Right, Zabuza?"
"I hate old ladies," Zabuza grunted.
"He's working on his people skills," I assured the Samurai. "Look, we have gold."
I pulled out a heavy bag of ryo we had "liberated" from Gato's personal stash before leaving. I tossed it to the Captain.
The Samurai caught it. He felt the weight. Money, as it turned out, was a universal language even in the Land of Iron.
"The tavern is up the hill," the Captain said, lowering his sword but keeping a wary eye on us. "Cause trouble, and we will execute you. We aren't bound by Shinobi treaties."
"Wouldn't dream of it!" I chirped.
The Tavern: "The Frozen Blade"
The tavern was warm, loud, and smelled of roasted meat and strong spirits. It was filled with Samurai—men and women in kimonos and hakamas, their swords resting against the tables.
When we walked in, the music stopped. Every head turned.
I ignored the glares and walked straight to the bar.
"Barkeep!" I slammed my hand on the counter. "Two jugs of your strongest sake! And meat! Anything that used to walk on four legs!"
The bartender, a scarred old man who looked like he ate nails for breakfast, eyed me suspiciously. "You got coin, stranger?"
I slapped a gold piece on the wood.
"Sake coming up."
We took a table in the center of the room. Zabuza sat with his back to a pillar, his eyes scanning every exit.
"Relax," I told him, pouring the sake into large wooden saucers. "Enjoy the atmosphere."
"Everyone here wants to kill us," Zabuza noted.
"That is the atmosphere," I drank deeply. "Ah! That hits the spot! It burns like fire."
I wiped my mouth and looked around.
"So," I said loudly, addressing the room. "I'm looking for crew members!"
Silence.
"I'm starting a pirate crew," I continued, standing up on the bench. "We offer no salary, high chance of death, sleeping on a small boat, and me as your captain! Who's interested?"
A Samurai at the next table laughed. "A pirate? In the mountains? You're a clown, redhead."
"I'm a visionary!" I countered. "The sea is freedom! Don't you guys get tired of following orders? 'Yes, Shogun-sama,' 'No, Shogun-sama.' Boring!"
The laughing Samurai stood up. He was big, nearly as tall as me. He channeled chakra into his blade. A pale blue aura coated the steel.
I watched it with interest. Observation Haki.
"Chakra Flow," I mused. "So that's how you guys do it. Interesting. You coat the blade to extend its range and sharpness."
"You talk too much," the Samurai sneered. "I think I'll take that sword of yours. It looks too good for a one-armed cripple."
Zabuza started to rise, killing intent flooding the room.
"Sit down, Zabuza," I ordered lightly.
"But Captain—"
"I said sit. I need to stretch."
I stepped away from the table, holding my sake cup in my hand.
"If you want Gryphon," I said, tapping the hilt at my hip. "You'll have to take it."
The Samurai yelled and swung. It was a vertical slash, powerful and enhanced by chakra. It would have split a boulder.
I didn't draw my sword. I didn't block.
I simply took a half-step to the right.
The blade whizzed past my nose, the wind of it ruffling my hair. I took a sip of sake while the blade was still descending.
"Too slow," I critiqued.
The Samurai growled and slashed horizontally.
I ducked. Just enough. The blade passed over my head. I stood back up.
"Too high."
He thrust.
I pivoted on one foot, spinning around the thrust like a dancer.
"Too predictable."
The room was watching now. The Samurai was furious. He unleashed a flurry of strikes—slashes, stabs, sweeps. He was skilled. He was fast.
But to my Observation Haki, he was moving in slow motion. I saw the intent of his muscles before he even moved them.
I weaved through the steel storm without spilling a drop of my drink. Left, right, backstep, spin. It was a dance.
Finally, the Samurai overextended on a massive overhead swing.
I stepped in.
"Cheers," I said.
I brought my knee up. Hard.
It connected with his stomach armor. Even through the metal, the force of my Rokushiki-trained muscles transferred perfectly.
OOF.
The Samurai's eyes bugged out. He folded like a lawn chair and collapsed to the floor, wheezing.
I finished my sake and slammed the cup down on his back.
"Anyone else?" I asked the room.
The Samurai stared at me. Then, slowly, the tension broke.
"hahahaha!" The bartender laughed, clapping his hands. "He took down Gorou without spilling his drink! I like this guy!"
"He moves like a ghost," another Samurai muttered respectfully.
I sat back down. Zabuza looked at me, shaking his head.
"You just made a scene," Zabuza said.
"I made an impression," I corrected.
"So," the bartender leaned over the counter. "You really looking for crew?"
"Desperately," I said. "My current first mate is great at killing, but he's terrible at navigation. We've been going in circles for two days."
"We have not," Zabuza argued.
"There's no one in this port who would leave the Land of Iron," the bartender said, wiping a glass. "Samurai are loyal. We don't run away to become pirates."
"Bummer," I sighed.
"However," the bartender lowered his voice. "If you want someone... unique. Someone who doesn't fit in."
My ears perked up. "I love unique."
"There's a doctor," the bartender said. "Lives up on the North Mountain. He's not a Samurai. He's a foreigner. Drifted here a few years ago."
"A doctor?" I sat up straighter. "A ship needs a doctor! Is he strong?"
"He's... weird," the bartender grimaced. "He refuses to use swords. He fights with his hands. And he's always talking about 'Youth' and 'Flames'."
Zabuza frowned. "Hand-to-hand combatant? In a land of swords?"
"And," the bartender added. "He drinks more than you do. Rumor is, he's looking for a specific flower that grows in the ice. Says it can cure any disease."
"A doctor looking for a miracle cure," I mused. "Sounds like a Chopper kind of dream."
I stood up, throwing the empty sake jug over my shoulder. It shattered on the floor.
"Zabuza! Grab the ham! We're going hiking!"
"Hiking?" Zabuza groaned. "It's a blizzard outside."
"The North Mountain!" I pointed Gryphon toward the ceiling. "To find our Doctor!"
As we walked out of the bar, leaving a groaning Samurai on the floor and a confused room of patrons, I felt that familiar pull of destiny.
The Land of Iron. A weird doctor. A cure.
"I hope he's not a raccoon dog," I muttered to myself.
"What?" Zabuza asked.
"Nothing. Just... memories of a different life. Let's go!"
We stepped back out into the snow. The wind howled, but for the first time since I arrived in this world, I felt warm. The crew was growing. The adventure was starting.
And if this doctor was half as crazy as the bartender said... he'd fit right in.