CHAPTER 14 — WHITE AGAINST THE STORM
I didn't stop until the village was far behind me.
Only when the sounds of Shimotsuki faded into wind and insects did I slow my pace. The forest here was different—older, quieter, untouched by constant footsteps. A place where decisions could be made without
witnesses.
I stepped into a small clearing.
Moonlight spilled through the branches.
I knelt.
THE DISCARD
One of my old swords lay across my knees.
It had served its purpose.
Balanced. Sharp. Reliable.
But it had no future.
I studied it one last time—not with sentiment, but with honesty. The blade vibrated faintly under my touch, sensing
Armament Haki out of habit. It was a good sword.
Just not good enough.
I drove it point-first into the ground.
The earth swallowed half the blade, roots tightening around the steel as if claiming it. I released my grip and stood without ceremony.
No regret.
Tools were temporary.
DRAWING WADO ICHIMONJI
My extra arm reached back slowly.
Carefully.
The white scabbard slid free, moonlight gliding across its surface. Even before I drew it, I felt the difference.
Weightless.
Centered.
Calm.
When Wado Ichimonji left its sheath, the air changed.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
It was like the forest itself paused.
The blade was immaculate—pure white handle, flawless edge, no hunger for blood, no wildness. It didn't demand strength.
It demanded control.
I wrapped my fingers around the hilt.
Perfect.
No adjustment needed.
No struggle.
It fit my hand as if it had always been there.
FIRST MOVEMENT
I didn't swing immediately.
I let the sword rest.
Observation Haki tuned inward, mapping the connection between my arm, my intent, and the blade. Armament Haki flowed—but Wado resisted excess. It didn't want brute force.
It wanted clarity.
I stepped forward.
One slash.
Clean.
Silent.
A tree several meters away gained a single, flawless cut—so precise it took a second before the trunk separated and slid apart.
I exhaled slowly.
This sword didn't amplify violence.
It refined it.
RAIN MEETS STILL WATER
I shifted stance.
Three swords now—two familiar, one absolute.
Rain of Swords activated, but I adjusted the pattern.
Wado did not join the chaos.
It became the axis.
While the other blades moved in layered speed, Wado struck only when necessary—each cut placed where dozens of others would have gone before.
The result changed everything.
The storm tightened.
Fewer slashes.
Deeper impact.
The air itself felt cleaner after each movement, as if excess intent was being stripped away.
I stopped.
Heart steady.
No strain.
No backlash.
UNDERSTANDING
Wado Ichimonji wasn't meant to dominate.
It was meant to end.
Not with spectacle.
Not with fury.
With inevitability.
As I grew stronger, Rain of Swords would expand outward—more arms, more blades, more angles.
But Wado would always remain the center.
The final line.
The cut that mattered.
RESOLUTION
I re-sheathed the sword.
Three blades rested at my sides once more—but the balance had changed.
One was gone.
One had been replaced.
And the path ahead sharpened.
Kuina would hate me.
Zoro would chase strength even harder.
Shimotsuki would remember the theft.
None of that mattered.
What mattered was this:
I now carried a blade that could keep up with my future.
One sword left behind, swallowed by the earth.
One sword taken, pure and absolute.
Wado Ichimonji rested in my hand—
White steel against the coming storm.
And when the rain fell again,
It would fall cleaner.