Sanji learned something terrifying on Momoiro Island.
He was not slow.
He was loud.
Every step he took announced itself.
Every kick he threw committed him.
Every dodge he made chose a direction too early.
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Ivankov made him stand in a white stone courtyard at sunrise.
No weights.
No attackers.
No orders.
Just one sentence:
"Do not move."
Sanji frowned.
"…What?"
"Do. Not. Move."
Hours passed.
The sun climbed.
Sweat ran down his back.
His muscles twitched.
His instincts screamed at him to shift, adjust, prepare.
"Your body is addicted to action," Ivankov said, walking in a slow circle around him. "That is why it is easy to read."
Sanji clenched his jaw.
"Speed is meaningless if the enemy knows where you will be."
Ivankov stopped in front of him.
"When you fought the man of light, you chased him."
The memory stabbed deep.
"You moved first. You always move first."
Ivankov raised a finger.
"And the one who moves first… gives information."
Sanji's eye widened slightly.
"…Tch."
"From today," Ivankov said, "you will learn to live in the space before movement."
They blindfolded him.
Then they let them come.
Not to beat him.
To touch him.
A finger on the shoulder.
A tap on the back.
A brush past his ear.
Every touch meant failure.
At first, he failed instantly.
Again.
Again.
Again.
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He couldn't see.
Couldn't hear clearly.
Couldn't predict.
He panicked.
Moved too early.
Too late.
Too much.
"Your fear is louder than your senses," Ivankov said.
So they made it worse.
They took away his hearing too.
Then his sense of balance.
They spun him until the world meant nothing.
Then—
"Begin."
The first week, he didn't stop a single touch.
The second week, he stopped one.
The third week, he stopped three.
Not by speed.
By stillness.
He began to feel… pressure.
Not impact.
Intent.
A shift in the air.
A distortion in space.
The moment before someone moved.
"This is not reaction," Ivankov said. "This is presence."
Then they changed the rules.
They let them attack him for real.
But—
If he dodged by more than an inch, he was beaten.
If he blocked, he was beaten.
If he counterattacked, he was beaten.
"The goal is not to escape," Ivankov said. "The goal is to not be there."
Sanji started getting hit.
A lot.
But something had changed.
He stopped flinching.
Stopped tensing.
Stopped rushing.
He started… waiting.
And in that waiting—
He began to step into impossible spaces.
Between punches.
Between kicks.
Between heartbeats.
His body moved after the attack had already chosen its path.
And for the first time—
They missed.
Not because he was fast.
Because he was gone.
The night he realized it, he was surrounded by ten.
No blindfold.
No limits.
They attacked.
He didn't think.
Didn't plan.
Didn't chase.
He just… drifted.
A shoulder slid past a fist.
A step turned a kick into empty air.
A tilt of the spine made a heel pass by his cheek.
Ten attackers.
Zero hits.
They stopped.
Stared.
Sanji stood in the center, breathing slowly, eyes wide.
"…I didn't… run."
Ivankov smiled.
"You did not flee."
Ivankov's eyes sharpened.
"You occupied the battlefield."
Later that night, alone, Sanji lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
"…So that's how…"
He remembered Kizaru.
Light that could not be chased.
Light that was already gone when you aimed.
Sanji exhaled smoke.
"…I was fighting light the wrong way."
He crushed the cigarette under his heel.
"I won't chase anymore."