The first light of dawn spilled over the peaks surrounding Tetsukawa Village. Mist clung to the valleys, but the air was sharp and clear, carrying a promise of movement.
Zoro stood at the edge of the village, his three swords canonically placed—Wado Ichimonji in his mouth, Enma and Sandai Kitetsu in each hand. For the first time in weeks, he felt whole. His muscles, bones, and spirit had aligned; the untamed pulse beneath his skin no longer burned uncontrollably, but throbbed quietly, promising a raw, untested power.
He turned to the small hut where Mina and Jiro were already awake, preparing for the morning.
"Time to go," he said, voice low, gravelly. Not a question.
Mina hesitated, glancing at the path winding down the mountain. "Are you sure it's safe to leave now? What about the trade route, the bandits?"
Zoro gave a subtle nod, stoic, his expression unreadable but firm. A quiet acknowledgment of gratitude. "…I'll repay you. You didn't ask. You didn't hesitate. I don't forget."
Jiro grunted, leaning on his staff. "You don't owe us your life. But… don't get yourself killed either."
Zoro didn't respond with words. His eyes swept the village one last time, taking in the small acts of care—the neatly stacked firewood, the warm blankets, the herbs set out for him. He would repay them someday, in his way. With action. With strength.
He stepped onto the trade path. The rocks crunched under his boots. Mist curled around his ankles. The air carried faint vibrations—life and death—but he barely needed to look.
Three figures appeared ahead, blocking the path. Banners fluttered in tatters: bandits, by the looks of it. The tallest, a man with a jagged scar across one eye, exuded a Chun-in-level threat. The others were clearly trained, small bursts of chakra revealing their potential.
Zoro's lips twitched into a faint, almost imperceptible grin. "…Looks like someone's been asking for trouble."
The bandit leader smirked, clearly expecting a challenge. "Well, well… a lone traveler with three swords. You're either brave… or stupid."
Zoro's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharp, calm. "…Depends on which pays better."
He didn't draw his swords. He didn't even move in a threatening stance. He simply stood, his three blades in canon placement, aura radiating. A minuscule pulse of Conqueror's Haki flowed outward.
It was over before they even understood it.
The leader's grin froze, eyes wide. The two smaller bandits stumbled, disoriented, fear flooding their senses. One, the youngest, dropped a kunai mid-throw. The tallest staggered back, muscles locked, as if his body refused to obey. Within heartbeats, they were all knocked unconscious, sprawled on the gravel like ragdolls.
Zoro walked past them, boots steady, eyes forward. He bent slightly, picking up the bandits' scattered weapons and coins—tools and loot he could use, nothing more. He left the unconscious bodies behind, a warning to anyone else who dared cross the path of a Bounty Hunter.
No words. No flourish. Just cold efficiency. This was Zoro in a world untested, yet already untouchable.
The trade route lay open, stretching into lands he had yet to see. Whispers would follow him eventually—merchants and travelers speaking of the three-sworded Bounty Hunter, a man who appeared like a shadow, struck like a storm, and left before anyone could react.
Zoro didn't care for whispers. For names. For fame. All that mattered was the horizon. The next challenge. The next fight. The next step into a world that had yet to see his full strength.
"…Let's see what this world's really made of."
To be continued...