CHAPTER 16 — THE YEAR OF BLOOD AND STEEL
Time passed differently here.
Not in days or months. Not in laughter or conversation.
But in the steady rhythm of steel cutting air, feet pounding earth, and muscle fibers tearing and rebuilding. One year. Three swords. One body pushed beyond every known limit.
DAILY DISCIPLINE
Every morning, I woke before dawn. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, and already my body was moving.
Warm-up: Not stretching. Not easing in. Movements designed to prepare the body for extreme stress—lunges into uneven terrain, wrist rotations with weighted blades,
core activation through repeated twisting motions. Every motion layered with Observation Haki to measure efficiency.
Sword training: Rain of Swords drills first. Micro-slashes. Energy slashes. Continuous flow. Blades moving faster than thought, angles multiplying, extra arm coordinating
without conscious effort. Wado Ichimonji became the heart of it, precise, calm, devastating.
Strength and endurance: Carrying weighted blades, pushing boulders, running through forests with wind and salt cutting against my skin, dragging logs, climbing cliffs. Every action increased raw physical strength while maintaining speed and control.
Haki refinement: Observation expanded, sensing not only living beings but air pressure, wind currents, vibrations in the ground. Armament strengthened, flowing naturally into every swing. Conqueror's Haki remained subtle, a faint pressure to intimidate weaker animals and alert to humans with hostile intent.
No breaks beyond what my body demanded. Fatigue became a tool—pushed past, adapted to, absorbed into raw capability.
RAIN OF SWORDS EVOLVES
The pattern became second nature.
Density increased: Hundreds of slashes layered over each other with precise timing.
Speed multiplied: Micro-slashes became near-invisible streaks. The energy behind each cut sharpened, cutting through
resistance without requiring brute force.
Integration of Wado Ichimonji: No longer one blade among three. Wado became the axis, guiding the storm. The other two swords and extra arm followed its rhythm, harmonizing chaos into inevitability.
Energy slashes refined: Air itself could now
be cut. Not always lethal, but capable of disrupting balance and flow of opponents. The range extended slightly, reaching beyond immediate contact.
Every day, Rain of Swords grew stronger—not by learning new patterns, but by layering intent, control, and coordination. If I gained more arms in the future, the storm would expand naturally, each new limb seamlessly integrated.
BODY OF A WEAPON
By the sixth month, I was no longer just training. I was training. Every fiber of my body was calibrated for combat.
Reflexes faster than the eye could track.
Muscles responsive to thought and Haki simultaneously.
Joints flexible yet unbreakable under strain.
Stamina capable of sustaining hours of continuous combat without faltering.
Rain of Swords, energy slashes, and raw
physical ability became inseparable. My body learned to fight without hesitation, to move without thought, to act with ruthless efficiency.
Ace and Sabo occasionally sparred, testing themselves, but I never slowed for them. Luffy sometimes joined, stretching his rubber limbs in wild attacks. They trained alongside me in spirit, but I existed on a level apart—focused entirely on preparation, calculation, and perfection.
THE END OF THE YEAR
When the year ended, I stood at the clearing outside Windmill Village.
Three swords: one discarded, two trained, one perfected.
Three arms: harmonized, coordinated, relentless.
Rain of Swords: a storm fully realized in
speed, precision, and lethality.
Energy slashes: capable of subtly manipulating distance and pressure, layered into every movement.
Body: faster, stronger, harder, more responsive than a normal human could
Hope to be.
I swung all three swords in a single continuous motion. Rain of Swords flowed seamlessly. Micro-slashes, energy slashes, and Wado Ichimonji at the center cut through everything within range. A perfect demonstration of the year's labor.
When I stopped, the air shimmered faintly. Leaves were shredded, small trees splintered, the ground scarred—but nothing excessive. Precision had replaced chaos.
I exhaled slowly. No fatigue. No strain. Only readiness.
One year of training ended.
The boy who had returned to Windmill Village had grown into something far beyond.
A storm waiting to be unleashed.
A body forged for inevitability.
And Rain of Swords—the perfect combination of speed, precision, and intent—now had a master.
The world would feel it soon.