Days flew by beneath the weight of brutal training.
In the blink of an eye, half a month had passed.
Bullet gradually adapted to the rhythm of life aboard the ship.
Mornings were filled with the physical conditioning and basic combat drills arranged by Rayleigh.
This body was already monstrously strong to begin with. Under systematic training, his improvement was obvious, and his control over his power grew increasingly precise.
Afternoons were devoted entirely to Haki.
With Rayleigh's guidance, Bullet's use of both Observation and Armament Haki became more and more proficient.
He could now steadily condense Armament around his fists.
His Observation range had expanded to about twenty meters around him, giving him a much clearer read on hostility and movement predictions.
However, what Bullet cared about the most... was how his innate devouring talent interacted with his Haki training.
He discovered that whenever he focused all of his attention on using Haki, especially in combat or during intense training, the devouring core in his chest became unusually active.
It would begin to proactively lick at and analyze the Haki he himself produced, trying to optimize how it flowed, even simulating possible variations.
This optimization was subtle, like water eroding stone with time, but it allowed his control over Haki to stabilize much faster than it would for an ordinary person.
But Bullet's thoughts went further than that.
If it could devour and analyze his own... could it not also devour and analyze the Haki and "power" of others?
That thought became increasingly difficult to suppress after an afternoon training session.
At the time, Shanks had been practicing swordsmanship in an open space nearby.
The young swordsman wore a focused expression. Every slash, thrust, lift, and sweep carried a sharp, unstoppable momentum, a unique "aura" forged from his will and his blade technique.
As Bullet watched, the devouring core in his chest gave a faint tremor, as if it had developed an appetite... for that sword aura.
Evening came, the setting sun staining the sea a burning orange-red.
On the deck, the crew lounged and rested in small groups.
Bullet went looking for Shanks.
"Shanks."
He got straight to the point.
"Got time?"
"I want to spar with you."
Shanks paused and looked up.
Beneath his red hair, the eyes that usually held an easy grin were filled at first with surprise, then quickly lit up with eager brightness.
He had been wanting to cross blades with Bullet for a while now.
"Of course, Mister Bullet!"
Shanks accepted without hesitation and sprang to his feet.
"Perfect chance to loosen up a bit!"
"But Mister Bullet, I should warn you, I do not hold back with my sword."
"That is exactly what I want."
Bullet replied calmly.
Their spar drew a small crowd.
Rayleigh leaned against the mainmast, his gaze calm and observant.
Buggy hid at the back of the group, clearly wanting to watch the show yet afraid of getting caught up in it.
No referee, no rules.
The two of them stood facing each other in a small cleared space on the deck.
"Careful!"
Shanks gave a low shout and sprang forward.
His speed was sharp and quick, his footwork agile, with none of the clumsiness of a typical boy his age. His movements were those of a swordsman honed by real battle.
His blade thrust straight toward Bullet's chest and abdomen.
It looked like a simple stab, but it was backed by a fierce, straight-line momentum that refused to yield.
Bullet shifted his footing, his body sliding aside with swift ease to avoid the strike.
At the same time, he stirred his Observation Haki. His awareness spread out like a web, locking tightly onto Shanks.
He was not just tracking Shanks' movements.
Bullet focused more deeply on that unique aura surrounding Shanks... that sharp, cutting "sword pressure."
The devouring core in his chest began to spin at high speed.
It started analyzing and simulating the form and rhythm of that aura.
In Bullet's perception, Shanks' sword aura turned into countless flowing lines.
The devouring talent worked frantically to dissect the rules behind those lines, the way they gathered and burst forth, and the essence of that "sharpness" itself.
Shanks missed with his first strike, twisted his body, and changed his move. The blade traced an arc through the air, sweeping in a horizontal slash toward Bullet's waist.
Bullet dodged again with ease, but this time, there was a subtle change in his movement.
His eyes had grown even more focused, as if he were "reading" something.
"What is wrong, Mister Bullet?"
"Are you only going to dodge?"