Training your jaw to bite down on a steel sword while fighting is not a science.
It is an act of pure, unadulterated self-mutilation.
By the time I turned eleven, my daily routine would have horrified any medical professional in the East Blue.
My mornings began with jaw-strengthening exercises.
Since normal weights were too awkward to strap to my face, I improvised.
I would tie thick hemp ropes around boulders, bite down on the knots, and drag them across the dojo courtyard using only my neck and jaw muscles.
Master Koushirou stopped trying to correct my forms.
He mostly just watched me from the porch with a mixture of profound sorrow and mild terror.
I couldn’t blame him.
I looked feral.
My green hair was longer, wilder, and I was packed with an unnatural density of muscle that made me look like a miniature, very angry lumberjack.
My ‘Iron Stomach’ was now a biological weapon.
I had graduated from chewing on tree bark and questionable mushrooms.
Yesterday, a highly venomous pit viper had made the mistake of slithering into the dojo.
I didn’t just kill it; I roasted it over an open fire and ate it whole, venom glands included.
It tasted like spicy chicken, and the venom just gave me a pleasant, caffeinated buzz for the rest of the afternoon.
**[DING!
The ‘World-Class Gourmet System’ is horrified by your culinary choices!
Bind now to receive a magical frying pan and the recipe for the perfect omelet!]** **[Y / N]** I didn’t even use my hands to dismiss it anymore.
I just exhaled sharply through my nose, treating the glowing blue hologram like a bad smell, and swiped my foot through it.
“I don’t want an omelet,” I mumbled around the hilt of the wooden practice sword in my mouth.
“Protein is protein.” The Systems were getting desperate.
Over the last three years, as my strength skyrocketed and my refusal to accept their ‘help’ remained absolute, their offers had become increasingly bizarre.
They had stopped offering me god-tier powers and started offering me lifestyle conveniences, hoping to catch me in a moment of weakness.
**[DING!
The ‘Orthodontist System of the Heavens’ notices extreme wear on your molars!
Bind now for indestructible enamel and minty-fresh breath!]** I paused mid-swing, the two practice katanas in my hands hovering in the air.
I glared cross-eyed at the screen floating just past my nose.
“Okay, that one is actually tempting,” I admitted quietly.
My jaw constantly ached, and I was genuinely worried I was going to crack a tooth before I even made it to the Grand Line.
But a shortcut was a shortcut.
If I accepted magical enamel, what was next?
Magical biceps?
A magical map?
(Though, given my completely broken sense of direction lately, a map wouldn’t hurt.
I had gotten lost on the way to the dojo outhouse twice this week).
“No,” I growled, violently shaking my head to shatter the screen.
“I’ll just drink more milk.” I spat the practice sword out into the dirt, wiping a mixture of sweat and saliva from my chin.
Bamboo wasn’t cutting it anymore.
I needed to test the Three-Sword Style in a real, uncontrolled environment.
I needed moving targets.
I left the courtyard, strapping two real, sharpened katanas to my right hip.
On my left hip, entirely isolated, rested the Wado Ichimonji.
Its pristine white scabbard stood out against my dirty green haramaki.
I never used it for trivial training.
I only drew it when I meant it.
I wandered out of the village, heading toward the dense, mountainous forests that bordered Shimotsuki.
I say “headed toward,” but it took me nearly three hours to find a forest that was physically visible from my bedroom window.
My sense of direction was deteriorating at an alarming rate, a side effect of putting all my stat points into physical defense and jaw strength.
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
I stopped in the middle of a small clearing, resting my hands on the hilts of my swords.
The rustling of leaves wasn’t the wind.
It was deliberate.
“Well, well.
Look what wandered away from the playground.” Five men stepped out from the treeline.
They were filthy, wearing mismatched leather armor, and carrying an assortment of rusted cutlasses and iron axes.
Mountain bandits.
They were the bottom feeders of the East Blue, the kind of cowards who preyed on isolated villages because they were too weak to survive on the actual ocean.
The leader, a massive guy with a missing eye and a scar running down his chin, sneered at me.
“You lost, kid?
That’s a nice sword you got there.
The white one.
Looks expensive.
Hand it over, and maybe we won’t cut your ears off.” I didn’t feel fear.
I didn’t feel intimidation.
All I felt was a deep, burning annoyance that they were interrupting my training schedule.
“I’m not lost,” I lied, my voice flat.
“I’m looking for a whetstone.
You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?
My blades are getting a little dull.” The bandits laughed.
It was a harsh, grating sound.
“Cheeky brat,” the leader spat, drawing his massive iron axe.
“Get him.
Take the swords.
Leave the body for the boars.” Two of the bandits charged me, raising their rusted cutlasses.
I didn’t draw the Wado Ichimonji.
I didn’t need to.
I smoothly drew the two standard katanas from my right hip.
The first bandit swung downwards.
I didn’t dodge.
I raised my left sword, catching his blade.
The impact reverberated down my arm, but my stance didn’t even shift a millimeter.
The bandit’s eyes widened in shock.
He was a grown man putting his entire weight into a swing, and an eleven-year-old kid had just blocked it like it was made of paper.
“You’re light,” I noted deadpan.
Before he could react, I twisted my wrist, parrying his blade aside, and slammed the pommel of my right sword directly into his nose.
I heard a satisfying *crunch*, and he went down instantly, out cold.
The second bandit hesitated, looking at his fallen comrade, but momentum carried him forward.
He thrust his sword toward my stomach.
I didn’t even bother parrying.
I just tensed my abdominal muscles.
The tip of his rusted cutlass hit my green haramaki and stopped dead, failing to pierce the sheer density of the muscle beneath it.
The bandit stared at my stomach, then up at my face, sheer terror dawning in his eyes.
“My diet is very strict,” I told him.
I spun on my heel, delivering a brutal roundhouse kick to his ribs that sent him flying backward into a tree trunk.
He slumped to the ground, wheezing.
The remaining three bandits, including the leader, took a collective step back.
“What…
what kind of monster are you?” the leader stammered, his bravado entirely evaporating.
“I’m a guy who really, really hates stairs,” I muttered.
I slowly sheathed my left sword.
I reached across my body and drew the Wado Ichimonji, the beautifully forged steel gleaming in the dappled sunlight.
I lifted the hilt to my mouth and bit down hard, the familiar, comforting weight settling onto my jaw.
I drew my other standard katana, falling into a low, terrifying crouch.
Three swords.
“Monster?” I mumbled around the blade in my mouth, glaring at them with a ferocity that made the air in the clearing drop ten degrees.
“I’m just warming up.” **[DING!
The ‘Merciless Slaughter System’ has detected combat!
Bind now to—]** I didn’t wait for it to finish.
I exploded forward, my three blades becoming a silver blur, shattering the blue screen and the bandits’ weapons in a single, devastating hurricane of steel.