Shimotsuki Village, East Blue
The sea around Shimotsuki Island was calm, almost reverent, as though even the waves knew better than to disturb a land steeped in blades and ghosts.
A small ship cut through the morning mist and slowed as it approached the island's shallow shoals. Its hull was plain and weather-worn, patched in places, bearing no flag and no name—nothing that would draw attention. The keel scraped softly against submerged stone, a muted groan echoing as the vessel settled into the shallows. The tide was low, exposing pale sandbars and smooth, wave-polished rocks that jutted from the water like the bones of something ancient.
The ship's anchor dropped with a restrained splash. For a moment, nothing moved. Then a cloaked figure emerged onto the deck.
He stood still, surveying the island through the thinning fog. Shimotsuki Village lay further inland, quiet and disciplined even from a distance—neat rooftops, wind-worn fences, and beyond them, the silhouette of a dojo that had shaped generations of swordsmen. The air carried the faint scent of pine, iron, and old earth, a smell that spoke of steel drawn and sheathed countless times.
The man stepped down from the ship and into the shallows. Water lapped against his boots as he waded forward, the hem of his dark cloak fluttering in the breeze. Beneath it, the outline of sheathed blades was unmistakable, their presence as natural to him as breathing. His movements were unhurried, deliberate—each step placed with care, as if he were already walking upon sacred ground. When he reached the shore, he paused.
"Dragon, are you sure anyone here would even understand our cause?" Ivankov's voice rang out far louder than the quiet shore deserved.
With an exaggerated flourish, Emporio Ivankov vaulted off the side of the small ship, landing beside the cloaked man in a spray of shallow water. Sand scattered beneath their heels as they struck a flamboyant pose, hands on hips, chin held high. Towering, broad-shouldered, and unmistakable even beneath the loose garments they wore, Ivankov was the antithesis of subtle—wild curls bouncing, lipstick vivid even in the gray light, a grin stretched wide across their face.
They swept an arm toward the island. "From the looks of it, these people live in peaceful little bubbles! No chaos, no chains, no screaming Celestial Dragons. I wouldn't be surprised if they don't even know what's happening beyond the horizon, wink~!"
The cloaked man beside them—Monkey D. Dragon—let out a long, restrained sigh.
Ivankov's antics were nothing new, but today of all days, discretion mattered. Dragon's own presence was carefully veiled: a heavy cloak obscured his face, its hood casting deep shadows over his sharp features. Even standing still, there was a quiet pressure to him, an invisible weight that bent the air ever so slightly.
"Ivankov," Dragon said calmly, though there was a faint edge beneath his tone, "lower your voice." Ivankov laughed, unbothered.
"Oh please, Dragon! This place is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Who's going to—" Dragon chuckled softly, cutting them off, though his eyes had narrowed beneath the hood. "You're impossible," he said, shaking his head.
But the mirth faded just as quickly as it came. A ripple brushed against the edge of his Observation Haki—faint, fleeting, yet unmistakably deliberate. Dragon's senses extended toward the forest line beyond the beach, where tall pines swayed gently in the breeze.
Someone had been there. Not a villager. Not a fisherman. The presence vanished the moment it was noticed, pulled back with disciplined precision. Whoever it was, they knew how to mask themselves—trained, cautious, and experienced in espionage or combat awareness.
Dragon's expression hardened. So even here… he thought. This island is sharper than it appears. Ivankov followed his gaze, lips pursing slightly.
"Oh? Something caught your attention, mon cher?"
Dragon didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned away from the shore, his cloak billowing faintly as he began walking toward the village path that wound between fields and forest.
"Ivankov," he said evenly, "stop making trouble."
Ivankov blinked, then shrugged and fell into step beside him, their grin dimming just a little.
"We're not here to be noticed," Dragon continued. "We're here to secure support. There is someone on this island—someone with influence, discipline, and principles strong enough to align with our cause."
He paused for half a breath, the wind tugging at his cloak.
"If we gain their cooperation," Dragon said, voice low and resolute, "it will strengthen us in ways that cannot be measured by numbers alone. Shimotsuki Island could become a vital supply base in the East Blue—quiet, defensible, and far from the World Government's direct gaze."
Ivankov whistled softly. "Oho~ now that is exciting."
Dragon did not look back toward the forest, nor did he acknowledge the unseen watcher again. Whoever it was had already withdrawn, and chasing shadows would only draw attention.
The Isshin Dojo's outdoor training ground was already alive with motion as the morning sun crested the treeline, its pale gold light spilling across packed earth and worn wooden posts. Dew still clung to the grass at the edges of the yard, but the center had long since been beaten flat by countless hours of discipline, sweat, and resolve.
Steel whispered through the air. Dozens of aspirants moved in unison, bare feet sliding across the soil as bokken and blades traced deliberate arcs. This was no ordinary dojo routine. Here, swordsmanship was not merely taught—it was lived, refined into something that bordered on reverence.
Ever since Rosinante had passed through these halls and imparted the crude yet revolutionary method of Haki training, the Isshin Dojo had become something more than a school. The teachings—simple in structure, brutal in execution—had transformed into a kind of holy codex.
In a world where Haki was guarded like a family secret, whispered only to trusted disciples or blood kin, Isshin Dojo stood as an anomaly. Here, the path to Haki was not hoarded. It was offered freely—to any student willing to endure the pain, discipline, and introspection required to awaken it.
Perhaps nowhere else in the world did such a place exist. At the center of the yard stood Koushirou. Calm. Grounded. Unyielding as stone. He moved through a series of kata, his sword flowing from stance to stance in what appeared at first glance to be a graceful dance. Yet every motion carried purpose. Every step pressed meaning into the earth.
Unlike the blinding speed with which a master could normally perform such forms, Koushirou moved slowly—deliberately so. Each cut was drawn out, every pivot exaggerated just enough for even the youngest eyes to follow.
"Watch your breathing," he said calmly, his voice carrying without strain.
"Your sword follows your intent. If your intent wavers, so will your blade."
His blade descended in a controlled diagonal slash, stopping a hair's breadth from the ground. The air itself seemed to tense around the edge—not from force, but from will. Though invisible, the pressure of restrained Haki rippled faintly, enough for the more sensitive students to feel it prickle against their skin.
Around him, the students mirrored his movements. They were many—and they were diverse. Children barely five years old struggled to hold their bokken steady, brows furrowed in fierce concentration. Teenagers with sweat-soaked uniforms grit their teeth as they forced aching muscles to comply. Grown men—former farmers, bandits, and wanderers—moved with hardened focus, chasing refinement rather than discovery.
Interspersed among them were warriors of a different bearing. Those who bore the Kozuki name. Men and women who had sworn allegiance to Kozuki Sukiyaki, the former shogun of Wano. Orphans and survivors, taken in under Sukiyaki's banner and granted his family name—not as a gesture of comfort, but as a burden of duty.
They trained silently, their movements sharp and precise, embodying the ancient ways of the samurai. Each swing of their blade carried more than technique—it carried history, loss, and a promise yet unfulfilled. These were the ones Sukiyaki was raising in secret.
The ones meant to stand when the time came to reclaim Wano. Koushirou shifted into the final sequence of the kata, blade rotating smoothly as he drew it close to his body, then extended it outward in a poised, still stance.
"Do not force Haki," he continued. "You do not command it. You acknowledge it. You sharpen your spirit until it can no longer remain silent."
The yard fell quiet. Only the wind moved, rustling leaves at the edge of the grounds. Then, with a single nod, Koushirou concluded the form. The students followed, finishing together—wooden blades lowering in perfect unison.
"Continue with the routine." Koushirou's voice was calm, but it carried an authority that cut cleanly through the training ground. He had already sensed them—the measured steps on the stone path, the subtle weight of powerful presences deliberately restrained. His observation haki brushed against theirs like a passing breeze, confirming what his instincts had already told him.
Without breaking his composure, he turned and handed his bokken to a teenage student standing nearby. The boy was tall for his age, shoulders broad, his posture disciplined beyond his years. Among the current disciples of Isshin Dojo, he stood second only to Zoro and Kushina, and with both of them absent on extended training, the responsibility of leading the morning drills naturally fell to him.
"Take over," Koushirou said simply. The teen accepted the training sword with both hands, bowing deeply.
"Yes, Sensei." At once, the rhythm of the dojo resumed. Wooden blades rose and fell, feet shifted in practiced cadence, and the hum of disciplined exertion filled the air once more—as if the arrival of strangers was nothing worth interrupting their path.
On the stone path leading toward the dojo, Emporio Ivankov had come to a full stop.
"What kind of place did you say this was?!" Ivankov hissed, grabbing Dragon by the sleeve and shaking him violently. "Are you sure this isn't some hidden World Government base?! Or a Cipher Pol breeding ground?!"
Dragon allowed himself to be jostled without protest, his lips curling into a faint, amused smile. "Why would you think that?" he asked lightly.
Ivankov's eyes were wide, darting across the training yard in disbelief. "Don't tell me you don't see it, Dragon!" he snapped, lowering his voice but losing none of the urgency. "Look at them! Teenagers—teenagers!—using Haki like it's breathing! This is the East Blue! A no-name island at the weakest sea!"
He jabbed a finger toward the yard, where a boy barely past adolescence was calmly guiding younger students through controlled Haki exercises.
"Even in the Revolutionary Army, we didn't have this!" Ivankov continued, unabashed. "Before Zephyr joined us, our so-called 'training' was a joke! We were just a bunch of misfits swinging fists and calling ourselves freedom fighters!"
Dragon's smile deepened slightly. Ivankov wasn't wrong. Before Zephyr, the Revolutionary Army had relied on sheer conviction, physical conditioning, and scattered marksmanship drills. Haki was a privilege of commanders and a handful of elites. Structure had been absent. Progress slow.
"Only after Zephyr," Ivankov went on, voice dropping, "did our people even begin to touch the threshold of Haki. And even now, our ratios don't look anything like this!" He gestured again, awe seeping into his tone despite himself.
"Here? One out of three—maybe more. This isn't rare talent. This is systematic cultivation." Dragon's gaze remained fixed on the dojo, his eyes sharp with interest rather than alarm.
"Well," he said calmly, stepping forward, "you were the one who called this a backward island. Not me." Ivankov spluttered. "Don't turn this around on me!"
Koushirou was already approaching them. He walked with unhurried steps, hands folded within the sleeves of his gi, his expression serene—but there was no mistaking the quiet pressure that surrounded him. Not oppressive. Simply… present.
Dragon felt it clearly. A man who understands restraint, he noted. And strength. Koushirou stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head slightly.
"Visitors are rare," he said. "And powerful ones even more so." His eyes met Dragon's—not probing, not suspicious, but assessing. Dragon returned the gesture, lowering his hood just enough for his face to be seen.
"Apologies for the intrusion," Dragon said. "We are travelers seeking conversation, not conflict."
Ivankov leaned closer, stage-whispering, "See? Even he talks like a final boss!"
Koushirou's lips twitched—just barely. Yet he did not rise to Ivankov's jest. Instead, his stern composure softened, and a genuine warmth surfaced as his gaze settled on Dragon.
"How many years has it been," Koushirou said quietly, a trace of nostalgia coloring his voice, "since we last met, Dragon…?"
Before Ivankov could process what was happening, Koushirou stepped forward and wrapped Dragon in a soft, unguarded embrace—the kind reserved not for allies or acquaintances, but for old friends who had once shared burdens too heavy for words.
For a heartbeat, Ivankov expected Dragon to stiffen. To pull away. To wear that familiar mask of distant indifference. Instead, Dragon returned the hug. It was brief and restrained but unmistakably sincere. Ivankov's jaw dropped so hard it was a wonder it didn't hit the stone path.
"Wait—wait—WAIT!" Ivankov shouted, pointing between them. "You two—you know each other?!"
Dragon stepped back first, the faintest smile touching his lips before it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He turned slightly, gesturing toward Ivankov.
"This is Emporio Ivankov," Dragon said calmly. "One of the founders of the Revolutionary Army. And a trusted comrade."
Ivankov puffed his chest instinctively. "Founder, icon, miracle worker—yes, yes, all of the above!"
Koushirou inclined his head respectfully, his smile never leaving his face.
"It is an honor to finally meet you," he said. "Dragon has spoken of you."
Ivankov blinked. "He has?"
Dragon ignored him and turned back to Koushirou. For a moment, the world around them—students training, wooden swords clashing, haki rippling through the air—seemed to fade into the background.
"So," Dragon said, his tone softer now, almost reflective, "this is where you chose to remain."
"Yes," Koushirou replied, gesturing toward the dojo and its disciples, "this kind of quiet place suits someone like me."
Ivankov followed their exchanged looks, realization slowly dawning. So that's it, he thought. Dragon didn't come here on a whim. This island—this quiet, unassuming stretch of East Blue—was not just a convenient stop. It was a place of trust. A place Dragon believed in deeply enough to risk revealing the Revolutionary Army's hand.
****
The room was steeped in stillness—the kind that only old wood, disciplined breath, and long memory could create.
Tatami mats lined the floor, worn smooth by decades of kneeling and footwork. Scrolls bearing quiet calligraphy hung along the walls, their ink faded but unyielding, like the ideals they represented. A single paper lantern cast a warm, amber glow that softened the sharpness of the world outside.
At the center of the room sat a low lacquered table. Four porcelain cups of freshly brewed tea rested upon it, thin tendrils of steam still rising—three untouched. The fourth sat in Ivankov's hands.
He lifted it, sipped, lifted it again, sipped once more—far more often than necessary. It was not thirst that drove him, but survival instinct. This room commanded restraint, and even Ivankov, embodiment of chaos, knew better than to unleash his tongue here.
On one side of the table sat Ivankov himself—and beside him, Monkey D. Dragon.
The air seemed heavier around Dragon, as if the world itself leaned inward when he was present. The second most wanted man alive, his infamy eclipsed only by Rosinante—the man who had shattered the six-billion bounty threshold and rewritten the meaning of defiance. Dragon sat straight-backed, composed, his presence silent yet overwhelming, like a storm waiting beyond the horizon.
Opposite them sat two men who carried history on their shoulders. The first was Shimotsuki Kozaburo. The legendary swordsmith.
The man who had given birth to Shirayuki, one of the Thirteen Supreme Grade Blades—an act so monumental it had demanded blood in exchange. His left sleeve hung empty, neatly folded, a quiet testament to the arm he had sacrificed to bring that miracle into the world. He looked nothing like the myth.
His frame was frail, his skin pale and thin, stretched over bones that had known both labor and loss. His breathing was shallow, measured. Yet his eyes—those eyes still burned with the embers of creation, of defiance, of a craftsman who had challenged the heavens and won.
Dragon's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than politeness required. He did not need to ask. The man was counting his final days. Dragon turned his eyes toward Koushirou, who sat just behind and to the side. Their gazes met for a brief instant.
Koushirou gave a single nod. He understood. His father was nearing the end—but there was no fear or grief in the old man's eyes. Only contentment. Kozaburo had fulfilled his life's purpose. There was nothing left undone.
And beside the legendary swordsmith sat a man whose very existence was a lie to the world.
The former Shogun of Wano. A ghost.
The world believed him dead, erased by fire and blood—but here he was, in an unremarkable corner of the East Blue, hands steady as he groomed blades that would one day sing for Wano's freedom.
There was a quiet, ironclad dignity about him. Not the flamboyance of kings, but the weight of responsibility borne without complaint. His presence alone turned this humble dojo into sacred ground. This man—this was why Dragon had come.
Using Shimotsuki Island as a supply base? That could have been settled with a letter, with trust alone. But this? This was something else. Dragon's eyes hardened, his resolve sharpening like steel against a whetstone.
Silence lingered after Dragon's proposal—thick, contemplative, and heavy with consequence. It was Kozuki Sukiyaki who finally broke it. The former Shogun did not raise his voice. He did not slam the table or let anger leak into his tone. Instead, he spoke with the calm clarity of a man who had already lost everything that could be taken from him.
"So," Sukiyaki began slowly, his fingers resting against the tatami, "in essence, you are asking the samurai of Wano to one day lend their blades to the Revolutionary Army—when you decide the time is ripe." His eyes lifted, sharp despite the years.
"And in return," he continued, "you offer your covert support in Wano's liberation. Quiet aid. Shadows behind the curtain. No banners. No open war." A faint breath left his nose—not a laugh, not quite a scoff.
"Simply put," Sukiyaki said, voice steady but cutting, "you would spend what amounts to a token effort—one that may or may not be enough for Wano to reclaim its freedom. Yet should we succeed, you expect the full might of Wano and its samurai to throw themselves into your war against the World Government."
He leaned back slightly, gaze never leaving Dragon. "Does that sum it up?" The words were measured. Precise. And far more damning than any outburst could have been.
Ivankov shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension thicken. Even the steam rising from the untouched tea cups seemed to hesitate. Sukiyaki should have been angry. Any other man would have been. But Sukiyaki had seen too much.
He had watched his country rot from the inside. He had seen proud daimyō kneel, samurai break, children starve, and the name Kozuki reduced to a death sentence. He had lost his throne, his family, his homeland—and the only thing he still lived for now was Wano's liberation. And because of that, he saw through Dragon's words with painful clarity.
"You call it cooperation," Sukiyaki went on, his tone calm but edged with iron, "but I know how the Revolutionary Army wages its wars."
Dragon did not interrupt. Sukiyaki's eyes darkened, not with bitterness, but with truth.
"In none of your campaigns are you the main force. You ignite rebellion, then step aside. You let the people rise. You let them bleed. You call it liberation. You call it the will of the people." His fingers curled slightly.
"There have been wars that could have ended in a single day—had you intervened with your full strength. But you never do. Instead, you let them stretch into years of bloodshed and suffering, all in the name of 'freedom earned.'"
The room felt colder. "Perhaps that philosophy has merit elsewhere," Sukiyaki admitted quietly. "Perhaps it is even necessary in lands where hope has already died." Then his gaze sharpened, burning now.
"But Wano is not such a place." He leaned forward. "Wano does not need a spark to ignite rebellion." The words fell like a blade striking stone.
"The people of Wano are a simmering volcano," Sukiyaki said. "They have been waiting. Enduring. Surviving under Kaidou's heel, not because they lack the will to fight—but because they lack the moment." His voice lowered, heavy with conviction.
"They are waiting for a promise. For a sign. For the day when resistance will not be meaningless." He straightened, shoulders squared like the Shogun he once was. "And when that day comes," Sukiyaki said firmly, "with or without your instigation, the people of Wano will rise."
Dragon remained silent. He did not interrupt. He did not defend himself. He simply watched, eyes steady beneath the shadow of his hood. But Ivankov could no longer restrain himself. The former queen slammed their teacup down harder than necessary, the porcelain rattling sharply against the low table.
"Old man—!" Ivankov snapped, rising halfway from their seat. "Take back your words." Their voice echoed in the room, sharp and unyielding. "You speak as if you understand our path," Ivankov continued, emotion flaring openly now, "but you don't. We revolutionaries fight to liberate the world. And if the common people do not rise to claim that freedom themselves, then what meaning does that freedom even have?"
Their fists clenched. "A freedom handed down like charity is fragile. It breaks the moment the oppressor returns. True freedom—real freedom—must be taken by those who will protect it."
Ivankov's voice lowered, dangerous and resolute.
"It's not that we refuse to intervene. We always intervene when a rebellion is in dire need."
Before Ivankov could say more, Sukiyaki spoke.
Calm. Flat. Absolute.
"Yes," Sukiyaki replied, cutting through the room like a blade. "You intervene—just enough."
Ivankov froze.
"Just enough to keep the fire burning," Sukiyaki continued. "Just enough to ensure the war drags on. Just enough to prolong suffering—when you could end it with a single decisive stroke." His eyes never left Ivankov's.
"I have no interest in debating your revolutionary ideals," Sukiyaki said quietly. "History will judge those." Then his gaze sharpened.
"Let us speak plainly." The air grew heavy. "Let us say," Sukiyaki continued, voice measured but merciless, "that I agree to cooperate with you."
Dragon's gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly.
"And in exchange," Sukiyaki said, eyes narrowing, "I ask you for something simple." Ivankov swallowed. "Bring me Kaidou's head."
The words landed like a thunderclap. The room went silent. Even Ivankov—who had moments ago burned with righteous fury—fell completely still. Because everyone in that room knew the weight of that name.
Hundred Beasts Kaidou. A living calamity. A monster who had broken armies, shattered nations, and survived executions that would have ended legends. A man so dangerous that even the World Government, with all its fleets and admirals, chose containment over confrontation. Ivankov's mouth opened—then closed again.
For all their bravado, for all their faith in Dragon's strength, there was no lie they could tell here. No confident declaration they could make. Even the Revolutionary Army feared Kaidou.
Dragon finally lifted his eyes. Not in anger. Not in defiance. But in acknowledgment of the truth behind Sukiyaki's challenge. Because the former Shogun had not asked the question to mock them. He had asked it to expose the limit of their ideals.
And for the first time since entering the dojo, the balance of power in the room had shifted—subtly, unmistakably—toward the man who had already lost everything, and therefore had nothing left to fear.