Shimotsuki Village, East Blue
"Well… that didn't go as expected, did it?" Ivankov huffed, his massive head bobbing from side to side as he collapsed back into his seat.
The three of them now sat within Koushirou's personal chambers, the air thick with the lingering scent of freshly brewed tea. The earlier audience with the former Shogun of Wano—an encounter meant to secure the allegiance of the samurai—had unraveled spectacularly.
Even Monkey D. Dragon, a man whose face was usually carved from stone, wore a deep frown. The warriors of Wano would have been a monumental addition to the Revolutionary Army's vanguard. Battle-hardened, disciplined, and fiercely loyal to their land—few forces in the world could rival them. But the price Sukiyaki had placed upon the table was one no strategist, not even Dragon, could afford to pay.
The head of one of the Four Emperors. "Hundred Beasts" Kaido. A demand so heavy it threatened to crush the room under its weight.
Dragon exhaled slowly, then shifted his gaze toward his old friend. Koushirou sat calmly across from them, hands steady as he lifted his cup, sipping the tea with practiced grace—as if the fate of nations hadn't just been debated within these walls.
Dragon opened his mouth to speak. Then he noticed it. At the far side of the room, set with careful reverence, stood a small shrine. It was modest, almost easy to overlook—but unmistakable. A wooden altar, immaculately kept. A single incense holder, its smoke rising in thin, solemn trails. Fresh flowers replaced with meticulous regularity. And at its center, a name tablet polished smooth by time and care.
This wasn't the main prayer hall. In Wano, tablets for the departed were traditionally kept together, housed in quiet halls meant for communal remembrance. Yet Koushirou had erected this shrine here, within his own chambers.
Personal. Intimate. Dragon's eyes softened. He turned back to Koushirou, his voice lower now—stripped of command and strategy.
"…I'm sorry," Dragon said quietly. "I didn't know." He inclined his head, a rare gesture of respect.
"You have my condolences," he continued. "How did she pass?"
The room fell silent. Only the faint crackle of incense and the gentle clink of porcelain remained—bearing witness to grief that required no words, only understanding.
Koushirou gently set his teacup down. The soft porcelain sound seemed louder than it should have been in the stillness that followed. His gaze drifted back to the small shrine, and for just a heartbeat, a fragile smile touched his lips—one shaped by memory, by love, and by pain that had learned to stay quiet.
"It's been more than a year now," he said at last. "She was taken by a sudden fever. Too sudden." His voice never wavered, yet every word carried weight. "We lost her before I could even ask for aid…"
The incense smoke curled upward, indifferent to time, indifferent to loss. Silence lingered—a respectful one. Then, as if drawing a blade back into its sheath, Koushirou straightened. His composure returned, practiced and disciplined, and he turned back toward Dragon.
Dragon met his eyes and gave a slow, understanding nod. He let the moment pass. Then, deliberately, he shifted the conversation.
"Do you think there's any way to convince the former Shogun to aid our cause?" Dragon asked. "The ties between the Shimotsuki and Kozuki clans run deep. Perhaps… you could persuade him."
This time, it was Koushirou who shook his head. "I understand why you'd think that," he replied calmly. "But those ties no longer bind us." His tone was neither bitter nor defensive—only honest.
"We stopped being truly part of the Shimotsuki clan of Wano decades ago," he continued. "That bond was severed the moment my father turned his back on Wano country."
He glanced briefly toward the paper walls, as if the sea itself lay beyond them. "He left Wano in open defiance of the Kozuki family's ban. A rebellion, in its own way."
Exile.
"We are outcasts," Koushirou said simply. "The only reason Sukiyaki-sama still shows us respect is because of his friendship with my father—Shimotsuki Kozaburo."
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought—"Well… perhaps if you could convince my old man," Koushirou offered, "you might still find a path to negotiation with the Shogun."
It wasn't hope. Just a possibility—thin as mist. Ivankov leaned forward, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Do you think you could convince your father for us, then?" he asked. "This alliance would be… very beneficial."
Koushirou turned his gaze to Ivankov and gave him a flat, measured look. One born not of irritation—but understanding.
"You don't know my father," he said calmly. In a samurai household, authority was absolute. The patriarch's word was law. To question it was unthinkable—let alone attempt to sway it for political ends.
"It's already a small miracle," Koushirou added, "that he hasn't scolded me for inviting you here without his consent."
After all… Shimotsuki Village itself existed because of him. The room fell quiet once more—not with grief this time, but with the heavy realization that some walls were built not of stone… but of tradition, honor, and unyielding will.
Just then, a presence settled outside the paper wall. Not loud. Not forceful. Yet the room seemed to tighten around it.
"Koushirou," a voice called softly, weathered by age but unbroken in spirit. "May I come in?"
Koushirou rose at once. He didn't hesitate. Sliding the door open, he bowed instinctively—then froze. His father stood there. Shimotsuki Kozaburo.
Time had carved deep lines into the old man's face, his body frail and bent, yet pride still held his spine straighter than most men half his age. A cane bore the weight of his steps, though it was clear he despised relying on it. Even now, with death patiently waiting just behind him, he refused assistance.
Koushirou reached out instinctively. Kozaburo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
"I can still walk on my own, you oaf," the old man snapped. "Or are you already that eager for me to kick the bucket?"
He staggered forward into the room, leaning heavily on his cane. Ivankov quickly turned his gaze aside—too late to avoid noticing the empty sleeve that hung where an arm once had been. The old man caught the motion instantly, his single remaining hand tightening on the cane.
Despite having one foot in the grave, Kozaburo's presence was razor-sharp. Koushirou didn't rise to the jab. Instead, he stayed close—close enough to steady his father should he stumble, yet careful not to insult his pride. He knew this temper well. Knew it came from pain, from fading strength, from a man clinging to his last ember of life through sheer, stubborn will.
Kozaburo wasn't holding on for himself. He was holding on to see his granddaughter Kuina one last time. And that desire alone kept death at bay. Dragon rose quietly and placed a soft cushion on the floor. He did not announce the gesture. He simply offered it.
For before him stood a true living legend—the only man in the world still breathing who had forged a Supreme Grade blade. That alone commanded respect across seas and centuries.
Kozaburo regarded Dragon for a long moment.
Then he sat, easing himself onto the cushion with a restrained nod—his version of gratitude. The room felt different now. He had not come here by accident. Kozaburo's sharp eye measured Dragon carefully, weighing not the man, but the storm he represented. He had come to understand the Revolutionary's true intentions—and to set boundaries.
Not for himself. For his son. He would not forbid Koushirou from following his heart. He would not deny him the right to aid a friend in need. But he would not allow his son to gamble everything on ideals alone—especially not after the old man was gone.
Ivankov hesitated. For once, his usual bravado faltered, curiosity warring with instinct. Finally, unable to resist, he spoke—careful, almost reverent.
"Would… would it be possible for me to see the Supreme Grade blade you forged…?"
The question hung heavy in the air. Rumors alone were dangerous. Each Supreme Grade blade was a priceless calamity wrapped in steel. In the current era, more than half of them had vanished from the world, their whereabouts lost to time. Others claimed to possess one, parading lesser blades as legends—only to invite ruin upon themselves.
To speak of a Supreme Grade blade was to invite disaster. At once, pride flared across Kozaburo's weathered face. "Shirayuki…" he murmured, the name carrying the weight of a lifetime.
"As much as I would like to display my greatest creation within this dojo," he said firmly, "doing so would be foolish. It would invite calamity." His single hand tightened on his cane. "I have entrusted the blade to capable hands."
There was no hesitation when he spoke the name. "Rosinante."
The truth was laid bare without shame. The blade had always been meant for Kuina—and as her master, Rosinante was more than capable of protecting it. Kozaburo did not pretend otherwise. This remote island in the East Blue had never been as isolated as it appeared.
Every ambitious fool who had tried to stir trouble here had been dealt with—quietly, decisively—by the Donquixote Family, operating from the shadows. Even now, Kozaburo was certain Dragon's arrival had not gone unnoticed. The lack of response meant only one thing. There was no hostility—yet.
Dragon had not come as an enemy. He had come seeking something. Dragon opened his mouth to speak. Kozaburo shut him down instantly.
"Don't insult me by thinking I don't understand your schemes, brat," the old man said coolly. "My oaf of a son may not see it—but I see it clear as day." The room grew colder.
"Securing the Kozuki family's support was never your only goal," Kozaburo continued. "You didn't truly come here just for Wano… did you?" Dragon met his gaze. Sharp. Unyielding. After a moment, he exhaled.
"Yes," Dragon admitted. "There is more to it than that."
Kozaburo snorted softly. "I know," he said. "You want my son." Not as a swordsman. Not as an ally. As a buffer.
"You want Shimotsuki Koushirou standing between your Revolutionary Army and the Donquixote Family," Kozaburo went on, voice steady as steel. "In case the day comes when you find yourselves on opposite sides." Koushirou stiffened.
"You trust my son," the old man continued, "to speak for you. To soften the blow. To keep lines open if blades are drawn." Then his gaze sharpened further. "And you want a path to retreat—because my granddaughter, Kuina, is Rosinante's disciple."
Silence. "You intend to use that connection," Kozaburo finished, "to your advantage." The old man had dismantled Dragon's strategy piece by piece. Dragon did not deny it.
Koushirou lowered his head in guilt and part shame, the weight of realization settling heavily on his shoulders. He had always understood—vaguely since the moment Dragon had reached out for aid—what siding with the revolution truly meant. But friendship had outweighed caution. Ivankov stared back and forth between them, mouth slightly agape.
To him, this mission had been simple—find a safe harbor in the East Blue. Secure supply routes. Build quietly. He hadn't realized how deep the rabbit hole went. Kozaburo leaned back slightly, cane resting against his shoulder. A man who had forged legends, who had outlived his era,
who had fulfilled his destiny— Now sat as a sentinel of the future, guarding not just steel… but balance.
"Remember this, Dragon," Kozaburo said quietly. "Steel shapes the world—but consequences decide who survives it." The room remained silent.
Kozaburo turned his gaze to his son. The room seemed to straighten with it. "I will not stop you from pursuing what you believe to be right," he said calmly. There was no anger in his voice—only certainty. "But hear me well, Koushirou."
His cane tapped once against the floor.
"Never—ever—will you involve your daughter. Nor will you leverage the relationship we share with Rosinante on behalf of the revolutionaries. Is that understood?"
The words were not a request. They were a decree. Kozaburo knew the shape of the future better than most. The world was marching toward chaos—toward an age of fire and iron where ideals would clash and entire nations would burn. He would not allow Kuina's future to be bent by the choices of others. Not even by her father.
"She will walk her own path," Kozaburo continued. "Just as I allowed you to walk yours."
Koushirou lowered his head.
"I don't mind if you aid the revolutionaries," Kozaburo went on. "Supplies. Shelter. Even your own blade—if you choose to stand with them, I will not forbid it." Then his tone hardened. "But that is where the line is drawn."
His gaze sharpened. "You will not sway the students of Isshin Dojo with your ideals. You will not let your friendships become chains that drag others into a war they did not choose." He paused. "And you will never place your burdens upon Kuina's shoulders." The silence that followed was absolute.
"…Understood, Father," Koushirou said quietly.
He understood all too well. There might come a day when Dragon would ask him for something he could not refuse. Kozaburo was carving a boundary now—ensuring that whatever choices Koushirou made in the future would fall on him alone, and not on his daughter, his students, or the legacy left behind.
Kozaburo then turned his gaze toward Dragon. "As for you, brat…" The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You're beginning to cross lines you shouldn't," Kozaburo said evenly. "Subtle lines—but lines all the same."
Dragon did not flinch. "There are schemes you would be wise to abandon," the old man continued. "Especially when they involve monsters like Rosinante."
Kozaburo's sharp eyes darkened. "Yes, he values bonds. He honors relationships," he said. "But what he despises—utterly—are small, clever schemes that wear the mask of harmless intent while hiding deeper implications."
His cane pressed into the floor. "Take this as a word of caution, Dragon."
"You do not want to witness the darker side of men like Rosinante." He exhaled slowly. "Cherish the relationship you have while it still exists. And do not overextend your reach where it does not belong."
Dragon finally exhaled. It was a long breath—one that carried the weight of realization. In his haste to prepare countermeasures against an anomaly like Rosinante, he had gone too far. Far enough to place a loyal friend in an impossible position.
That much, he could not deny. He glanced briefly at Koushirou, making a quiet vow to himself to offer a proper apology before they left this island.
"You're right," Dragon said at last. "I was hasty." He did not soften the admission. He did not disguise it with justification. "In chasing what would benefit the revolutionaries," he continued, "I nearly strained a friendship I value."
The words were simple, but they carried sincerity. Kozaburo studied him in silence. Dragon straightened slightly, the strategist giving way to the man once more.
"That said," he went on, "setting that matter aside—would it still be possible for you to point me in the right direction to help persuade the Shogun?"
He did not linger on his mistake. He acknowledged it, then moved forward. Wano still mattered. Its warriors could change the balance of the coming war. Kozaburo snorted softly.
"You should understand by now where my son inherited that trust in friendship from," he said.
His gaze hardened—not with hostility, but conviction.
"Just as you are my son's friend," Kozaburo continued, "Sukiyaki is mine." The statement alone carried finality. "He has already made his decision," Kozaburo said flatly. "If you bring him Kaido's head, he will honor his word. That much, I can assure you."
Then he leaned slightly forward, cane pressing into the floor. "As for me helping you persuade him…" Kozaburo shook his head. "You can forget it."
There was no anger in his refusal. Only principle. Friendship, to him, was not a tool to be wielded—but a line not to be crossed. The room fell silent once more. Not with tension—but with understanding. Dragon inclined his head in acknowledgment, accepting the truth for what it was. Some doors did not open through schemes or words. Only through deeds worthy of it.
****
"Wait… what did you just say…?" Myskina froze mid-stride. The world lurched.
At the mere mention of Olga's name, his heart slammed violently against his ribs, as though it had forgotten how to beat and was now trying to make up for lost time. The fragile sanity he had only just reclaimed—after meeting another human for the first time in nearly two centuries—shattered once more, crashing like a chaotic tide against the walls of his mind.
His daughter… Olga… was alive? No. That was impossible.
He had seen it with his own eyes—seen the monstrous shadow of Bonbori swallow Alchemi Island whole. He had watched the land vanish into darkness, watched his daughter disappear with it. At first, he had clung desperately to hope. Olga had carried Pure Gold on her person. The same miracle that had cursed him with longevity might have saved her as well.
So he searched. For years. For decades. He scoured Bonbori's belly relentlessly, braving acidic seas and uncharted caverns, combing every place he could reach without courting death itself. Thirty years of desperate wandering. Thirty years of refusing to accept the inevitable.
Until, at last, even hope had broken. He had given up. And now—after more than a century had passed since he abandoned that search—he was being told that Olga was alive?
His thoughts spiraled wildly, grasping for reason. Was it possible she had never been swallowed at all? That somehow—by chance or fate—she had escaped before the island was consumed? That she had survived in the world outside while he rotted away in this living grave?
His feet moved before he realized it. Suddenly, he was standing beside me. His hand had closed around mine—tight, desperate—fingers trembling as though afraid the world would vanish if he let go. His eyes glistened, tears welling up unbidden, carrying an emotion he had buried so deeply he believed it long dead.
Hope.
"Please…" he whispered, voice cracking. "Please tell me you aren't lying." His grip tightened. "Please… tell me where my daughter is," he begged. "Is she well…?" His breath hitched as the most terrifying thought surfaced. "…Was she the one who sent you to find me?"
A century of loneliness, guilt, and regret poured into that single question. For the first time in nearly two hundred years, Myskina Acier dared to believe that his endless suffering might not have been meaningless after all.
"Well, Professor," I said softly, meeting his trembling gaze, "your daughter has been here all along." Myskina shook his head immediately, violently, as though the words themselves were poison.
"No… no, you're lying," he said, voice raw and unsteady. "That's impossible. I searched for her—for decades. Every place I could reach, every cavern, every shore that wouldn't kill me outright. I didn't find her." His eyes hardened, suspicion clawing its way back in.
"So how am I supposed to believe you?" he demanded. "You—someone who looks like you only arrived here recently? You're just using my daughter's name to manipulate me. To make me help you obtain Pure Gold, aren't you?" Yet even as he said it, doubt crept into his expression.
He understood the logic. Anyone chasing Pure Gold might know his name. Perhaps even Livia's. But Olga… Olga had been nothing more than a dying child all those years ago. There was no legend to inherit, no tale worth passing down. Her name should have vanished with the island.
I couldn't help but smile. Even after nearly two centuries of isolation, the man's mind was still sharp where it mattered most. His thoughts lay bare before me, as clear as an open ledger under my Observation Haki.
"Did you not warn me yourself," I replied calmly, "not to underestimate the scale of Bonbori?" I gestured to the endless, roiling horizon around us.
"You said this was only one of the many stomachs this beast possesses. Tell me, Professor—did it ever occur to you that your daughter may have been swept deeper? Carried inward, into another section of its body?"
His breath caught. "Just like you," I continued, my voice steady, deliberate, "she may have found a way to survive in this hell."
Silence fell. Bonbori's insides were vast beyond comprehension—each stomach a continent unto itself, divided by corrosive seas capable of melting steel in seconds. Traversing them was nearly impossible without overwhelming strength or protection. Myskina stared at the ground, wrestling with the idea. Then—his eyes sharpened.
"Can you… save her?" he asked hoarsely. "If she is truly alive within the beast's belly, can you bring my daughter back to me—safe and unharmed?" He grabbed my arm, desperation stripping away every last remnant of pride.
"I'll do anything," he pleaded. "Anything you ask. I will be your slave; I'll spend the rest of my life forging Pure Gold for you if that's what you want. Just—please. Please let me see my daughter again."
He didn't hesitate. The secrets of Pure Gold, the miracle that had once defined his life—none of it mattered anymore. Not if there was even the slightest chance of reunion. I laughed softly and placed a reassuring hand over his.
"You take me for a cruel man, Professor," I said. "I am not so vile as to bargain with a child's life."
His eyes widened. "Even if you had offered me nothing, I would still help you," I continued. "Because that is why I came here in the first place—to rescue both you and your daughter."
I felt it then. A seed—small and fragile—taking root in his heart. Gratitude. And I knew that when Olga stood before him once more, that seed would grow into something unbreakable. Loyalty born of coercion could always be shattered—but loyalty born of gratitude? That endured.