"Who are you?"
Aisaka Noya glared upward, equal parts startled and annoyed. It had taken him a few seconds to recover from the surprise, and embarrassment was now catching up fast. With a swish, he pointed his bamboo sword sharply toward the wall."It's barely dawn! Why are you suddenly talking out of nowhere like that? You scared the hell out of me!"
"Ah—sorry about that."The man on the wall scratched his messy hair, his tone lazy but sincere. "I must've dozed off by accident. When I woke up, I didn't think before speaking. My bad."
Noya narrowed his eyes, lowering his bamboo sword slightly. "Hmm. Well, at least you sound sincere. I'll let it slide this time."Then he frowned. "Wait, hold on. You said you just woke up? Did you seriously sleep up there all night?"
"Not quite all night," the stranger replied through another yawn. "I didn't get back from headquarters until around three in the morning. Got too tired to find my way home, so I just picked a spot and crashed."
What a weirdo, Noya thought flatly.
"Then since it's morning already," Noya said, pointing toward the training field gate, "maybe you should, y'know, go home. I don't like having random spectators while I'm practicing."
"Fair enough."
The man swung his legs over and hopped lightly off the wall, stretching. "I'll get out of your way. Oh, by the way—any idea where Instructor Zefa usually is around this time?"
"Probably just woke up," Noya replied automatically. "He's most likely in the mess hall. Hey, wait—you're one of Instructor Zefa's—"
He stopped mid-sentence. The man had stepped out of the fog, his figure coming into focus—a black coat draped loosely over his shoulders, a deep-purple headscarf embroidered with the Navy's insignia, and unkempt curls of black hair.
Noya's eyes widened slightly."Wait… Mr. Kuzan?"
The man who stood before him was none other than Kuzan, the future admiral known to the world as Aokiji.At twenty-eight, though, he was still a young vice admiral, with none of the icy authority that would later define him.
"Ah la la~ so you recognized me, huh?" Kuzan said with a faintly amused tone, scratching his head. "Didn't think the new recruits would know my face. Guess I haven't been wasting my time after all—I've actually got some fame."
He said it casually, almost lazily, but now that Noya realized who he was talking to, his earlier irritation vanished.It would be rude to treat a vice admiral like a random guy lounging on a wall.
"How modest, Mr. Kuzan," Noya said formally, straightening his posture and giving a crisp salute. "Instructor Zefa always speaks highly of you. He's used you as an example to motivate us more than once."
"Proud of me, huh…"Kuzan repeated the words quietly, almost to himself.
And then, just for a moment, something dark flickered across his expression.
Images long buried rose up from the depths of memory—the explosion of a refugee ship under heavy fire,Sakazuki's cold, expressionless face in the glow of gunfire,the screams of civilians,the terrified gaze of a black-haired girl,and the faint echo of laughter—his late friend's laughter—echoing endlessly in the back of his mind.
"Heh… hehehehe…"
Kuzan exhaled slowly. "There's nothing to be proud of," he murmured, voice flat and distant.
The warmth had drained from his tone. Whatever easygoing air he had moments ago was gone.He looked at Noya—who blinked in confusion—then sighed softly, waved a hand, and said, "…Thanks for the directions. Let's talk again another time."
Without waiting for a reply, Kuzan turned and walked off into the fog. His tall silhouette faded gradually until it vanished completely, heading in the direction of the mess hall.
Noya stood there for a while, scratching his head."What's up with him…?"
He'd been looking forward to chatting more—after all, it wasn't every day you ran into one of the Navy's most brilliant officers. But Kuzan's sudden shift in mood had left him puzzled.
"Whatever," Noya muttered. He shook off the thought, adjusted his stance, and returned to his morning practice.
He began with his standard routine: the "Su Zhen" exercise—one precise, deliberate swing every two seconds, maintained for a full thirty minutes without pause.
Then came a short rest. He stretched his wrists, feeling the soreness from repetition, before picking up a second bamboo sword.
Time for dual-sword training.
The Dual Sword Style—one of the few skills Noya had mastered before the System entered his life. He'd practiced swordsmanship for more than ten years since childhood and had already reached a solid foundational level in the art of dual blades.
Among the entire elite camp, even when it came to basic sword techniques, Noya was easily among the top. Few could match his precision or endurance.
He suspected his choice of style had been influenced by his father, Captain Romanov—a seasoned naval officer and a master of the dual-sword technique himself.
Still, deep down, Noya knew part of the reason was far less noble.He'd been poisoned by anime in his previous life.
There was something undeniably cool about wielding two blades—the aesthetic, the flair, the sheer fashion value of it.
Sōjiro Seta, Kyōraku Shunsui, Miyamoto Musashi, Kirito, even that overpowered old general in those battle games—they were all legends in his mind.And every one of them had looked damn good doing it.
"Phew…"
After several sets of swings, sweat dripped down his neck. His breathing grew heavy. The bamboo blades were battered and warped from constant impact.
He sighed, looking down at the splintered edges. "At this rate, I'll need replacements again in a few days."
He wasn't exaggerating—barely a year into his time at headquarters, and he'd already worn through nearly thirty bamboo swords.
As he gathered his coat, a thought flickered through his mind."I wonder if I can buy famous blades from the System's store… If so, how many points would a good one cost? Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand?"
He grinned faintly to himself. For a dual-sword user like him, having two fine blades would be a dream come true.
The legendary Great Grade and Supreme Grade swords?Those were fantasies for another lifetime—far, far out of reach for now.
By the time Aisaka Noya finished his morning practice and headed toward the mess hall, elsewhere in the elite camp—in a large, tidy office located in the northeast wing—Instructor Zefa, the man who trained the Navy's finest, was receiving a visitor.
"Sherry from the Orfo Kingdom in the North Sea?"
Zefa held up the two bottles of wine handed to him, eyes sparkling with delight at the engraved "Sherr" label."Oh-ho! I like it! You really do know me, Kuzan!"
"I'm glad the teacher approves," Kuzan said with a faint smile. Seeing his old mentor again seemed to ease some of the heaviness in his chest. "I confiscated it from a pirate crew earlier this year. They had half a crate—twenty-year vintage, at least. I thought you'd appreciate it. Next time, I'll bring the rest."
"Deal!" Zefa laughed heartily, setting the bottles aside. But as he sat back behind his desk, his cheerful tone gave way to something quieter—graver.
"You haven't been back to headquarters in over six months, have you?" he asked, watching Kuzan carefully. "Fleet Admiral Sengoku clearly ordered you to return, yet you've been making excuses—wandering from base to base…"
Zefa paused, then sighed deeply.
"Tell me, Kuzan," he said, voice softening. "You still haven't gotten over that incident, have you?"