After a violent storm engulfed the "Scarlet Wave", Muichiro woke up on the wreckage of the mast. The cold salt water clung to my skin, and all around me was the endless expanse of the ocean. He instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword—the blade had survived. A blue scarf, the only thing left of his former attire, dangled nearby, tangled in scraps of cloth.
Muichiro slowly stood up, scanning the desolate horizon. The waves rolled steadily over the fragment, as if beating the rhythm of his new thoughts. It is no longer possible to remain the "Ghost of the Sword": this name has become a target. He's being hunted. Any open show of force is a direct route into a trap.
He ran his hand over his face, washing off the salt. I didn't want any more battles, I didn't want any more glory. Just silence. Only places where you can just be — without a past, without legends, without eternal tension waiting for a blow from behind.
On the shore of the first nameless island, he stopped to tidy himself up. The island greeted him with silence — no birds, no rustling of leaves, only the dull roar of the surf. Muichiro climbed out onto the rocky beach. His legs were weak from exhaustion, but he walked forward until he found himself under the shade of a lonely palm tree.
His hair, tangled from sea salt, was pulled into a simple ponytail — it's more convenient in battle and attracts less attention. Then he took out a flint and set fire to the remains of the black haori. The flame flared up abruptly, greedily devouring the fabric.
Muichiro looked at the fire without emotion. There was no grief, no nostalgia, just cold concentration. This is not a farewell to the past. This is the disposal of traces: the name, the reputation, the legends of the "Ghost of the Sword" — everything turned to ashes. The wind picked up the gray flakes and carried them out to sea.
By choosing a new name, he consciously turned to the memory of his brother, Yuichiro Tokito. The older twin, who died when he was ten years old, protecting him from a demon.
Yuichiro has always been different: calm, reasonable, able to see the essence behind emotions. He did not seek fame, did not seek recognition, but simply lived by doing what he saw fit. He could cook, cut down trees, caught and butchered game. He spoke bluntly, sometimes rudely, but he was never a hypocrite. He refused to join the Demon Slayers when Amane Ubuyashiki came to recruit them. Even his favorite dish, a simple daikon stewed in miso, spoke of his unpretentiousness and ability to find joy in small things.
Now Muichiro carried this name as a symbol: not of the memory of loss, but of the desire to live differently. No rage, no thirst for recognition. Just live.
Taking out his sword, he carefully examined the blade. The steel reflected the sunlight. Now it was just a tool, not a symbol, not a legacy. Just a weapon that will help him survive while he searches for the only place where he can finally stop.
From that moment on, there was no "Ghost of the Sword". There was only Yuichiro, a man without a big name, without a mission, without a great goal. He did not seek to change the world. I wasn't looking for strength. He just wanted to find a corner where he could live in peace, without looking at the past and without fear of the future.
After leaving the place, he got to Water 7.
In Water 7, he did not look for work on foreign ships. The city seemed like a trap to him: too many eyes, too many rumors. Every passerby seemed to scan him with their eyes, either trying to recognize him as an acquaintance, or calculating how valuable a prey he could become. There were whispers of bounties on the heads of famous pirates in taverns, fresh tales of high-seas battles were told on the docks, and the shadows of informants flashed by at intersections.
He wandered around the port docks, watching the ships leaving and arriving. Huge merchant galleons with bright pennants, nimble fishing boats, battered pirate schooners — they all came and went, each with its own story, with its own purpose. But none of these ships attracted him. No captain was trustworthy. No route seemed to be the way to what he was looking for.
There was no future here, only a repetition of the past. Obeying orders again, hiding your identity behind a mercenary mask again, risking your life for someone else's ambitions again… He knew this road too well. It led to a dead end, where a name becomes a target and fame becomes a death sentence.
He understood that in order to move on, you need to find your own path, and not cling to someone else's sails. What he needed was not a place on the ship, but the ability to steer his course. Not a role in someone else's game, but the freedom to make decisions for yourself.
He spent several nights in an abandoned shipyard. Dilapidated sheds, moss—covered boards, rusty chains hanging from darkened beams - all this created a feeling of being forgotten, not belonging to the bustling life of the city. That was exactly what he needed.
In the dark, when the city was falling asleep and the docks were empty, he honed his movements. The sword in his hands came alive, not to kill, but to regain its balance. He repeated stances, practiced lunges, and learned to breathe to the rhythm of the waves hitting the piles. Every movement became a meditation, every swing of the blade a dialogue with himself. On these nights, he was not looking for martial prowess, but for peace within himself.
In the morning, after collecting his meager belongings— a rolled—up scarf, a flint, a couple of dry biscuits, and the remaining coins -he set off for the port with the firm intention of leaving the city. The sun was just rising over the roofs, turning the water golden. He stopped at the edge of the dock, taking one last look at Water 7.
The city was left behind, like a page he didn't want to reread. The Grand Line was waiting ahead, and somewhere out there, he believed, there would be a place where he could just live.
After a while, he was able to enter a New World, thanks to a traveling companion.
Dressrose greeted him with carnival fun. Bright flags fluttered in the wind, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. The streets were filled with crowds of people in fancy masks and lavish outfits; music rang everywhere, laughter could be heard, fireworks were popping, scattering fiery splashes in the evening sky. The air was saturated with the smell of cotton candy, roasted nuts and spicy sauces from street stalls.
But behind this extravaganza, Yuichiro felt fake. Everything seemed unreal, like a stage set for a play where everyone was playing a role, hiding their true identity. The masquerade was distracting, confusing, and made you forget why you were here. He walked through the crowd, not looking around, avoiding the barkers and merchants, until he found a quiet place at the far pier.
There, in a dim tavern with shabby tables and a smoky hall, there was a different atmosphere. There were no carnival masks here, just tired sailors' faces, rude voices, and the clink of mugs. The smell of salt and fish overpowered the cloying aromas of the holiday. Yuichiro sat in a corner, ordered a cup of water, and listened.
At the next table, two sailors, clearly not used to the local revelry, were talking quietly. They were wary, looking around as if they were afraid of being overheard. One is stocky, with a broken nose and a scar on his cheek; the other is tall, with gray temples and a tenacious gaze.
"They're still holding out in the Wano," the first one whispered, leaning over to his interlocutor." They say there are those who have not bowed their heads to Kaido. Some even claim that they have allies."
"Madmen," the second one snorted, tapping his fingers on the table. "Kaido will crush them like flies. Do you have any idea what kind of creature it is? A dragon in human form. No one can stand up to him."
"And if there is someone who can?" the first one persisted. "They say there's a sword there... an ancient blade capable of wounding even a god," the second one snapped. "Old stories are for the gullible. Wano is a grave. Whoever goes there won't come back."
Yuichiro froze, listening. Wano. Kaido. Resistance.
He knew about Kaido, one of the Four Emperors, a tyrant whose power extended over entire regions. His name inspired fear, his army suppressed any disobedience. But this was the first time he heard that someone dared to challenge him. That the fire of resistance was still burning somewhere.
The sailors continued to argue, but Yuichiro was no longer listening. A plan was forming in my head.
He got up, dropped a coin on the table, and went out onto the dock. The night enveloped the city in a soft twilight, the carnival lights twinkled in the distance, but he could no longer see them. There was only one thing in front of my eyes: Wano. A land where people haven't given up yet. Where, perhaps, there will be a place for him — not as a warrior, not as a legend, but simply as a man who wants to live freely.
Yuichiro had known about Vano for a long time. Rumors about this land reached the most remote corners of the Grand Line, sometimes fragmentally, in the drunken tales of sailors, sometimes through the whispers of merchants, fearfully looking around. He had been collecting these grains for years: in taverns, in shipyards, around the campfires of traveling merchants.
Wano… A country locked in itself. The land of samurai, swords and ancient traditions. A place where Kaido's power has never been fully established, despite years of terror. There was still resistance beyond the mountain ranges and misty shores. They kept secrets there, and weapons.
That's what attracted him.
He wasn't looking for glory or battle. But in Wano, according to rumors, there were artifacts of the past — blades capable of wounding even gods, scrolls with forgotten techniques, secret shelters where you can disappear among those who also do not want to obey. For a man with no name, no past, and no purpose, it was more than just a direction on a map. It was a chance to find what he needed: not strength, but peace. A place where you can stop running from your past self and live like a Muichiro.
After living in a Dress Shop for a couple of days, he collected his savings. He saved money methodically, denying himself too much, choosing cheaper lodging houses and simpler food. He avoided conversations, did not make acquaintances. His face, partially hidden by the hood, did not arouse curiosity — thousands of the same tramps swarmed the ports of the Grand Line: silent, inconspicuous, living one day.
Every evening he walked around the docks, listening. Someone talked about storms off the northern shores of Wano, someone ‑ about hidden trails through bamboo forests, someone — about fishing villages where strangers are still accepted. Yuichiro memorized everything. A map was forming in my head—not the one on the parchment, but an inner one, made up of sounds, glances, and unspoken phrases.
When he had accumulated enough, he began to prepare.
The first thing he did was find the old navigator, a hunched, gray—bearded man with faded eyes and fingers covered with scars from maps and compasses. He was sitting in a dim shop littered with tattered satins and broken sextants.
The navigator slowly raised his gaze, glanced at the hooded face, then unfolded the yellowed parchment in front of him. Long, scarred fingers deftly spread out the map, searching for the right markings. For several minutes, he silently studied the coastlines and sea currents, occasionally muttering something unintelligible.
Finally, with the sharp end of the compass, he pointed to a point off the northern coast of Vano, a secluded bay hidden from patrol vessels by rocky ledges. With a quick movement, he drew the coordinates on a separate piece of paper, supplementing them with a series of conventional signs — marks about underwater reefs and seasonal currents.
Yuichiro accepted the note, instantly hiding it in his inner pocket. The navigator just nodded, returning to his maps — the deal was completed. No names, no promises, no unnecessary questions. Only dry numbers and signs pointing the way to earth, where the unknown awaited him and, perhaps, what he was looking for.
Yuichiro did not look for a crew in noisy taverns where sailors brag about their exploits and immediately squander their salaries. He went to a place where people talk quietly and deals are made without unnecessary witnesses—to the far corner of the port warehouse, behind piles of old ropes and rusty anchors.
There, in the semi-darkness, he found four people. Not pirates, not adventurers, but former fishermen who were thrown on the sidelines of life after their ships were sunk by Kaido patrols. They were mending nets and doing odd jobs, but their eyes still held a glimmer of the sea.
He didn't stand on ceremony. He squatted down by their campfire, threw a heavy purse on the ground and said briefly:
"Hakumai. If you take it, you'll get twice as much. I'm going alone next."
They exchanged glances. The older one, with gray temples and scars from burns on his hands (apparently from tar work), slowly pulled the purse towards him. He counted the coins and nodded.
"The conditions are clear. But I warn you: there is unrest off the coast of Wano. Kaido patrols, storms, reefs..."
"It didn't stop me," Yuichiro replied. "You shouldn't either."
By dawn, everything was ready. They found a battered but sturdy sloop—not flashy, without bright pennants, such that it would not attract unnecessary attention. We checked the rigging, secured the supplies, and hoisted the sails.
Yuichiro stood at the bow, watching the shore of the Dressroza recede. The carnival lights were going out in the morning haze, and the sea stretched ahead — gray, endless, leading to the land where the unknown awaited him and, perhaps, what he was looking for.
The team worked in silence, without unnecessary questions. They knew that this passenger was not a talkative type. But he paid handsomely and didn't demand empty talk. And for people tired of poverty and humiliation, it was more important than any stories of treasure or fame.
The days passed by. The wind changed direction, the waves rose and fell, and the sloop stubbornly headed north. Yuichiro hardly slept — he checked the maps, then peered at the horizon, then honed his sword movements. His companions did not interfere: they did their job, receiving the promised salary, and did not try to penetrate the secrets of the silent employer.
When the rocky outlines of Wano appeared on the horizon, the eldest of the sailors approached Yuichiro and said softly:
"Next is the patrol area. If we get stopped, we don't know anything about you."
"That's how it should be," Yuichiro nodded, without taking his eyes off the shore.
A few hours later, the sloop quietly docked at the secluded bay of Hakumaya. Yuichiro went ashore without saying a word of thanks or saying goodbye. His team immediately turned the ship around — they did not want to linger in these dangerous waters.
But he stayed. One. Before him stretched the land of Wano — harsh, inhospitable, but full of hidden possibilities. A place where you can start over.