Argentus woke on the morning of the third day to the sound of hammers and shouted commands echoing from the harbor. He stretched his limbs with a satisfying series of cracks, rolling his shoulders and neck until the stiffness bled away.
He felt revitalized. The fatigue of his previous travels—the constant paranoia, the sleepless nights, the gnawing hunger—had been completely washed away by three days of uninterrupted rest and more food than he'd eaten in months.
The bloodstain on the floor where the assassin had fallen was gone, scrubbed clean by terrified servants while he'd slept. The detail made him smirk as he stepped over the spotless wood. Fear was an excellent motivator.
He grabbed his meager gear—a worn coat, a waterskin, and the knife he'd used to separate the guard's head from his shoulders—and slung them over his shoulder. After adjusting his coat to sit properly, he marched down to the harbor with the confident stride of a man who owned everything he could see.
The villagers were gathered at the dock, looking haggard and hollow-eyed. They had worked through the nights without rest, fueled entirely by the terror of his threat to burn their island to ash. Sweat stained their striped shirts. Their hands were wrapped in bloodied rags from rope burns and splinters.
But at the end of the dock, bobbing gently in the morning tide, was the result of their desperate labor.
It was a sloop—sleek, aggressive, and purpose-built. The hull was narrow and reinforced with dark, treated wood capable of cutting through rough waves without taking on water. A single, tall mast rose from the center deck, rigged with pulleys and lines designed so that one man could handle the sails without trouble. The rigging was taut, professional work despite the rushed timeline.
Argentus stepped aboard without a word, the wood creaking slightly under his boots. He inspected the deck first, running his hand along the rail. Clean. Scrubbed. Efficient. No loose nails or shoddy craftsmanship—they had been too afraid to cut corners.
He moved to the small cabin located toward the stern. It was compact but functional, fitted with a hammock strung between reinforced beams, a narrow desk bolted to the wall for navigation work, and a heavy iron lock on the door. Simple, but secure.
Next, he checked the hold.
He lifted the wooden hatch, and a golden glimmer caught the morning sun. His eyes adjusted to the dimness below, and satisfaction spread across his face.
The island's entire treasury had been emptied. Canvas bags bulging with gold berries and pieces of jewelry sat stacked along one side. Next to them were barrels of fresh water, crates of smoked meats, dried fruits, hardtack, and even a few bottles of wine. Enough supplies to last him weeks, maybe a month if he rationed.
He ran his fingers over one of the gold bags, feeling the weight. This wasn't just survival money. This was investment money. The first real capital toward his ultimate goal.
He emerged from the hold, letting the hatch fall shut with a satisfying thud. He looked down at the dock where the villagers stood in a nervous cluster. At the front was the former leader—the one with the blue feather in his hair—now sporting a heavy bandage wrapped around his skull like a grotesque turban.
The man flinched when Argentus's silver eyes landed on him.
"Acceptable," Argentus said, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of lapping waves. "The craftsmanship is adequate. The supplies are sufficient."
He let the silence stretch for a moment, watching them squirm.
"You get to keep your lives."
He didn't wait for gratitude—he knew there would be none. With practiced ease, Argentus untied the mooring ropes and coiled them efficiently on the deck. He moved to the mast and hauled on the halyard, raising the sail with smooth, controlled pulls.
The white canvas caught the wind immediately, snapping taut with a satisfying crack. The sloop lurched forward, cutting a clean line through the harbor water and leaving a V-shaped wake behind.
Argentus took the tiller, gripping the smooth wood and feeling the subtle vibrations of the sea transmitted through the rudder. The sloop responded instantly to his adjustments—sensitive, well-balanced. Good.
He didn't look back at the island. He didn't look at the people standing on the dock, watching him leave with a mix of relief and lingering terror.
Argentus D. Drake's eyes were already on the horizon.
He glanced down at the compass mounted near the wheel—a simple brass instrument he'd taken from the headman's hut. He shifted his course slightly, turning the bow away from the relative safety of the coastal shallows and pointing it toward the open ocean.
Southeast. Toward civilization. Toward opportunity.
Toward the world he intended to take.
(Author's Note: I forgot to mention earlier, but I chose the name "Argentus" because it means "silver" in Latin, representing brilliance, greed, and riches. Yes, it wasn't a random name.)
For four hours, Argentus sat perfectly still on the foredeck.
His legs were crossed in a meditative pose, his back was ramrod straight, and his eyes were shut tight enough that his eyelids twitched slightly with the effort. The wind whipped his coat around him in erratic gusts, and the spray of the ocean misted his face with salt water, but he didn't flinch or wipe it away.
His brow was furrowed in deep, almost comical concentration. The vein in his temple pulsed visibly, throbbing with the effort of his intense mental exertion. His jaw was clenched. His fists were balled on his knees.
To you, the reader, or to any experienced pirate sailing the Grand Line, the scene would look immediately familiar. It was the classic stance of a warrior honing his spirit—the posture of someone refining their Haki, stretching their senses across the horizon to detect distant threats, sea kings lurking in the depths, or enemy ships beyond visual range.
You would assume he was meditating on the flow of battle, or perhaps communing with the rhythm of the ocean itself.
But you would be completely, utterly wrong.
Argentus wasn't sensing anything. He wasn't meditating on the nature of his enemies. He wasn't expanding his Observation Haki or trying to unlock some deeper spiritual truth.
He was stressing out over a name.
The Golden Reaper? No, too edgy. Too try-hard. It sounded like something a teenage pirate would pick.
The Fast Wave? Too literal. Too boring. It told you exactly what it was without any mystery.
The Argentus II? A bit much, even for him. Naming a ship after yourself was the kind of thing emperors did, and he wasn't there yet.
The Silver Arrow? Overused. Probably three hundred ships in the East Blue alone with "Arrow" in the name.
He groaned internally, his face twisting in visible frustration, looking for all the world like he was locked in mental combat with an invisible demon.
Bessie? He physically recoiled at the thought. Absolutely not. That was a name for a cow, not a vessel of conquest.
The Sea Wolf? Taken by a thousand other rookies who thought they were clever.
The Storm Chaser? Dramatic, but it implied he was following storms rather than causing them.
He needed something elegant. Something that implied speed, grace, and a hint of mystery. This boat was going to be his home, his fortress, his escape vehicle, and his mobile base of operations for years to come. Possibly decades.
You couldn't just sail around the world trying to become the richest and most powerful man alive in a boat called The Wooden Bucket.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of mental agony, a name drifted into his consciousness. It arrived quietly, like a leaf falling on still water.
It rolled off the tongue smoothly. It sounded dignified, yet sturdy. Feminine, but not weak. A name with history, with weight, with presence. A name for a vessel that would carry the future King of the World across every ocean.
Argentus's eyes snapped open suddenly, the intensity vanishing from his expression and replaced by a satisfied, almost smug grin.
He stood up, stretched his back with a series of loud pops, and walked over to a bucket of paint the villagers had left behind—probably meant for hull repairs. He dipped a brush into the white paint, testing the consistency.
With bold, sweeping strokes, taking care to make the letters clear and evenly spaced, he painted the name on the side of the hull in large letters.
SYLVIA.
(Author's Note: It's me again, breaking the fourth wall. "Sylvia" means "spirit of the wood"—it's related to forest gods and nature spirits in old mythology. Seemed fitting for a ship literally made of wood that's going to carry someone trying to conquer the world.)
Argentus stepped back, admiring his work. The white letters stood out cleanly against the dark wood of the hull, visible even from a distance.
"Perfect," he muttered, reaching out to pat the gunwale affectionately like one might pat a loyal dog. "Welcome to the crew, Sylvia. Try not to sink."
For eight days, the ocean was a flat, endless mirror of blue, broken only by the white wake trailing behind Sylvia and the sheer, stubborn force of Argentus's will pushing him forward.
He didn't treat the voyage as downtime or a vacation.
The solitude was absolute. There was no one to hide his strength from, no one to judge his methods, and no one to disturb his brutal training regimen. He stripped his routine down to its rawest, most essential components:
Eat. Train. Sleep. Repeat.
His physical training was grueling.
Every morning, he tied a thick hemp rope around his waist, knotting it securely and tethering the other end to a reinforced cleat on Sylvia's stern. Then, without hesitation, he jumped into the sea.
For hours—sometimes three, sometimes five—he would swim against the ocean currents, dragging the entire sloop behind him like a beast of burden. He turned his body into a living engine, his arms and legs churning through the water with mechanical efficiency.
The salt water stung every cut and scrape on his skin. His muscles screamed in protest, burning with lactic acid. But he didn't stop. He didn't slow down. He didn't allow himself to rest until his lungs felt like they were filled with molten iron and his vision started to blur at the edges.
When he wasn't dragging the ship, he dove.
He would take a massive breath, filling his lungs to capacity, and plunge straight down into the depths. He dove deep—far past the point where the sunlight faded and the water turned from blue to black. He subjected his body to the crushing pressure of the deep ocean, forcing his bones and muscles to adapt, to compress, to endure.
Down there, in the crushing dark where most men would panic and drown, he hunted.
He didn't use a fishing rod or nets. He used his bare hands and his Observation Haki, sensing the subtle movements of massive tuna and juvenile Sea Kings through the water. When he detected prey, he would explode forward with a burst of speed, catching them with his hands before they could flee, then dragging them thrashing to the surface for his next meal.
But the physical toll, as brutal as it was, was nothing compared to the mental strain.
Argentus forced himself to keep his Observation Haki active constantly. Not just for a few minutes during meditation, but for hours at a stretch. He pushed the ability until his head throbbed with a migraine that felt like a railroad spike being slowly driven into his skull.
He deliberately drained his Haki reserves to absolute zero, forcing his spirit to recover faster each time, gradually expanding the size of his reserves like a muscle being torn down and rebuilt stronger.
He even tried experimenting with Armament Haki, though he didn't know the proper technique. He would visualize his arms turning black like Garp's had during their training, trying to coat them in that mysterious metallic sheen while lifting the ship's heavy iron anchor like a dumbbell.
It didn't work. Not yet. But he kept trying.
By the evening of the eighth day, he was utterly exhausted. His body was battered, covered in new bruises on top of old ones, his hands raw and bleeding from rope burns.
But he was also harder. Denser. Stronger than he'd been when he left the cannibal island.
He pulled himself onto the deck of Sylvia one final time, shaking the seawater from his silver hair like a dog. He grabbed a rough towel and dried himself off, then looked out toward the horizon, expecting to see another endless stretch of empty water.
Instead, he saw a shadow.
It started as a smudge against the setting sun—easy to mistake for a cloud or a trick of the light. But as Sylvia cut closer, driven by favorable wind, the shape resolved itself into something solid.
Green peaks rising from the water. White sandy beaches. The distant, geometric shapes of human structures—buildings, walls, docks.
A slow smile spread across Argentus's face, transforming his exhausted expression into something predatory and satisfied.
It was the destination he had chosen before he'd even left Dawn Island, back when he was still covered in Garp's bruises and Ace was teaching him how to navigate by the stars.
The silhouette of the island was distinct, unmistakable. Unlike the jagged, wild profile of Dawn Island with its dangerous cliffs, or the flat, hostile layout of the cannibal island he'd just conquered, this place breathed tranquility.
Gentle slopes rose from the coastline, covered in lush, verdant forests that swayed in the ocean breeze. As Sylvia drew closer, the wind shifted direction, carrying a scent that Argentus recognized immediately: the crisp, dry smell of bamboo and tilled earth. The smell of civilization.
He navigated the sloop carefully into a small, unassuming harbor. There were no Navy warships anchored here, thank the sea. There were no pirate galleons flying skull-and-crossbones flags either. Just small fishing boats bobbing gently in the calm tide, their nets hanging to dry in the sun, and a few locals mending sails on the dock.
Argentus tossed the mooring line onto the weathered wooden pier with practiced ease and leaped over the rail in a single fluid motion, his boots landing silently on the sun-bleached planks.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that didn't taste purely of salt and sea spray.
The atmosphere here felt different. It wasn't heavy with fear like the cannibal island, or thick with greed like the slavers' ship. The air here was sharp—clean and purposeful, like a blade fresh from the whetstone.
He had arrived at Shimotsuki Village.
He gave Sylvia's hull one last affectionate pat, double-checked that the cabin door was locked tight to protect his stolen fortune, and began to walk inland with the easy confidence of someone who belonged.
The village itself was simple, almost aggressively traditional in its architecture.
Low wooden buildings with sloped tile roofs lined clean dirt streets. Paper lanterns hung from eaves, ready to be lit when evening came. A few shops displayed their wares in open-air stalls—vegetables, dried fish, bolts of cloth.
People walked through the streets with calm, purposeful movements. Farmers returning from fields. Women carrying baskets of laundry. Children playing with wooden swords in the alleys, their laughter bright and unafraid.
They didn't scatter at the sight of a stranger, though Argentus's intimidating aura—an almost physical pressure that seemed to radiate from his lean, scarred frame—and the broken iron spear strapped to his back drew more than a few wary glances.
He ignored them. He wasn't here to rob peasants or terrorize farmers.
As he rounded a corner near the edge of the village, passing beneath a torii gate that marked the boundary between the residential area and the training grounds, he spotted a figure that stood out sharply against the backdrop of peaceful villagers.
Leaning against a wooden fence with his arms crossed and an expression of profound boredom on his face was a young man who looked to be about Argentus's age—maybe thirteen, maybe fourteen.
He had short, moss-green hair that stuck up in every direction like he'd just rolled out of bed. A dark green haramaki—a traditional wrapped sash—was tied around his waist over a simple white shirt. And most notably, most impossibly, he had three swords sheathed at his right hip.
Not one. Not two. Three.
Argentus stopped walking, his eyes narrowing with interest.
Three swords? That wasn't just unusual. That was a statement. A distinct fighting style he'd never encountered before.
And the aura coming off this guy... it wasn't soft like the farmers. It wasn't dull. It was sharp, like a blade that had just been polished to a lethal edge and was waiting for an excuse to be drawn.
Argentus changed direction and walked straight up to him, his boots crunching on the gravel path. He stopped just short of looming over the swordsman, though at his full height he had a slight advantage.
"Oi," Argentus said, his voice flat and commanding.
The green-haired teen looked up slowly, one eyebrow twitching in mild annoyance. "Huh? Who are you?"
"I heard there's a famous dojo here," Argentus said, thumbing the strap that held his broken spear to his back. "Can you take me there?"
The swordsman's annoyed expression shifted slightly, replaced by a flicker of interest. He pushed himself off the fence with a confident smirk crossing his face and rested his hand casually on the white-hilted sword in his sash—the one positioned so he could draw it with his teeth.
"The Isshin Dojo?" the guy said, his tone carrying just a hint of pride. "Yeah, I train there. Best swordsmen in the East Blue, probably. I was just heading back myself, actually."
He turned and pointed confidently down a narrow path that led directly toward the thickest, darkest part of the forest—which was, notably, in the complete opposite direction from where the faint sounds of training (wooden swords clacking, students shouting) were coming from.
"Follow me," the green-haired guy said, already starting to walk with absolute certainty. "There's a shortcut through here. You're lucky you found me, or you'd probably get lost in this maze of a village."
He glanced back over his shoulder with a cocky grin.
"I'm Roronoa Zoro, by the way. Try to keep up."
One Hour Later
Argentus stopped dead in his tracks.
He planted the butt of his broken spear into the soft forest earth with a heavy thud and pointed an accusing finger at a massive, moss-covered boulder shaped vaguely like a sleeping bear with one paw raised.
"I'm pretty sure," Argentus said, his voice completely flat and devoid of emotion, "we passed that exact stone four times already."
Zoro froze mid-step.
The green-haired swordsman's entire body went stiff, his shoulders hunching slightly. A distinct shade of crimson began creeping up the back of his neck, visible even against his tan skin, spreading to his ears like spilled wine.
He whirled around, his expression a volatile mix of indignation, panic, and wounded pride.
"It just looks similar!" Zoro barked, waving a hand dismissively and a bit too aggressively. "All rocks look the same in forests! They're... they're rocks! Besides, the terrain here is shifting. It's a natural defense mechanism the dojo uses to keep out intruders!"
"A shifting terrain," Argentus repeated slowly, his eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. "Is that why we walked in a perfect circle that brought us back to the same clearing three times?"
"Shut up! I know exactly where I'm going!" Zoro snapped, his voice rising defensively.
He puffed out his chest like an offended rooster and pointed confidently to the left, his arm fully extended.
"The dojo is definitely that way. I can feel it. Swordsman's intuition."
"Are you absolutely sure?" Argentus asked, his tone dripping with barely concealed skepticism.
"Yeah!" Zoro insisted with complete conviction.
Then, without lowering his arm or acknowledging what he was doing, he slowly began to rotate his entire body in place like a broken compass needle. His outstretched arm swept past north, past east, past south, until he was pointing in a completely different direction—straight into a dense, impenetrable thicket of thorns and brambles.
"I meant that way," Zoro corrected, his voice not even slightly less confident. "Obviously. The first direction was a test."
Argentus stared at him for a long, silent moment. A very long moment.
Then he sighed—a long, suffering exhale that seemed to come from the depths of his soul.
"Right," Argentus said tiredly, rubbing his temple. "So the single guy I randomly picked from a crowd turned out to be a complete and utter directional idiot."
"DIRECTIONAL IDIOT?!"
The transformation was instantaneous.
The vein on Zoro's forehead didn't just throb—it looked like it was about to burst through the skin. The air around him changed instantly, the bumbling, comedic atmosphere evaporating like morning mist and replaced with something sharp and dangerous. Killing intent rolled off him in waves.
"Who the hell are you calling a directional idiot, huh?!" Zoro growled, his voice dropping an octave into something genuinely threatening.
His hands moved in a blur.
Cling. Clang.
In one fluid, practiced motion, he drew two katana—one in each hand—the steel singing as it left the scabbards. Then, with a final, defiant gesture, he clamped the white-hilted blade—the Wado Ichimonji—firmly between his teeth, biting down on the wrapped hilt with audible force.
"I'm going to carve that arrogance right off your face," Zoro mumbled around the blade, his eyes burning with fierce intensity. The three swords caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy, gleaming like a promise of violence.
"Santoryu!" he declared, his stance shifting into something predatory and battle-ready.
Argentus didn't flinch. Didn't step back. Didn't show even a flicker of concern.
Instead, he slowly, deliberately, unslung the heavy iron spear from his back. He spun it once in his hand with a casual flick of his wrist, testing the weight and balance. The shaft cut through the air with a low whoosh, kicking up a small breeze that scattered leaves.
He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, shifting his weight into a combat stance—low, balanced, ready to explode in any direction.
"Come on then," Argentus said, a sharp, predatory smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Let's see if your swordsmanship is better than your navigation skills."
(END OF CHAPTER)
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