Jack Sparrow discovered very quickly that Isshin Dojo did not believe in mercy.
The first morning began with optimism. That optimism died within ten minutes.
Koushirou stood in the courtyard, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching four pirates line up under the pale morning sun. Jack bounced lightly on his feet, stretching his shoulders, already imagining sword drills, flashy movements, maybe even a dramatic demonstration where everyone realized he was naturally gifted.
Instead, Koushirou pointed at a pile of stones.
"Carry them," he said.
Jack blinked. "Where?"
"Up the hill."
Jack turned. The hill was not particularly tall, but it was steep, uneven, and dotted with roots designed specifically to break ankles. The stones were not particularly large either, but there were many of them, and they looked heavy in a way that promised back pain for decades.
"Swords?" Jack asked hopefully.
"No swords."
Jack frowned. "Later?"
"No."
Pintel squinted at the stones. "Is this… warm-up?"
Gibbs crossed his arms. He had learned, in the short time he'd known Koushirou, that questions were rarely rewarded. "Pick them up," he said. "Before he decides to add running."
They picked them up.
The first trip up the hill was unpleasant. The second was worse. By the fifth, Pintel was wheezing loudly, Ragetti had developed a strange limp that no one remembered him having earlier, and Jack was complaining nonstop.
"This," Jack panted, "has nothing to do with swords."
Koushirou, who had not moved from his spot, replied calmly, "Everything has to do with swords."
Jack carried on anyway. He complained about the stones, about the hill, about the sun being unfairly positioned. He complained about the birds watching him. He complained about gravity.
But he did not stop.
When his arms trembled, he adjusted his grip. When his legs shook, he slowed his pace instead of dropping the load. When he tripped and skidded on loose dirt, he swore creatively, stood up, and kept going.
By noon, the courtyard was silent except for labored breathing.
Pintel lay flat on his back, staring at the sky. "If I die," he said weakly, "tell the world I was handsome."
Ragetti sat against a post, bruised and unbothered. "You're not dying," he said. "You're just becoming stronger through suffering. Or that was what the girl said."
Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "When did you get philosophical?"
"Punches," Ragetti replied. "She punched me after that."
Jack dropped his last stone and stretched, groaning loudly. "Good news," he announced. "I think my arms have detached."
Koushirou finally spoke again. "Again."
Jack's head snapped around. "Again?"
"Yes."
Pintel whimpered.
The first month passed like that.
No swords.
Only running, lifting, balance drills that involved standing on posts for hours, carrying water without spilling a drop, holding stances until muscles burned and vision blurred. They trained barefoot, then with weights strapped to their ankles, then with uneven loads meant to throw off balance.
Jack complained every single day.
He whined while doing push-ups. He cursed while holding planks. He insulted the hill personally. He once threatened to name a pirate ship after a particularly painful stretch so he could sink it later.
But he finished every exercise.
Koushirou noticed.
Jack's body changed. Slowly at first, then unmistakably. His movements became cleaner. His balance steadier. He stopped tripping over his own feet. His reflexes sharpened, through repetition and stubborn refusal to fail.
Even when exhausted, Jack moved like someone who understood where his body was in space.
One evening, after Jack collapsed onto the dojo floor with a dramatic groan, Gibbs leaned over him. "You could quit," he said quietly.
Jack cracked one eye open. "I could. But I won't. I can make a dent in the wall without breaking my fists."
"You would then probably have to fix the wall afterwards."
Jack smiled faintly. "That's why I don't punch the walls."
Swords came later.
When Koushirou finally allowed them to touch wooden blades, it felt ceremonial. The students watched closely as Jack picked one up, rolling his wrist experimentally.
His stance was wrong.
His grip was wrong.
Koushirou said nothing.
Instead, he had Jack walk.
Back and forth across the courtyard, blade at his side. No swings. No strikes. Just walking, turning, stopping. Again and again.
"Feel the ground," Koushirou said. "The sword follows the body. Not the other way around."
Jack frowned, but listened.
When he finally sparred, it was humiliating.
A student half his size disarmed him effortlessly. Another knocked him flat with a simple foot sweep. Jack laughed it off loudly, claimed he was testing their confidence, and then got knocked down again.
Pintel surprised everyone.
Once the sword was in his hands, something clicked. His movements were unrefined, but instinctive. He learned quickly, though his tendency to leer and grin earned him regular slaps from the village women whenever he wandered too close.
Ragetti became the dojo's favorite target.
He absorbed hits like a wall. He fell, stood up, fell again, and never complained. Over time, he learned how to roll with blows, how to turn impacts into glancing strikes.
Jack trained hardest.
He failed often. He laughed at his failures. He got angry, then focused. He learned footwork through being hit whenever he stood still too long.
Koushirou explained it one evening as they watched the sun dip low.
"There are swordsmen who rely on strength," he said. "They break defenses, overwhelm opponents, shatter steel."
Jack nodded, chewing on a piece of dried fish. "Sounds tiring."
"And there are swordsmen who rely on speed and precision," Koushirou continued. "They deflect bullets, redirect force, strike where it matters."
Jack's eyes lit up. "That one."
"The greatest swordsmen," Koushirou finished, "are both."
Jack leaned back, hands behind his head. "I just want the best meat and women."
Koushirou looked at him. "Only the strongest get those."
Jack sat up immediately. "Then I'll be the strongest."
The declaration was ridiculous.
It was also sincere.
Months turned into a year.
Jack's whining never stopped, but neither did his progress. He learned to move lightly, to turn stumbles into steps, to fight like he was always half a breath away from losing balance—and using that to his advantage.
Then one afternoon, it happened.
Jack swung at a steel training post.
The blade passed through steel.
Cleanly.
The courtyard went silent.
Koushirou stared at the cut.
It was not brute force.
It was alignment. Timing. Instinct sharpened by suffering.
Jack stared at the post, then at his sword. "Huh," he said. "That wasn't supposed to happen yet, was it?"
Koushirou felt the voice in his mind settle.
The boy's potential was real. And dangerous.