AN: I WILL BE CHANGING A FEW TIMELINES AND SOME CANON ELEMENTS
Later that night, Gibbs found him standing on the wooden walkway outside Koushirou's house, staring thoughtfully at the door.
"You're thinking too loudly," Gibbs said.
Jack didn't look away. "Did you know," he said, "that my teacher owns one of the twenty-one Great Grade Blades?"
Gibbs blinked. "I assumed he owned something dangerous. Didn't realize it was officially impressive."
Jack smiled faintly. "Wado Ichimonji."
Gibbs frowned. "That sounds expensive."
"It's from Wano," Jack added. "Land of samurai."
Gibbs whistled softly. "That explains the slaps."
Jack chuckled, then grew quiet again. He did not speak of wanting the blade. He did not even admit it to himself. But something had shifted. A sense of scale. Of distance yet to be crossed.
Koushirou said nothing.
He did not correct Jack's curiosity. He did not encourage it either. He watched, as he always had, calm and unreadable, as Jack continued to train with renewed focus—lighter on his feet, sharper in intent, still unpolished, still reckless, but undeniably growing.
The days shortened.
The Black Pearl stood repaired at the shore, her scars patched, her sails replaced, her hull reinforced with quiet help from villagers who never fully trusted pirates but respected effort and gratitude.
Supplies were loaded. Food. Tools. Rope. No rum—despite Jack's protests.
The dojo students trained harder, knowing sparring partners would soon leave. Pintel bragged loudly about future conquests. Ragetti worried quietly about future injuries. Gibbs checked the horizon daily, already thinking in routes and contingencies.
Jack stood one evening at the edge of the dojo courtyard, wooden sword resting against his shoulder, watching the sun dip low.
-----
Temptation did not arrive suddenly.
It seeped in slowly, carried on laughter, music, and the heavy smell of cooked meat drifting through Shimotsuki Village. By the time Jack Sparrow realized he was no longer thinking clearly, it was already too late.
The farewell party was loud.
Lanterns were strung between wooden posts, casting warm light over the village square. Food covered long tables—real food, not survival rations or questionable bird meat. Villagers laughed freely, students drank cautiously, and for one night, pirates were not treated like disasters waiting to happen.
Jack was very drunk.
He stood on top of a table, one foot planted firmly, the other swaying dangerously near the edge, a bottle of rum raised high as he sang at the top of his lungs.
"Yo-ho-ho-ho—!"
The villagers joined in.
"So gather up all of the crew—!"
Students clapped. Someone missed a note. Someone else spilled a drink. Jack swayed, laughed, and kept singing anyway, voice cracking, melody wrong, spirit perfect.
Binks' sake echoed into the night.
Koushirou stood a short distance away, arms folded loosely, watching the chaos with quiet amusement. His eyes followed Jack—with the tired fondness of someone who had already accepted that stopping this was impossible.
Maki stepped beside him, one hand resting on her lower back.
"You're smiling," she said.
Koushirou didn't deny it. "Am I?"
She teased, "You have a soft spot for that boy."
Koushirou sighed. "He's trouble."
"That's not an answer."
Koushirou watched Jack nearly fall off the table, only to be caught by two villagers who laughed and shoved him back upright. "He has potential," he said finally. "The kind that bends the world around it. That sort of thing doesn't stay quiet."
Maki smiled gently. "So the world will get interesting."
"Yes," Koushirou said. "Unfortunately."
Elsewhere, Gibbs was deep in conversation with an elderly fisherman who was already half-asleep.
"I'm telling you," Gibbs insisted, gesturing wildly, "it was bare hands. No weapon. Sea King comes at me, mouth open—huge thing—and I just—"
He punched the air.
"—right in the jaw!"
The fisherman snored.
Gibbs nodded solemnly. "Exactly."
Nearby, Pintel took a risk.
He leaned a little too close to one of the female students, flashed what he clearly believed was a charming smile, and spoke.
Slap.
The sound rang sharp and clean.
Pintel hit the ground, stunned. "Worth it," he croaked.
Ragetti, wisely, stayed far away from women.
Instead, he crouched near Maki, making exaggerated faces at baby Kuina, who sat in her mother's lap. His eyes crossed. His tongue stuck out. He made a noise that sounded like a wounded goat.
Kuina laughed.
Ragetti beamed. "She likes me."
Jack stumbled past them, draped an arm around Ragetti's shoulders, and announced loudly, "That child has poor taste."
Later—much later—when the night was deep and most of the village had grown comfortable with joy, Jack slipped away.
No one noticed him stagger toward the beach.
No one saw him load bottles onto the Black Pearl—one, two, then many more—hiding them with the care of a professional smuggler and the balance of a man who absolutely should not be trusted near ladders.
He whispered to the ship, "Just in case."
When he returned, he found the twins.
"Pintel. Ragetti," Jack said, very seriously.
They straightened.
"Yes, Captain?" Ragetti asked.
"You need to board the ship," Jack said. "With Gibbs."
Pintel frowned. "Why?"
Jack gestured vaguely toward the village. "If we stay any longer, they'll cry. It'll be awkward."
Ragetti nodded immediately. "I hate crying."
Pintel hesitated, then shrugged. "Fair."
They left.
Jack watched them go, guilt prickling faintly, then shook it off. He turned and headed back into the village, feet carrying him toward one place only.
The dojo.
The house was quiet.
Jack slipped inside like a thief who did not yet understand the weight of the crime he was committing. He moved carefully, avoiding loose boards, breath held as he passed through the inner rooms.
Then he heard it.
A soft sound.
He froze.
Kuina was awake.
She lay in her cradle, small fists waving lazily, eyes wide and curious. Jack crouched beside her and raised a finger to his lips.
"Shh," he whispered.
Kuina giggled.
Jack froze harder.
"No, no," he whispered urgently. "Quiet pirate."
Kuina laughed louder.
Jack panicked.
He leaned closer, whispering nonsense, making faces, desperately trying to silence her without waking anyone else. Kuina found this delightful. She kicked her feet and laughed again.
Jack exhaled slowly. "You're going to be trouble," he murmured fondly.
Then his eyes shifted.
The sword rested nearby.
Wado Ichimonji.
White scabbard.
Jack felt it.
A pull. A whisper. Instinct.
He reached out.
His fingers wrapped around the hilt.
The sword felt right.
"I'll be back," Jack whispered to Kuina. "I'll be famous. And you'll tell everyone you knew me when I was starting out."
Kuina gurgled.
Jack hesitated, then removed his cutlass from his belt.
"This is for you," he said softly. "So you remember me."
He placed it beside her cradle, then immediately frowned.
"That's sharp."
He adjusted it slightly, placing it just out of her reach.
"Later," he promised.
Then he turned and ran.
The night air hit him hard as he sprinted toward the beach, Wado Ichimonji clutched tight. Sand kicked up beneath his boots. His heart pounded.
Then something dropped in front of him.
Dust billowed.
Jack skidded to a halt.
When the dust cleared, Koushirou stood there, eyes dark, expression unamused.
Jack swallowed. "Evening, teacher."
Koushirou's voice was cold. "I am disappointed."
Jack straightened. "I—"
"You stole my family's sacred sword," Koushirou said. "And you left a sharp weapon within a child's reach."
Jack winced. "I moved it."
"That is not the point."
Jack clenched his jaw. "I thought she should have something to remember me by."
"And the sword?" Koushirou asked.
Jack met his gaze. "It called to me."
Koushirou laughed.
A sharp, humorless sound.
"Swords do not call," he said. "Men convince themselves they are being chosen."
Jack bristled. "Then test me."
Silence stretched.
Koushirou drew his own blade—not Wado Ichimonji, but an ordinary sword worn smooth by years of use.
"Very well," he said. "If you wish to carry that blade, you will face me."
Jack tightened his grip.
Moonlight glinted off steel.
Teacher and student faced each other.