Moonlight washed the beach in pale silver as Jack Sparrow tightened his grip on Wado Ichimonji.
The sword felt… quiet.
It did not thrash against his will or burn in his hands like something impatient. It rested there as if it had always belonged, as if it expected him to move—and would judge him if he did not.
Across from him, Koushirou stood barefoot on the sand, posture loose, ordinary sword held low and unassuming. There was no killing intent in him, no fury. Only disappointment tempered by resolve.
"Pure swordsmanship," Koushirou said calmly. "No tricks."
Jack smirked faintly. "You're taking away all my advantages."
Koushirou did not answer.
The night wind stirred.
Jack moved first.
He stepped sideways, body turning at an odd angle, blade sliding forward in a motion that looked careless until it wasn't.
"Wayward Tide Cut," Jack murmured—half naming it, half discovering it.
His feet skimmed the sand as he advanced, not straight toward Koushirou but slightly off-center, forcing his teacher to adjust. The cut came low and fast, aimed not to strike Koushirou but to steal space, to make him move.
Koushirou's eyes widened—just a fraction.
He parried.
Steel met steel with a clean, ringing sound.
Jack flowed with the impact, twisting his wrist, letting the force slide off instead of meeting it. He spun, blade flicking upward in a second strike, then stepped back abruptly, baiting pursuit.
Koushirou smiled.
Impressed.
Jack pressed on.
He laughed lightly as he attacked, feet constantly shifting, shoulders loose, body swaying as if the fight were a dance he had nearly forgotten but somehow remembered mid-step. His cuts were relentless, arriving from odd angles, never quite where Koushirou expected them to be.
Jack stumbled once—intentionally—and slashed upward as if correcting a mistake.
Koushirou blocked again, sand spraying beneath his feet as he adjusted.
"You move like water," Koushirou observed.
Jack grinned. "I learnt from the best."
They exchanged several more blows. Jack's breathing stayed even, his movements instinctive rather than refined. He lacked polish. His form bent rules rather than followed them. But there was something there—something alive.
Koushirou felt it clearly now.
The sword had not been stolen.
It had chosen.
Jack darted in again, faster this time, blade snapping forward in a sudden, sharp thrust that carried intent far beyond his earlier attacks.
"Drifter's Promise."
The name escaped Jack without thought.
Koushirou deflected—but only barely.
The tip of Wado Ichimonji grazed his sleeve.
Sand stilled.
The sound of the sea seemed to pause.
Koushirou stepped back, eyes shining.
"So that's it," he said softly. "You don't force the blade to bend. It will recognize you, and it will become your third hand."
Jack's grin faltered, replaced by something earnest. "Is that… good?"
"It is not achieved by many," Koushirou replied. "Which means it is very good."
Then his stance changed.
It happened subtly. A shift of weight. A lowering of breath. The air around him seemed to tighten, like a held exhale.
"This is your farewell," Koushirou said. "Receive it properly."
Jack swallowed.
Koushirou moved.
Jack barely saw the attack.
The ordinary sword cut forward. Jack raised Wado Ichimonji to block, muscles screaming as steel met steel with a force that drove him backward through the sand.
He slid, boots digging trenches.
He recovered, barely, spinning to redirect the next strike—but Koushirou was already there, blade striking again and again, each cut precise, economical, stripping away Jack's options.
Jack laughed breathlessly. "You always did like hitting lessons into people!"
He tried one last desperate maneuver—slipping sideways, twisting his body to avoid a direct clash, cutting toward Koushirou's shoulder.
Koushirou anticipated it.
The flat of his blade struck Jack's temple.
The world went white.
—
Jack woke to sunlight.
For a long moment, he thought he was dead. Then he noticed the familiar creak beneath him, the faint smell of salt and wood, the gentle rocking that meant one thing only.
The Black Pearl.
He sat up slowly, head throbbing, and found Wado Ichimonji resting neatly beside him.
Jack stared at it.
Then he laughed.
"That damn teacher," he muttered. "Still teaching by beating."
He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood, steady despite the ache in his bones. He stepped out onto the deck, squinting against the morning sun.
The sea stretched endlessly ahead.
Gibbs leaned against the railing, arms crossed. Pintel and Ragetti were arguing about whose fault it would be if the ship sank.
Gibbs turned. "You're awake."
Jack rolled his shoulders. "Unfortunately."
Pintel brightened. "Captain! We saw you and teacher fighting last night. Did you win?"
Jack considered. "Define win."
Ragetti nodded solemnly. "He lost consciousness. That's usually a no."
Jack grinned and stepped forward, the wind catching his hair. He rested a hand on the railing, the other near his sword.
Gibbs studied him. "Where to, Captain?"
Jack Sparrow smiled.
"Forward," he said.
"Forward where? We are in endless sea." Ragetti said, scratching his bald head.
"Shh, don't disturb the cool moment." Pintel chidded.