The next morning, his internal alarm went off at 5:00 AM.
"Argh..."
As soon as Johnny tried to rise, he groaned. A searing pain shot through his entire body. Shoulders, back, thighs, calves—everything screamed. His teenage muscles were suffering from severe Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness (DOMS) after the battle against the monsters.
Guts had forgotten that this body wasn't made of steel yet. Yesterday, he had forced high-level techniques onto an immature frame.
"Damn it..." he grumbled, massaging his right shoulder. "This body is still too soft."
Even so, he forced himself down to the workshop. He helped his father sort bolts and cut pipes for a neighbor's order. His movements were stiff, and he winced occasionally while lifting heavy loads, but he didn't complain.
At midday, during his lunch break—which featured a thick omelet this time, thanks to last night's earnings—Johnny slipped away to the back of the workshop.
He picked up his Scrap Greatsword. The iron was covered in scratches and dents from smashing against bone and hard shells.
Johnny fired up the bench grinder.
ZRRRRTTT!
Yellow sparks flew as he pressed the dull edge of the blade against the grinding stone. He didn't try to make it razor-sharp—this scrap iron couldn't handle that. He simply smoothed out the dents and ground away the dried blood stuck in the metal's pores.
He cared for this piece of junk with the same affection he once held for the Dragon Slayer. To Guts, a weapon was life. No matter how ugly it looked.
By late afternoon, the sun over Sector 7 began to dim. Johnny decided to continue training, but at low intensity. He couldn't do heavy lifting with cramping muscles.
He stood in a small clearing between the neighboring zinc shacks.
Whoosh...
He swung the iron sword slowly. Very slowly. He focused on his stance, on how his feet gripped the ground, and how his breath flowed. He was "meditating" with the sword.
That was when he heard whispering.
From behind a stack of used tires, three small heads popped up. They were the neighborhood kids who usually avoided Johnny because of his rarely smiling face.
One of them, a skinny boy with a perpetually runny nose, worked up the courage to step out. His name was Taro, ten years old.
"Big Bro Johnny..." Taro squeaked.
Johnny stopped mid-swing. He turned, lowering the massive sword to the ground with a soft THUD.
"What?" Johnny asked flatly.
Taro flinched, but his curiosity outweighed his fear. "Big Bro... what are you doing? Why are you playing with that ugly piece of iron? Isn't it heavy?"
Taro's two friends behind him giggled, but silenced themselves immediately when Johnny looked at them.
Johnny wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked at the sword in his hand, then at Taro.
"This isn't a toy," Johnny said.
"Then what's it for?" Taro took a step closer, his eyes wide as he stared at the giant metal slab. "Whacking rats?"
Johnny fell silent for a moment. He looked at Taro, looked at the corrugated metal houses around them, and looked up at the Plate pressing down on the sky. In this harsh world, children like Taro were the first to die if monsters attacked or if Shinra decided to purge the slums.
Johnny knelt on one knee, bringing himself to Taro's eye level. His usually cold face softened just a fraction.
"Taro," Johnny said.
"Yeah, Big Bro?"
"Do you love your mom and dad?"
Taro nodded quickly. "I do!"
"I do too," Johnny said. He patted the hilt of his iron sword. "This iron... I use it so I can protect my Dad and Mom."
Johnny then glanced at Taro's friends before returning his gaze to Taro. He placed his large hand on Taro's thin hair.
"And not just them," Johnny continued, his voice deep and serious, like an eldest brother shouldering the weight of the world. "If bad people or monsters come here... I train so I can protect you guys too. So you can keep playing tag here."
Taro gaped. In his eyes, the dirty, sweaty Johnny suddenly looked like a hero from a storybook—cooler than any Shinra trooper.
"Big Bro Johnny... wants to protect us? Wait, weren't you scared of stray dogs?" Taro whispered, awestruck but confused by the change in him.
Johnny stood up again, hoisting the sword onto his shoulder despite the ache in his muscles.
"That was then. Now move aside, I want to keep training. I don't want to accidentally bonk your heads."
Taro and his friends retreated with sparkling eyes. They didn't run away in fear. Instead, they sat on a pile of pipes, watching Johnny train with a sense of wonder.
For Johnny, the look in their eyes was different from the fearful gazes of the villagers in his past life. Here, he wasn't the "Cursed Black Swordsman." Here, he was Johnny, the big brother of Sector 7.