That gaze was so sharp it felt like it could see straight through a person's bones.
The atmosphere in the tearoom turned heavy in an instant.
Aren's fingers tightened slightly around the rough clay bowl, but he did not look away. He met Koushirou's stare head on and drained the last of the wine in one swallow.
The sharp burn of the liquor exploded in his chest. The mysterious, floating sense of enlightenment from just moments before quickly faded, leaving behind only clear, precise understanding in his mind.
Half a minute ago, facing a probe from a swordsman of this level, he might still have needed to stir up his chakra to withstand that invisible spiritual pressure.
Now, that oppressive aura looked different to him. In his eyes, it had become a flow of energy he could break down, track, and analyze.
"Good wine."
Aren set the bowl down and let out a long breath, shattering the silence.
The sharp glint at the corner of Koushirou's eyes vanished. He went back to that harmless, squinting smile. The overwhelming pressure from a moment ago was like an illusion, as if it had been nothing more than a drunken hallucination on Aren's part.
He lifted the wine jar and poured another full bowl for Aren.
"After just one bowl of sake, the sword intent around you has shed its stiffness and gained a hint of spirit," Koushirou said, clear appreciation in his voice. "Aren, your comprehension is among the finest I have ever seen."
If it were someone else, they would probably already be offering modest denials or trying to continue the conversation along that compliment.
Aren only ran his thumb along the rim of the bowl, feeling the rough grit of fired clay.
There was no way to explain the system's rewards. He certainly could not tell this man he had a cheat.
"If you find this nourishing, then why not stay?" Koushirou set the jar aside and leaned forward slightly, his tone earnest. "The instructor position at Isshin Dojo has been empty for a long time. If you are willing, I can teach you the sword style of the Shimotsuki family in full. With your talent, in less than ten years, there is a good chance your name will be counted among the great swordmasters."
Ten years.
Aren laughed inwardly.
For someone born in this world, ten years honing one blade was normal, even fast.
But for someone with a system, ten years was far too long. Long enough that he might miss the most spectacular years of this age of piracy.
He turned his head and looked toward the courtyard.
A few withered leaves were caught by the wind and carried up, sailing over the tall wall beyond.
"Headmaster Koushirou, the wine here is excellent, but drink enough of it and even that can grow cloying," Aren said, drawing his gaze back, his eyes clear. "Rather than polishing my sword heart in a single courtyard, I would rather try the burning liquor of the West Blue for myself and see if it truly scorches the throat like they say. I still want to go to the Grand Line and see with my own eyes if the clouds there can really be walked on."
Koushirou looked at him for several seconds, then shook his head. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"That is true. A bird kept in a cage can never fly to the heights," he said, lifting his own teacup again. "Since I cannot keep you here, then at least stay a few nights. Shimotsuki Village has no proper inns. The guest rooms behind the dojo are simple, but they are quiet."
"Then I will impose on you."
That was exactly what Aren wanted.
He would not owe too large a favor, and he could recuperate for a while in this safe zone while digesting the sword insight he had just acquired.
However, the "quiet" that Aren had in mind did not last very long.
When the evening glow had painted half the sky red, Aren had just stepped out of his room to get some fresh air when someone blocked the far end of the corridor.
Green moss hair, three bamboo swords, and a pair of bloodshot eyes full of refusal.
Roronoa Zoro.
The boy's gi was soaked with sweat and clung to his thin back. Clearly, while Aren had been drinking and chatting, Zoro had been outside swinging his swords who knew how many times.
"Fight me again."
Zoro's voice was hoarse. He wasted no words, simply tossed one of his bamboo swords toward Aren.
Aren lifted his hand on reflex and caught it. The bamboo sword felt feather-light in his grip, far less solid than Lake Toya.
He rubbed his brow, already feeling a headache coming on.
"Your senior sister already lost. Why put yourself through this too?"
"Kuina let her guard down. I will not."
Zoro clenched his teeth, eyes fierce.
"I do not care what tricks you used. As long as I am still breathing, I will not admit defeat."
Before the last word finished echoing, Zoro had already charged.
There was no form, no refined technique, only raw force.
Before gaining that swordmaster-level insight, Aren might have needed to put in a bit of effort to block him.
Now, Zoro's movements looked as if they had slowed down. Every shift of his shoulders, every adjustment of his grip, every gathering of strength stood out clearly in Aren's eyes.
There were too many openings.
Aren turned his body slightly, his feet not even moving. His wrist gave a gentle shake.
The bamboo sword seemed to grow eyes. It slipped with perfect precision through the gap in Zoro's twin-blade guard and tapped lightly on the tendon at his wrist.
Snap.
Both of the bamboo swords in Zoro's hands flew free at the same time.