East Blue, Shimotsuki Village.
For reasons unknown, the sign over the original Shimotsuki Dojo had been swapped, its name altered to the Isshin Dojo.
According to an old man who preferred to remain anonymous, a certain green-haired child had recently reminded him that news of his illegal departure from Wano Country appeared to have leaked.
Thus, he'd had no choice but to have his son rename the Shimotsuki Dojo overnight to "Isshin Dojo." He was also, incidentally, considering a discussion with the villagers about changing the name of Shimotsuki Village to "Shimotsuki Village."
On the beach, Kouzaburou sat on the grass with a fishing rod. He turned his head toward the silver-haired young man beside him.
"What was that? Say it again."
Sephiroth, seated on the grass as well, drew the butcher knife sheathed at his waist and handed it over. He repeated himself.
"I need you to forge another butcher knife for me. One with a black blade, ideally."
Kouzaburou studied the pitch-black blade for a long moment. He silently took out his pipe, lit it, drew a deep breath of smoke, and spoke with deliberate weight.
"You have to understand—there are no two identical swords in this world."
No matter how closely you mimic another blade, it will never be the same.
Especially a famous sword of this caliber, one of the Supreme Grade.
Swords of this rank are forged through years of a smith's repeated tempering. They hold a will within the steel.
The untrained eye might miss it. To a master, ignoring that would be like burying your head in the sand."
"Cough!... It doesn't need to be perfect. Just highly similar in appearance, with matching power traits. That's enough. I have a way to mask its aura." Sephiroth pressed, unwilling to give up.
Just yesterday, he'd contacted Kong again, asking if the terms for his discharge from the Marines could be changed.
But Kong had refused. The condition stood: Sephiroth had to hand over the butcher knife. No blade, no freedom.
Left with no other option, Sephiroth had come to Kouzaburou, hoping the smith could forge a high-quality replica of Supreme Grade caliber.
As for the sword's aura…
Sephiroth had a plan. The spray from the Color-Color Fruit would handle it.
Once Kouzaburou finished the blade, Sephiroth would color it and layer on some psychological suggestion. To any outside observer, it would look identical.
Faced with a bloodthirsty demon blade hungry for life force, he doubted an old man like Kong—with his limited years remaining—would be eager to pick it up and swing it around.
Kouzaburou stared at the butcher knife, silent for another long stretch, then shook his head.
"Sorry. I can't do it. I can't replicate this sword's power attributes. You should find someone more skilled."
Sephiroth sheathed the blade and let out a soft sigh.
"Ah? Do you know any other master smiths capable of forging a Supreme Grade sword?"
"I don't."
Kouzaburou answered without hesitation, then countered, "Why look for another smith? Aren't you one yourself, kid?"
"I can forge Wazamono and Ryo Wazamono grade blades, given time and resources. But for O Wazamono and Saijo O Wazamono… I feel I'm still lacking." Sephiroth shook his head.
Kouzaburou rolled his eyes and muttered, "When I first started, I couldn't even forge a proper blunt sword! Talent matters in forging, that's true. But you, kid—you have the talent and you won't put in the work, yet you still dream of forging top-tier masterpieces? Are you dreaming?"
"Uh!?"
Hearing Kouzaburou's slightly scolding words, Sephiroth scratched his head awkwardly.
Honestly, his ability to forge Wazamono and Ryo Wazamono blades came down to two things: he'd learned the techniques of master swordsmiths Kouzaburou and Kozuki Sukiyaki, and he never skimped on materials.
Actual talent for the craft? He didn't think he had any.
...
Isshin Dojo, backyard.
A group of students in green kendo uniforms filled the yard, their voices a constant buzz.
"Go, Zoro-nii!"
"You can beat Kuina this time, Zoro-nii!"
"But he's lost over forty times." A student muttered under his breath. "Never won once. Today'll be the same."
"Zoro defeated an adult! He's strong!"
"Kuina was beating adults years ago."
"..."
In the center, Zoro gripped two bamboo swords. The students' chatter needled him, stirring up a familiar, frustrated gloom.
He looked at Kuina standing across from him. She held a single bamboo sword, her expression utterly calm. That calmness just made it worse.
No matter how much stronger he got, she never seemed to break a sweat against him.
Suddenly, the girl turned her head. Her eyes tracked Sephiroth as he walked slowly from the corridor, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny, unconscious smile.
A weakness!
Seeing his opening, Zoro roared and charged, both swords swinging.
But Kuina's form drifted like willow catkins in the wind—unpredictable, effortless. She swayed clear of the strikes.
*Thwack!*
Her bamboo sword came down without mercy, cracking against Zoro's face. Blood spurted from his nose. He hit the dirt, clutching his face and rolling in pain.
"Ah! Zoro lost again…"
"Kuina's so strong!"
"Yeah!"
"Hehehe! Sephiroth, how was my Paper Draw?"
Kuina jogged over, smiling, and took his hand.
Hearing her slightly boastful tone, Sephiroth just smiled back. He raised his free hand and gently stroked her smooth hair. "Very good. But don't rely too much on the basic Paper Draw. Against someone with decent Observation Haki, that kind of physical technique isn't very useful…"
Suddenly, he felt a gaze sharp as a blade against his back.
He turned. Genzo stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves, staring at him with a completely blank expression.
The murderous intent behind it was plain.
Faintly, Sephiroth thought he heard the sound of knuckles cracking.
"Ahem!… Kuina, now that you're back, spend a few days at home with your father and grandfather. I'll come pick you up later…"
With that, Sephiroth made a swift exit.
Kuina immediately whirled around, puffing out her cheeks as she glared at her father. "Father! Why were you looking at Sephiroth like you wanted to kill him?"
Genzo: "..."