Chapter 8: The Path of Cutting
Hearing the breath of all things was different from hearing the voice of all things. It was also not the same as the Kenbunshoku Haki of observation.
Hearing the breath of all things was the threshold that a swordsman in the world of One Piece must cross to advance from a mere wielder of a blade to a true swordsman. It was the first step on the path toward becoming a great swordsman.
Hearing the voice of all things was something else entirely—the legendary ability of those who stood at the pinnacle, the mark of the "Conqueror's Domain."
And Kenbunshoku Haki allowed one to sense the presence, breath, and emotions of living creatures.
But hearing the breath of all things? That was different. That was hearing the breath of things. Of objects. Of the non-living world that surrounded everything.
After entering the realm of the swordsman, Ryuzen had spent considerable time understanding exactly what he could perceive with this new sense.
In the world of One Piece, all true swordsmen could eventually cut steel. But those who could sense the breath of all things were typically older—their bones fully grown, their bodies mature, their minds steeped in the way of the sword for decades. They had spent years listening, learning, understanding.
Ryuzen had comprehended the breath of all things at age seven. This was thanks entirely to the system, to Mihawk's inherited experiences. But his body was still a child's. His bones were still growing. His physical form hadn't caught up to his perception.
He could hear the breath of wood clearly now. Stone as well—ordinary stones, at least. Bamboo. Paper. Candles. Cups. Fragile things, simple things. But steel remained silent to him. Boulders of dense rock refused to speak.
For half a month, he explored this limitation. And gradually, he came to understand what Koshiro—Zoro's master—had meant in the original story when he spoke of two kinds of swordsmen.
Those who could not cut anything.
And those who could cut anything.
Koshiro had once demonstrated before a young Zoro, attempting to cut a single sheet of paper floating in the air with a real sword. And failing. Because force alone wasn't enough. Without technique, without understanding, even the sharpest blade couldn't cut something that offered no resistance.
But if you could hear its breath? Even a bamboo sword could cut paper cleanly, smoothly, perfectly.
Ryuzen had proven this to himself. Using Shigure Kintoki in its bamboo sword form—not transformed into steel—he had "cut" a sheet of paper in half. The blade never touched it. And yet, it parted.
That was the technique Koshiro had been trying to teach. That was the foundation of true swordsmanship.
With this understanding, Ryuzen had changed his training completely.
The routine he'd maintained for over a year shifted. Morning exercise remained, but afterward, he no longer returned to his training hall. Instead, he traveled to the forested area on the edge of Konoha—to the base of a small, secluded valley that few ever visited.
There, a waterfall crashed constantly into a pool below. The sound was thunderous, overwhelming, drowning out everything else in the world.
Ryuzen sat cross-legged before it and stared.
Not at the waterfall, but into it. Through it. He tried to feel its breath. To hear its voice. To merge his own breathing with the violent, chaotic rhythm of the falling water.
At first, he heard nothing.
But he wasn't discouraged. Day after day, he returned. Morning after morning, he sat. His daily tasks—now changed since his advancement—were completed here as well. His spiritual insights happened here. Even his meals were often eaten here, staring at the endless cascade.
The kimono from the system made this possible. Self-cleaning, self-repairing—he could bathe in the waterfall's pool, then sit in his clothes without worry. No need to return home constantly. No need to waste time on mundane maintenance.
Three more months passed.
Counting the initial half month of exploration, Ryuzen's Hawk-Eye inheritance template had now unlocked to [11.36%].
In the spiritual world, Mihawk had grown further. He was no longer just a teenager training in isolation. He had gone to sea.
The battles came frequently now—fierce clashes with swordsman masters, desperate struggles against opponents who could actually challenge him. No more bullying children or mediocre talents. Every fight pushed him, tested him, forged him.
And through assimilation, Ryuzen felt himself growing alongside his spiritual mentor. His understanding of the breath of all things deepened with every battle he experienced vicariously. Every insight Mihawk gained became, in some small way, his own.
Now, Ryuzen no longer needed to concentrate intensely to find a target's breath. He didn't need to focus on a specific spot, straining to hear. A casual swing was enough to split an ordinary stone in half.
Steel remained beyond him. The breath of metal still wouldn't speak. Compared to the Mihawk in his visions—the young man now carving a bloody path through the Grand Line—he was still far behind.
But he could feel the distance closing. Day by day, swing by swing.
He was getting closer.
The morning sun filtered through the trees as Ryuzen took his familiar position by the stream at the valley's base.
The waterfall thundered behind him, but he had long since learned to exist within its noise rather than fight against it. His breathing matched its rhythm now, his heartbeat steady and calm.
Shigure Kintoki rested in his hand—bamboo form, ordinary appearance. But Ryuzen knew what it truly was.
Today's daily task was different from the old days. No more counting swings. No more repetitive forms.
Swinging the sword was for swordsmen still learning the basics.
Cutting was for those who had advanced.
Three hundred cuts. That was his task now. Three hundred times he must demonstrate his understanding of the blade—not through force, but through technique. Through breath.
Ryuzen faced the stream, watching the clear water roll and ripple over stones. His eyes tracked the flow, the movement, the endless motion.
Whoosh—!
He raised the bamboo sword with one hand, arm extending smoothly. Then, with explosive speed, he brought it down. The blade tip fell from above, carving through the air with a sharp whistle.
A flash of white light.
On the surface of the stream, a straight line appeared. The water parted, split cleanly by something that had never touched it. For a few seconds, a gap existed where no gap should be—a wound in the water itself. Then the current rushed in, healing the cut, and the stream flowed on as if nothing had happened.
In Ryuzen's hand, Shigure Kintoki had transformed. Bamboo had become steel, gleaming in the morning light.
He raised the blade again. Swung again. Another line appeared on the water. Another cut that shouldn't exist.
Over and over, the scene repeated. The blade never touched the water. The cuts never lasted. But they happened—clean, precise, undeniable.
Three months ago, this would have been impossible. Three months ago, Ryuzen could barely hear the breath of wood. Now he was cutting flowing water.
This was the secret of "cutting." This was the foundation of the flying slash—the technique that allowed swordsmen to strike from a distance, to cut without touching. He wasn't there yet, not truly. But he could see the path now. He could feel it beneath his feet.
And as he swung, as he cut, as he trained, he thought about the nature of his inheritance.
He understood now something he hadn't grasped before.
When the Hawk-Eye template reached 100%, it wouldn't mean he possessed 100% of Mihawk's power. The Mihawk in his spiritual world had already mastered cutting steel. He'd already achieved things Ryuzen couldn't yet dream of. And yet, the template continued unlocking.
The inheritance wasn't about copying. It wasn't about becoming a carbon copy of the world's greatest swordsman.
It was about experiencing. About learning. Mihawk's template gave him access to a lifetime of training, of battle, of insight—but what he did with that access was up to him. He could substitute himself into those experiences, view them from a God's perspective, extract the lessons and make them his own.
He could forge his own path. Develop his own style. Surpass his predecessor, if he was worthy.
This was better than simple copying. This way, he would never be trapped walking the exact same road Mihawk had walked. His swordsmanship would be his own.
The sun climbed higher as Ryuzen continued his cuts. Three hundred would take time. But he had time. He had years before the world descended into war.
And when that war came, he intended to be ready.
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