Chapter Two: The Swordsman and the Sword

"Thank you." Qiubai reached out to take the hot soup Ain handed him... The contents of the soup were beyond description, but it was unquestionable that it provided much-needed calories. He then expressed his gratitude to the owner of the house.

This was a house standing alone by the coast, not near the harbor, and thus seemed somewhat isolated. The building was small and especially old, with a tiny courtyard fenced in outside.

Qiubai’s thanks were not only for the soup; after all, it had been this very man who, just moments ago, had severed the Sea King’s head with a single stroke and rescued the two of them, bringing them safely ashore.

That concentrated, tangible sword aura unleashed from a distance made it clear that this man was no ordinary soul.

"Please, eat. The taste may not be much, but it’s exactly what you need right now. Though Baron Island, like many in the New World, does not have clear seasons, if I had to compare, this would count as early spring. The seawater is very cold."

"However... I live alone here. I’m afraid I have no clothes for you to change into."

The man’s age was hard to guess—his face seemed almost elderly, yet his body was much younger. If anything about his appearance stood out, it was his peculiar and inexplicable hairstyle.

His health didn't seem good; between sentences he would cough lightly.

"No, we’re already lucky enough to have been saved." Qiubai expressed his thanks again, then drank the contents of the bowl in a single gulp. He was a man who could care about flavor, but this was not the time.

A fire burned in the hearth, driving away the chill from the two young survivors and gradually drying their damp clothing. Qiubai wore only a white shirt, black trousers, and halfway-up boots. He used to have a black tie, but that had likely been lost to the sea.

"Your courage in protecting your companion is admirable. Sea Kings are common enough in these waters, but to face a direct attack and still confront it head-on is a different matter," the man praised him.

That was the direct reason he’d decided to help.

Qiubai shook his head, not responding to the man’s expectations. He pushed the empty bowl forward, and Ain took it back. When others were present, Ain rarely spoke.

Qiubai sat cross-legged, hands resting loosely on his knees, and then lifted his head slightly to look straight at their host—a gesture bordering on impoliteness.

"Compared to my own insignificance, what surprises me is meeting someone of your stature on this island."

The host was slightly taken aback. "You know who I am?"

"Not exactly, but I can guess your identity. Even on my remote home island, I’ve heard tales of your legend. To meet you now is to meet a living legend."

"I can’t be certain from your face or figure, but I recognize the blade at your waist. Every swordsman dreams of owning such a renowned weapon—the Blade of Turbulent Reversal, the Great Cutter without a groove, one of the twenty-one Great Grade Swords, a national treasure of Wano: the Black Blade Shusui."

"And the identity of its bearer needs no further explanation—the legendary swordsman, the Dragon Slayer, the master swordsman Ryuma." It was a simple deduction; such a sword would never easily change hands, nor could anyone imagine it being taken from its master while he still lived.

"Am I truly that famous?" Ryuma did not deny his identity. He straightened his posture, sitting in the formal seiza, and placed his left hand atop the scabbard, drawing the Black Blade Shusui forward an inch.

He did not do this so Qiubai could admire the sword up close, but rather... sitting upright, Ryuma assumed the classic iaido stance.

"You said just now that every swordsman covets such a blade. Does that mean you seek it as well?"

A swordsman’s hands are distinctive; Qiubai’s identity could not escape Ryuma’s eyes... He, too, was a swordsman—at least, of a sort.

"No."

To Ryuma's surprise, Qiubai gave a decisive answer. It had nothing to do with offending the master—he simply had no need for such a sword.

"I do wield a sword, but I only use my own. I have no need for another’s." Qiubai gazed at Ryuma with an intensity almost otherworldly. There was indeed something he wanted from this man, but it was not the sword itself so much as...

Swordsmanship.

Whether by chance or fate, to meet a swordsman of such caliber was a rare fortune indeed.

Ryuma returned his gaze, finding it strange. He believed the young man spoke the truth, yet it was rare for a swordsman to disregard a famous blade. Qiubai claimed to have his own sword, but his hands were empty—perhaps his weapon too had been lost to the sea.

Then Qiubai began speaking, almost to himself:

"I was born on a small island not far from here called Whale Island. My father was a hunter, and this year I am..." He paused, then looked to Ain.

"Fifteen," Ain supplied.

Qiubai did not mind her answering; she remembered such details more clearly than he did.

"Fifteen years old. I grew up in that tiny village. To me, the island was the entire world. I taught myself the sword; even the title of swordsman is one I gave myself."

"But after my father passed away, I decided to set out to sea, seeking the ultimate path of the sword."

At this, Ain lowered her head, her expression unreadable. That was not what he’d said a few days ago when they set out—clearly, Qiubai had his own reasons for framing his story this way.

Ryuma, the great swordsman... If not for that thunderous strike and the irreplaceable sword at his waist, no one could have matched the two identities.

Ryuma nodded. There was nothing suspicious about Qiubai’s story; it was a common enough tale in the New World—traveling from one island to another was like defying fate itself.

"But it seems luck was against us. We’d barely set sail when we encountered a storm."

"Self-taught, eh..." Ryuma murmured. Whale Island was indeed a small island nearby; it was unlikely anyone there could have trained him.

"Since the affair of the Pirate King, fewer and fewer people speak of the sword. If you are self-taught, would you care for a bout? It’s been quite a while since I’ve exercised."

Ryuma’s suggestion came suddenly.

For him, decapitating a Sea King barely counted as stretching his limbs. Sparring with Qiubai? Even less. He was simply curious about this young man.

"May I?" Qiubai replied, eager. Ryuma’s offer was exactly what he hoped for. Perhaps Ryuma was simply bored, but Qiubai would not let such a chance slip by.

Given the disparity in their swordsmanship, calling it a match flattered Qiubai—it was clear instruction.

"Bamboo swords..." Ryuma glanced around. He remembered having a few stashed somewhere.

"No, if we are to cross swords, I’d prefer real blades." As he spoke, Qiubai extended his right arm. With a single-handed gesture, a sword appeared, resting horizontally in his palm.

"What? Are you... a Devil Fruit user? But just now..." Ryuma felt confused. Hadn’t Qiubai just swum several laps in the sea?

Qiubai merely smiled. "It’s a little different. I’m not a fruit user—I just keep my sword in a peculiar pocket."

His explanation was vague, but Ryuma let it pass.

"Very well. May I see your sword?"

To Ryuma, the sword itself was more important than any supernatural ability.

"Of course." Qiubai handed him the sword without hesitation.

It was an unremarkable-looking blade, but the cold gleam along its edge spoke to its quality. Perhaps it was no match for Shusui, but it was still a fine weapon.

"Excellent craftsmanship."

"This sword is called Thousand Blades: Sha," Qiubai added.

"Thousand Blades?"

"Because it’s mass-produced. There are a thousand of these."

A sword’s name tied to its production run? The blade lacked ornate decoration, but its quality was undeniable. Was it possible Qiubai kept a thousand such swords in his pocket?