MTLNOVEL Chapter 7: Chapter 7
East Blue, Shimotsuki Village.
One after another, smoke rose into the dimming sky, as the lingering warmth of the day slowly receded, casting long shadows over the small village.
Against the backdrop of the setting sun, a lone figure stood atop the gnarled branch of a towering tree, his keen gaze fixed on the bandits' lair nestled in the mountain's embrace. His stance was steady, and at his waist hung a blade, its hilt wrapped in pristine white cloth. Slowly, he drew the sword from its scabbard, running his fingers lightly over the spine of the blade—a blade that, despite its length, was more akin to a katana than a traditional sword.
According to Koushirou, it was called Wadō Ichimonji.
One of the twenty-one Ō Wazamono grade swords, Wadō Ichimonji was a masterpiece of craftsmanship—a symbol of a samurai's oath. Its blade and scabbard were pure white, reflecting the purity of its design. Measuring roughly 88 cm in length, it was a sword of immense value, not only in terms of power but also in the legacy it carried.
Though he had spent the past year honing his skills, the sword still felt slightly long for him. Fortunately, his training under Koushirou had instilled in him the discipline to wield it effectively. He was close in age to Kuina, two years older than Zoro—around eleven years old. Standing at 1.6 meters tall, his frame had been forged through relentless training, making him far more formidable than an average child his age.
And tonight, he would put his training to the test.
The East Blue was often called the weakest of the four seas, a place where great pirates were a rarity. It was a domain still kept in check by the iron fist of Vice Admiral Garp, a man whose very name struck fear into the hearts of criminals. Yet, in the absence of powerful pirates, the scum of society had found their own ways to thrive.
The bandit lair ahead housed precisely 127 people—mostly hardened men, with a few women whose presence there was anything but voluntary. Dongze's eyes darkened as he observed the scene. The weak had no rights in a world like this.
His gaze shifted to the leader of the bandits, a brutish man clutching the only firearm in the camp. A single gun to maintain his rule over the others.
After all, in the hands of the weak, a blade could only do so much against the power of a firearm.
Dongze exhaled softly.
Under the waning twilight, he slid silently from the tree, his steps measured as he crept toward the bandit stronghold. It was a crude fortress, built against the mountainside for natural defense. Yet, complacency had dulled these bandits; their sentries were absent, a fatal oversight.
A testament to the fragile peace of the East Blue.
But tonight, peace would be shattered.
Dongze had no intention of engaging them all at once. Even with his training, taking on 127 men head-on would be reckless. No, this required precision. Caution. He settled into a concealed position, waiting patiently as the sun dipped below the horizon and the night claimed the land.
Darkness was his ally.
Then—voices.
Two bandits stumbled through the darkness, their breath reeking of alcohol, their slurred conversation filled with depraved boasting.
Dongze narrowed his eyes.
His hand found the hilt of Wadō Ichimonji, and the blade slid free with a whispering sound. A sound that made the two men halt mid-step, their intoxicated minds recognizing the chilling familiarity of a sword being drawn.
"Who's there?!" one of them barked, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice.
They had miscalculated. For too long, they had terrorized without consequence. Tonight, their reckoning had come—not in words, but in the silent arc of steel.
A single flash. A gleam in the dark.
And then—nothing.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Dongze exhaled, the weight of reality settling over him. He had long known of this world's cruelty, but witnessing it firsthand was another matter entirely.
In the dim light, he failed to notice the translucent text flickering before his vision:
Sword Draw Proficiency: 1/10,000 → 21/10,000
The night deepened, and Dongze's silhouette disappeared into the darkness once more, his silent purge unfolding like a deadly dance.
The first screams shattered the stillness of the night.
Dongze's blade found its mark again and again. He had already eliminated more than half of the bandits, reducing their numbers to a manageable threat. Yet, the remnants had begun to rally, clustering together in response to the unseen threat.
He knew the moment of direct confrontation was near.
His eyes flicked toward the leader—the only man armed with a gun. The biggest threat. Without hesitation, Dongze moved.
The bandit king's fate was sealed before he even realized he was under attack.
For all his posturing, the man was no warrior. He had relied on his firearm to secure his authority, but against a true swordsman, he was nothing. Wadō Ichimonji carved through the air, and the reign of the so-called king came to an abrupt end.
Dongze stood amidst the carnage, blood glistening on his blade. His breath was steady, his resolve unshaken.
Had this been the Grand Line, things would have been different. There, even common townsfolk wielded weapons, ready to fend off pirates at a moment's notice.
But here, in the East Blue, the presence of a single firearm dictated the balance of power.
He had been lucky.
If there had been more guns—fifty, perhaps—he would have approached this battle differently. He was strong, but he was not invincible. Not yet.
Still, this night had made one thing clear.
With Wadō Ichimonji in his grasp, he would carve his own legend into this world.