Zoro felt as if he were about to die. The opponent didn't seem particularly powerful—at least not by his standards—but even so, he'd been beaten into this sorry state. That could only mean one thing: his strength was far more limited than he'd realized. He might very well die here.
No, the problem wasn't just the opponent—it was this body. It was completely useless!
"You, someone without any sword aura, actually managed to unleash sword aura… You're terrifying. But that's exactly why I have to kill you. If you hadn't done that, you might've had a chance to walk away alive."
The swordsman clearly felt some regret—someone who could manifest sword aura without possessing it was rare, a real talent. But the mistake Zoro made was too grave to overlook—one that demanded death.
"Huff… If it weren't for this pathetic body, you'd never have beaten me!"
Zoro panted heavily, his breath ragged and unsteady. He was on the brink of collapse—he could barely even stand. His hand felt dislocated; this body had been pushed past its limits. It was garbage. Utter garbage.
"And another thing—what language are you even speaking? I can't understand a word. And not understanding makes it worse, because I'm convinced you're insulting me. Which means I have to kill you!"
When facing someone who'd already gone mad, there was only one response—kill them. Anything else would be foolish. Zoro's opponent wasn't going to show mercy, so Zoro wouldn't either.
"Tch."
Zoro wasn't afraid. On the contrary, he was calm—eerily calm. Like this was just another routine exchange. But his eyes… his eyes were terrifying. Not the kind of gaze ordinary people carried. It was animalistic—predatory. This was only the second time he'd seen such eyes, and it chilled him to the bone.
That kind of gaze set off every primal instinct in him: kill or be killed. If he didn't strike first, he would die. The certainty of it rang through every fiber of his being.
He shut his eyes. Death didn't scare him anymore. There were still things he didn't understand—questions left unanswered—but if he couldn't fight like a swordsman, then he would die like one, with pride. Though… there was someone he felt guilty about leaving behind.
But he'd made his choice. If his strength wasn't enough, there was no point in lamenting it. A swordsman's pride was everything. If you couldn't live with it, better to die with it. Wasn't that the cleanest way?
Yet, just as his opponent was about to strike—an explosive gust of wind tore through the air, forcing the enemy to retreat.
Zoro opened his eyes. A new figure had appeared—stronger than the last. Not overwhelmingly powerful, but strong enough. Even in his prime, Zoro doubted this newcomer would have matched a fraction of his strength. Yet now, this man could easily end him.
"Young master, are you alright?"
The man turned—middle-aged, clad in rough linen, long hair unkempt, with a beard that hadn't seen a razor in weeks. He held a sword, the same weapon he'd used to drive off the attacker. Clearly, he too practiced the way of the sword.
"You idiot! Do you even know what you're doing? He's from the Zoro Clan! Do you understand what that means? Leave, or I'll cut you down where you stand! A lowly First-Rank Swordsman dares to act so high and mighty?"
This new arrival spoke with dominance, but it was the kind born of arrogance, not true strength. A kind of brute confidence—learned, not earned.
"Damn it! You're lucky today! If not for him, I'd have killed that brat! Picking a fight with me out of nowhere—he must be insane! The Zoro Clan only knows how to bully the weak!"
The attacker clearly resented the situation. From his point of view, Zoro had struck first. How could he possibly let that slide? Anyone would defend themselves in that situation. But it didn't matter—strength ruled this world. And the other man was stronger.
"If you don't leave now, you'll leave in pieces."
The middle-aged man's tone grew colder. This idiot was asking for a beating. If it weren't such a sensitive time, he would've drawn blood already. But now wasn't the time. Killing someone right now would bring too many consequences—ones that could damage the clan's reputation.
After all, it was a critical period for the Zoro Clan. They couldn't afford any missteps.
"My lord, are you hurt? Why did you challenge a First-Rank Swordsman? You don't even have aura—why did you try to fight him?"
The man's expression shifted to concern. If anything happened to this young master, the clan would be finished. The last one born with a sword soul had been taken from them—and now this boy was their only hope.
If he could one day reach the rank of a Tenth-Level Swordsman, the clan might yet survive. It was a fragile hope, but their only one. He had to live. He had to become the heir. No mistakes. No accidents.
"Thank you. Do you know where we are? Have you heard of the Sabaody Archipelago on the Grand Line?"
Zoro offered his thanks, then cut straight to the question that had been gnawing at him. Where exactly was this place? He didn't have time to linger. If he could, he'd leave immediately—he had to know what had happened. Were his companions still fighting on Sabaody? Or had everything fallen apart?
The thought of total annihilation made his chest tighten. That was the outcome he feared most. Yet, even as weak as he was now, he needed to see them again. They were his people—his reason to keep fighting.
"Young master? What are you talking about? I don't understand a word. Have you… forgotten how to speak in just one month?"
The older man blinked, bewildered. This was definitely the young master. No question. But why couldn't he understand him? Was he traumatized? Had isolation caused his language skills to regress?
If that were true… it would be a disaster. This boy was the Zoro Clan's last hope.
"What the hell are you saying?!"
Zoro frowned. What was this guy going on about?