If Zoro couldn't understand a word they were saying, then teaching him anything would be close to impossible.
This was a problem that had to be solved. Fortunately, illiteracy could still be dealt with—if only through language instruction. As long as they could establish a shared tongue, everything else would follow.
It was also the thing Zoro wanted to resolve the most. He couldn't understand what anyone was saying. That left him paralyzed, with no idea what to do next. But he had things to do. He still wanted to reach the Grand Line. He still needed to act. He had far more important matters to deal with than staying here, stranded and speechless.
Even though this place felt oddly familiar, it was only his body that remembered—not his mind. His soul belonged to him and no one else.
Once they realized Zoro suddenly couldn't understand them, most questions became unanswerable. But one crucial mystery remained: had Zoro really unleashed that attack?
It was a question worth investigating. If he truly had launched that strike, it meant he was compatible with ancient swordsmanship techniques. And if he could master them, then he might very well be the key to the Zoro clan's resurgence. He had the potential to become a formidable warrior.
That's why they needed to confirm whether he could generate sword energy. If he could, it would prove he was suited for the ancient arts—techniques passed down from bygone eras. Over time, those arts had fallen out of favor as new cultivation methods became popularized. The old ways were slowly left behind.
Everyone knew why the ancient arts faded: they were too demanding. They weren't meant for just anyone. Only those born with exceptional talent could even begin to learn them. Ordinary people wouldn't stand a chance—and even if they did, they would never become truly powerful. But for those few who did succeed, the rewards were unmatched.
That's one of the main reasons their continent had fallen behind—because the other side still practiced the ancient arts. That meant the enemy had not only greater numbers but also superior quality among their cultivators.
In the past hundred years, many began to believe that the ancient arts no longer led to true power. Reformists emerged, developing new cultivation systems. Their efforts rapidly increased the number of martial artists, surpassing the total count from all previous eras.
But the good times didn't last. Their continent eventually fell—defeated by an invading cultivation system. Now, swordsmanship dominated the martial landscape, though most of it came from foreign schools.
Their conquerors sought to assimilate them completely. That's how you crush a defiant people: from every possible angle, until resistance becomes impossible. And over time, their memories would fade.
Yet in the previous battle, Zoro had clearly displayed a unique combat style. Could it be that he was born for the ancient arts? No one could say for sure. All they could do now was observe him step by step. But the most frustrating problem remained—he still didn't know how to speak!
It was an agonizing dilemma. If it were just amnesia, that could be handled. But this seemed far more complex. He might have even forgotten his skills. To them, Zoro appeared like a blank slate—so blank it hurt.
"Looks like we'll have to rely on gestures," one of them said, exasperated. "Use the most primitive method and hope he understands."
Zorren, the clan steward, watched silently. He didn't know what to say. The young master seemed broken—unable even to speak. That was the most helpless part.
"Well, we'll just have to do it this way," he muttered. "I don't believe he'll be mute forever. Take him to the martial arena. Let's see if he can replicate the technique he used yesterday. If he can, then we'll decide what to do next."
Though he was reluctant to admit it, right now, what mattered most was cultivating a strong warrior. Dissenting voices were growing louder. Many with noble ambitions still yearned to resist foreign rule. Any time a new cultivator rose, they dreamed of rebellion—of reclaiming control over their land.
No one wants to be conquered. That truth was set in stone from the beginning of time. Even if some submitted, it was only ever to their own people—not to outsiders. That was a fact everyone knew. Their lives had once been peaceful—until disaster struck. Now, anyone with power wanted to turn the tide.
Before long, they arrived at the martial arena.
Zoro's eyes lit up. He finally saw something he had long been waiting for—tools that could help rebuild his physical strength. Perfect, he thought. If he could just use these to strengthen his body, then maybe—just maybe—he'd be able to wield his sword techniques again.
He recalled how, at the Baratie, he'd once said to Hawkeye Mihawk: "Brute-force swordplay isn't beautiful." Mihawk, in turn, had found Zoro's style overly focused on raw power.
They trained in completely different schools of swordsmanship.
Yet Zoro had never strayed from his path. He always trained with strength as his foundation, even as his swordplay gradually evolved into a balance of strength and grace.
Still, he always relied more on force. But this body… it simply couldn't deliver the kind of power he was used to. After executing just one Three-Sword Style: 36-Pound Phoenix, he'd dislocated his shoulder. That alone showed how feeble this new body really was.
"I don't know if you can understand what we're saying," the Zoro clan leader began, "but I hope you can understand my movements. I want you to recreate the battle scene from yesterday. I want to see your power. Watch me first."
He gestured with deliberate clarity, then drew his sword.
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. When he opened them again, Zoro's brow furrowed. He had a vague sense of what the man was about to do.
The clan leader's blade flashed from its sheath. In an instant, it stirred a gust of wind and sliced clean through a stone slab in the distance.
That was sword energy—a visible aura sharp enough to cut stone.