Chapter 15 – The Silence Between Steel
The sun hung low over the eastern sea, casting copper light across the gentle waves. A small boat cut a quiet path through the waters, its lone passenger seated cross-legged at the stern. The sea breeze tousled his white-gray hair, but his eyes were sharp—unwavering. Focused.
Ashen Veyr had left Shimotsuki Village behind.
Not because it had nothing more to teach him—but because staying longer would dull his edge.
He had already mastered the basics of the Shimotsuki sword style to a level few in the village could comprehend. He could now project compressed slashes with controlled arcs, sharp enough to cleave through stone from ten meters away. Steel posed less resistance than it once had, especially when his strikes carried subtle pulses of Haki. The dojo had served its purpose.
But Ashen knew this was only the beginning.
"No more peace. It's time to sharpen the blade in blood again."
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade. The sea felt too calm.
He checked his status window—not from vanity, but from necessity.
---
Status Window
Name: Ashen Veyr
Title: None
Level: Master
Berry: 413,000
Combat Stats:
Strength: 8.0
Endurance: 8.7
Durability: 8.6
Agility: 9.4
Skill Proficiency:
Soru: 78%
Tekkai: 49%
Busoshoku Haki: 33%
Swordsmanship – Shimotsuki Style (Base Form): 6%
New Trait: Wind Edge (Unstable) – Allows momentary extension of blade reach via high-speed pressure slashes.
---
He shut the window with a blink, letting the data settle into instinct.
The world ahead was wide—and soon, dangerous.
Ashen had no interest in returning to Loguetown, nor to staying in East Blue for much longer. He wanted challenge. Real opponents. He needed more pressure, more danger. Only then could his Haki grow. Only then could he mold his blade into something worthy of the legends he'd started to uncover.
"The Grand Line... that's where the blades stop pretending."
But before that, there was one last stop he considered.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded, worn-out parchment. It was a crudely drawn map, scavenged from a bounty hunter he'd bested days ago. The island wasn't named—but the stories had called it many things.
A forgotten Marine depot. A lawless stretch of land. A place where swordsmen were tested by mercenaries, deserters, and pirates alike.
Baron Hollow.
There were whispers that the Marine presence there had been wiped out. No one knew why. No one knew who ruled now. But Ashen felt it—it was exactly the kind of crucible he needed.
As the boat creaked forward under the fading sun, Ashen sat quietly, blade resting across his knees. Wind whispered through the sea around him, and his senses stretched with it.
"Soon."
He didn't smile. But there was anticipation in his silence.
Ashen's small vessel reached the edge of the island as the sun dipped fully below the horizon. Baron Hollow had no welcome—no port, no lights, no guards. Just jagged rocks, splintered wreckage, and the broken skeletons of once-grand Marine outposts half-swallowed by time and neglect.
Ashen stepped off onto the shore without ceremony. His boots sank into coarse, gritty sand, and the scent of blood hung faintly in the air despite the salt breeze. He didn't need a signboard to know this place had devoured better men.
"This isn't lawless," he muttered. "This is forgotten."
Ruined barracks leaned like crooked teeth on the cliffs above. Weeds sprouted from cracks in shattered courtyards. Chains hung from broken gallows, rusted and long unused. There had been judgment here once. Now, it was a graveyard of both justice and rebellion.
Ashen let his senses expand, listening. Feeling.
His eyes narrowed.
Multiple presences. Ten? No—more. Moving in the ruins. Waiting.
He didn't draw his sword. Not yet. Instead, he strode forward, past the shattered gate of what had once been the island's Marine command post. His steps were calm, controlled, and deliberate. The wind curled behind him—soft, but sharp-edged.
From behind a broken wall, a voice called out.
"Oi. You're not from the camps. You lost, traveler?"
Ashen's gaze flicked left. A group of six emerged, half-covered in scavenged armor and mismatched rags. Each bore weapons—cutlasses, crude rifles, and jagged knives. Their stances were loose, confident.
Ashen didn't answer.
One stepped forward—a tall man with sun-scorched skin and a broken Marine lieutenant's coat wrapped around his waist like a trophy.
"Hah. You deaf or just stupid? This place belongs to the Hollow Pack now."
Ashen's gaze fell on the crude insignia stitched into their clothes—a spiral of teeth circling a skull. Mercenaries. Exiles. Killers.
"If this island has a name," Ashen said calmly, "then I'll be its ghost."
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