Pain flared first—dull, insistent, coursing through every muscle and bone. Then came the smells: bitter herbs crushed into paste, dried flowers tucked into cloth satchels, the earthy scent of poultices, and beneath it all, the faint coppery hint of his own dried blood. A coarse blanket itched against his skin.
Isshin Ashina's eyes snapped open.
He lay on a thin futon in a small, timber-framed room. Morning light, muted by a weathered shoji screen, cast the space in gentle gold. The air was still. As he tried to shift, agony roared through his chest and left shoulder, and he let out a choked grunt.
"Easy now, young warrior," a soft, steady voice said from the corner.
He turned his head and saw an old woman crouched over a stone mortar and pestle, grinding pale-green leaves to a fragrant powder. Her face was a tapestry of wrinkles, each line carrying a story of years. Her dark eyes were sharp with concern—and sorrow.
Isshin glanced at his body. Bandages wrapped his torso, brown-stained with herbs and older blotches of dried blood. His chest felt rigid—stitches coursing beneath the coarse linen. He flexed his left arm; a jag of pain shot through his collarbone. His right arm, though sore, seemed more functional.
"Wh—where am I?" His voice was rough, like paper dragged across wood.
"My home," she replied, rising gracefully. She carried a cup of cool water and placed it in his trembling hands. He sipped gratefully, the liquid a brief relief. "I found you in the old graveyard, barely breathing. The spirits guided me."
He closed his eyes, memories flooding back: the impossible speed of Byrnndi World's punch, sand swirling under Crocodile's command, the crushing blow to his sternum. Defeat. Humiliation. Loss.
"My injuries…" he managed.
She set the pestle aside. "Shattered ribs—more than a few. Your collarbone was broken in two. Deep cuts that I stitched. And the blow to your chest nearly stopped your heart. You've been unconscious for seven days. I feared you might not wake."
She gestured to bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters—witch hazel, yarrow, mugwort. "Old ways still hold power, if one knows how to listen to the plants."
Isshin let his fingertips drift over the bandages. He could feel a faint pulse of Haki beneath his skin—weak, but alive. Her herbal care had bought his spirit time to mend.
"I owe you my life, grandmother," he said, his voice trembling but steady.
She nodded, eyes distant. "A life for a life, perhaps. Or a life for a cause." She settled beside his futon. "There is a reason you were brought here, Isshin. Or a reason the spirits guided you to this island."
He met her gaze, intuition prickling.
"This island—Shiokaze—was once peaceful. The village of Minato Kaze lay by the harbor, a hive of commerce and laughter." Her words faltered, lips trembling. "Then they came. Pirates."
Isshin's jaw clenched. He knew of pirates—thugs who preyed on the weak.
"Not mere raiders," she continued, her voice hardening. "They are led by a man called Ironfang Kaito—a giant among men. He and his fiends swept across Shiokaze. They seized what they desired, slaughtered anyone who resisted. Minato Kaze was a thriving port. Now it is their fortress."
Her gnarled hand curled into a fist. "They butchered my son, my daughter-in-law, my grandchildren. They lived in Minato Kaze. They are gone—taken by those monsters." A single tear slid down her weathered cheek, vanishing in the folds of age. "I tended your wounds, Isshin. I brought you back from death. Now I ask you to help me. You have the look of one who knows battle, who can stand against such evil. Help me. Let Ironfang Kaito and his devils pay for what they've done."
Isshin sat in silence, absorbing her grief and desperate hope. He was only twenty, but the spirit of the Ashina clan coursed through him. Betrayal of the weak, injustice—they kindled a fire in his chest. His Haki, though battered, still burned within. He owed this woman his life—and she asked him to right a greater wrong.
He turned his head to the corner where his katana, Shura, leaned against the wall. Its scabbard was polished dark—marked by nicks and stains from their last clash. Even weakened, he felt its presence tug at his spirit.
"Grandmother," he said, voice steady, resolve sharpening. He reached for Shura's hilt. "My sword."
She rose, lifted the sword, and handed it to him. As his fingers closed around the hilt, a shiver of Armament Haki trailed along its edge. Even at twenty, Isshin's bond with Shura was absolute.
He drew it a few inches. The blade gleamed faintly black in the morning light.
"Ironfang Kaito. Minato Kaze. They will learn the cost of their cruelty," Isshin declared. He pressed himself into a seated position, ignoring the flare of agony that shot through his ribs and collarbone. The faint pulse of Haki strengthened, mingling with his pain. "I will free your village."
---
The harbor reeked of salt and dread. Minato Kaze was unrecognizable. Once-bustling wharves lay half-collapsed, fishing boats splintered and washed ashore. Crude barricades of driftwood and stolen lumber blocked narrow alleys. A torn banner—an iron-fanged wolf's head on a blood-red field—whipped in the wind from the former harbormaster's office. Villagers lurked in shadowed doorways, gaunt faces etched with fear.
Isshin Ashina walked toward the village like a gathering storm, though each step sent hot spikes of pain through his healing ribs. A kasa woven from dried reeds shaded his face, its wide brim brushing the collar of his dark-blue uwagi. His hakama, faded gray, swayed around his legs. Underneath, the bandages that still clung damp to his skin reminded him of his fragile mortality. At his hip, Shura rested in its scabbard, the weight both comforting and burdensome.
Near the entrance stood a makeshift gallows, three empty nooses swinging gently above dark stains in the dirt. Isshin paused beneath them, gaze unreadable. The acrid scent of stale sake and unwashed bodies clung to the air.
On the main street—wide, dusty, rutted by cart wheels—four pirates emerged from a looted sake den. Their cutlasses were chipped, their axes rusted. They laughed, tormenting a stray dog with kicks until it yelped away.
"Oi!" roared a burly pirate with a greasy topknot and yellowed teeth. He spotted Isshin. "Lookie here, boys! A kid wandered off his shelf. This ain't no charity house. You got coin for Lord Kaito's 'protection'?"
Isshin did not answer. He continued walking.
"Deaf, are ya?" sneered a scrawny pirate, hefting his axe. "This is Ironfang Kaito's town! Pay up or piss off—hell, we might gut you just for fun!"
Still, Isshin advanced. Pain throbbed through his chest and ribs, but his steps never faltered.
When he stood ten paces from the pirates, their laughter died. The burly pirate blinked. Then he charged, hoisting his cutlass.
The swing was wide and brutish. Isshin shifted his weight with quiet precision, his Observation Haki needle-sharp. The blade hissed past where his head had been.
In the next heartbeat, Shura was free. Not drawn with flourish, but with lethal intent. A dark aura of Armament Haki traced the edge of the blade.
SHING!
The burly pirate's eyes went wide as a red arc blossomed across his throat. Blood spurted. His cutlass clattered to the ground. He collapsed in an instant.
The other three froze, terror replacing bravado.
"Wha—He killed Koji!" one sputtered.
Isshin did not relent. He pivoted, parrying a wild axe swing with the flat of Shura. The Haki-infused steel rang against rusted iron. With a swift riposte, he slashed the pirate's thigh. The man screamed, clutching the wound as Shura thrust into his heart. He crumpled.
Two remained. One stumbled backward, panic in his eyes. Isshin's Haki-guided instinct seized a discarded sake bottle. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it hurtling toward the pirate's head. CRACK! The bottle shattered, and the man toppled forward, unconscious.
The last pirate, barely more than a boy, dropped his cutlass and sank to his knees, hands raised. "Mercy! Please… mercy!"
Isshin stood over him, chest heaving, Shura dripping with blood. Pain stabbed his mended collarbone, but he ignored it. "Where is your 'Ironfang' Kaito?" he rasped from beneath the kasa.
The boy whimpered, pointing down the street toward the harbormaster's office. "H-h-harbormaster's… he's there. Please… don't hurt me!"
Isshin gave a curt nod. The boy scrambled to his feet and fled, vanishing into the inn's door like a rat into a hole. Isshin sheathed Shura. He listened to the silence: only the distant cry of a gull and the wind whispering through broken windows.
For a long moment, the village held its breath. Then, a shutter creaked open. A pair of terrified eyes peeked out, then vanished. Another shutter creaked. Minato Kaze watched, waiting.
A bent old man emerged from a narrow door, clutching a fishing net like a shield. His knees bowed inward, his shoulders slumped from hard years. His rheumy eyes darted from the bodies to Isshin standing unmoving.
"Stranger…" the old man croaked. "You… you killed Kaito's men. Do you know what you've done? He'll bring the full weight of his army down on us! He'll raze Minato Kaze for this!"
Isshin turned his head slowly, the kasa still hiding his face. "Is that the justice Kaito offers? Fear and slaughter?"
Before the old man could answer, a woman stumbled from an alley. Her kimono was faded and torn, hair unbound and knotted with grime. Her eyes were wide with grief.
"Did you… did you see him?" she whispered, hurrying to Isshin, stopping at the sight of the dead pirates. "No… just his lackeys." She sank to her knees, hands clenched. "They took my Kenji—my little boy. He smiled at one of them, and they said it was disrespectful. Kaito laughed as they dragged him away…" Her voice cracked. "Is there no end to this suffering?"
More villagers emerged—pale faces, hollow eyes. They clustered in frightened groups, keeping their distance. Whispers echoed in the empty street.
"He'll kill us all now."
"Leave before he brings fire upon us."
The old herbalist stepped forward, leaning on her staff. Though sorrow still clouded her eyes, now they burned with resolve. "Fools," she said softly but firmly, "this man bears the storm with him. But perhaps he is the storm we need."
She approached Isshin and bowed her head. "Warrior-san, you have found your way here."
Isshin inclined his head. "The debt must be paid, grandmother."
At that moment, two more pirates swaggered around a corner, laughing over some private joke. They halted when they saw the bodies, the lone ronin, and trembling villagers.
"Oi! What the—?" snarled the taller pirate, a stained bandana binding his greasy hair. He carried a scimitar curved like a wolf's fang. "You! Straw-hat! You did this?"
His companion drew his sword nervously, eyes wide.
The taller pirate spat. "Doesn't matter if you did. Kaito-sama wants answers—and he loves new toys to break!" He swung his scimitar toward Isshin. "Now, you're coming with us—"
Isshin took a single step forward. His shattered ribs protested, but his Haki flared. Shura was out with deadly speed. A thin line of black Haki traced its edge.
CLINK—SHINK!
The pirate's scimitar tip snapped off, clattering onto cobblestones. His eyes bulged. Before he could fully react, Isshin's blade's flat slammed into the side of his head with a muffled thwack. He fell, unconscious.
The second pirate froze, terror flooding his face. He wheezed, eyes darting between Isshin's hidden visage and the still body on the ground. He dropped his sword and bolted toward the harbormaster's office, screaming, "KAITO-SAMA! INTRUDER! HE KILLED THEM!"
The old man groaned. "Now it is done. He will come."
The grieving mother wept openly. The herbalist tightened her grip on the staff. "So be it," she whispered.
Isshin sheathed Shura again and turned to the villagers, voice calm but firm. "Stay inside. Bar your doors. This is not your fight."
He sensed it before he heard it—the ground trembling, a distant, rhythmic thump… thump… thump, growing louder. The air hummed with tension.
A roar tore through the dawn, shaking windows and shattering silence:
"WHO DARES SPILL MY MEN'S BLOOD IN MY DOMAIN?!"