James found himself lying back in the Bloom Pod. The liquid was gone. His clothes were dry. His brain didn't hurt. Thank God, he thought—when Jarvis's voice echoed inside his skull.
You did that in twelve hours. Color me impressed. Staying awake let the process complete faster.
James thought about getting out. He wanted space, wanted to think clearly. The moment the thought formed, the pod opened with a quiet hiss. Looked like it responded to his thoughts now.
He stepped out and blinked under the white ceiling lights. The air felt clean. His head clear—but something felt different. He paused. It was subtle at first, but then he realized—he was seeing both ahead of him and behind. His eyes were still his own, but another input fed him awareness of his back. Jarvis.
A mini version of Jarvis appeared on his shoulder, legs crossed casually.
So—my abilities are tied to your strength. Outside the training realm, I won't be able to project fully yet. I'll stay within your second mind for now. But as you grow, I should be able to take this form outside too.
Then, with a shimmer, a full-sized Jarvis appeared across the room beside the brown dinner table.
I encourage you to eat some real food. It'll help. We'll work more on upgrades later.
James nodded and walked over. The chair creaked slightly as he sat. A hologram menu appeared above the table, simple and bright.
Cost: Complimentary – Nutri Paste. Everything a growing boy needs.
There were endless options buried beneath it, flipping past slowly.
Even the cheapest real dish cost 10,000 berries. Others sat at 100,000. Then a different section appeared—mythical dishes, glowing faintly gold.
Mythical Swordfish Host – 1,000,000,000 berries
Grants retractable gills and permanent underwater breathing. (Note: host can only consume one mythical dish.)
Mythical Dragon Curry – 1,000,000,000 berries
Flesh converts to dragon scales. Resistant to heat, cold, blunt force, piercing. Scales are permanent extensions of your body.
There were more—Phoenix broth, tortoise stew, leviathan roast—the list scrolled on.
James stared, wide-eyed.
He only needed a billion berries.
James ordered the paste.
The dispenser made a soft churning noise before a dull gray lump dropped onto the plate with a wet slap. He stared at it for a second. It looked like someone had tried to mold oatmeal out of damp drywall.
He took a bite.
It was… horrible. Bland, somehow bitter, and just chewy enough to be suspicious. Like someone blended stale gum and a spoonful of cold mashed potatoes, then forgot to add flavor entirely.
Bleh.
Jarvis chimed in almost too cheerfully. "It's optimal nutrition. Probably the best thing you can eat that still counts as normal food."
James grimaced and shoveled the rest in mechanically. Optimal or not, it felt like swallowing regret. The texture stuck to his teeth like old glue, and somehow, even without a taste, it still managed to be offensive.
How can something so bland still taste bad?
He grabbed the tall metal cup beside him and downed the entire thing in one go. Thankfully, water was free.
Two pencils and a blank sheet of paper appeared on the table with a soft mechanical click, settling neatly beside the now-empty bowl of nutrient paste.
"Alright," Jarvis said from within James's mind, his voice quieter now, pulled back into the space of the second mind. "Pick up a pencil in each hand. I want you to write a sentence with one and draw a picture with the other."
James picked them up without hesitation. He didn't overthink it—just chose something simple. With his right hand, he began writing: I love my mother. With his left, he started to sketch a house. A small rectangle. Slanted roof. Windows. A little path in front.
The odd part was—it worked.
His right hand moved steadily, shaping the letters one by one while his left traced the outline of the house. The lines weren't perfect, and the handwriting was a little stiff, but both hands kept moving, totally independent. His brain didn't feel overloaded. It didn't feel split either.
It just felt… natural.
"Now imagine that in battle," Jarvis said, a touch of pride in his tone. "One hand parries. The other counters. One focus tracks the fight. The other scans the field."
James studied the results. The sentence was readable. The drawing was complete. Neither hand had paused or tangled with the other.
He looked down at his fingers. Could he fight like this? A weapon in each hand?
"You could," Jarvis said, "but let's try one first before we go full juggler."
James gave a quiet nod. Maybe it wouldn't be weapons at all. Maybe, like Garp, he'd fight barehanded—and still be more than enough.
He'd spent the last few hours resting in the pod at Jarvis's suggestion. His body felt heavy but stable—like it had burned through more fuel than it had to give. The integration process had taxed him, and the pod had done what it could. As he floated, a display appeared before his eyes, projecting a clean list of treatment tiers and costs.
His three free uses per week were each valued at 50,000 berries—and any extra use beyond that would cost another 50,000 per session. Not something to waste casually.
Then came the advanced options. Each listed as per-use costs, not upgrades.
100,000,000 berries would heal fractured bones, torn muscles, and deeper surface wounds in eight hours.
Another 100,000,000 berries could repair shattered bones, organ damage, and internal bleeding—also within eight hours.
And the top tier…
1,000,000,000 berries.
It could bring someone back from the brink. Full-body trauma. A gaping chest wound like Luffy's at Marineford. Even Magellan's poison—lethal enough to kill in minutes, incurable by conventional means—could be neutralized and flushed from the system.
As long as you were still breathing, the pod could save you. And unlike emergency hormone boosts or black market drugs, this method came without years shaved off your life.
James read the fine line of glowing text again. He had none of that money now—but someday, if he made it far enough, he'd have access to healing on par with miracles.
He woke up in his bed exactly when he had fallen asleep.
The wool blanket still clung to him. The pine-scented air hadn't shifted. The dying crackle of firewood whispered from the hearth across the room. It was like time had frozen. The dream—the pod, the pain—felt distant now, like something tucked behind a curtain in his mind.
"Jarvis, you there?" James asked aloud, voice a little groggy.
"Yep," Jarvis replied, sounding worn down, almost groaning.
He hadn't rested. James could tell. For all his snark and poise, Jarvis was drained—like being tied to James's energy had stretched his limits. He'd helped guide James through the second mind integration, but he'd clearly paid a price for it.
The next day, James found himself walking after the wagon. The metal-rimmed wheels creaked over dirt and packed snow as his parents walked just ahead. His small boots sank into patches of slush. The sky overhead was pale and overcast, the kind of cold light that never quite warmed the world.
This was his punishment for sneaking off.
But James didn't drag his feet or beg to ride.
He treated it like training.
He ran ahead, then circled back. Ran again. Slowed to a jog. He kept his breathing steady, or tried to. His legs burned. His shoulders ached. But each step was his own choice.
By the time they stopped for lunch, he was struggling to keep up.
His father glanced over his shoulder. That massive grin again—broad, proud, like James was everything he'd ever hoped for. His red hair whipped lightly in the wind, his eyes crinkled with warmth.
His mother, trailing just a step behind, didn't smile. Her emerald eyes were shaded with concern, but she didn't speak up. She didn't stop him. Her sigh was quiet, just a small breath of worry that faded on the breeze.
They made him walk the whole way home.
They paused under a cluster of fir trees for lunch. His mother set out a folded cloth on a flat stone. The meal was simple: a thick slice of cheese, a hunk of brown bread, and a small wooden cup—half water, half watered-down beer.
James ate slowly, chewing methodically. The beer was bitter, the cheese sharp. He said nothing, eyes down, just trying to recover. The cold air bit at his ears.
When the break ended, they moved on.
The afternoon passed in silence except for the crunch of boots and the low grind of the wagon. James stumbled once, caught himself. He dragged his feet. The last three miles stretched forever.
Then, finally, the cabin came into view.
He took another step. And another.
Then his legs gave out.
He collapsed forward, hitting the grass beside the path with a soft thud, his arms limp, breath ragged and hoarse.
Sweat soaked through his shirt and pants. Dirt smeared his cheeks. He didn't move. Just breathed. He'd made it home—barely.
And then he let go.
Sleep took him before he could say a word.
The wagon creaked to a stop.
His father jumped down in a single smooth motion, boots landing firm on the cold ground. He walked straight over, towering like a mountain, his red hair tossed gently by the breeze. Muscles bulged under his old suspenders as he knelt, scooping James up without effort.
He grinned, wide and gleaming.
His mother stepped beside him, brushing sweat-damp hair from James's forehead, her hand soft and warm.
"He's just like you," she said, voice low.
Her husband chuckled deep in his chest, adjusting his grip on the boy. "The world's in for a surprise," he said. "Kid is all grit, like his mother."
She smiled softly and leaned in to kiss James's temple. Then she took him into her own arms, cradling his small body close, his sweaty cheek resting against her collarbone.
The breeze stirred the trees. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a wolf howled faintly in the distance.
Their son had made it home
James found himself in the training system again, the familiar white light overhead casting soft shadows across the floor. His body ached. His limbs felt heavy. It was exactly how he planned it—he'd pushed himself to the edge before coming here.
And waiting for him, arms crossed and a wide grin on his face, was Might Guy.
The green beast of Konoha stood tall, his energy already buzzing through the room like static. His smile looked just as it did in the anime—wide, white, and impossibly full of enthusiasm.
James took a breath. "I need to use the pod for treatment—first. Then I'll be ready."
Before the last word left his mouth, Might Guy scooped him up with one arm and sprinted toward the black house. His movements were fluid and absurdly fast, his white teeth gleaming as he laughed with joy mid-run.
"Then we shall make sure your youth blooms once more, my student!" he shouted, feet barely touching the floor as they streaked through the glowing hallway.
Eight hours later, James emerged from the Bloom Pod fully healed, standing in the light once more.
And there he was—Might Guy, standing tall, arms on his hips, that same giant grin on his face.
"Now, James!" he boomed, practically shaking with excitement. "Let us begin!"
The real training was about to start.
James stood on the cool floor of the training room, legs slightly apart, arms hanging loose at his sides. His body still felt light from the Recovery Pod, like everything inside had been reset.
Might Guy stepped into view, his green jumpsuit snug, his chin lifted in that familiar unshakable posture. He dropped to one knee, eyes level with James's.
"Today, we begin," he said.
There was no ceremony. No dramatic speech. Just a warm-up. Guy moved first, and James followed.
They started with arm circles. Slow, wide motions. The kind that loosened shoulders without strain. Guy demonstrated each one with perfect control, his eyes checking James's posture but never correcting with touch. Just presence.
Then came toe touches. James reached down, his fingers falling short. Guy nodded anyway.
"Each day, a little farther."
Next were spinal twists, knee lifts, and lunges done slowly, one foot at a time. Guy made him pause in the middle of each stretch, breathing through it.
"The body moves best when it understands stillness," Guy said.
James didn't ask what that meant. He just tried to feel what his body was doing.
They transitioned to assisted pull-ups. A wide bar stretched across the wall, just above Guy's head. He picked James up, let him grab on, then placed one hand gently against James's lower back—just enough to support the lift.
"Pull."
James grunted, legs kicking slightly, elbows shaking.
"Again."
He pulled again. Guy gave just enough help to let him succeed—but not enough to make it easy.
They only did five. Then they moved to squats.
"Hands behind your head. Feet straight."
James dipped low, trying to copy the motion. Guy placed a hand under his chest, guiding the angle. They did ten. Then paused.
James's legs burned. His face was flushed. But it wasn't bad pain. It felt like progress.
After stretching again—long holds, slow breathing—they ended with a walk along a thin balance beam about a foot off the ground. It swayed slightly, forcing James to move with patience. Guy stood beside him, arms ready but never catching him unless he tipped too far.
At the end, James sat down on the mat, sweat beading at his temples. He felt warm and used, but not broken. Just tired in the way that told him tomorrow would be easier.
Might Guy crouched next to him and passed him a small wooden cup of water. James drank it slowly, holding it with both hands.
"You did well," Guy said.
James didn't answer right away. He was too busy breathing.
But after a few seconds, he nodded once.
The break didn't last long.
"Conditioning," Might Guy announced, standing upright again. "Now that your body is awake… we begin."
James groaned quietly and wiped his forehead with his arm. He already felt warm, legs shaky, arms a little tight from the pull-ups.
Conditioning, as Guy explained it, was the part that came after training. James thought that made no sense. Wasn't that just more training?
Apparently not. Apparently, conditioning was a whole category by itself.
They started with crawling laps—hands and feet only, no knees. Across the white floor, to the far wall and back. Four times.
James's shoulders started to burn halfway through the second lap. But he didn't stop. He just muttered under his breath, something about how this was stupid, and kept crawling.
Then came duck walks. Deep squats, small steps, hips low. He waddled forward like some kind of angry toddler frog. Guy demonstrated each movement once, then watched silently as James struggled to keep his knees from collapsing in.
"This builds power in the thighs," Guy said. "Speed begins here."
James didn't argue. He was too busy waddling.
Next were wall sits. James dropped into position against a wide training panel—back straight, knees bent, thighs level to the floor. Guy kept a silent count by tapping his fingers against his forearm.
Seconds dragged. James's legs shook. His heels wanted to lift. But he held on.
By the end, his entire lower body felt like pudding. But he didn't complain.
Last was the run.
Not a sprint. Just a steady jog around the perimeter of the room, barefoot, trying to stay light on his feet. Guy ran beside him, hands behind his back, never breathing hard.
James, on the other hand, was panting within a minute. His arms pumped hard just to keep pace. He wasn't fast, but he didn't slow down either.
By the end, he dropped to the mat again, face flushed and shirt sticking to his back. His legs throbbed, his arms buzzed, and his breath came out hot and thick. But his heart was steady. And more than that—he had finished.
Guy sat down across from him, cross-legged, nodding slowly with approval.
"You'll remember this feeling," he said. "Not because it was easy—but because you endured it."
James didn't reply. He was too tired to speak. But deep down, he knew Guy was right.
And he also knew… he could push again tomorrow.
James was given a rest period after conditioning.
He sat at the brown table inside the black training house, legs dangling off the edge, still flushed from exertion. A bowl of nutrient paste sat in front of him. He didn't think about the taste—just got it down, washed it away with cold water, and leaned back. A few minutes later, he slid into the Bloom Pod's sleep mode. No liquid this time, just the soft give of the molded seat and the dark, quiet space. He slept for a few hours, body still tired but no longer aching.
When he returned to the main room, Might Guy was already waiting.
They didn't talk much at first. Guy stood tall, adjusting his stance with careful, precise movements, and James mirrored him without needing the words. One step out. Knee bent. Hips square. Hands up.
A basic stance—nothing more. But James could tell it was important. The balance, the tension in his legs, the quiet coil it built. It wasn't just for standing. It was for moving.
He held it longer than he expected, and when Guy finally nodded, they began adding punches.
Jarvis helped.
"Anchor your heel. Keep your elbow from flaring. Good—again."
With each repetition, Guy adjusted him physically, guiding a shoulder or tapping his foot into place. Jarvis filled in the gaps. Together, they had him throwing clean, centered punches by the end of the first hour.
Then came kicks—nothing wild. Just controlled front and side kicks, both legs. Meant to test his balance, flexibility, and recovery.
He liked it. The routine. The focus.
There weren't any big results yet, but James could feel the form settling into him, like muscle memory already stitching itself into place. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't sloppy either.
He was learning. And it was sticking.