James trained twice a day in the real world—once in the early morning, and again at night if he could slip it in without raising too many eyebrows. His parents had eased up over the years. At first, they'd hovered, quietly worried about how hard he pushed himself, especially for someone who started training as a toddler. But as time passed—and as James grew leaner, faster, stronger, without injury or complaint—their concern softened. The rules stayed, but the enforcement loosened. They still watched, especially his mother, but most days they let him be.
Inside the training system, his rhythm didn't change. The moment his head hit the pillow, he transitioned into the familiar space—muscles still sore from the day before. He used the Bloom Pod no more than three times a week, not by preference but because any additional uses came with a steep berry cost. So he made those sessions count. Only when he had pushed himself to the edge—trembling limbs, drained core—did he sink into the pod and let it do its work.
That cycle had become part of him: push until empty, recover, repeat. Pain wasn't a warning anymore. It was a marker—time to shift into healing. With Jarvis keeping the clock and Might Guy managing the regimen, every minute felt like it mattered. No wasted effort. No drifting.
Real-world drills. System grind. Pod reset.
Then back to it.
Day after day.
Year after year.
And now, the results were undeniable.
Well—undeniable as they could be for a ten-year-old. He stood slightly taller than most kids his age. Nothing dramatic, but enough that people noticed. What really stood out, though, were his muscles—not bulky, but defined in a way that only came from years of focused work. Every movement carried a quiet precision. Even relaxed, his posture held a balance that others didn't.
He could walk on his hands with ease now, holding it steady for minutes at a time if he focused. His flexibility had become something else entirely—he could bend, twist, fold in ways that seemed more circus than street. Backflips, front flips, smooth rolls over rough ground. It had taken years, but his body followed instruction like it had been rewired.
Most impressive of all was the stealth. Might Guy never let that lesson go. Over the past few years, he drilled it into James with quiet intensity: once a ninja, always a ninja. Move without sound. Breathe without drawing attention. Land like a whisper, vanish without a trail.
James had taken that to heart.
Well—tried. He had never been able to sneak up on his parents… ever. Not once.
His father would glance up from gutting a fish and nod toward where James had crouched in the doorway. His mother would call his name before he even touched the latch. No matter how slow he stepped or how well he timed his breath, they always knew.
Might Guy insisted he wasn't doing anything wrong. That some opponents simply had instincts sharpened beyond explanation. James believed him—but it didn't make it any less frustrating. He wanted that win. That moment.
He hadn't gotten it. Yet.
It could recreate just about any environment he could think of—mountains, deserts, deep forests, open sea. But the good stuff, the real scenarios with moving parts—combat drills, pirate raids, Navy boarding parties, even simulations involving characters from other anime—that all cost berries. And he didn't have those.
He'd seen the menus. A mock battle against a small Marine unit ran at 100,000 berries. A pirate ship boarding scenario, complete with AI combatants, was closer to 250,000. Anything involving a known figure—even a basic re-creation of a low-tier anime fighter—started at half a million. That kind of money might as well have been imaginary.
Still, Might Guy had found a way to squeeze every drop out of what was free. He used the environment settings constantly, especially the ocean.
"You'll be living on the sea one day," he said with complete confidence, "and a ninja doesn't fear the waves."
James had spent months learning to swim under different conditions—rough waters, calm shores, even in pitch-black night. He had built up a real skill for it. That was when he explained Devil Fruits to Guy, mentioning how they granted powerful abilities but took away your ability to swim.
Guy frowned, puzzled, as if the idea personally offended him.
"Why would you choose to limit yourself?" he asked. "Do you not believe in the power of your own youth?"
James wasn't sure how to answer. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he wasn't sure yet. But Guy clearly did.
That thought stuck with him as he stood up from the simulator platform, brushing imaginary sand from his shirt. It was spring in the real world, and for the first time in years, he wasn't just training. Today, he'd be helping his father.
Hunting and trapping season had begun.
As James followed closely behind his father, he felt his heart beating with excitement. The cold air brushed against his face, but the weight of the fur-lined cloak kept him warm. His own cloak—stitched by his mother—hung off his shoulders just like his father's, though it was smaller and trimmed in wolf fur rather than full polar bear. Still, it moved in the wind the same way. He even had a spear now, a real one. Shorter, sized for him, but sharp and sturdy, with a carved grip that fit perfectly in his hand.
Ahead of him, his father walked with slow, deliberate steps, boots crunching faintly in the snow. Tomas's massive frame moved like a mountain given life, red hair pulled back in a rough knot that bobbed between the white fur shoulders of his great polar bear cloak. He carried no weapon in hand—he didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to command the forest.
James's job was to stay close and stay quiet.
Tomas's point of view
He'd waited years for this.
From the moment James first asked—no, demanded—to go on a hunt with him, Tomas had started laying the groundwork. At the time, Marry had refused. Their son was too young, too small, too full of fire and not enough patience.
But Tomas saw something. The way James moved, the intensity in his eyes when he trained with sticks in the yard, the way he'd sneak around the house thinking he was quiet—he had the instincts. They just needed time.
Now, at ten years old, the boy followed him through the woods with the poise of someone twice his age. Tomas didn't hear a single misstep. No careless crunch of frost. No wild exhale of breath.
He paused and turned to glance back.
James stood a few paces behind, holding his spear with both hands, eyes wide and alert. His red hair, darker than Tomas's but still unmistakably the same bloodline, drifted lightly in the breeze. His shoulders were square, knees slightly bent, weight on the balls of his feet like he was ready for anything. Tomas smiled, quietly impressed.
The boy's physique was lean but firm—too developed for his age. Not in a concerning way, but in the way that made Tomas feel proud. He'd been a physical outlier himself as a kid, a freak of nature by most standards. But James had something more. The way he moved—the way he snapped those kicks in the yard, those sharp, deliberate punches when he thought no one was looking—it was structured. Not random play. It was training. Real training.
Where the hell had he learned to "play" like that?
Tomas didn't know. But one thing was certain.
He had a damn fine son.
Meanwhile James was currently thinking about two things—managing the spear in his hands and watching every step he took to ensure silence and clean movement. His second mind, Jarvis, stayed fully engaged, tracking movement in the trees and brush ahead, above, and behind. Their surroundings folded into one layered awareness. Every sound, every shift in scent, every patch of softened snow filtered through both minds working in tandem.
Patches of snow still lingered across the ground, hardened and crusted. The air held a sharp edge. His father carried a large bag over one shoulder filled with their traps and supplies. His spear rested across his back—three times the length of James's and several times as thick. When Tomas planted it, the weight left a clear, deep impression in the snow.
Back at the cabin, the spear always hung high above the fireplace, mounted out of reach. James had never touched it. It belonged to another tier of strength.
He picked up the signs—low breath, light tread, a shift in the woods.
Wolves. A pack.
Northern Timberwolves.
They moved with purpose, white as the snow they blended into. Fur thick and ragged from the winter, yellow-white teeth exposed beneath curled lips, long bodies hunched low to the frostbitten ground. Their pale eyes flashed between tree trunks, narrowed and sharp. They weren't prowling. They were tracking. Hungry.
Tomas didn't shift his stance. His broad shoulders stayed relaxed beneath his heavy fur cloak. Each step he took pressed deep into the crusted snow. His long red hair moved in the wind, loose and wild like a living flame. In one hand he gripped the long shaft of his hunting spear, the other steadying the trap bag over his back. He moved like he had all the time in the world.
Four of them. He counted each with a glance.
He tilted his head back—just slightly.
James followed in his steps like a shadow, his smaller spear balanced in both hands. The boy's eyes scanned the terrain ahead, his shoulders low and his feet soft across the snowpack. Every step placed with thought. Tomas couldn't help but smile.
A quick learner.
Then, from behind, came the signal. A sharp whistle—short, clear, and controlled. Exactly as he'd taught. Tomas acknowledged it with a faint nod but gave no other response. The test had come early.
And James was already reacting.
Across the rise, the wolves surged into view—four streaks of white muscle and speed. Their paws barely crunched the snow. They cut through the woods like ghosts. One darted directly at James, jaws slightly open, tongue lolling. Another peeled off, dropping low into a flanking run. The remaining two hung back just at the tree line, pacing, waiting.
James didn't flinch.
He slid one foot behind him, adjusted his grip, and angled his body just enough to bait the charge. His breathing stayed steady. Even.
The first wolf lunged.
Snow kicked up behind it, the muscles in its back legs coiling as it launched forward. But James wasn't aiming at it.
His focus was already behind.
The second wolf, the flanker, moved fast and quiet, slicing across the boy's blind spot from the rear left. But James pivoted. The spear turned with his whole body, arms aligned, tip set at a low angle.
The wolf committed.
Its leap turned into a fatal dive.
The spear pierced just under the jawline, straight through the neck. The beast's momentum collapsed it inward, and it fell sideways off the shaft with a wet thud. Its body twitched once, steam rising from the blood that soaked into the snow.
Tomas narrowed his eyes.
What happened next surprised Tomas.
The first wolf barreled forward, its own momentum driving the spear through its throat. James let the force carry him backward, tumbling with it, and came up on one knee—spear already angled for the next strike.
The second wolf charged.
James shifted, spear steady, and met it chest-on. The weight of the beast drove the blade clean into its heart. The body thudded down inches away, muscles twitching as steam curled into the air.
Two wolves. Two strikes. Two clean finishes.
Tomas raised his brows.
His son moved like someone who had done this before. The way he absorbed the hit, recovered, and re-positioned—the flow looked natural. That kind of poise usually came from blood, bruises, and a hundred failed tries.
He scratched his chin, muttering low to himself, "Either I raised a prodigy or I drank too much beer this morning."
The last two wolves hesitated. Their ears flattened, paws retreating step by step until they turned together and bolted through the trees.
Tomas took his massive spear from his back—long as a roof beam and easily ten times the weight of James's—and hauled it overhead.
With one fluid motion, he hurled it.
The thick weapon hummed through the cold air and skewered the first retreating wolf. Then the second. Both bodies slammed into a tree with a dull crack, hanging there like trophies.
James stood still, eyes wide, staring from the tree to his father, and back again.
Tomas beamed. "Ha! See that? That's how you handle leftovers."
He gave his arms a shake, knocked the snow off his boots, and turned toward the tree.
"Boy's sharp," he added with a quiet laugh, more to himself than anyone else. "Moves like that? Definitely my side of the family."
He glanced back at James, who still hadn't moved, his spear dripping red into the snow.
Tomas grinned again and added cheerfully, "Wait'll your mother hears. She's gonna love this." Then off he went, whistling tunelessly, eager to collect his spear—and maybe brag a little along the way.
Tomas rubbed his chin, eyes drifting toward the treeline where the two wolves hung limp on his spear.
"Well… actually," he muttered aloud, "let's just say I killed 'em."
He gave a slow nod, completely satisfied with the lie. The image of his wife's angry face flashed through his mind, and he shuddered slightly. Then he turned to his son and said it like it was gospel. "Yeah. She may not let you come again if she hears wolves showed up on our first hunt, so I did this. You saw nothing."
James blinked, still standing there with blood on his hands and a look that said he wasn't quite sure how to process what just happened. He glanced at the tree, the bodies, then down at his own spear, then back to his father.
Tomas strolled over, snow crunching underfoot, trying to look casual about the whole thing.
In truth, he'd never been worried. The wolves weren't a threat. Not here. Not to him. This island didn't have anything strong enough to scare Tomas. He'd felt the wolves before they even showed themselves—heard their breaths, watched their movement, tracked the intent in their steps. He let them come.
He just wanted to see what James would do.
And his son had handled it.
Still… Marry would lose her mind if she found out he stood there letting wolves attack their only son just to "see how it'd go." That woman once threw a soup pot at his head for letting James nap too close to the fireplace.
Nope. Best not tell her the wolves were ever here.
Maybe the wolves were sick. Maybe they attacked him. Maybe James poked one with a stick, and they ran into the spear like idiots. Yeah, maybe they just… gave up.
He looked back at his son, who was now scrubbing wolf blood off his spear with a wad of packed snow, face cool, but those green eyes sharp and focused.
Tomas let out a low chuckle.
"Yeah," he grunted again. "Let's just go with that story. Daddy did it. Hero of the woods. Mighty hunter. Real looker too."
He paused.
"Don't tell your mother."
James continued to clean the spear, and one thing was certain—he wouldn't lie to his mother. She seemed to have a sixth sense for it.
But maybe he wouldn't tell the whole truth. His dad, with a single throw of a spear, had finished off the wolves.
But he was mostly excited—his training was paying off. Though, in the back of his mind, ever since the day his father saved him from the kidnapping, he had a feeling:
He wasn't a normal person.
And he suspected—with a lot less proof—that his mother wasn't normal as well.