The man in the trench coat didn't move. He stood there with a posture that screamed exhaustion, yet his eyes—red-rimmed and heavy with dark circles—were fixed on Zoro like a hawk. He wasn't looking at Zoro's face; he was watching the way Zoro's thumb brushed against his own palm, a subconscious habit of checking for a sword's guard.
"Who's asking?" Zoro repeated. He didn't like the way this stranger looked at him, as if he were a puzzle to be solved.
The man sighed, a long, weary sound that puffed out from behind his gray, bandaged scarf. He pulled out a small bottle of eye drops and tilted his head back, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to Zoro's defensive stance. "Just a man who's tired of seeing kids throw their lives away for a fantasy."
He tucked the bottle back into his pocket and looked at Zoro again. "You have decent eyes. You were watching the rookie's balance, not his water. Most people only see the flashy stuff. They see the wave, they cheer, and they go home. They don't see the locked knees or the poor center of gravity."
Zoro's jaw tightened. "I don't care about 'most people.' I have my own path."
"A path without a Quirk?" The stranger's voice was flat, devoid of any mockery, which somehow made it sting more. "U.A. High's entrance exam is in ten months. It's a practical test. Do you know what they use for the exam? Huge, multi-ton robots. Steel armor. No pain receptors. No blood. No fear."
He took a step closer, his footsteps making absolutely no sound on the pavement. It was the movement of a professional.
"The system is built for Quirks, kid. It rewards the loud, the fast, and the explosive. A boy with a wooden stick and some muscle won't even dent a one-pointer. You'll be crushed before the first buzzer even stops ringing. That is the mathematical reality of this world."
Zoro felt a slight sting of frustration, not because the man was lying, but because he was right. Every word felt like a weight being added to his shoulders. But as the weight grew, so did the heat in his chest. It wasn't anger—it was a challenge.
A slow, dry grin spread across Zoro's face. It wasn't the heroic smile you'd see on a billboard. It was something sharper. More predatory.
"Steel, huh?" Zoro murmured. He shifted his weight, feeling the familiar tension of the iron weights hidden under his trousers. "I've never tried cutting a robot before. Sounds like it'll take more than a thousand swings a day to get it right."
The stranger blinked. He had seen many kids break when faced with the "Quirkless reality." He had seen them cry, or get angry, or give up. He hadn't seen many smile.
"You're either a genius or a complete idiot," the man muttered, turning his back and walking into the shadows of a narrow alley. "Ten months. Don't break your bones before the exam even starts, Roronoa Zoro."
Zoro watched the man disappear as if he had never been there. It was only then that he realized something. "Wait... how did he know my name?"
The only answer was the distant hum of city traffic.
Zoro walked back to the dojo in silence. The evening air was getting colder, biting at his skin, but he barely felt it. His mind was repeating the man's words: Multi-ton robots. Steel armor. He pushed open the heavy wooden gates of the dojo. The hinges creaked, a sound that usually felt like home, but tonight it felt like a reminder of how old and fragile this place was.
Master Kenji was in the courtyard, sweeping fallen leaves with a rhythmic, sweeping motion. He stopped when he saw Zoro's face.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Kenji said, leaning on his broom.
"I met a weird guy," Zoro replied, sitting on the wooden porch and unstrapping the heavy iron weights from his ankles. The weights hit the floor with a satisfying, heavy thud. "He told me that the U.A. exam is full of metal machines. That a sword is useless against them."
Kenji looked at the weights on the floor, then at the calloused palms of his student. He didn't offer a "don't worry" or a "you can do it." He knew Zoro better than that.
"To cut steel with a blade, you must first learn to cut it with your mind," Kenji said quietly. "If you see the robot as 'metal,' your blade will shatter. If you see it as an object with a 'rhythm,' a 'breath,' then there is nothing in this world you cannot part in two."
Zoro looked at his hands. They were shaking slightly from the day's exhaustion. He balled them into fists. The breath of steel. "I'm going to the training hall," Zoro said, standing up.
"You haven't eaten," Kenji reminded him.
"I'll eat when I can't lift the sword anymore."
Zoro spent the next five hours in total darkness. He didn't need the light to see the target in his mind. He focused on the weight of the bokken, the way the air moved around the blade, and the imaginary resistance of armor.
One thousand and one... one thousand and two...
The only sound in the dojo was the whistle of the wood cutting through the air and Zoro's controlled, heavy breathing. He was pushing past the ache in his shoulders, past the sting of his blisters. He was looking for that 'breath' Kenji spoke of.
Just as he raised his sword for another strike, a violent CRASH echoed from the front of the dojo.
The sound of splintering wood and heavy, disrespectful laughter broke the silence of the night.
"Oi! Old man!" a voice shouted from the courtyard. "We know you're in there! We're here for the property tax... the 'special' kind!"
Zoro's eyes snapped open in the dark. The predatory grin from earlier returned, but this time, it was colder. He didn't reach for his wooden sword. He walked to the corner of the room, where three real, steel katanas rested on a rack.
"I was just looking for something to practice on," Zoro whispered to the darkness.
He gripped the hilt of the first sword. The steel felt icy against his palm. Outside, the voices grew louder, and the sound of something being smashed filled the air.