Musutafu woke up. The quiet, gray streets quickly filled with the noise of morning traffic, honking cars, and hurried footsteps. Normal people rushing to live their normal lives.
Zoro was not normal. And he certainly didn't look it.
Every step he took left a faint, damp footprint of sweat and dirt on the pavement. The canvas bag on his back dug violently into his raw shoulders. The iron beast in his hand felt twice as heavy as it did an hour ago.
People stared. A mother pulled her young daughter closer as he walked past. A businessman in a crisp suit frowned in disgust at the sight of the bloody bandages wrapped around Zoro's hands.
"Is he a villain?" someone whispered.
"Look at that thing he's carrying. Is it a Quirk?" another muttered.
Zoro ignored them. He kept his eyes locked straight ahead. He just needed to reach the dojo, drop this dead weight, and sleep.
"Hey! You there. Stop right now."
Zoro stopped. He slowly lifted his heavy head. Two police officers blocked the sidewalk ahead of him. One had the head of a bulldog, the other looked like a regular human with a standard-issue baton resting on his belt.
"Carrying unlicensed support equipment in public is a violation of city ordinances," the human officer said, eyeing the dark, blunt slab of tungsten resting on Zoro's shoulder. "Put the weapon down and show us your student ID or Hero License."
Zoro had neither. He didn't even have a valid ID for this world yet.
"It's not a weapon," Zoro said. His throat was dry, making his voice sound like grinding rocks. "It's training equipment."
"I said put it down," the bulldog officer barked, stepping forward, his hand resting on his taser. "Don't make this difficult, kid. We'll confiscate it until we verify your Quirk registration."
Zoro looked at them. His body was screaming for rest. Fighting the police would just bring more heroes, more noise, and more wasted time.
He simply shrugged his right shoulder.
CRASH.
The iron beast hit the pavement. The concrete sidewalk cracked instantly under the blunt force, heavy spiderweb fractures spreading outward from the point of impact. The sheer sound made both officers jump back in alarm.
"Take it, then," Zoro said flatly. He rolled his stiff shoulder, trying to get some blood flowing back into his numb arm.
The human officer scowled. "Acting tough, huh?" He walked over to the black slab. He bent down, grabbing the hilt with one hand. "We get kids with strength Quirks thinking they own the streets every—"
He pulled. The iron beast didn't move.
The officer frowned. He gripped it with both hands, planting his feet wide. He grunted, his face turning red as he pulled with all his back strength.
Nothing. It was like trying to lift a parked car.
"What the hell is this made of?" the officer gasped, letting go and panting heavily. He looked at his partner. "Hey, help me out."
The bulldog officer grabbed the other side of the hilt. "On three. One, two, three!"
Both grown men pulled together, their heavy boots slipping on the concrete. The iron slab remained completely glued to the cracked pavement. It didn't shift a single millimeter.
A small crowd had started to gather, whispering and recording the two struggling cops on their phones.
Zoro sighed. He was wasting time. The morning sun was getting hot.
He stepped forward, pushing past the two panting officers. He reached down with his right hand—the one covered in bloody, torn bandages. He grabbed the hilt.
He didn't bend his knees. He didn't strain. With a single, fluid motion, he ripped the heavy tungsten off the ground and slammed it casually back onto his shoulder.
The two police officers stared at him, their jaws practically hitting the cracked sidewalk. The crowd went dead silent.
"You're in my way," Zoro muttered.
He walked right between them. Neither officer tried to stop him this time. They just stood there, staring completely dumbfounded at the shattered concrete where the "equipment" had rested.
Zoro turned the corner. The dojo was finally in sight at the end of the narrow street.
But the wooden gates were wide open.
Master Kenji was standing in the center of the dirt courtyard. He wasn't wearing his usual relaxed clothes. He was dressed in a full, dark combat gi. And sitting on the wooden rack next to him weren't the usual bamboo practice swords.
They were three real, live-steel katanas.
Kenji looked at Zoro's battered, bleeding body. His expression was cold, completely void of pity.
"You survived the morning warmup," Kenji said, his voice cutting through the quiet courtyard. He grabbed one of the real katanas and tossed it directly at Zoro's feet. The sharp blade reflected the morning sun. "Now, pick that up. The real training begins."