The sun filtered weakly through the early morning mist, casting Rendra's Veil in a hazy golden sheen. The town was quieter than it had been the day before. The air held the kind of tension that lingered after blood had been spilled, even if the locals didn't know it. Ashen stood at the edge of the wooden walkway overlooking the harbor, staring out at the water with a stillness that belied the battle raging inside his mind.
He had leveled up.
Expert.
The word meant little to the world at large, but to him—it was a turning point. The system hadn't congratulated him. There was no music, no flash of celebration. Just a quiet update to the status panel. He had purchased his own evolution.
And it felt… earned.
[Level Up: Amateur → Expert] [Strength: 4.9 | Endurance: 5.3 | Durability: 4.9 | Agility: 4.8] [New Skill: Proto-Soru (Incomplete) – Efficiency: 12%]
Ashen exhaled slowly, the air brushing past his lips as if testing the weight of his own progress. The Proto-Soru technique wasn't perfect. He had triggered it during a fight—not through calculation, but through sheer survival instinct. The strain it left in his legs afterward reminded him that speed came with cost. But even so… that burst of momentum had felt like freedom.
The kind of freedom that terrified opponents.
A faint shift in wind caught his hair, brushing the whitish-gray strands across his forehead. He closed the panel with a thought and turned away from the view, stepping back into the heart of the port town.
His destination: The black market.
---
The Crimson Wraith had docked a day ago to refuel, restock, and repair. Vorn had given Ashen freedom to explore, on the condition that he return by nightfall. The captain had grown more respectful—if still wary—of Ashen's presence after their last skirmish. Ashen knew he wasn't trusted, but he was being watched less closely now. It was enough.
Rendra's Veil, for all its pretty name, was a pit of smugglers and mercenaries. The perfect place to find information, and maybe, a weapon worthy of his next stage.
He walked with practiced calm, hood up, sword sheathed at his back. He wasn't hiding—he was blending.
People moved quickly here, bartering in whispers and exchanging sealed packages under barrels and crates. The deeper he went, the more honest the lies became. He passed a stall selling seastone fragments—most fake. Another offered "Devil Fruit Essence" in powder form—almost certainly poison.
But he wasn't here for trinkets.
He followed a lead he'd overheard two nights prior from a drunken sailor: "Old Roka's smithy—burned down, but the forge still glows. You want real blades? That's where you go."
He found it nestled between the back alley of a warehouse and a collapsed building—half-covered in ivy, its roof mostly gone, but the smell of iron still thick in the air.
Inside, a single forge glowed with coals. A man in his sixties stood behind the anvil, eyes sharp and arms like tree trunks. Scars ran across his knuckles and chest. He was hammering a curved blade into shape with delicate precision.
He didn't stop when Ashen entered.
"You're not local," the old smith said.
Ashen stepped forward slowly. "I'm looking for something durable. Balanced. Lightweight."
The man paused mid-hammer, then chuckled. "You want me to make a sword for a boy with baby teeth."
Ashen drew his sword slowly—an old marine blade he'd claimed in the previous fight—and, with a single, fluid movement, sliced a stone ingot cleanly in half atop a nearby crate.
Silence.
Then, the smith let out a breath.
"Well, shit. You're one of those."
"One of what?"
"Killers who don't smile."
He pointed toward a chest half-buried in rubble. "Pick one. If it sings when you swing it, keep it. I won't ask for coin if you walk out of here without bleeding."
Ashen crossed the room and opened the chest.
Blades of all shapes lay inside—some chipped, some pristine. But only one caught his eye: a thin black blade, slightly curved, with a dull shine and no ornamentation. No name. No symbol. But when he lifted it—his arms instinctively shifted to balance its weight.
It felt... right.
He stepped away, took a breath, and swung it in an arc so fast the air split.
The room went still.
Even the forge's fire seemed to lean back.
The smith grunted. "That one's waiting for a name."
Ashen nodded. "So am I."
He turned and left.
---
Back at the ship, night fell with gentle quiet.
Ashen returned to the lower deck, blade strapped across his back, and sat beside a barrel to run through his nightly training. His motions were sharper now, smoother. Proto-Soru activated twice—not at full speed, but enough to test the muscle strain. His legs burned, but it was manageable.
He focused, remembering the bounty hunter's rhythm. The way he moved. The footwork. The moment right before he lunged. Ashen mimicked it again and again, burning it into muscle memory.
If the system was a mirror, then mastery came through reflection.
As he trained, the system hummed softly.
[Skill Efficiency Increased: Proto-Soru – 12% → 14%]
Progress.
Measured not in leaps—but in inches.
And yet, even as he trained, a whisper returned to him. Not from within. From memory.
The ruins. The glow. The pulse beneath the sea.
Something was calling him again.
And the sea… was never silent for long.
Ashen's breath came slow and steady as he finished his final repetition. Sweat soaked the collar of his shirt and ran down his spine, each drop earned through precision—not frenzy. He was no longer just training to grow stronger.
He was sharpening a weapon.
Himself.
The blade he'd chosen—still unnamed—rested across his lap. It had no shine, no fame. But when he held it, it felt like the quiet calm before a storm. Balanced. Deadly.
[Proto-Soru Efficiency: 14%]
[Muscle Fatigue: Minor – Recovery in progress]
Ashen flexed his fingers, testing the subtle tremble beneath the skin. Fatigue. Not damage. That was good. Proto-Soru still drained him, but his body was adapting.
He took a moment to focus inward.
[Status Window – Ashen Veyr]
Level: Expert
Berry: 165,000
Strength: 4.9
Endurance: 5.3
Durability: 4.9
Agility: 4.8
Skill: Proto-Soru (14% Efficiency)
Weapon: Unnamed Black Blade (Unranked)
There was no shortcut to mastery—but there was direction.
And right now, that direction was beneath the sea.
---
The Crimson Wraith prepared to cast off at dawn. Supplies were loaded. Repairs were complete. The crew buzzed with anticipation—some for plunder, some for distance. Ashen, however, had only one thing on his mind.
The Pulse.
It had come to him again the night before, while he meditated. A subtle thrum through the ship's hull. A presence too rhythmic to be coincidence, too familiar to ignore.
It came from below.
As the crew drank their morning grog and hauled crates, Ashen slipped away to the edge of the harbor where the rockface curved into shadow. He stood at the end of a jagged pier—half collapsed—and knelt, fingers trailing in the water.
He waited.
And then… there it was again.
A single, soft pulse—like a heartbeat echoing from the deep.
[Environmental Anomaly Detected]
[Traceable Source: Submerged Cavern, 40 meters below sea level]
The system pinged—not with answers, but with possibility.
Ashen stood, eyes narrowing. "Forty meters underwater…"
He didn't have gear.
But he did have lungs honed through repeated endurance training. More importantly, he had will.
He tied his sword to a watertight wrap and secured it to his back. Stripped to his undershirt and trousers, he stood at the edge, calculating the dive.
This wasn't just curiosity.
It felt like… destiny tugging at a thread.
He dove.
---
The plunge was instant and clean, his form tight and streamlined. Water pressure hit him like a wall by ten meters, but his body held firm. By fifteen, his ears throbbed. At twenty-five, darkness closed in.
Still, he kicked downward.
[Endurance Check: Passed]
[Oxygen Reserve: 67%]
His movements were efficient now, born of training, not panic. At thirty-five meters, a faint blue glow began to appear below.
At forty… he saw it.
An archway carved into submerged stone. Ancient. Faintly humming. The water around it shimmered unnaturally, like it bent light through a different set of laws. Symbols—half-faded, half-glowing—lined the entry. The pulse was stronger here.
It wasn't a call.
It was a test.
He reached forward—and the moment his fingers touched the edge of the stone, something ignited in his mind.
[System Synchronicity Detected]
[Memory Echo Imprint – Fragment Acquired]
Ashen's lungs screamed. The vision slammed into him with the force of a cannon.
A tall figure, cloaked in shadow, stood atop a battlefield of broken ships. Not a Devil Fruit user. Not a marine. Not a pirate.
Something else.
A swordsman wielding a black blade—curved like Ashen's, but infused with something deeper. Not Haki. Not steel.
Conviction.
Then it was gone.
His lungs gave out.
Ashen kicked upward, exploding from the cavern like a torpedo, lungs tearing open the moment he breached the surface. He dragged himself onto the rocks, coughing violently.
[Breath Recovered – Oxygen Stabilized]
[System Update: Hidden Trait Registered – Bloodline Resonance (Dormant)]
He lay there, trembling—not from exhaustion, but from truth.
Something ancient had just acknowledged him.
And it wasn't the system.
It was the world itself.
---
Back aboard the Crimson Wraith, Ashen returned dry, silent, and alert. He made no report. Told no tale. But in the lower deck, he opened his status panel.
There, beneath the usual stats, a new entry flickered faintly.
[Bloodline Resonance – Dormant]
Description: You have inherited a connection to a forgotten lineage buried by time and erased by fear. Activation requires a catalyst.
Ashen stared.
His hands curled into fists.
"I'm not just surviving anymore," he murmured to the empty hold. "I'm remembering."
The sea was no longer a mystery.
It was a mirror.
And Ashen Veyr had just started to see his true reflection.
The Crimson Wraith cut through the sea like a dagger, wind full in its sails, heading northwest along the Grand Line's unpredictable currents. The crew bustled with renewed vigor, unaware of the storm brewing below their decks—not in the ocean, but in the form of Ashen Veyr.
He sat alone in the cargo hold, cross-legged on a barrel beneath flickering lanternlight. The ship creaked with its usual rhythm, but Ashen's senses were locked inward.
[Bloodline Resonance – Dormant]
Condition: Catalyst Required
Note: This trait cannot be artificially triggered. Exposure to ancestral memory sites or combat events may awaken it.
There was no doubt in his mind now—he had inherited something far older than the system. That echo in the depths had stirred something primal. The black blade, the battlefield of broken ships—it hadn't been metaphor.
It had been a memory.
Or a message.
The thought chilled him.
But fear had no place in him now.
He opened his palm. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for his blade and drew it half from its sheath. The edge was still clean, faintly gleaming, and yet… there was a resonance. Like it was waiting.
No, recognizing.
[Weapon Bond: 4%]
Your compatibility with your current blade has begun to develop. A named weapon may be forged through further blood, experience, and intent.
Ashen exhaled slowly.
A name, then.
Not now, but soon.
"Once it cuts something worthy," he whispered.
He slid the blade back and stood. Above, he heard shouting. Not panic—just the sounds of discipline. Training.
The Crimson Wraith had a few fighters onboard—mercenaries, bounty chasers, deserters. Most avoided Ashen. He didn't provoke. But the moment he stepped above deck, that changed.
"You again."
The voice was sharp, female. A tall woman leaned against the mainmast, arms crossed, with short-cropped red hair and eyes like polished steel. She wore dual short swords and bore a bounty tattoo across her collarbone—former Hunter.
"Name's Eryn," she said, watching him closely. "Seen you move in Rendra's Veil. You've got instinct. But you're holding back."
Ashen didn't speak.
She smirked.
"I'm not offering to teach you. I'm challenging you."
The crew's chatter stilled. Training duels weren't rare, but few ever called Ashen out. Rumors were growing—and Eryn clearly wanted to see if they were earned.
Ashen stepped forward.
No words.
He just nodded once.
The circle formed quick. Bare steel was forbidden in sparring, so they each took practice swords—ashwood, weighted properly. As Ashen gripped his, the system flickered.
[Engaging Combat Scenario – Controlled Conditions]
Stat Growth Opportunity Active
Proto-Soru available (Risk: Minimal strain)
Eryn struck first. Fast. Her movements were honed, efficient—a professional's. But Ashen had already read her rhythm by the third step. His body moved low, slipping the arc of her strike, and retaliated with a sharp jab to her ribs.
She grunted, stepped back, grinned.
"Oh, so you do dance."
The duel escalated.
Ashen pushed his Agility harder than ever. Every twitch, every step, he refined. Each clash of wood echoed across the deck. The crew watched in silence, eyes wide. It was no longer sparring.
It was a showcase.
Eryn swept low—Ashen flipped over her shoulder and struck her exposed back. She turned too slow. Winded. And for a split second—
[Proto-Soru Activated – Efficiency: 15%]
He blurred behind her and tapped the wooden blade against her spine before she could turn.
Silence.
Then a low whistle.
Eryn stood tall, chest heaving. Then she nodded—serious this time.
"You're better than you look, Ashen Veyr."
Ashen returned the sword, wordless.
But the system was already rewarding him.
[Minor Stat Advancement – Combat Application]
Strength: 5.0
Agility: 5.0
[Proto-Soru Efficiency Increased – 15% → 16%]
[Expert Tier: Mid Phase Reached]
Continue accumulating refined combat experience or invest Berry for early Master-tier breakthrough.
Ashen felt the change immediately.
Like his body moved a second faster than before—breath flowed smoother, muscles obeyed without hesitation.
He was breaking past the normal human threshold.
Eryn leaned close. "You ever think about joining something bigger than a merchant crew?"
Ashen's gaze was distant.
"I already have."
---
That night, he lay in his bunk, staring at the low ceiling, eyes sharp.
The fight had triggered something else—not in his stats, but in his instincts.
That resonance... the bloodline...
It wasn't just ancient.
It was watching.
The sea glowed under a twin moon, its silver hue stretched endlessly across the Grand Line horizon. Onboard the Crimson Wraith, most of the crew slept. Only the nightwatch remained topside, whispering low over mugs of watered-down grog. The hum of the ship against the tide was a lullaby for those at peace.
But Ashen wasn't at peace.
He stood at the ship's stern, eyes locked on the water trailing behind them. It wasn't the ocean that disturbed him—it was the stillness within himself. A stillness unnatural.
[Bloodline Resonance: Ambient Pulse Detected]
Origin: Unknown
Distance: Far
Threat Level: Not Immediate
The message had flickered only once and disappeared, but Ashen couldn't forget it. Someone—or something—out there had responded to his awakening. Something of similar lineage.
That meant he wasn't alone.
Or more precisely—he wasn't forgotten.
He clenched the railing, brows drawn low. No one else saw it. No one else could.
But the moment passed. His attention shifted as footsteps approached.
Eryn again.
She kept her distance this time. A quiet respect had grown since the duel.
"We'll be reaching Balei's Edge in two days," she said, voice casual. "The Captain's planning to dock for resupply. Word is, there's been strange movement along the port. Black-flag types."
Ashen's jaw tensed.
Balei's Edge.
He'd heard that name during his scavenging days—an island port ruled not by Marines, but by whoever held the most firepower. A perfect place to vanish… or die.
Eryn continued, tone probing now. "Some of the crew might leave. The pay's getting worse. You? You planning to stay aboard?"
Ashen didn't answer directly. Instead, he turned to her.
"If someone with a bounty of over 10 million enters Balei's Edge, would they be hunted?"
Eryn raised an eyebrow. "Depends. If they've got enemies. Or if they show weakness."
He nodded slightly.
Then turned away.
That night, his system updated again—not with a warning, but with a choice.
[Berry Available: 165,000]
Expert → Master Upgrade Cost: 200,000
Optional Stat Boost via Berry Injection Available
Select Attribute(s) to Enhance?
Ashen hesitated.
Pumping stats prematurely was reckless. But… the world wasn't going to wait for him. And his instincts told him: danger was drawing close.
He selected Durability and Agility.
30,000 Berry Spent
Durability: 5.2
Agility: 5.1
He felt it immediately—his steps lighter, skin tougher, reflexes slightly sharper. He wasn't a Master yet. But his foundation was becoming something no low-tier pirate could match.
The next morning, as the ship approached the first visible cliffs of Balei's Edge, the lookout shouted.
"Sail, starboard! No colors!"
Ashen stepped to the railing, watching the silhouette of a dark ship emerge from the mist—sleek, fast, silent. And then…
[Bloodline Resonance: Spike Detected]
Warning: Unknown Entity in Range
Alert Level: Moderate
The ship wasn't flying a flag.
It didn't need to.
Because Ashen already knew.
It wasn't a coincidence.
Something—or someone—on that ship had felt his presence too.
Balei's Edge.
To call it a port would've insulted other ports. It was a jagged cluster of docks lashed to a volcanic island, half-consumed by its own smoke. Charred stone towers leaned like broken teeth toward the sky, while half-built ships and steel scrap floated beside galleons flying flags from every sea.
No Marine presence.
No law.
No order.
The Crimson Wraith coasted in under the gray sun, her black sails drawing no attention amid the chaos of pirate traffic. At least two dozen ships crowded the port. No one greeted them. No one challenged them. Only the creak of timber and the distant hammering of a forge filled the air.
Ashen stood near the prow, hood drawn. He felt the tension the moment they passed the outer perimeter—like stepping into a den of wolves. Every dockhand, pirate, and merchant had the same glint in their eyes: opportunist.
"Keep your weapons close and mouths shut," Vorn muttered to the crew. "And if any of you are stupid enough to start something—don't come crawling back."
Ashen disembarked silently with the rest.
He wasn't here for trade.
He had one goal: information.
And maybe—an upgrade.
---
The marketplace sat beneath canvas drapes soaked with grime and smoke. Stalls sold devil fruit imitations, black-market log poses, sea prism fragments—most of it fake. But he wasn't fooled. His system highlighted value when it saw it.
He passed a stall.
[Item Detected: Reinforced Shark-Leather Gloves]
Stat Boost: Minor Grip & Impact Resistance
Price: 3,000 Berry
Efficiency: Low
He moved on.
Another pulse hit him.
This time—stronger.
[Proximity Alert: Unregistered Bloodline Variant Detected]
Status: Dormant
Location: 60 meters west
Threat Level: Unassessed
Ashen turned, slowly scanning the crowd.
He didn't see anyone unusual—no D. family symbols, no outrageous power signatures. But something, someone, was watching.
The system didn't offer names.
Only danger.
He walked deeper into the back alleys, following the signal. A rusted smithy loomed, its chimney puffing oily smoke. Inside, a half-giant man hammered glowing steel.
"Looking for something, kid?" the man grunted without looking up.
Ashen nodded once. "Something real."
The man paused, then tossed a wrapped cloth at him. Inside: a curved blade—short, slightly serrated near the hilt, the metal dark and dense.
[Item: Wind-Fused Iron Wakizashi]
Grade: Rare
Modifier: Precision + Minor Wind Resonance
Price: 40,000 Berry
Ashen tested the weight. It danced in his hand, perfectly balanced.
He didn't haggle.
"Done."
---
Back outside, the street had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
Ashen's senses screamed. His hand dropped to his new blade.
Then he saw them.
Three figures blocking the alley. Loose cloaks. No visible weapons.
But their eyes...
They glowed faintly green. And the one in front—his skin carried the faintest crackle of energy.
Not Haki. Not Devil Fruit.
Something else.
Ashen's system pulsed:
[Unknown Ability Detected: Origin Signature Similarity — 7% Match]
Threat Level: Moderate-to-High
Recommendation: Evade or Eliminate
The figure in the lead tilted his head. "So, it's true. One of the Old Blood walks again."
Ashen didn't answer.
He stepped back—slow, calculating.
"Leave," he said coldly. "You don't know what you're chasing."
The figure smiled faintly.
"Oh, but I do. You're the flame that wasn't snuffed out. We felt it ripple. Even across the sea."
Ashen's instincts fired—Proto-Soru.
He vanished from view, reappearing behind them with blade drawn.
The three turned simultaneously.
Not surprised.
But… ready.
He slashed once—fast, clean. Metal shrieked. The lead figure deflected with something not quite a blade—some type of compressed energy, humming in midair like crystallized lightning.
Ashen's arm burned with the recoil.
Not human.
Not normal.
He didn't wait.
He sprinted away, weaving between alleys, pulse high. The system throbbed in response:
[Skill Progress: Proto-Soru – Efficiency increased to 17%]
[System Alert: Enemy Tracking Lost – Reassessment Pending]
He didn't stop until he'd circled back to the Crimson Wraith. His breaths were sharp, his blade hand trembling.
That wasn't a fight.
That was a test.
And next time—they wouldn't be probing.
They'd be coming for blood.
--------------
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