Chapter 4: One Month of Salt and Sweat

A month passed.

The days began to blur, marked only by sunrise, high tide, and the smell of fish guts.

Akira had fallen into a rhythm—slow, quiet, but not meaningless. Each morning, he woke before the sun rose. He helped Jiro check the tide nets, gathered driftwood, fetched water, and cleaned the tools. By now, his blisters had become calluses. The trembling in his hands had faded, replaced with a quiet, aching soreness that never fully left.

Jiro didn't talk much. But he didn't need to. Akira learned by watching—how to cut the fish cleanly, how to boil seaweed without ruining its taste, how to keep a fire steady even when the winds howled inland.

Still, even as he adapted, a storm brewed behind his eyes.

East Blue.

He'd confirmed it after overhearing the village dockmen a week back—an old marine patrol ship had passed through, flying a minor ensign. Akira had listened carefully from a distance, keeping his head down, pretending to be just another local boy.

But his mind burned.

This was One Piece.

A world of monsters. Of pirates. Of Devil Fruits, Warlords, and World Governments.

He wasn't dreaming. Not anymore.

And if this was real—then danger was inevitable.

He was no swordsman. No martial artist. He had no rubber powers, no flashy moves. Just a tired body and a growing hunger to not die the moment real trouble arrived.

So he started training.

Quietly. At first.

Every evening, after chores were done and Jiro dozed by the fire, Akira would step outside behind the hut. He began with basic stretches. Jogged along the shoreline until his lungs burned. He tried push-ups, sit-ups, squats—simple things. Things he remembered seeing in flashbacks and filler arcs. Luffy training with stones. Zoro swinging logs. Usopp running laps with full backpacks.

No teachers. No instruction. Just sweat, repetition, and grit.

Sometimes he'd swing a thick tree branch like a sword. His form was laughable at first—awkward and flimsy—but his grip slowly strengthened. Sometimes he'd punch at the air until his knuckles tingled and his arms drooped like dead branches.

No progress came quickly. No great revelations followed.

But day by day, he felt just a little less like a ghost.

One night, as he returned covered in sand and sweat, Jiro glanced up from the porch.

"You trying to look pretty for the fish?" the old man grunted, chewing on a pipe.

Akira smirked tiredly. "Something like that."

Jiro snorted, then looked away.

He never asked why. And Akira never explained.

Some things didn't need to be said.

By the end of the month, Akira's body had changed—only slightly, but enough. His posture was straighter. His steps more stable. He could carry heavier nets. Cut faster. Breathe deeper.

He still had no plan.

No grand dream.

But for the first time in a long while, he was moving forward.

One day at a time.

To be continued…