Chapter 31: Signs of Cracking

Author Note: 

Donate your powerstones

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The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the jungle. The island felt eerily quiet—too quiet, as if the land itself was holding its breath. Vulcan, however, was far too preoccupied to notice. His focus was on the thick tree in front of him, its trunk scarred with shallow puncture marks from his endless training attempts.

He flexed his fingers, taking a deep breath, and positioned himself. Shigan—a Rokushiki technique that turned a finger into a bullet—required precision, speed, and strength, all things he'd spent months refining. But it wasn't just about thrusting your finger. It was about making your entire body one with the strike, harnessing an internal power that sent waves through your muscles and out your finger like a spear.

His target stood unmoved: a large, knotted tree that had served as his training dummy for days.

"Alright," Vulcan muttered to himself, staring down at his index finger. "You've got this. Focus."

With a sharp inhale, Vulcan launched himself forward, his arm shooting out as his finger stiffened and pierced the air like a dagger.

Crack!

His finger connected with the tree, sending bark flying in all directions as a deep indent formed in the trunk. Vulcan smiled, pulling his hand back to inspect the result. This time, the puncture was deeper, more defined. He had finally done it—a clean Shigan strike.

"Not bad," he said, admiring the damage. "Could be better, though."

He wiped sweat from his brow, his muscles burning from the repetition. Shigan wasn't just about force; it required an almost inhuman level of precision and focus. He had seen Garp use it effortlessly, his fingers puncturing steel like butter, but Vulcan knew he had a long way to go before reaching that level.

Still, he was getting better. With each thrust, the technique became more natural, more instinctive.

"See? Not so hard after all," Vulcan said, flexing his fingers. But there was no one around to hear him. No one.

The realization crept in like a cold breeze, making him pause. The silence of the jungle had never bothered him before. He had always trained alone, focusing on the task at hand. But now, as the wind rustled through the leaves, it felt different—too quiet.

His hand dropped to his side, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring blankly at the tree. His mind wandered back to Garp, to Ace, to Sabo. Voices filled his head—whispers, faint, but familiar. He could almost hear them.

"Not bad, huh?"

Vulcan turned abruptly, his heart skipping a beat. He scanned the empty jungle, searching for the source of the voice. But there was no one. Only the trees, swaying gently in the breeze. His grip tightened on the naginata slung across his back, the realization hitting him with sudden force.

He was talking to himself.

Vulcan let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "Great. Going crazy now."

He forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow in the silence. The isolation was getting to him. How long had it been since he'd seen another person? Since he'd heard anything other than his own voice? The jungle around him felt vast, endless—and for the first time, he felt its weight pressing down on him.

"This is fine," Vulcan muttered, shaking his head as if to clear away the thoughts. "I'm fine. Just need to focus."

He stepped back into position, forcing himself to focus on the task. His finger stiffened again, and with a powerful thrust, he struck the tree.

Crack!

The bark shattered beneath his finger, the hole deeper than before. But there was no satisfaction in it. His mind wasn't on the training anymore. It was on the silence, the overwhelming emptiness of the island.

"Come on, Vulcan. Get it together," he muttered, flexing his fingers again. "You've got work to do."

The next few days passed in a haze of training. Shigan became his obsession, his way of drowning out the eerie silence that gnawed at his mind. He trained from dawn until dusk, puncturing trees, rocks, anything he could find to improve his technique. The once lush jungle clearing had turned into a battlefield, scarred with holes and broken bark.

But as his strikes improved, so did the whispers. He would hear faint voices in the distance, sometimes calling his name, sometimes laughing, as if mocking his solitude. At first, he ignored them. They were just figments of his imagination, born from the isolation. But they grew louder, more insistent, until he found himself snapping his head toward the trees, certain that someone—anyone—was there.

"Vulcan!"

His heart raced as the voice called out, clear as day. He spun around, eyes wide, expecting to see Garp standing behind him, arms crossed and grinning like a proud grandfather.

But the jungle was empty.

Vulcan's chest heaved with heavy breaths, sweat pouring down his face. His hands trembled as he stared at the empty clearing. "No. No, no, no. Get it together," he whispered to himself, sinking down onto a fallen log. "You're fine. You're alone. This island's messing with your head."

He forced himself to focus on the ground beneath his feet, to breathe slowly and steadily. The voices weren't real. They couldn't be. He hadn't seen another soul since Garp had left him here.

Crack... Boom...

Vulcan's head shot up. That sound wasn't a voice—it was an explosion. Faint but unmistakable, rumbling from somewhere deep within the jungle. His instincts kicked in immediately, and he leaped to his feet, grabbing his naginata.

"That wasn't in my head."

Without wasting another second, Vulcan took off toward the source of the noise, moving swiftly through the dense foliage. As he ran, his mind raced. An explosion meant someone else was on the island—pirates? Marines? He had no idea, but the thought of another human presence after so much isolation sent a jolt of excitement through him.

He reached the top of a hill, looking down at the jungle stretching before him. In the distance, he saw faint plumes of smoke, curling up into the sky. His eyes narrowed. Whoever they were, they weren't far.

"Finally," he muttered, a grin spreading across his face. "Something real."

He tightened his grip on the naginata and set off toward the smoke, his mind already shifting to battle mode. Whoever they were, they weren't here for a picnic. And if they were here for the Devil Fruit he had stolen from the beast, they were in for a fight.

But a small part of him—a part he wouldn't admit aloud—was just happy to know he wasn't alone anymore.