Chapter 6: Wood Unleashes His True Power

Clang—!

Another piercing metallic clang echoed across the port as Wood's blade came down, only to be blocked once again by Cook's iron-armored gauntlet.

Sparks erupted from the impact as steel struck steel.

Both hands gripping his sword, Wood leaned in, pressing down with all his strength—but the strain was clear on his face.

Despite his training and maturity, Wood was still freshly fifteen. And compared to the burly Cook, who had both mass and raw power on his side, the gap was undeniable.

Wood used both hands to hold his sword, while Cook held off the pressure with just one arm.

And the standoff didn't last long—Wood's eyes caught a blur as Cook's other fist came roaring at his head, carried by the shriek of cleaving wind.

Wood didn't try to meet the blow head-on. That would've been suicidal. Instead, he performed a swift, fluid backstep, retreating several meters to reopen the gap between them.

"Brat," Cook sneered, his voice thick with contempt. "When you stepped in front of the Iron Arm Pirates alone, I thought maybe you had guts.

But now? You're just a coward who runs around like a rat."

There was no denying it—Cook had power. Each of his punches, backed by those pure-iron gauntlets, could shatter stone and cave in walls.

But brute strength came at a cost. Those heavy iron armguards weighed him down, turning his footwork sluggish.

And from the start of the battle, Cook had been doing nothing but chase. The ground around them was already cratered and cracked from his missed attacks—yet he hadn't even touched the hem of Wood's shirt.

What began as confident aggression had gradually turned into mounting frustration. Cook's hits kept missing. He was clearly growing irritated.

In stark contrast, Wood was calm, composed—completely unshaken by the insults.

This wasn't some shōnen anime where every fight ended with guts and glowing fists. Wood didn't have plot armor. He wasn't the "chosen one."

In real life-and-death combat, brains mattered as much as brawn.

Cook, who couldn't land a hit, was already faltering mentally. On top of that, those heavy gauntlets were draining his stamina with every swing.

Meanwhile, Wood—light on his feet, barely using any energy—was waiting. He knew that the moment Cook grew tired and reckless, it would be time to strike.

It wasn't the most "manly" way to fight—not a duel worthy of song or legend—but Wood didn't care. Dirty? Maybe. But surviving was the only thing that mattered.

After all, Wood didn't have the luxury of healing from injuries or relying on miracles. He had to maximize efficiency—minimum risk, maximum outcome.

In truth, he might've been able to take Cook head-on, relying on speed and the year's worth of refined sword skills buried in his mind.

But that wasn't enough. Even if he won, he'd be wounded—possibly badly.

And his opponent wasn't Cook alone—it was the entire Iron Arm Pirate Crew.

If he beat Cook but collapsed afterward, what difference would that make? The others would just slaughter the islanders.

Red Maple Island had no one else to fight. If Wood fell, the rest of the island fell with him.

"Captain Cook," one of the pirates called out. "If that brat's gonna fight like a coward, why don't we just go after the townsfolk?

We're pirates, right? Who says we have to duel him one-on-one?

It's not like we have to kill the kid to get into the town."

The speaker was Iron Arm's first mate—a man who, unlike the muscle-brained Cook, served as the strategist of the crew.

And with that one suggestion, both Cook and Wood's expressions changed instantly.

For Wood, it was a heavy scowl. This was exactly the scenario he'd feared most.

It was the reason he'd spent so much time taunting Cook—to draw aggro, to pull focus, to make Cook forget the villagers.

Wood knew who Iron Arm Cook was. Maybe he didn't exist in the main storyline he remembered, which made him a nobody by those standards—but still dangerous.

Since receiving the system mission to protect Maple Island, Wood had collected bounty posters for dozens of rookie pirates across the Four Seas.

Iron Arm Cook, notorious for cruelty and already worth 20 million, had been among them.

Thanks to that prep work and a bit of improvisation, Wood had been able to stall—until now.

But with Cook's first mate giving voice to the very tactic Wood dreaded, his plan was falling apart.

Unlike Wood, whose brow tightened with worry, Cook's eyes lit up with malicious delight.

"Oh? So that's how it is, huh?" Cook sneered. "Then keep running, brat. I'll slaughter this island's people first—then take my time with you."

He turned to his crew, voice bellowing.

"Kill all the kids and the elderly. Keep the men alive for chopping trees. And the women…" he grinned, "let the boys have their fun. It's been a long voyage."

The Iron Arm Pirates weren't a massive crew—but they were no small group either. Nearly a hundred strong, they surged forward on Cook's command, weapons drawn, laughter cruel and eager.

Wood didn't hesitate. He abandoned the duel and flashed into their path like a black streak.

"One-Sword Style… Iaijutsu—Falling Petals!"

A sharp flash of light tore through the air.

By the time Wood had resheathed his blade, nearly ten pirates in front of him stood frozen—bodies marked with thin, crisscrossing lines.

A heartbeat later, their wounds exploded open. Blood burst from them like cherry blossoms in bloom, a hauntingly beautiful, deadly display.

The pirates, stunned, stared in disbelief.

They had assumed, based on Wood's evasiveness earlier, that he was all speed and no teeth. A quick-footed coward.

But now?

Now it was clear.

He hadn't been weak.

He had been holding back the entire time.