Chapter 17: Shadows Cast by Fire
Dawn broke in pale silvers across the eastern sky, casting long beams through the mountain mist as Ashen stood silently at the island's cliffside port. The worn cloak over his shoulders fluttered in the breeze, his blade strapped tightly to his back, and his gaze fixed on the horizon—toward Dawn Island.
Behind him, the dojo courtyard lay quiet, the students still sleeping. Only Daiken stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the youth he'd reluctantly grown to admire.
"You sure you don't want to wait?" the old agent asked, brow furrowed. "You're just on the verge of refining your sword's rhythm."
Ashen shook his head slowly. "I have to move. There's a weight in my chest… Something's stirring. I can feel it."
Daiken sighed, scratching at his beard. "It's always instinct with you. That's what makes you dangerous."
Ashen turned slightly, offering a quiet smirk. "And that's what kept me alive."
From behind them, one of the younger students stirred at the entrance to the courtyard, rubbing his eyes and watching in silence. The sight of Ashen walking away—again—had become familiar.
Ashen placed a hand on the scabbard at his side and stepped forward.
"If anything happens here," he said, "send word."
"And if something happens there?" Daiken asked.
Ashen glanced back, the wind catching his hair. "Then I'll cut through it."
---
The small merchant vessel bound for East Blue waters rocked gently as Ashen boarded it. He paid in silence, chose the lowest deck, and sat cross-legged with his back to the hull. He sharpened his blade—not out of need, but out of habit. Each movement was precise, deliberate, like a ritual.
"Dawn Island... the place where Luffy was born. And where the World Government might start looking."
He didn't know what he'd find there. He only knew that the tides were changing. And wherever Luffy was… the storm would not be far behind.
His fingers brushed across the metal of his blade. Even in the dim hold, he could feel the subtle hum of compressed wind coiling around its edge—faint, but growing more stable by the day.
---
Later That Night…
Ashen opened his status window once again, more out of instinct than necessity. But this time, something new flickered at the edge.
---
[Status Update]
Name: Ashen Veyr
Level: Master
Strength: 8.5
Endurance: 9.1
Durability: 9.2
Agility: 10.0
Skill Proficiencies:
Soru: 83%
Tekkai: 58%
Busoshoku Haki: 41%
Swordsmanship – Shimotsuki Style (Base Form): 14%
Projected Wind Slashes (Basic): Stable
Reaction Flow: (+5% reflexive speed in mid-combat)
Stone-Cut Precision (NEW - Passive): Your blade now consistently cleaves through dense minerals with less resistance. Steel cutting is possible with focused Busoshoku application.
---
He stared at the last entry for a long time. A small smile pulled at his lips.
"Steel, huh… Not bad."
Outside, waves gently struck the hull as the ship sailed through moonlit waters. Ashen closed his eyes—but his grip never left the hilt of his blade.
Dawn Island loomed like a distant titan, its mountainous silhouette cutting into the gray horizon. Ashen stood at the prow of the small cutter as it drifted closer to the eastern shoreline — far from the bustling Goa Harbor where nobles paraded and taxmen watched with narrow eyes.
The boatman, a terse old man who only answered in grunts, pointed his pipe toward the inland forest before muttering, "No questions. You paid enough to be dropped quietly."
Ashen nodded, leaping down onto the muddy bank as the cutter pushed off. The tide lapped at his boots, and birds called overhead — not seagulls, but the sharper cries of hawks that circled the cliffs.
He had no map, but he didn't need one.
The system's faint pulse flickered in his mind, tagging 'Edge of Grey Terminal: 2.6 km north' in ghost-text. He'd studied enough rumors during his recovery with Daiken to know the stories: Grey Terminal — the lawless landfill that stretched behind Goa Kingdom — was where outcasts and criminals festered while the nobles turned their heads.
It was also the place where Monkey D. Luffy had grown up.
Ashen moved into the dense underbrush, the trees filtering the harsh sun into flickering stripes across his cloak. He moved quietly, but even without effort, his steps barely stirred the ground. Reflexes honed in Barron Hollow and Shimotsuki Village responded automatically to uneven terrain and sudden shifts in wind.
Crack.
A branch snapped to his right.
Ashen turned immediately — not with fear, but with precision — fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. But it was only a deer, its wide eyes catching his for a breath before it bolted deeper into the brush.
He relaxed.
Despite the calm, Ashen's senses remained high. He wasn't here just to observe. He had come to test something.
---
By midday, he reached the periphery of Grey Terminal — a sprawl of shanties, debris, and columns of smoke rising like pillars to the sky. The stench was sharp — sweat, oil, burning wood — and human desperation.
He kept his hood low.
A few people gave him side-glances as he moved through the squalor. Most were too busy surviving to care. But the sharp-eyed ones — gang lookouts, arms dealers, exiles — watched him closely, sensing something beneath the traveler's calm pace.
Ashen passed a child dragging a broken cart. A woman with a dagger-eyed stare leaned against a stack of rusted metal drums, clutching a cudgel. Hunger was everywhere, but so was resilience.
He moved beyond the densest clusters and toward the cliff's base, where ruins lay carved into the stone — remnants of old roads and cracked statues forgotten by the kingdom above.
There, he sat in the shadow of a blackened tree, adjusting his blade across his knees.
He wasn't here to announce himself. Not yet. But he needed to understand this place.
Why had Luffy grown up here? Why had a boy who could have been raised by Garp — a Vice Admiral — instead lived among flames and beggars?
What kind of path turned a child from this soil into the one who would shake the world?
The wind shifted suddenly — strong, unnatural.
Ashen's senses flared.
Two presences. Approaching fast.
He stood in a breath, turning to face the ridge above. Two men — lean, armed, moving with intent — not bandits, not civilians. Ashen's eyes narrowed as he noticed the subtle glint of insignia half-torn on their belts.
World Government remnants? Cipher Pol rejects?
He didn't move for his sword yet.
The lead one called out, voice casual but not friendly. "You lost, stranger? Or just curious why this dump doesn't show up on maps?"
Ashen tilted his head slightly, responding evenly. "Neither. Just passing through."
"Passing through," the second one scoffed. "With that stance? You're not here by accident."
Ashen said nothing. Wind picked up again, his cloak flickering at the edges.
The lead man's smile thinned. "You're trained. That much is clear. But you're no noble. You reek of smoke and steel."
Ashen took a step forward, right foot gliding — weight controlled, center low.
"I'm not here to kill anyone," he said. "But you can try your luck if you like."
The air stilled for a heartbeat.
Then the second man lunged.
Ashen didn't even draw fully.
A burst of air erupted as his Projected Wind Slash carved a sharp arc from his blade's partial pull. It smashed into the ground just in front of the attacker, blowing dust and debris into the sky. The man stumbled back, hand shielding his face.
The lead one held up his hand, signaling retreat.
Smart.
Ashen exhaled softly. He was getting better at warning instead of killing.
---
He spent the night in the hollow behind a ruined wall, fireless, sword across his lap. Sleep came lightly, but purpose anchored him.
He had arrived.
The scent of ash and smoke hit Ashen first.
He stood at the edge of a ravine overlooking the chaotic sprawl of Grey Terminal, a wasteland of rusted metal, rotting wood, and smoke-stained shacks stitched together by desperation. Fires burned in trash heaps. Ragged silhouettes moved like ghosts between skeletal huts. The stench of refuse and grease coated the air like oil.
Ashen exhaled. The wind carried warmth from the sun, but it did little to mask the decay below. He adjusted the worn gray cloak over his shoulders and stepped forward, boots crunching the gravel. This wasn't about Luffy. This wasn't about anyone else.
This was about him.
He'd come to Dawn Island not for nostalgia or sentiment, but for one thing only: edge.
A lawless pocket of rot and struggle, where the weak died quietly and the strong ruled with scraps, was the perfect whetstone. Barron Hollow had taught him subtleties in technique. Daiken and the remnants of Cipher Pol had driven precision into his form.
Now it was time to test it all in chaos.
Grey Terminal was not a battlefield. It was worse.
"You don't learn control in the dojo," Daiken had told him. "You learn it when ten knives come for your ribs at once."
Ashen descended without fanfare, melting into shadows between refuse piles and the scorched hulls of dead ships. Already, eyes tracked him. Hungry eyes. Opportunistic.
Three figures blocked his path not ten minutes later. One had a makeshift machete, its edge chipped. Another wore bandages as makeshift armor. The third simply grinned with missing teeth.
"Nice coat," one of them said. "Too clean for here."
Ashen didn't respond. He simply walked.
The bandaged one lunged, swinging.
In less than a second, Ashen vanished. Soru.
A gust of displaced air and dust exploded behind the bandit as Ashen reappeared behind him. A dull ring followed as Ashen's sheathed sword slapped the man's wrist with crushing force, disarming him instantly.
The machete clattered. A foot swept out, and Ashen brought the man down without flair. The others froze, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Ashen glanced back over his shoulder, eyes cold.
"Pick another corpse."
They fled.
He didn't chase. He didn't smile. He simply continued.
The deeper he went, the more hostile Grey Terminal became. Fires burned brighter. Men bled out in corners. Women clutched children who clutched knives. The social order here was brutal simplicity: kill, or be killed. Ashen slipped through it all like smoke, neither predator nor prey. His senses stayed sharp. Every sound mattered. Every twitch in the air.
______________
Add the Book to your Library. And Vote your POWER STONES.
Review the FANFIC as it has already reached 17 Chapters.
MORE Support Equals More Enthusiasm from the Author. Which means more Chapters. Thank you for all the Support till now. Until next time.