Jackson Swan a One Piece Story

Jackson had spent the last few days trying to figure out the best way to approach his training. He knew the village had a rich history with swords, and there was one person who seemed to stand out above the rest: Shimotsuki Kouzaburou. The man was known throughout the village as the finest swordsmith, a descendant of the samurai of Wano, and someone who had crafted some of the sharpest blades to ever touch the seas. If there was anyone who could teach Jackson the way of the sword, it was him.

But finding him was another matter entirely.

Jackson had heard whispers of Kouzaburou's workshop, but it wasn't easy to get directions. The man was a reclusive figure, and most people didn't want to bother him unless they had to. After asking around a bit, Jackson finally discovered that Kouzaburou lived on the outskirts of the village, near the old forge where the scent of hot steel lingered in the air.

It was a small, ramshackle building—far different from the elegant workshops Jackson had imagined. But that only made sense. After all, this was the East Blue, a place where pirates and wanderers roamed, not a grand city filled with towering castles and pristine establishments. The building itself was well-worn, with the faint smell of smoke and iron in the air. Jackson hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to approach the intimidating figure who was said to have crafted swords for some of the most powerful pirates of the seas.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then knocked on the door. The sound echoed inside the small building before the door creaked open with a loud groan.

The man who stood before him was every bit as imposing as Jackson had imagined. Shimotsuki Kouzaburou was tall, with a muscular build that spoke of years of hard labor. His face was framed by a thick, bushy unibrow that jutted out at the sides of his face, giving him an intimidating appearance. A ponytail of graying black hair hung loosely over a tuft of hair at the top of his head, and a matching beard framed his jawline. His left temple bore a scar, adding a hardened edge to his already rough demeanor. His clothes were simple—dark, worn fabrics—but the way he stood, the way his hands rested on his hips, gave off an air of quiet authority.

Jackson gulped. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Can I help you, kid?" Kouzaburou growled, his voice low and gruff. He didn't seem all that friendly, but Jackson wasn't about to back down.

"Uh… Hello, sir. My name is Jackson Swan," Jackson began, his voice steady but respectful. "I was wondering if you could teach me how to use a sword."

The swordsmith stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Jackson's heart raced. This wasn't going as he had hoped.

Kouzaburou scratched his beard and snorted. "Teach you? Ha! You're just a kid. What makes you think I'd waste my time on you?"

Jackson clenched his fists, but he didn't back down. "I want to be strong," he said, his voice unwavering. "I know this world isn't easy. And I know that if I want to survive, I need to learn how to fight. The sword is the best way. Please, sir… I'm serious."

For a moment, Kouzaburou didn't say anything. His sharp eyes narrowed, sizing Jackson up. Jackson felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. It was hard to tell whether the man was considering his request or just deciding how best to send him away.

Finally, the swordsmith spoke again, his voice gruff but not without a hint of amusement. "You think you can just waltz in here and become a swordsman, huh? It's not that simple, kid. Swordsmanship is a life's work. You don't just pick up a blade and expect to be able to fight. It takes years of dedication, blood, sweat, and pain. And most people can't handle it."

Jackson's gaze never faltered. "I'm willing to work for it. I'll do whatever it takes."

Kouzaburou's eyes flicked to Jackson's, sizing him up once again. Then, after a long silence, he let out a deep sigh and leaned against the doorframe.

"Fine," he grumbled. "But I'm not babysitting you. If you want to learn, you'll have to prove yourself. I won't teach just anyone. You want a sword? You've got to earn it. Come back tomorrow morning. I'll test your resolve. If you can't even handle that, then you don't deserve to be a swordsman."

Jackson didn't hesitate. "Thank you, sir. I'll be here."

With that, the door slammed shut in his face, leaving Jackson standing there for a moment, heart pounding. Kouzaburou hadn't exactly been welcoming, but he hadn't outright refused either. That was something.

Jackson quickly turned on his heels and headed home, a feeling of determination swelling within him. Tomorrow would be the real test. And he couldn't afford to fail.

He had to become strong. For this world, for the future, for everything.

Jackson arrived at the forge early the next morning, his heart pounding with anticipation. He had no idea what kind of test Kouzaburou would put him through, but he had steeled himself for anything. The world of swordsmen was unforgiving, and if he wanted to survive in a world as chaotic as One Piece, he needed to prove himself.

When he reached the small workshop, he found the door already open, the sounds of metal being hammered on an anvil ringing through the air. But what he didn't expect was that someone else was there, standing beside Kouzaburou, watching as the older man worked.

It was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, with a long ponytail of black hair and a face that was more refined than Kouzaburou's rugged features. His skin was pale, his expression calm, but his sharp eyes gave off the impression of someone who had seen more than his fair share of conflict. He wore a gray yukata, a simple garment that suited his demeanor, and a beige haori with two crossed swords on the left breast.

Jackson paused for a moment, unsure whether to interrupt the two, but then the young man's eyes flicked toward him, his gaze curious. He raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything immediately.

"Ah, you must be the kid who wants to learn swordsmanship," the young man spoke, his voice polite but direct. "I'm Koushirou, Kouzaburou's son. I've heard about you, kid. You're the one who managed to get my father to even consider training someone."

"Jackson Swan," Jackson said with a polite bow, a habit from his previous life that always seemed to break the ice. "It's an honor to meet you, Koushirou-san. I just... I really want to learn."

Koushirou smiled faintly, adjusting the glasses on his face. "Well, it's not every day someone walks in here and asks my father to teach them. I'm curious to see if you have the resolve to follow through with it."

Before Jackson could respond, Kouzaburou's gruff voice called out from the forge.

"Enough talking. If you want to learn from me, then prove you're worth it." Kouzaburou stepped forward, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes sharp and unrelenting. "I'm not here to pamper you. If you're going to become a swordsman, then you'll have to earn it."

Jackson swallowed, nodding firmly. He was ready. Whatever the test was, he had no intention of backing down.

Kouzaburou looked at him for a moment before crossing his arms. "Your test is simple, kid. Endurance." His eyes were cold as he motioned to a large pile of heavy wooden training swords beside him. "You'll swing one of these until you can't lift your arms anymore. I'll be watching. You quit, you fail."

Jackson's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Koushirou stood by silently, watching with a faint smile on his face. He didn't seem concerned, as though he had seen this kind of thing before.

With a grunt, Jackson picked up one of the training swords. It was heavier than he expected, the wood rough and worn from years of use. His arms already felt strained as he hefted the weapon, but he kept his back straight and looked to Kouzaburou for the signal.

Kouzaburou nodded, and with that, Jackson swung the wooden sword down in a powerful arc. It wasn't perfect, but the motion felt natural, and he was determined to keep going. Again, he swung, and again. His muscles screamed at him, but he kept going. Sweat began to drip down his brow, his legs burning from the constant movement. Each swing of the sword felt heavier, each second dragging on as his body screamed for rest.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the heat only made things worse. Jackson's arms felt as if they were made of lead, and every swing became more laborious. His vision blurred at the edges, and he felt his knees wobble under the strain. But he couldn't stop. He refused to stop.

"Keep going," Kouzaburou barked, his eyes never leaving Jackson. "If you want to be a swordsman, then endure. It's not about strength alone; it's about the will to keep moving forward, no matter how much it hurts."

Jackson's whole body was on fire, his grip slipping on the handle of the sword, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every fiber of his being was telling him to drop the sword, to rest, but he didn't. He couldn't. Not now.

His vision darkened, his legs shaking uncontrollably. He took one more swing—and then everything went black.

When Jackson awoke, he was lying on the cold ground, his body still aching from the test. He blinked a few times, disoriented, before realizing where he was. Koushirou was standing over him, his arms crossed, a slight smirk on his face.

"You didn't give up," Koushirou said, his tone amused. "Not many can endure that much pain and still keep going."

Kouzaburou was beside him now, his expression still stern, but there was something in his eyes—something almost approving.

"Not bad, kid," the older man grunted. "I didn't expect you to last that long. But don't think this is over. I'll be watching you. If you want to be a swordsman, you've got a long way to go. But you've shown you've got the grit."

Jackson smiled weakly, his body aching, but a sense of pride swelling within him. He had passed the test—not just for Kouzaburou, but for himself.

He had taken his first step toward becoming a swordsman.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Jackson said through gritted teeth, pushing himself to his feet. "I'll keep training. I won't stop."

Kouzaburou nodded, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "We'll see if you can keep that resolve. Now get some rest. You'll need it."

As Jackson made his way home, his body screaming in protest with every step, he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction. This was only the beginning. And while the road ahead would be long and full of challenges, Jackson knew one thing for certain:

He would get stronger. No matter the cost.

The days that followed were some of the hardest Jackson had ever experienced. His body ached in places he didn't even know could hurt, his arms stiff and sore from the grueling endurance test Kouzaburou had put him through. But every time he awoke in the morning, feeling the lingering pain in his muscles, he reminded himself of his goal—to become stronger.

Koushirou had watched him closely after the test, always observing from the sidelines with an expression that seemed to be somewhere between amusement and skepticism. Jackson knew the son of Kouzaburou was assessing him, but he didn't mind. The more they observed, the more it would prove his resolve.

Each day, Jackson returned to the forge to continue his training. The first few sessions were painful—his body still sore from the day before—but the more he practiced, the more his muscles began to adapt. Kouzaburou had given him no real instructions on how to swing the sword properly, leaving Jackson to figure it out himself. Every swing was an experiment, trying to find the right balance between force, speed, and technique. It was a slow process, but Jackson was determined to improve.

There were times when he wanted to quit, when his body felt like it could go no further, but he remembered Kouzaburou's words: It's not about strength alone; it's about willpower. And Jackson's will was strong.

Koushirou's presence loomed over him every day, silently watching as Jackson trained. Occasionally, Koushirou would offer advice—small tips on footwork or grip—but never too much. He wasn't here to coddle Jackson. He was here to see if Jackson truly had what it took to endure. His father, Kouzaburou, would be more direct, demanding ever more from Jackson with each passing day, making him practice until the pain became unbearable. Yet, each time Jackson felt like he was about to collapse, he pushed himself to keep going, remembering that his survival depended on this.

One afternoon, as the sun began to dip low in the sky, Kouzaburou finally approached him with a different challenge.

"Enough with the swings for now," the old man grunted, his voice harsh but with a hint of approval. "I'll show you something else."

Jackson lowered the wooden sword, breathing heavily, but didn't question him. Kouzaburou led him over to a training area where several sharp, real swords were set in racks. Jackson eyed the blades with awe—these were real weapons, forged with the skill that only a master like Kouzaburou could produce.

"You'll need to learn how to use a proper blade," Kouzaburou said, pulling one of the swords from the rack and handing it to Jackson. "But before that, you'll need to learn respect for the weapon. A sword is not a tool for show or a toy. If you don't understand its weight, its meaning, it will turn on you. Got it?"

Jackson nodded solemnly, his hands gripping the sword with reverence. He could feel the weight in his hands, the solid craftsmanship of the blade. This was a serious weapon, not like the wooden training sword he had been using before.

Kouzaburou observed Jackson's grip closely before speaking again. "Proper stance first. If your base is weak, everything else will fall apart."

Jackson focused intently, taking the stance Kouzaburou showed him. His feet were planted wide, knees bent slightly, his sword held out in front of him, ready to strike but also open for defense. His muscles were still sore, but the act of holding the blade felt different—more connected to the world around him, more real.

Koushirou was watching from a distance, his expression unreadable. Jackson could feel the weight of the older man's gaze, a quiet judgment, but also a subtle acknowledgment of his efforts.

"Good," Kouzaburou finally grunted. "But remember, a swordsman must move with purpose. Every strike, every block—it must mean something. You're not swinging a sword just because it feels good. You're wielding it for your life. Understand?"

Jackson, his arms already beginning to tremble from holding the sword in position, nodded again. "I understand."

The rest of the afternoon was spent on improving his stance and posture, with Kouzaburou correcting him each time his form faltered. Jackson didn't mind the strictness; it was clear to him that this was the only way he would truly improve.

As the day came to an end, Jackson was exhausted, his body aching in every muscle. But he felt a strange sense of fulfillment. Each day he spent under Kouzaburou's training, each challenge, was one step closer to being the swordsman he wanted to become.

Koushirou approached Jackson as he was about to leave, his hands behind his back, his glasses gleaming in the fading light.

"You've got some grit," Koushirou said, nodding to himself. "Not many kids would stick through a test like that, let alone come back every day. I'm curious to see how far you'll go."

Jackson looked up at Koushirou, a small but determined smile on his face. "I won't stop. Not until I'm strong."

Koushirou raised an eyebrow, a hint of respect in his gaze. "We'll see. But remember this, kid—strength isn't just in your muscles. It's in your heart. And if you lose that, you'll be nothing more than a sword with no edge."

Jackson nodded solemnly. He knew the road ahead would be long and difficult, but he wasn't afraid. This was just the beginning. And no matter what it took, he would keep moving forward.