The early morning sun had barely begun to touch the Gotham skyline when he found himself back outside Wildcat's Gym. The streets were deserted, shadows stretching over the cracked pavement, and a thin fog clung to the ground. He shivered a little, a combination of the cold and the lingering nerves fluttering in his stomach. But he pushed them down, focusing instead on the fact that today, he had a purpose.
The door creaked open, and he found himself face-to-face with Ted Grant. In the morning light, the man looked even more intimidating than he had the day before. His gray hair was tied back, and his arms—strong, scarred, and muscled—crossed over his chest as he looked him up and down.
"Early," Ted noted with a grunt, clearly surprised. "Guess I misjudged you, kid. Thought you'd decide to sleep in."
"Guess not," he replied, shrugging and hoping the nonchalance masked his nerves. "Figured if I wanted to learn, I should arrive earlier rather than on time."
Ted's eyebrow arched, and he gave a small, approving nod. "All right, come on in then. Welcome to Wildcat's Gym."
Inside, the place was even more intense than he remembered. The walls were lined with equipment—punching bags, heavy bags, speed bags, ropes, and weights of all sizes. In the corner, a small boxing ring gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the ropes frayed from years of use, and the mat was scuffed and marked with countless footsteps and falls.
Ted had led him through the gym, pointing out the various stations, his voice a steady, authoritative growl that kept his attention sharp.
"That's the ring," he said, nodding toward it. "You'll get to know that place real well. But don't get any ideas about stepping in there anytime soon. You've got a lot of ground to cover before you're ready for that."
He nodded, unable to suppress a shiver of excitement as he glanced at the ring. "Got it."
Ted continued the tour, pointing out the rows of weights, the cardio section outfitted with treadmills and bikes, and the corner where jump ropes hung in a tangled bunch, like neglected snakes.
"Now, this ain't just a place for boxers," Ted said, waving a hand at the equipment. "We've got all kinds here. People who come to work out, blow off steam, whatever. But if you're serious about boxing, you stick with me, and follow my lead. Got it?"
"Yeah," he answered, his eyes wide as he took it all in.
As they walked, they came to a wall plastered with framed photos, old newspaper clippings, and a handful of certificates. Ted gestured to it with pride. "These are the ones who made it."
He stepped closer, eyes tracing the faces of the men and women in the photos. Some were young and fresh-faced, others looked worn down but determined. Each one bore the same look of hardened strength, the kind of intensity that only came from hard work and struggle. Ted's voice softened as he pointed out a few names.
"Started out just like you, some of these folks," he murmured. "Gotham's a tough place. Ain't no place tougher than Crime Alley, that's for sure. But these kids—they wanted something different, something better. And they worked for it."
His eyes drifted over the photos, but he paused when he came across a particular one. A young woman, mid-punch in the ring, a fierce grin on her face. Beneath it, the newspaper clipping was slightly yellowed, but the headline was still clear:
"DINAH LANCE, GOTHAM CITY'S OWN, WINS WELTERWEIGHT DIVISION AT STATES!"
He recognized her face immediately. Black Canary. Dinah Lance was the Black Canary. Ted Grant had trained the Black Canary, he knew from the comics he had trained countless superheroes, but to see one just hanging on his wall was jarring. His breath caught, and he felt a sense of awe settle over him. He was training in the same gym, with the same hardass coach. Ted truly is one of the best.
Ted smirked when he noticed his reaction. "What, you staring 'cause she's pretty? Don't get your hopes up, kid. Dinah could throw a punch that'd have you on the floor faster than you can say 'hello.'"
A small flush crept up his neck as he stammered, "N-No! It's just—she's… she's just impressive."
Ted snorted, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Damn right, she is. But that's what hard work looks like, kid. She put in the hours, every day, no excuses, and no shortcuts. If you're planning on slacking, you can head right back out that door."
The weight of Ted's gaze bore down on him, and he met it head-on, nodding firmly. "I'm not here to slack."
Ted's mouth curved in a faint smile. "Good answer. Now, let's get you started."
They began with the basics, starting in the weight area. Ted handed him a pair of light dumbbells and demonstrated the form for basic curls, squats, and shoulder presses, his instructions short but precise. Every so often, he'd nudge him or adjust his stance with gruff patience, correcting him when he faltered.
"Form comes first," Ted barked, watching him lift. "If you don't got the form right, all the strength in the world won't help you."
He nodded, focusing on keeping his back straight and his grip steady, the weights burning pleasantly in his arms as he worked through each set. Despite the simplicity of the exercises, he was already feeling the strain—and this was just the warm-up.
After a half-hour of weights, Ted had him drop the dumbbells and moved him over to the cardio area. The treadmill whirred to life as Ted set it to a brisk pace, and he began jogging, the rhythm of his feet against the belt oddly soothing. Ted watched him for a few moments before nodding approvingly.
"Cardio's key in boxing," he explained. "You might think it's all about strength, but if you don't got the stamina, you'll be down and out by round two. We'll be doing a lot of this. Running, jumping rope, cycling—you name it."
Ted paced around him as he jogged, his voice dropping to a slightly softer tone. "You know, kid, this gym wasn't built for fancy types. I opened it here in Crime Alley for a reason."
"Cheap land?" he panted, half-joking.
Ted let out a loud laugh. "Hell, you're not wrong about that. But nah, there's more to it than that." His face grew serious, and he glanced around the gym as if he could see every person who'd ever passed through its doors. "This place… it's for the people who don't got much. Kids like you, maybe with no other place to go. I wanted to give 'em something to hold onto. Teach 'em discipline, respect, how to stand up for themselves."
He felt a strange warmth in his chest at Ted's words. It wasn't just a gym to Ted—it was a sanctuary, a lifeline for those who needed it most. He respected that. And for the first time in this strange, chaotic world, he felt like maybe he'd found a place he could belong.
Ted's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. "Now, get off that thing. Time to start your intro course."
Over the next few hours, Ted ran him through a whirlwind of exercises—jump rope drills, push-ups, and footwork drills that left his legs feeling like jelly. They practiced basic punches, with Ted explaining each move in painstaking detail, his voice taking on a sharper edge as he demanded precision.
"Jab, cross, hook—keep it tight! And pivot on that back foot, or you'll lose power!" Ted barked, moving his fists through the air with ease as he demonstrated. "It's not just about hitting hard, it's about hitting smart. You make every punch count."
Each punch he threw while not perfect, seemed to wake up a part of him that had been lying dormant, the rhythmic motion grounding him in a way he hadn't felt before. He could feel himself getting stronger, more confident with each strike, and the soreness in his muscles felt like proof that he was moving forward, becoming something more.
As they paused for a break, he leaned against the ropes of the boxing ring, breathing heavily. "You… you think I can make it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ted looked at him, his gaze uncharacteristically soft. "Kid, you keep working like you did today, and yeah. I think you've got what it takes."
The words settled over him, sparking a glimmer of pride. He wasn't just some lost kid in Gotham anymore. He was here, in Wildcat's Gym, working under Ted Grant himself. He'd started down a path, and for the first time, he wasn't just surviving—he was fighting.
Ted clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm, even reassuring, as they stood near the gym's entryway. The sun was still low, casting long shadows across the floor and filling the air with the faint scent of dawn. Ted pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over, with a gruff, "Here's your schedule, kid."
Unfolding it, he saw the plan Ted had meticulously mapped out. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings were marked off with blocks from 7:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m. scribbled in Ted's bold handwriting. The rest of the time slots were left open with a note beside each, written in slightly smaller letters.
"Up to you, runt. But don't think that means slacking off," it read.
"Now, I'll be working with you those three mornings, rain or shine, unless the damn gym falls down," Ted grunted. "But Tuesday and Thursday? That's all on you. You don't come in, you'll be losing steam, simple as that. And the weekend—you rest or run, your call. Just keep moving. Got it?"
He nodded, fingers tightening around the paper. The schedule was simple enough, but it brought a sense of structure that he hadn't felt in… well, a long time. Ted's glance lingered on him for a beat, almost as if weighing whether to ask more, but he simply patted his shoulder one last time and turned back toward the equipment.
With his training days laid out, his next step would be building a plan of his own. He had the "Haki for Dummies" and "Getting Fit! Six Powers Style!" manuals still burning in his mind. Between the gym sessions and this new schedule, he'd need every ounce of strength if he wanted to get anywhere in this city, let alone the world as a whole.
But what stuck him as odd, was that Ted hadn't asked a single question about him—no inquiries about school, no paperwork, and not a hint of concern about his living situation. The lack of prying surprised him, and it brought a strange kind of relief too. Whatever suspicions Ted might have held, they hadn't kept him from laying down the opportunity.
But now that he had it, he'd have to be sure he lived up to Ted's expectations, and that meant working harder than he'd ever worked. If he was going to survive in Gotham, he had to be prepared. With a schedule in hand, he returned to his makeshift "home" at the warehouse and pulled out the two manuals from his soul space, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He placed both of the books in front of him and examined each one carefully.
The Haki for Dummies manual opened with Garp's blunt and unpolished instructions:
"Armament Haki: Just hit stuff as hard as you can until it don't hurt anymore. If it still hurts, then you're not doing it right."
A little chuckle escaped him, though he'd already guessed Garp's advice would be as direct as his reputation. Scrawled beneath, however, was Bogard's more thoughtful addition:
"Start with durable objects to practice. Keep your punches or strikes focused, and eventually, Armament Haki will start to coat your attacks. Be consistent, even if it's painful—it means you're making progress."
The Observation Haki was even more blunt:
"Just don't get hit," Garp's words read. "You're gettin' hit? Well, then, you're doin' it wrong."
Bogard, again, offered useful suggestions, explaining how focusing on the awareness of one's surroundings could gradually hone Observation Haki. It wasn't about dodging alone but feeling the intent and direction of threats before they reached him.
When he turned to the Conqueror's Haki section, however, the pages were blank. He flipped through it again, brows furrowing. Did this mean he didn't have it? Or maybe it was a skill that couldn't be learned by just anyone. Either way, he put it aside for now, a goal for another day.
The second book, Getting Fit! Six Powers Style!, was starkly different. Each section was carefully laid out, offering a regimented set of exercises to strengthen his body. The six powers, as detailed here, were Rokushiki abilities only accessible to those with the utmost physical prowess. There was a section for each ability:
1. Soru required intense leg strength and rapid reflexes.
2. Geppo involved rapid leaps off the air itself, demanding a massive lower body strength.
3. Shigan relied on finger strength and precision to pierce through solid objects.
4. Tekkai focused on enhancing the entire body's resistance, so attacks wouldn't leave a scratch.
5. Kami-e needed agility and flexibility, allowing the body to "flow" like paper.
6. Rankyaku required specific leg strikes, making legs razor-sharp with air pressure.
The amount of training Koby outlined for each skill seemed astronomical, a regimen more intense than anything he'd ever heard of. For Soru alone, the guide suggested completing a minimum of 5000 miles of sprinting drills in one year, alongside relentless squats and lunges. And that was just the foundational level.
For Geppo, the suggested goal was over 100,000 high jumps and leaps, all focusing on explosive energy in every leg muscle. Tekkai required him to perform endurance drills of up to 24 hours under heavy pressure, and Shigan involved piercing objects until his fingertips became as hard as steel. The numbers were absurd, intimidating, and if anyone had told him to take these on a month ago, he might have laughed in their face.
But now? With the knowledge of how dangerous this world could be, he steeled himself. He couldn't afford to wait a year—he'd have to push his limits and condense it down. If he followed Koby's routine and doubled the intensity, he might reach a satisfactory level within six months. It was an insane pace, but survival wasn't for the lazy.
He had to see if the physique he was granted by T.O.A.A was up to snuff.
(Had some questions about this. Essentially I don't believe a regular Human from the DC universe could handle the strain Six Powers puts on the body, so by giving him a physique from the world of One Piece, he can theoretically (read: Eventually) achieve these feats.)
He ran his hand over the pages, committing every word to memory. Ted's gym would help with most of this training, giving him access to equipment and weights he'd need to improve. And in the hours outside of his sessions with Ted, he'd throw himself at this training with every ounce of focus he had.
The following Monday morning, the streets of Crime Alley were nearly deserted as he made his way to the gym. The brisk morning air filled his lungs as he pushed down any lingering drowsiness. His muscles were already starting to ache from the hours he'd spent going through the basics over the weekend, hitting makeshift targets for his Haki training, and performing as many jumps and squats as his legs would allow.
Inside the gym, Ted was waiting for him with a knowing look. "You're early once again," he noted, glancing down at his watch it reading 6:34am, his voice gruff but not unkind.
"Figured you'd be up, and I'll take any extra training you can give me Old Man," replied, feeling the weight of Ted's gaze as he sized him up.
"Runts got a pair on him, eh? Good, means I'll be able to put ya through the ringer and I won't have to waste time telling you to get your ass in gear." Ted gestured him over to the dumbbells. "Grab those and start warming up. We've got a full schedule today."
For the next few hours, Ted kept him in constant motion, moving from weightlifting to cardio to drills that had his arms and legs burning. Every so often, Ted would offer a quick correction or a grunt of approval, his eyes keenly assessing every move. Each punch he threw, every squat, every crunch, every push-up was accompanied by Ted's watchful gaze.
During a break from training, the two of them sat on a worn-out bench by the side of the ring, the faint sounds of other boxers training filling the air. Ted handed him a water bottle, a small smirk playing on his face as he wiped his own forehead with a towel.
"Gotta say, kid, you keep eyeballing that wall of champions like you're gonna see something new," Ted said, his voice holding a teasing edge. He took a swig from his water bottle before nodding toward the photo of Dinah Lance. "Or maybe you're just starin' at a pretty lady?"
He felt his face warm up slightly, though he tried to play it cool. "She just… looks familiar," he said, stumbling a bit over the words. "I mean, I'd heard of her, y'know? Dinah Lance. Thought she went pro or something."
Ted let out a bark of laughter, smacking him on the shoulder with enough force to make him sway. "Went pro? Hell, that lady went pro in ways you wouldn't believe." Ted paused, catching himself with a slight frown, as if he'd let something slip. He waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, she's moved on to… other things. Teaching self-defense classes, last I heard. Still kickin' ass, just in a different ring."
His curiosity flared, and he leaned forward. "But she was here, right? You trained her?"
"Oh, she was here, all right. Tough as nails, that one," Ted said with a grin that softened with what might've been pride. "And she didn't just throw a mean punch—she could take one, too. Made her a helluva fighter. Though I think you're askin' a lot more questions about her than you did about anything I've shown you."
He laughed nervously. "It's… it's just cool, is all. To see someone from here actually make it, y'know?"
Ted chuckled, clearly amused by his dodging. "You know, I've had guys come in here talkin' about the fights, about the technique, the skills they wanna pick up. But it's always the ones like you—focused on the pretty face—that end up sticking around." Ted leaned in, lowering his voice with a grin. "She'd probably lay you out flat if she heard how you're starin' at her photo. Just sayin'."
He grinned sheepishly. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You'd better runt, or say goodbye to your manhood, HAHA." Ted gruffly said, laughing at the end. His potential eunuch status was funny apparently.
After the break, the rest of the morning passed in a flurry of sweat, aches, and Ted's relentless instructions. By the time they wrapped up, he was exhausted, muscles throbbing, but there was a deep, satisfying sense of progress. He knew what was expected of him and the work it would take to get there.
Outside the gym, he took a deep breath, looking down the long, cracked streets of Crime Alley. Ted had set the bar high, and if he wanted to live up to it—and keep himself safe—he'd need to stay committed. The manuals had laid it out in no uncertain terms: brutal effort, discipline, and perseverance were his only way forward.
He clenched his fists, feeling the faintest spark of something tingling in his knuckles. It wasn't much, but it was progress. And as he made his way back, the goals and his path ahead seemed just a bit clearer.
Over the next week, he dove into his training, splitting his focus between the gym with Ted and the rigorous regimens from Koby's manual. He spent his evenings at the warehouse, pouring over the exercises with relentless determination. His body protested, muscles sore and screaming, but he pressed on, never once allowing himself to waver.
This was his shot to survive in Gotham. And he wasn't going to waste it.
Author Note:
I plan on updating this one every Wednesday.
Enjoy!
Till next time!
-Daedalus19