The days settled into a pattern. Erwin woke each morning with the rising sun, feeling the damp chill of the forest, his muscles sore from sleeping on hard ground. He'd grown accustomed to the aches and hunger, forcing himself to endure the discomfort and focus on survival. Each day was an exercise in endurance and discovery, his mind constantly shifting between mastering his Devil Fruit abilities and exploring the island.
Today, however, he felt a strange resolve. His confidence in his powers had grown, but they remained erratic, responding to his commands one moment and slipping beyond his control the next. He couldn't keep fumbling through; he needed discipline, and a training routine to transform his raw potential into real strength.
Erwin began his regimen with the basics, establishing a sequence of exercises he could use to both build stamina and hone his control over his blood. He started each session with a run through the forest, weaving through the trees and leaping over roots and rocks. At first, he stumbled and tripped, his muscles protesting with every movement. But each morning, he pushed himself further, feeling his body grow stronger and more responsive.
After his run, he focused on controlling his blood. Sitting by the stream, he concentrated on the wound he'd reopened on his palm, watching the blood seep slowly from the cut. He inhaled, focusing his mind, willing the blood to hover above his skin. The droplets rose, trembling in the air, forming thin, glistening beads that shimmered in the morning light.
With each practice, his control grew steadier. He found he could slow or quicken the flow of his blood, drawing it outward or retracting it with a thought. By concentrating, he could make it move through the air, forming a twisting, ribbon-like stream that he could guide with small, subtle gestures. He named this ability Blood Flow, the foundation of everything he could do with his powers.
But the strain of using it was always there, lurking at the edge of his senses. Prolonged use left him dizzy and lightheaded, his vision blurring as fatigue washed over him. At first, he could only hold the blood in the air for a few seconds before his control slipped, sending it splattering back to the ground. With time and practice, however, he was able to maintain it for longer, feeling his stamina increase bit by bit.
The more he practiced, the more he understood the limitations of his ability. He quickly realized that manipulating large quantities of blood would drain him almost instantly, so he focused on working with small amounts, shaping them into thin threads and narrow streams. The smaller he could make the streams, the longer he could sustain them. This methodical, patient approach allowed him to push his limits without exhausting himself completely.
As the days passed, he moved from Blood Flow to Blood Sword, a technique he'd been working on with mixed success. The idea was simple: by focusing his blood into a solid shape, he could create a weapon—a blade made entirely from his own blood. His early attempts had been flimsy, the blade dissolving into droplets the moment he tried to swing it. But today, he felt ready to push harder.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and focusing on his palm. Blood rose from the cut, hovering above his hand in a small, trembling pool. He concentrated, willing the blood to harden, to shape itself into a thin, sharp edge. Slowly, a blade began to take form, a long, slender shard that extended outward, solidifying into a dark red weapon.
When he opened his eyes, a thin, glistening sword hovered above his hand, the blade sharp and slightly curved, as solid as steel. Erwin marveled at the sight, feeling a surge of satisfaction. The Blood Sword gleamed faintly in the dappled sunlight, a weapon as strange as it was deadly.
He tested its weight, finding it light and perfectly balanced. Gripping it firmly, he took a few practice swings, slicing through the air with smooth, controlled motions. The blade was sharp, cutting through leaves and small branches with ease. He couldn't help but grin, a sense of pride swelling in his chest.
Later that afternoon, Erwin decided to test the Blood Sword in real combat. His provisions were running low, and he'd seen the tracks of a boar around the clearing near his camp—a large, aggressive animal but enough to provide meat for days. The thought of hunting it stirred both excitement and nerves within him; this would be his first real test of survival against something that could fight back.
He tracked the boar for over an hour, moving quietly, watching the broken twigs and fresh tracks that indicated its path. Finally, he found it grazing near the base of a large tree, its coarse fur glinting in the sunlight. The boar was massive, with thick tusks that curled menacingly and eyes that darted warily through the foliage.
Erwin crouched low, gripping the Blood Sword tightly. He could feel his pulse racing, the blood flowing faster in his veins, and he focused, steadying his breath. He would only have one chance at this, and he couldn't afford to miss.
Slowly, he rose from his crouch, inching forward until he was just within striking distance. The boar's ears twitched, sensing something, and it turned, its eyes meeting his. In that split second, Erwin acted, lunging forward with the Blood Sword raised.
The boar let out a guttural snort, charging at him with surprising speed. Erwin dodged to the side, swinging the Blood Sword in a wide arc. The blade connected with the boar's shoulder, cutting through its thick hide, but the animal barely flinched, its momentum carrying it forward.
Before he could react, the boar turned and charged again, its tusks aimed directly at his chest. Erwin stumbled back, narrowly avoiding the deadly horns, his heart pounding as he struggled to regain his balance. He had underestimated the boar's resilience—and now it was angry.
Determined, he took a defensive stance, holding the Blood Sword steady. The boar charged once more, and this time, Erwin met its charge head-on, stepping forward and slashing downward with all his strength. The blade sliced cleanly into the animal's flank, and it let out a furious squeal, staggering as blood spattered onto the ground.
Erwin didn't hesitate. He tightened his grip on the Blood Sword, swinging again and again, his movements precise and unrelenting. The boar tried to retaliate, but its strength was fading, its steps growing sluggish. Finally, with one last swing, Erwin brought the blade down, ending the fight.
Breathing heavily, he watched as the boar collapsed, its body still and lifeless on the forest floor. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, the effort of maintaining the Blood Sword taking its toll. He released the blade, letting the blood flow back into his hand, and he slumped against a nearby tree, panting as he caught his breath.
The hunt had been brutal, far more intense than he'd expected, but he had succeeded. He'd faced a dangerous opponent, used his powers under pressure, and emerged victorious. Looking down at the boar, he felt a strange sense of accomplishment, a validation of all the hours he'd spent training.
Once he'd rested, Erwin set to work, focusing his blood into the shape of a small, sharp knife. It was thinner than the Blood Sword he'd used in the fight but durable enough for the task. With careful concentration, he hardened the blade, feeling the satisfying weight of the blood-forged tool in his hand.
Using his blood knife, he carved into the boar's hide with precision, working carefully to preserve the meat. It was still exhausting, messy work, but the sense of control and resourcefulness made the task easier. As he prepared his first real meal in days, he felt a deep satisfaction that went beyond hunger.
As evening settled in, he roasted the meat over a small fire, savoring the smell as it cooked. The taste was rich and satisfying, filling him with warmth and strength. Sitting beside the fire, he realized that the island was no longer just a place of survival—it had become a proving ground, a place to forge his abilities and build his endurance.
As he trained with the Blood Sword in the following days, he began to understand the nuances of control it required. The blade was not entirely independent; he had to concentrate to maintain its shape, and any lapse in focus would cause it to dissolve back into droplets. The effort was exhausting, but he felt his control improving, each practice session refining his connection to the power flowing through him.
By the time the sun began to set, he could create the Blood Sword with ease, its form stable and sharp. He felt a thrill of satisfaction as he swung the blade one final time, slicing cleanly through a thick branch. The branch fell to the ground with a thud, and Erwin allowed the blood to return to his hand, feeling a faint ache in his palm where the cut had deepened.
Exhausted but exhilarated, he collapsed against a tree, gazing up at the darkening sky. The stars began to appear, one by one, filling the heavens with a soft, silvery light. He felt a strange sense of peace, a quiet contentment that had been absent from his life for as long as he could remember.
In his old life, he'd spent his days in the mines, working until his body ached, with little to show for his efforts. But here, in this strange new world, he was free. Free to explore, to learn, to become something more than he'd ever thought possible.