"We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit."
—Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics (Book II, Chapter 1)
The air weighs heavily, a canopy of dark clouds pooling overhead, blanketing the Ludus in silent shadow. Zephyr himself holds his breath. Not a wisp of wind whispers, and the stillness slowly seeps into my bones. It lingers, straining like a drawn bow, poised to unleash its force in a single, shattering strike. I root my feet in the earth, muscles taut, tuned to the moment, as if my body and the heavens were waiting in tandem. Ankule tolerates no flaws, so today I'll be flawless. 'Here we go…'
I lower my stance, every part of me wound tight, and take a powerful step forward, channeling the momentum surging from a wellspring deep within. Power erupts through my legs like a geyser forcing its way upward. My calves clench, holding the pressure as it crests into my knees. The flood gathers strength, cascading up my spine—relentless, roiling, and raging to be unleashed.
Every joint moves in rhythm, muscles stretched to their limit. Like a river straining against its banks, the torrent presses outward. My torso twists, absorbing and gathering the rising wave until my whole body becomes one corded line of tension. My shoulders flex, bearing the weight, and my arm unwinds, joint by joint, impossibly smooth yet taut. Speed and power flow through me, every link in the chain driving the deluge to a breaking point, the dam ready to burst.
I let go.
A thunderous CRACK splits the air as my arm lashes forward, the sonic boom shattering the yard's silence. The sound reverberates through my bones, sharp and resonant, quivering like a struck tuning fork. The spear streaks forward like Zeus's own bolt, ripping across the yard.
The pilum slams through the wooden target, splintering it before striking the stone wall like a thunderclap. The impact explodes in a cloud of dust and debris, the tip lodging deep, leaving a jagged wound in the stone—it hadn't pierced through.
I exhale, the tremor still echoing in my bones, tension spilling from my limbs. The ache in my shoulders feels familiar as an old friend, almost reassuring—a reminder of how far I've come. Yet, as I study the jagged wound in the stone, one thought takes hold. 'Not yet enough.'
Looking over to Spartacus, who has taken me under his wing, I see him nod with a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Looking good, Tirones. Few ever reach that level of mastery with Ankule. Only a handful of the challengers can pull it off with that kind of speed and accuracy, and it takes a toll on most of them. It looks like you could keep going, but we'll end it here."
I nod, though frustration sours my pleasure at his praise. "I still can't stab into the stone like you did. Have I really mastered the technique?"
"Ah, about that…" He looks over at me, a shit-eating grin breaking out on his face, "I cheated."
"You WHAT?!" My eyes pop out of my head. A tick mark forms on my brow as my head snaps to glare at him. "You cheated? I've been slaving away for weeks—weeks! And yesterday—yesterday—you told me the secret was to clench my butt cheeks and scream from the depths of my soul!" Steam practically billows from my ears, my face flushing red.
"BAHABAHABAHAHA!" Spartacus collapses onto the bench, a graceless heap of laughter. He pounds his knee with one hand, the other clutching his ribs as though they might crack. Tears stream down his face like twin waterfalls; his every braying breath boiling my blood.
I glower, arms crossed as steam swirls around me like I'm a human geyser. 'Laugh it up, old man. Your days are numbered.'
Several more tick marks pop onto my brow. I feel my teeth sharpening to points. "YOU IDIOT, STOP LAUGHING!" I reach for Eugene's weapon rack, pulling the slugger out and start to wind up.
Seeing this, Spartacus quickly composes himself, throwing his hands up in surrender. Gasping for breath, he shouts, "Wait! Wait! Wait! Kid, hold up! Let me explain!"
I squint at him suspiciously, anticipating how far I can send him flying if I don't like what he has to say.
"I let you continue thinking that for three very good reasons," he began.
"First, it kept you motivated to push Ankule to its limits. Mastery isn't about tricks—it's about showing up every day and getting better. And now? You're among the best I've seen." I begrudgingly nod in acceptance.
"Second, it sets you up for the next stage: shaping your will into something solid, something unstoppable. That's the heart of Haki, and you're ready to begin." He says, hoping to appease me by offering up more training. It's starting to work.
"And the third reason?" I ask as I slowly lower my bat and begin to calm down at his explanation.
"Oh. Because it was funny," he says beginning to casually pick his nose with his pinky.
I nod in understanding, ready to forgive my teacher's cruelty, "Well, those are pretty good reasons, so I can let it go just… this…" My mind suddenly catches up with what he'd said.
"…" My neck creaks as I slowly turn to look at him.
"…" He's staring right at me, pinky up his nose and infuriating grin back in place. With a flick of his pinky, a booger spirals to the ground. He maintains eye contact, going back to the mine like a greedy prospector.
'This bastard...'
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I follow Spartacus to the gardens, a green oasis in the midst of the desert the Ludus transforms into at this time of day. The only sounds are the faint rustle of leaves and the chirp of distant crickets. It feels almost sacred, a sanctuary in the chaos of training. 'Maybe he's feeling guilty and we'll enjoy a rest in the shade,' I muse, glancing around curiously for any clue as to why we're here.
"Just a moment, Hector. We'll need to wait a bit for someone to help kickstart the next leg of your training." Spartacus ambles over to Epictetus' stone bench, groaning like an old man settling into a rocking chair. "Ah, just what I needed," he mutters, stretching his arms high, joints popping like twigs. Then, with all the grace of a seasoned napper, he slumps back with a theatrical sigh.
"Snore, snore, snore," Spartacus mumbles, eyes shut tight, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. I squint at him. 'Is he really asleep?' His arms are flopped out like a lazy cat, but that smirk is suspicious. 'Only one way to find out.'
I glance around the garden, looking for a stick. 'A light poke should do it.' My eyes land on a patch of shrubs nearby, their low branches tangled but promising. As I approach, a faint rustle catches my attention. 'Perfect.' I crouch, reaching toward the nearest branch, but stop short. The shrub shakes oddly, almost as if it's… giggling?
I blink. 'Did we always have a giggling bush? Maybe it grows chuckleberries.' I snort softly at my own joke and edge closer.
The rustling grows more frantic, accompanied by what can only be described as tiny snickering. My fingers hover over the bush, hesitating. 'What's going on? Did Spartacus put some prank in here?' Just as I'm about to grab the branch, I hear a high-pitched shout, "BEETLE BOWLING!"
'What the—'
BOOM!
"OOOOOOF!" The breath blasts out of me as I'm flattened like a felled tree. My back hits the ground with a thud, and for a moment, I can't decide if I've been run over by a chariot or hit by one of Eugene's fastballs.
"STRIKE!" a high-pitched, triumphant voice cheers above me. "Spartacus, didja see that? Knocked the pin down with one roll!"
I groan, blinking up at my attacker. Standing exultantly on my chest is a Tontatta no bigger than my palm. A curious carapace covers his arms and shoulders, large beetle horns sprout from his head, and stars glint in his eyes above a beaming smile. He's bouncing on his toes, practically humming with energy.
"STRIKE!" he exclaims, throwing his arms up like he's won a championship. "You saw that, right? One roll! BOOM! Down you go! Chabo's unstoppable!"
I blink, still trying to piece together what just happened. "Who... what...?"
The Tontatta springs off my chest with a dramatic flip, landing with his fists on his hips. "Chabo! That's who! The Little Giant! Fastest, toughest, strongest—you name it, that's Chabo!" He shadow boxes, rapidly bobbing and weaving from side to side, his words spilling out rapid-fire. "Nobody can match up with Chabo!"
'The... what now?' I sit up slowly, wincing as my ribs protest.
"Good to see you two getting acquainted," Spartacus drawls from his bench, arms folded behind his head as he lounges like he hasn't got a care in the world.
I glare at him. "Acquainted? He just ran me over!"
Spartacus chuckles. "That's the point. You'll need to clash with a Gigante's might if we want to quickly master your Armament Haki. Chabo here is the perfect partner for this kind of training. He's tougher than he looks."
"Tougher than Chabo looks?" Chabo scoffs, puffing out his chest and thumping it with his tiny fist. "Nobody handles Chabo—nobody! Giants? Pfft! Giants get rolled over every time! Ask Eugene! Eugene says Chabo's unbeatable!" He hops from foot to foot, faster and faster, his grin as wide as ever.
I squint at the diminutive figure. "You're in the Gigante battles? You?" "That's right!" Chabo beams, his horns titling as he rocks back on his heels. "They made Chabo eat a disgusting fruit and tossed him in the arena with the big guys. Ha! They thought Chabo would get kicked around like a ball? No sir! He showed them! Chabo's been winning ever since, knocking down those giant pins!"
Spartacus chuckles, waving a hand at the tiny gladiator. "The nobles thought it'd be a hilarious spectacle—giving him the Mushi Mushi no Mi: Model Dung Beetle and tossing a little guy like Chabo in with the big boys. They figured with the durability of a Zoan, he'd be tough enough to get sent flying all across the arena—a tiny ball for the giants to bat around."
"That's Scarab," Chabo snaps, petulantly stomping his foot and thumping his tiny chest. "Mushi Mushi no Mi: Model Scarab! Scarab! Chabo's no dung beetle!"
"Oh, naturally," Spartacus says, smirking. "The nobles must've accidentally handed you the mythical divine scarab fruit, thinking they were tossing a joke into the arena. They didn't realize they'd gifted you the sacred power of a desert legend."
Chabo's grin widens as he nods enthusiastically. "Exactly! That's what Chabo's been saying all along! They thought they were making a fool of Chabo, but they just made him unstoppable!"
Spartacus chuckles, shaking his head. "This little guy... they didn't just make a joke; they made a little giant."
Chabo puffs up even more as he beams with pride, "That's right! Chabo's so strong he lost count of all the battles he's won! Nobody beats Chabo!"
I glance at Spartacus. "So, what... he's going to train me?"
Spartacus nods, finally rising from the bench and dusting himself off. "That's right. Chabo's here to make sure you understand what it really means to endure."
"Endure?" I echo, eyeing the Tontatta warily.
Chabo starts hopping from foot to foot, his grin growing wider. "Oh, this'll be fun! Every move Chabo's got is unstoppable! Wanna see? I've got Beetle Bowling, Scarab Smash, and my favourite—Buzzy Beetle Barrage! Which one should Chabo use first? Huh? Huh?"
I groan, dragging myself to my feet. "Do I get a say in this?"
"Nope!" Chabo chirps, already rolling in place like a wind-up toy.
"Haki isn't about brute strength, Hector. It's your will made real—a force that turns every motion into purpose. You don't just endure the blow; you shape it, bending it to your intent." Spartacus adds, leaning in: "Chabo here? He doesn't just roll into a fight. Every spin, every punch—it's like he throws himself into it with his whole being. Watch him closely. He's not thinking, he's doing. That's Haki, even if he doesn't call it that.
'Solid. Immovable.' I plant my feet firmly into the dirt, letting the ache in my body melt into focus. I close my eyes, not just imagining my will but feeling it—an invisible line connecting me to the ground beneath and the space before me. 'Not just my body. My will.'
"Alright, Hector!" Chabo shouts. "Get ready! Here comes—Turbo Takedown!"
My eyes snap open as he curls into a tight ball, glinting like polished obsidian, and rockets toward me. The impact is immediate, rattling my frame like a battering ram. My arms sting, my legs tremble—but this time, something pushes back. Not just strength. Something more. 'That's it. That's—'
The flicker fades, and I'm shoved back five feet, dirt spraying where I skid to a stop.
"Not bad!" Spartacus calls, a note of encouragement breaking through his usual humor. "You felt it, didn't you? That connection—your will and your body moving as one. Keep at it—let it catch, let it burn."
Chabo bounces back, already revving up. "Again! Again! Chabo's not even tired yet! Buzzy Beetle Barrage!"
I lower my stance, planting my feet again as the ache in my muscles sharpens my focus. 'Solid. Immovable. Keep moving. Keep doing.'
'I didn't even find a stick…'
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The garden rests in twilight, the last rays of sun painting the horizon in strokes of fire and ash. Shadows stretch long across the stone path, pooling at the base of the fig tree. I sit on a low bench, a dull ache thrumming in my arms and shoulders. My mind churns, replaying the day's training—the Ankule, the sharp tension of each muscle working in unison, the sudden, wild impact of Chabo's assault.
A rustle of leaves pulls me from my thoughts. I glance over to see Epictetus, perched like a bird on his favourite stone bench. His wiry frame seems to fold into itself, limbs arranged with deliberate carelessness. He hums an off-key tune, plucking at an invisible lyre.
"Lost in the labyrinth of your lingering thoughts, lad?" Epictetus lilts, light and lyrical. "Careful, Hector—those twisting turns tend to tempt trouble. And the Minotaur? It lurks where the mind meanders too far."
I chuckle despite myself, the knot in my chest loosening just a little. "Yeah, something like that. I can't stop thinking about what Spartacus said today—about will and action being one. It's like… I almost felt it, but it slipped away. Like grabbing at smoke."
"Ah, smoke! Slippery, fleeting—impossible to hold," he muses, tapping his temple as though struck by inspiration. "But what creates smoke, Hector? What's its source?"
I frown, caught off guard. "Fire, I guess. Why?"
"Exactly!" His grin sharpens. "Smoke comes from fire, just as fleeting focus hints at untapped strength—strength that's there but not yet controlled. But tell me, is your focus like the smoke, drifting without purpose? Or is it like the fire—steady and deliberate, ready to transform?"
I sit with the thought, turning it over like a blade in the fire. A forge fire—the kind that burns with purpose, shaped by steady hands. I think back to the Ankule—the fleeting moment when everything aligned. Most of the time, it feels like I'm chasing something just out of reach—a flicker of strength, a moment of clarity—only for doubt to scatter it. Every time it slips away, it's like I'm failing them. Failing to carry the weight of their dreams.
My father's life was a steady flame, warming and protecting us. My brother's spirit was wilder—a spark yearning to ignite something grand and free. They were so different, but together they lit our world. Now, that light rests in me. If I falter, I let them fade. But if I endure, I can carry their dreams forward—and maybe, just maybe, use that flame to light the way for others lost in the dark.
For their dreams, for my own, I have to keep that fire steady. I can't let it flicker. Not in training. Not in life.
Epictetus gestures toward me, his grin curling like smoke from a flame. "Haki isn't just about force or instinct. It's about Energia—action shaped by purpose. And that's something you've already witnessed. Think back to our pint-sized powerhouse. Did you notice how Chabo fights?"
I blink, the memory of Chabo's blur of motion flashing through my mind. "Chabo? You mean the little guy who flattened me? How could I forget?"
Epictetus chuckles, the sound light but pointed. "Did you see hesitation in him? Uncertainty?"
"No," I say, sitting up straighter, the dull ache in my arms momentarily forgotten. "But he's... Chabo. He's fearless because he doesn't have to think about it. He just goes."
"And why do you think that is?" he presses, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. "Do you think it's just luck? Or that he was born that way?"
I hesitate, replaying the way Chabo rolled and struck with such unrelenting force. "It's... because he's already decided what he's going to do before he moves, hasn't he? He doesn't stop to second-guess himself."
"Exactly!" Epictetus exclaims, his finger cutting through the air like a blade. "Chabo may not call it Haki, but that's exactly what he's doing. He channels every ounce of himself into his actions—no hesitation, no holding back. That little scarab spins and strikes as if the entire world depends on his next move. And that, Hector, is Energia. His purpose and his action are one."
I lean forward, my brow furrowing. "But isn't that just instinct? Isn't he just... acting without thinking?"
Epictetus's grin softens, and he taps his temple with two fingers. "Not quite, lad. Chabo's movements may seem wild, but they aren't aimless. He doesn't roll into a fight wondering if he'll win—he's already decided he will. His fire burns steady because he doesn't allow doubt to dim it. It's not instinct—it's resolve."
I shake my head, my thoughts churning. "But how do I get there? Chabo's like a force of nature. For me, it's... it's like my focus keeps slipping away. I can feel it sometimes, like during the throw, but it's always fleeting. I can't hold onto it."
"Tell me, Hector—when you threw the pilum today, what were you thinking?"
"I wasn't," I admit, leaning back against the bench. "It just... happened. Everything felt right, like my body already knew what to do."
"Aha!" Epictetus exclaims, clapping his hands together. "That is the essence of Energia—the seamless union of purpose and action. For that moment, there was no hesitation, no noise in your mind, because your will and your body moved as one. But tell me this—why did you throw it? What drove you in that moment?"
I pause, the question catching me off guard. "To hit the target, I guess. That was all I was thinking about."
"Precisely," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "In that moment, you weren't worried about survival, or strength, or freedom. Your mind was clear, focused on the task before you. That clarity, Hector—that is Prohairesis. The ability to choose, with every breath, every movement, who you are and what you will become."
The garden falls quiet again, the stillness broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves. I let his words sink in, the pieces of the puzzle slowly coming together. "So, Haki isn't just about power. It's about… shaping myself through my actions. Making every choice deliberate." I pause, the thought settling deeper. "If I can master that—if I can steady the fire within—then maybe I can live freely. Not free from the world or its trials, but free from everything that holds me back. And if I can live freely, I can honor their dreams—not by carrying their weight, but by becoming a light for others. A torch to guide the way."
Epictetus smiles, a soft, almost paternal warmth in his eyes. "Now you're beginning to see. A torch held high, Hector, doesn't just light your path—it calls others to follow. Carry it well, and you'll lead more than just yourself out of the dark."