Prologue: Chapter 3 - The Training Regimen

Erwin's days had settled into a grinding routine. Every morning, he woke with the sun on his face, it's pale golden light filtering through the thick canopy above. The forest air clung to him—damp, earthy, and cool against his skin. His body protested each movement, stiff and sore from another night on the hard ground, but he forced himself up. He couldn't afford to wallow in discomfort; this was survival, and the island wasn't about to grow any kinder.

He crouched by the remains of his fire, brushing dirt off his hands. The faint coals from the previous night's flame reminded him that he needed to stay on top of his supply of wood. If the island had taught him anything, it was that survival was about keeping routines tight and efficient. Skipping one step—even a simple one—would ripple into disaster.

Today began as it always did, with a run through the forest. The uneven terrain forced him to stay alert. Gnarled roots jutted from the ground, twisting into traps that could twist an ankle or send him sprawling, eating the mud. Low-hanging branches lashed at him as he passed, and every so often, he had to leap over fallen logs slick with moss. The first few weeks, he'd tripped constantly, sprawling into the dirt with curses that the trees, bugs, birds, and even shadows ignored. But now, his steps had grown steadier.

"Not so clumsy today, that's an improvement." he muttered to himself, vaulting over a fallen trunk. His breathing came in quick, rhythmic bursts. The strain was there, but it was manageable—a sign that his body was adjusting, growing stronger.

After the run, he made his way to the stream. The sound of water tumbling over rocks was a small comfort, a constant amidst the chaos of his days. Kneeling by the bank, he washed his hands and splashed his face, the cold shocking his senses awake. This spot had become his training ground, a place where he could focus without the pressing threat of danger.

Erwin closed his eyes and focused, willing the blood to seep through his palm. It was an odd sensation, one he hadn't fully grown accustomed to. Warm droplets emerged on his skin, pooling in his palms before rising into the air, trembling in sluggishly. He focused, his brow furrowing as he willed the droplets to move.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath. "Just—work with me here."

The blood twisted, sluggish at first, before coiling into thin strands. They hovered, glistening in the light, delicate and fleeting. This was Blood Flow, the basis of everything he could do with his Devil Fruit ability. The potential was limitless—shaping his blood into weapons, tools, even defensive barriers—but the reality was far less glamorous. Every session needed him to give a total focus, it is also draining him physically and mentally.

After several minutes, the ribbons dissolved into droplets and sucked back into his palm. Erwin groaned, sitting back on his heels. His hand throbbed faintly, and his vision swam for a moment before steadying.

"Damn it, why can't this fruit be like any other Paramecia?" he muttered, rubbing his temples. The fatigue always hit too quickly. Why couldn't it produce blood instead of relying on his limited supply? It's good that the blood always went back to his body after using it. Magellan's Venom-Venom Fruit let him generate poison almost endlessly as long as he had the stamina. Still, he refused to let it stop him. Every Devil Fruit was unique in its own way. As long as he stayed creative and paired his power with Haki, everything would be just fine.

He tried again, narrowing his focus and working with smaller amounts of blood. Thin ribbons twisted through the air, forming delicate loops. They held their shape longer this time, but the strain still built quickly. Each session tested his limits—and that was the point.

"Small start, but a start nonetheless," he said aloud.

After hours of practice, Erwin shifted to a different exercise. He focused on forming a dagger, letting the blood pool in his palm before shaping it. The blade was crude at first, dissolving into droplets the moment he tried to harden it. But he tried again. And again. Slowly, the weapon took shape—a short, dark red blade that gleamed faintly in the sunlight. He formed it, dissolved it, and re-formed it over and over, honing both his control and speed.

The sun climbed higher, and the air grew hotter. Erwin wiped sweat from his brow, his stomach grumbling faintly. He paused his training and rummaged through the small stash he had gathered. The berries were tart but refreshing as he popped them into his mouth one by one. He skewered a fish he had caught earlier that morning, setting it carefully over the fire. The smell of roasting fish filled the clearing as its skin crackled and browned in the flames. Erwin sat back, eating the meal to restore his energy before resuming his training.

By the afternoon, he was ready for a greater challenge. Drawing a medium-sized pool of blood, he focused on creating something larger, more solid. The Blood Sword. The first attempts were frustrating—each time the blade dissolved before it could fully form, splattering back into droplets. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to steady his breathing and clear his mind.

"Focus," he whispered. "Just one step at a time. No need to rush it."

After a few tries, the blood stretched outward, lengthening into a narrow, curved shape. It solidified into a slender blade, dark red with a sharp edge. Erwin exhaled slowly, almost in disbelief. He swung the blade experimentally, testing its weight and balance. It held firm, slicing cleanly through small branches and dense undergrowth. His grip tightened as he pushed himself further, cutting through a medium-sized branch with a decisive strike.

His arms trembled as he lowered the weapon. The strain was mounting, his vision dimming at the edges, but he didn't stop. He tested the blade against thicker branches, refining his technique until he could sustain it longer and strike smoother.

By mid-afternoon, the pressing hunger forced him to shift priorities, again. He'd spotted boar tracks earlier near his camp—a chance to replenish his dwindling provisions. The thought of fresh meat spurred him onward, pushing his exhaustion aside.

He tracked the boar for nearly an hour, following broken twigs and scuffed earth through the underbrush. When he found it grazing beneath a massive tree, he crouched low, studying it. The animal was massive, its tusks curling like crude knives. Erwin tightened his grip on the Blood Sword. He couldn't afford mistakes.

The boar noticed him. Its head snapped up, nostrils flaring with steams coming out, and it charged with surprising speed. Erwin sidestepped, swinging the blade in a clean arc. The weapon cut a shallow wound across its shoulder, dark blood staining its coarse fur. The boar snorted, turning to charge again, its tusks aiming for his chest. This time, he ducked low, slashing the leg and landing a deeper cut.

The boar refused to back down, its sheer resilience keeping Erwin on edge. He stayed nimble, dodging each furious charge and searching for an opening. Sweat dripped down his face, his breaths growing ragged as the fight dragged on. At last, with a sharp downward strike, he drove the Blood Sword deep into the boar's flank. The beast staggered, releasing a guttural cry before collapsing onto the ground.

Erwin stumbled back, his legs shaking as the blade dissolved into droplets, flowing back into his palm. His vision swam for a moment, the effort of maintaining the sword catching up to him. He steadied himself against a tree, breathing deeply.

"Could've gone smoother, but at least I got meat to eat." he muttered, rubbing his aching arm. But the fight was done, and he had what he needed. Drawing a smaller blood-forged knife, he set to work carving into the boar. The blade's sharpness made the process efficient, though the task was messy and time-consuming. He worked methodically, preserving as much meat as possible.

By evening, the scent of roasting meat filled the clearing. Erwin sat by the fire, his body aching and drained. The boar's meat sizzled over the flames, its juices dripping into the embers. Hunger gnawed at him, but he waited patiently for the meat to cook, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

The fight had drained him, but his thoughts were already on tomorrow's training. There was no room to slack off. Every bit of progress came at a cost, and the island wasn't going to make things easier for him.

In the next following days, he refined his Blood Sword further. The blade formed faster now, its edges sharper and its structure more stable. He practiced against fallen branches and trees, testing its limits with longer, smoother strikes. But the technique was still unforgiving. Even a momentary lapse in focus would dissolve the blade back into droplets, forcing him to start over. Each failure taught him something new—how to channel his energy more efficiently, how to correct the subtle flaws in his form.

One evening, after splitting a particularly thick branch with a single clean strike, Erwin leaned back against a tree. He let the blood flow back into his hand, his palm aching faintly from overuse. Above him, the sky darkened, stars beginning to dot the heavens.

The island was still a harsh, relentless place, but it was no longer just a prison. Slowly, it was becoming something else—a crucible, reshaping him through fire and struggle. And Erwin, for all his weariness, welcomed it.