Childhood Wisdom

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the windows of Sengoku's quarters, illuminating the modest yet stately room. On a soft cushion near the corner of the room, a three-year-old Tenzin sat cross-legged, his tiny form perfectly still. His eyes were closed, his hands resting lightly on his knees, and his breathing slow and steady.

Despite his tender age, there was a profound serenity about him, as if he were far older than his appearance suggested. The morning air carried the faint sounds of activity from outside—Marines beginning their drills, distant conversations about patrols, and the occasional seagull cawing overhead.

The door creaked open, and Sengoku stepped inside, rubbing the back of his neck. His Marine coat hung loosely over his shoulders, and his braided beard swayed slightly with each step. His piercing gaze softened the moment it landed on Tenzin.

"You're up early again," Sengoku said, his voice gruff but tinged with warmth.

Tenzin opened his eyes slowly and turned his gaze upward, meeting his father's with a calm expression. "Good morning, Father," he said, his tone measured and polite.

Sengoku raised an eyebrow as he approached. "You're three years old. Most children your age are still fumbling with their words or running around causing trouble. But here you are, sitting quietly like an old monk."

Tenzin smiled faintly but said nothing.

Sengoku knelt down, his large frame dwarfing the child before him. "What are you doing, anyway? Every morning, I find you sitting here like this. Are you pretending to sleep?"

"I am meditating, Father," Tenzin replied.

"Meditating?" Sengoku echoed, his brow furrowing. "What could a child possibly have to meditate about?"

Tenzin tilted his head slightly, as if considering how to explain. "It helps me understand the world," he said simply. "And myself."

Sengoku stared at him for a moment, his expression caught between disbelief and amusement. Then, he laughed—a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the room. "You're an odd one, Tenzin. I'll give you that."

Rising to his feet, Sengoku ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. "But odd isn't always a bad thing. Just don't forget to act like a child once in a while, all right?"

"Yes, Father," Tenzin replied, his tone obedient but unwaveringly calm.

Later that day, Tenzin wandered the halls of Marineford's central building, his small feet padding lightly against the polished floors. His mind was a whirl of thoughts, though his expression remained as composed as ever.

The discussions he overheard from the Marines passing by were troubling. The words "piracy," "Gol D. Roger," and "the One Piece" came up often, spoken in tones of urgency and concern.

"…ever since his execution, the seas have been worse than ever," one Marine muttered as he walked by. "Rogers's last words threw fuel on the fire."

"Aye," another replied. "The Grand Line's a madhouse now. Pirates crawling out of every corner of the world, all looking for that treasure."

Tenzin paused, his small frame hidden behind a corner as he listened. So, this world's chaos stems from the words of a single man, he thought. Fascinating. Amitabha.

The mention of the Grand Line piqued his curiosity. Though he had yet to fully grasp the scale of this world, he could sense its vastness and complexity. This was no small realm; it was an oceanic expanse teeming with life, ambition, and danger.

By the time evening fell, Tenzin was back in his room, practicing rudimentary physical exercises. His small body moved with deliberate precision as he performed simple stretches and movements he recalled from his past life. Though his muscles were undeveloped and his balance unsteady, he persevered, guided by the discipline ingrained in him over countless years.

Sengoku entered the room quietly, leaning against the doorframe as he watched his son. There was a strange satisfaction in observing Tenzin, who displayed a level of focus and determination that seemed almost unnatural for a child.

"You're not like other children, are you?" Sengoku said, his voice breaking the silence.

Tenzin paused in his movements and turned to face his father. "What do you mean, Father?"

Sengoku walked over, his hands resting on his hips. "You're calm. Too calm. And wise beyond your years. Most boys your age are loud, impulsive, and reckless. But you… it's like you've already lived a lifetime."

Tenzin considered his father's words carefully. He couldn't exactly explain the truth of his reincarnation, nor did he feel it was necessary. Instead, he offered a simple response.

"Perhaps I just see the world differently," he said. "Amitabha."

Sengoku raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar word. "Ami-what?"

"It is a phrase from a prayer," Tenzin explained. "It means infinite light and life."

Sengoku studied his son for a long moment, then let out a sigh. "Well, whatever it means, I suppose it suits you. You've always been a strange little light in my life, Tenzin."

The faintest hint of a smile crossed Tenzin's lips.

Sengoku knelt down, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "Listen to me, Tenzin. This world is chaotic. It's dangerous. The Marines stand as the last line of order in an ocean filled with lawlessness. That's why I've dedicated my life to this cause—and why I expect you to carry on that legacy."

Tenzin nodded solemnly. "I understand, Father. But order cannot be imposed by force alone. True balance must come from within."

Sengoku frowned slightly, his sharp mind catching the weight of those words. "Balance, huh? You talk like an old philosopher. Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Tenzin didn't respond, simply meeting his father's gaze with quiet conviction. Sengoku sighed again, shaking his head.

"You're a mystery, boy," he muttered, though there was no anger in his tone. "But maybe that's not such a bad thing."

That night, as Tenzin lay in bed, he stared up at the ceiling, his mind still turning over everything he had observed and heard throughout the day.

The world of the Marines was one of discipline and structure, but the undercurrent of chaos—the growing tide of piracy and ambition—was impossible to ignore. The seeds of this world's turmoil had been sown long ago, and now they were blooming in unpredictable ways.

Closing his eyes, Tenzin began to meditate once more. The path ahead was uncertain, but he was not afraid. He had walked many paths before, and he would walk this one with the same determination.

"Amitabha," he murmured softly, letting the word carry him into sleep.