The blade shimmered in the moonlight, half-buried in the ruins of an ancient shrine. Its edge seemed to hum, not with sound—but with time itself. When Zoro grasped the hilt, the world split.

The air bent. The stars froze. With one swing, the forest aged a century. Flowers turned to dust, and the moon cracked like glass. Zoro staggered, a streak of white cutting through his green hair.

Every strike tore open moments long past and yet to come. Shadows of his younger self, his future self, flickered in and out of existence—each one bearing the same cursed mark. The blade demanded life for power, time for time.

He sheathed it once, twice, but the hum returned, whispering of strength beyond measure. He knew what it wanted. And he knew what it would take.

At dawn, standing before the ruins, he smirked—tired, older, but unbroken.

“Guess I’ll just have to cut the curse itself.”