The thick, sulfuric mist of the Ordeal of Iron didn't just obscure vision; it tasted like pennies and old blood.
Zoro leaped, not away, but directly into the heart of the barbed storm. "108 Pound Phoenix!"
He closed his eyes. If Ohm could read his mind, Zoro would stop thinking. He focused on the breath of the iron—the vibration of the barbs, the tension in the whip. He wasn't looking for a gap in the wires; he was looking for the soul of the metal. 177 : The Ordeal of Iron! White Barbed Death Ma...
"I don't think," Zoro spat, blood trickling down his arm. He dropped into a low stance, three blades now drawn, the Wado Ichimonji clamped firmly in his teeth. The air around him seemed to thicken, not with mist, but with sheer intent. "I know."
The fog began to lift, revealing the path forward. The ordeal was over, but the war for the sky had only just begun. The thick, sulfuric mist of the Ordeal of
Zoro landed, the wires sagging behind him, sliced clean. Ohm gasped, a red line appearing across his chest.
The sparks lit up the fog like dying stars. Zoro felt the bite of the barbs—thin, stinging slices across his shoulders. The iron was fast, guided by Ohm’s "Mantra," predicting Zoro’s every breath. If Ohm could read his mind, Zoro would stop thinking
"You call this an ordeal?" Zoro grunted, the hilt of Shusui heavy in his hand. He adjusted his bandana, his single eye tracking the slight shimmer of the wires. "Back home, we just call this a bad neighborhood."