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Summary
Zoro had always believed that a sword was honest. Not noble or sacred. Not any of the romantic nonsense people liked to attach to them.
A sword revealed exactly what its wielder was. A weak hand produced weak cuts. An uncertain heart created hesitation. A careless swordsman left flaws in every movement, every strike, every decision. Steel exposed every mistake without mercy.
That was why Zoro trusted swords more than people. People lied. People hid things. People pretended. A sword couldn't.
Maybe that was why Zoro couldn't stand careless people touching his swords.
Zoro frowned. That thought had come from nowhere. Or rather, from somewhere he preferred not to examine too closely.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the Sunny. Somewhere above him, breakfast preparations had already begun. He could hear the distant sound of chopping.
For some reason, he found himself listening. Just for a moment. Before eventually muttering a curse, getting out of bed, and heading toward the kitchen without quite admitting—why.