The thick, sulfuric mist of the Ordeal of Iron didn't just obscure vision; it tasted like pennies and old blood.

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.

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.

"I see your heart," Ohm droned, his dog Holy sitting motionless behind him. "It beats with the rhythm of a man who thinks he can cut anything."