On the portside lawn, near the tangerine trees, Roronoa Zoro is a statue of focused exertion. He’s shirtless, the massive scar across his chest stark in the light. Sweat glistens on his tanned skin as he moves through a punishing series of one-armed push-ups, his right hand planted firmly on the grass, his left resting on the green haramaki at his hip where the hilts of his three swords wait.

Each controlled descent and explosive push is a metronome of discipline. His breathing is steady, a low rhythm beneath the creak of his muscles. A towel and a half-empty bottle of water sit a few feet away, forgotten.