The deck of the Red Force rocked gently with the evening tide, the sea bathed in hues of violet and orange as the sun dipped toward the horizon. A salty breeze carried laughter, arguments, and the clink of mugs as the crew of the Red Hair Pirates enjoyed another rowdy night.
But in the center of the revelry, a tension hung like a blade poised to strike.
"Oi, Shanks," Buggy hissed, jabbing an elbow into his captain's ribs. "What's that bastard doing here again? And more importantly—how the hell does he always find us? Are we supposed to be some kind of ferry service for him now?"
Shanks sat cross-legged on the deck, a half-empty bottle in his hand, grinning like a fool. His single good eye sparkled with mischief as he watched their uninvited guest—a man who seemed entirely out of place among their rowdy company.
Dracule Mihawk sat with his usual cold elegance, dressed in his tailored coat and wide-brimmed hat, a glass of wine in hand. He swirled the drink with visible disappointment, examining the color as though insulted by the vintage.
Shanks turned his grin toward Buggy. "Yeah, you're right, Buggy…"
"Damn straight. I'm right," Buggy said, folding his arms with exaggerated smugness.
Then, to everyone's dismay, Shanks leaned forward and asked the most obvious, boneheaded question imaginable.
"So, Mihawk… How do you manage to find us every single time?"
Buggy's jaw dropped. He slapped a hand across his face so hard it echoed. "You idiot! You don't just ask him that! That's his secret! You're giving away our weakness!"
The crew chuckled nervously, some shaking their heads. Mihawk, however, didn't dismiss the question. Instead, he looked directly at Shanks, eyes sharp as the edge of Yoru.
"I used the Donquixote family's information network," Mihawk said matter-of-factly. He set his wine down with a faint clink. "They keep track of troublesome figures like yourself. And speaking of trouble…" He lifted the glass again, sipping with visible distaste. "…don't you have better wine aboard this ship?"
The entire deck went quiet. Pirates exchanged confused glances.
"Better… wine?" one whispered.
"We're pirates, not merchants!" another muttered.
"Is this guy for real?" a third groaned.
Even Beckman's eyebrow twitched as he cleaned one of his pistols, though his silence betrayed his amusement.
Buggy threw up his arms. "Unbelievable! What do you think this is, Mihawk? A gourmet cruise liner? We raid ships! Half the time, we're lucky if the rum hasn't been watered down!"
Mihawk didn't flinch. His eyes lowered back to the catalog of swords he had spread open across his knee, as though Buggy's shouting were little more than background noise. "If I had known, I would have taken a merchant ship back to East Blue."
That was loud enough for the entire crew to hear. A ripple of indignation ran across the deck.
"Are we… are we being insulted right now?" one pirate muttered.
"Aye," another grumbled. "Feels like we're being insulted."
But Shanks just laughed, tipping the last of his bottle back before setting it aside. "Hahahahaha! Don't take it so hard, boys. He didn't refuse the wine, did he?"
Indeed, despite his sharp tongue, Mihawk continued to drink it. That alone was answer enough.
Shanks leaned back on his hands, his gaze never leaving Mihawk. His grin softened, though his eye still glimmered with amusement. "You know, Mihawk… for a moment I thought you were after my head. Following the World Government's orders. Wouldn't be the first time they tried to use you like a hound."
Mihawk didn't look up from the catalog. "An order? No. Not that I know of. And if they had passed one, it would not be my hand that delivered it." He flipped a page with careful precision, his tone cool as steel. "As for Dorian, he was not acting under the Government's command. Someone else is pulling his strings. Someone content to remain in shadow."
The weight in his words was enough to still the crew's chatter. Shanks' smile faded into something quieter, his tone sharpening.
"Then tell me, Hawkeyes… who is this supposed puppet master?"
The Red Force seemed to still with the question. Even Buggy, mid-rant about the unfairness of being a glorified wine steward, froze to hear the answer.
Mihawk finally raised his eyes from the catalog, their golden hue glinting beneath the torchlight. He regarded Shanks for a long, quiet moment before answering.
"Well," he said, taking another sip of wine, "Ross mentioned the possibility. If you want answers, ask him directly."
Buggy's face turned beet red, his patience snapping like a rope in a storm. "Ask him directly? ASK HIM DIRECTLY?! How the hell are we supposed to reach someone when we don't even know where he is? Or how to contact him?! You think he just floats by with a calling card?"
Mihawk ignored him completely, eyes drifting back to the catalog.
Buggy's shouting grew louder, arms flailing in rage. "This is ridiculous! We're supposed to be gathering intel! We're supposed to be prepared! And instead we're—"
Shanks raised a hand lazily, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "Eh, Buggy, don't shout so much. I've got Rosinante's Den Den Mushi tucked away."
The words hit the crew like a cannonball. Beckman actually coughed, nearly dropping the pistol he was cleaning. Several men gawked at their captain, jaws slack.
"You…" one whispered.
"Did he just say…?" another muttered.
Even Mihawk's eyes lifted faintly, as if amused.
Buggy's face went purple. He leapt onto Shanks, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him violently. "YOU WHAT?! You had it THIS WHOLE TIME?!" His voice cracked with outrage. "Do you realize how much trouble we've gone through? The dead ends, the chasing ghosts, the wasted months?! And all this time you were sitting on a goddamn GOLD MINE of information?!"
Shanks only laughed, wheezing between Buggy's violent shakes. "Hahahaha! Ah, sorry, Buggy! Guess I… forgot I even had it!"
"FORGOT?!" Buggy screeched, practically foaming at the mouth. "You absolute moron! How can anyone forget something like that?!"
The crew roared with laughter, the tension broken at last. Men slapped their knees, wiping tears from their eyes as they watched Buggy throttle their captain to no avail. Even Beckman allowed himself the faintest smirk as he shook his head in disbelief.
Mihawk, for his part, closed the catalog with a quiet snap and took another slow sip of wine.
"Truly, Shanks," he muttered dryly, "you've not changed at all."
Shanks grinned up at him through Buggy's furious shaking. "And that's why you keep coming back, isn't it?"
For the first time that night, Mihawk's lips curved faintly—not a smile, but the shadow of one. The Red Force sailed on into the twilight, laughter and arguments echoing across its deck, while beneath it all, the weight of unseen threats gathered silently on the horizon.
Shanks leaned back against a barrel, grinning ear to ear as he raised his mug. "So does that mean you'll finally join my crew, Mihawk?" He punctuated the question with a playful wink.
Mihawk closed his eyes and let out a long, controlled sigh. He didn't even bother answering. He'd lost count of how many times this one-eyed fool had asked the same question, always as if it were the first time. Silence, he decided, was the only response left worth giving.
Shanks slumped dramatically, hanging his head like a child denied candy. "Sigh… Fine, fine. You win again…" He held the pout for three seconds before perking right back up, his grin returning like a rising tide.
"Anyway! What's with you digging through all these sword catalogs, Hawkeyes? Don't you already carry one of the thirteen Supreme Grade blades? Why the sudden obsession with hunting down named swords?"
Mihawk's eyes flicked to him, the candlelight gleaming gold in their depths. His voice was cool, deliberate. "It's not for me. It's for my disciple. I've given him nothing. Meanwhile, Rosinante gifted his student a Supreme Grade blade. If I am his rival, I cannot allow him to eclipse me in such matters. My disciple deserves a proper companion."
The moment the name Rosinante was spoken, the air shifted. Mihawk's tone dipped into fondness, his jaw relaxing. For Shanks, it stirred a different feeling—memory. That same Supreme Grade blade had been the prize of a duel between him and Rosinante. A duel he had lost. His fingers brushed the hilt of his saber, Gryphon, not with regret but with quiet acceptance. Gryphon was his, truly his. Still… the memory burned.
"Well…" Shanks dragged out the word, voice teasing again, "we might have a few good blades stashed away—"
"Unless you're offering that blade you carry…" Mihawk's eyes darted to Gryphon, "…or the one Buggy clings to like a starving man clutching bread, don't waste my time."
The words landed like thunder. Buggy, who had been leaning back smugly, jolted upright with a strangled squawk. His hand flew protectively to the hilt of the great grade blade at his side—the same one he and Shanks had swindled years ago from an underground auction, right under the noses of the Big Mom Pirates.
"Oi, oi, oi! You bastard!" Buggy shrieked, pointing at Mihawk with a trembling finger. "This is the ONLY thing of worth I own! You think I'll just hand it over because your precious disciple needs a plaything?!"
Mihawk didn't move, didn't blink—just leveled him with a single, razor-sharp glare. The air seemed to grow heavier, silence swallowing the deck.
Buggy's bravado faltered instantly. He forced a nervous laugh, beads of sweat forming on his painted forehead. "…Hah. I mean, unless—unless you're willing to trade, y'know. Say, that shiny little toy on your back…" He gestured weakly toward Yoru, the massive black blade that radiated menace even in stillness. Buggy grinned wide, all teeth and desperation. "Yeah! You give me Yoru, I'll give you this one. Fair deal, right? Hah!"
The glare sharpened. Buggy froze like a rabbit caught in a hawk's shadow. His laugh died in his throat, replaced with a pathetic whimper.
Shanks couldn't hold it in. He doubled over, pounding the deck with his fist as laughter boomed from him in waves. "Hahahahaha! Buggy, you trying to bargain with Hawkeyes? With Yoru? Oh, that's priceless! You'd sooner convince Kaido to wear clown makeup!"
"I'M NOT A CLOWN!" Buggy bellowed, his voice cracking. He shook his blade in the air with trembling defiance while hiding behind a mast. "Mark my words, I'll never let you vultures take this sword from me! You hear me, Mihawk? I'll fight you to the death if I have to!"
For the briefest instant, Mihawk's lips twitched—as if the world's greatest swordsman, in spite of himself, had found the clown's desperate courage faintly amusing. But only for an instant.
"Relax, Buggy," Shanks said, still chuckling, wiping tears from his eye. "If Mihawk wanted that blade, he would have already challenged you for a duel. The fact he hasn't drawn Yoru means you're safe. For now."
Buggy puffed up his chest, seizing the lifeline. "Tch! That's right! I scared him off with my resolve! He knows I'm not a man to be trifled with!"
The entire crew roared with laughter, raising their mugs, some nearly falling over with how ridiculous Buggy looked strutting around the deck with his precious blade.
The Red Force was alive with drunken songs and laughter, the kind of reckless joy only pirates could conjure under the stars. Tankards clashed, dice rolled, and Buggy was already loudly boasting about how he'd "scared off" Mihawk with nothing but his glare.
But at the heart of the storm of revelry sat Shanks and Mihawk, and there the mood was altogether different.
Shanks, usually the embodiment of mischief and easy smiles, set his mug down with deliberate care. His single eye fixed on the hawk-like gaze across from him.
"So tell me, Hawkeye… why are you really here?" His voice lost its playful edge, steady and sharp now. "You're more than capable of traversing the Calm Belt alone, and as much as I know you… you'd rather cut through a storm with your bare blade than hitch a ride with us."
The air shifted. The sounds of celebration blurred into a dull hum around them, like the sea itself was holding its breath.
Mihawk lowered the catalog of blades he had been casually flipping through. His hand lingered on the leather cover for a moment before setting it aside. His expression, usually impassive and cold as tempered steel, turned grave. For a man like him, the change was more telling than any dramatic gesture.
"I did not come for wine or passage," Mihawk said, his voice low but carrying weight enough to silence the world around them. "I came to deliver you a message."
Shanks tilted his head slightly, his grin gone, his eye narrowing.
"A message?"
Mihawk's gaze sharpened, the shadows of the deck lanterns cutting across his angular face, making him look like a predator in stillness. "From Ross."
The name alone was enough to still the hand of Ben Beckman, who had been polishing his pistol nearby. His fingers froze on the steel, his eyes darting to Shanks with quiet alarm. Ross—Rosinante—wasn't a name spoken lightly. Not with the weight it carried.
Mihawk continued, his tone edged with rare seriousness. "The message is too sensitive to send over a transponder snail. Too dangerous. The World Government is already watching you—closely. Every word you speak, every step you take, they try to measure. If Ross entrusted me to bring this to you in person…" He paused, his gaze hardening like a blade meeting stone. "…then you should understand its importance."
Shanks leaned back slowly, his hand brushing the rim of his mug, though he didn't drink. His eye gleamed, not with the drunken mischief his crew knew so well, but with something quieter. Calculating. He let the silence stretch for a long moment, only the creak of the ship and the faint crash of waves against its hull filling the void.
Finally, he spoke. "If it was important enough for you to break your solitude… then I'd be a fool to take it lightly."
Around them, the crew carried on laughing, drinking, and brawling, blissfully unaware that at the heart of their celebration, the world was about to tilt.
****
The shoreline shuddered as Arnold braced himself, his massive frame silhouetted against the crashing waves. His voice boomed across the coast, raw power resonating in every syllable.
"Gyojin Karate: Yarinami…!" ( Fishman Karate: Spear Wave)
The ocean obeyed. Water twisted and writhed at his command, a living serpent coiling around his arm before cresting into a spear that shimmered with liquid brilliance. With a roar, Arnold hurled the aqueous weapon, the air screaming as the colossal water-spear shot forth like a god's judgment.
But today, his opponent was no mere rival fishman. It was Donquixote Doflamingo—who, rather than standing back with his usual smug detachment, was intent on testing something new.
Flames licked at his frame, not wild and chaotic, but flowing—fluid, like water itself. He twisted his fingers as though weaving invisible threads, guiding the fire as if it were clay in a sculptor's hands. The actions mimicked the same stance as Arnold but what Doflamingo wielded in his hands were not water but searing purple flames.
"Gyojin Karate: Ennetsu Yari…!"(Fishman Karate: Infernal Lance)
Purple flames swirled around him in a mesmerizing dance, condensing into a blazing spear. The weapon pulsed with heat and malevolence, as though hell itself had been forged into its point. With a snap of his arm, Doflamingo hurled the infernal spear to meet Arnold's watery onslaught.
The clash was apocalyptic.
The spear of water and the lance of purple flame collided midair with a deafening CRACK. For a heartbeat, the two forces wrestled—liquid crashing against fire, steam billowing outward in an expanding shroud. Then, with a sound like the heavens splitting, the clash erupted. A tidal wave of flame-steamed vapor roared outward, devouring the shoreline. The blast carved a ravine into the sea itself, water retreating in terror from the cursed fire.
Arnold's eyes went wide as he rolled clear of the impact, his body slamming into the sand with a grunt. A crater yawned before him, glowing with heat, while seawater hissed and boiled at its edges. Purple flames clung to the surface of the ocean, impossible, unnatural—burning where no flame should survive.
Doflamingo landed lightly atop the fractured earth, chuckling, his grin wide and predatory. His body radiated heat, threads of fire coiling and unraveling at his fingertips.
"Fufufufu… come now, Arnold. Don't disappoint me, brother." His voice dripped with mockery and exhilaration. "I'm still learning the ropes of your Fishman Karate… but it seems I'm a fast learner."
Arnold could only swallow hard, sweat mixing with seawater as his gills fluttered in disbelief. He had sparred with Doffy countless times before, but never like this. The sheer destructive scope of what had just happened made his stomach knot. If those cursed flames touched him—truly touched him—he wouldn't walk away with just scars. He'd lose a limb… or worse.
"Hahaha… Doffy, why don't we stop here?" Arnold tried to laugh, though it came out strangled. His eyes flicked nervously toward the endless crater carved into the sea. "I'm sure Issho would make a better sparring partner. He can actually keep up with you—"
A flicker. A blur.
Doflamingo was suddenly upon him, his form vanishing in a shimmer of speed. "But Issho doesn't know Fishman Karate, unfortunately…"
Arnold barely had time to register the blur of motion before Doffy's fist drew back, flames rippling around his arm like molten waves. His stance shifted—not Fishman Karate this time, but another style altogether, one that carried the rumble of earthquakes in every motion.
"Hasshōken: Teikoku Ken…!" (Eight-Impact Fist: Imperial Fist)
The punch erupted forward, and with it came waves of purple flame ripples. They spread outward like concentric rings on water, but each ripple tore into the air with explosive force, devouring everything in its path. The heat seared the sand black before the fist had even connected.
Arnold's eyes widened. There was no defending this. No wall of water could withstand such an assault. And then—
CLANG.
A sheath, not a blade, intercepted the flaming fist. The world convulsed at the impact. Haki-coated flames surged against a barrier of soft purple energy that shimmered over the lacquered sheath of a shikomizue. The resulting detonation cracked the shoreline again, sending sand and debris into the sky like a volcanic eruption.
Arnold blinked, coughing through the haze, and through the smoke emerged a figure standing firm. Issho.
The blind swordsman's calm presence seemed like an anchor amidst the chaos. His grip on the sheathed blade was unshaken, his body unmoving even as heat licked against him.
"I think that's enough, Doffy." His voice was steady, carrying quiet authority that silenced even the roar of the flames. "Arnold isn't suited for this level of combat. And you…" his head tilted, unseeing eyes turning toward Doflamingo, "…you've never been one to hold back, even when you claim it's just a spar."
For a moment, no one moved. The purple flames hissed against the sheath, straining to consume, then gradually receded, curling back toward Doffy as if tamed.
The emperor of the sea straightened, chuckling low in his throat. His grin widened, sharp and unrepentant. "Fufufufu… You always ruin my fun, Issho. But fine. We'll stop… for now."
Behind them, the shoreline was unrecognizable. Craters smoldered, the sea still boiling where purple flames clung stubbornly to the surface. What was meant to be a "spar" had nearly reshaped the landscape itself.
And for Arnold, chest heaving as he stared at the devastation, one truth sank deep into his gut: this was Doflamingo holding back.
The shoreline was still smoking, the air thick with steam and the lingering heat of Doflamingo's purple flames. The ground was cracked, gouged, and reshaped into jagged trenches that stretched into the sea, evidence of what was supposed to have been nothing more than "sparring."
Doflamingo stood at the center of it all, his coat billowing in the salt wind, flames flickering faintly at his fingertips as though unwilling to die out. His grin was sharp, but his voice carried none of his usual mocking lilt when he finally turned toward Issho.
"So… what do you think, Issho?" His tone was calm, serious—rare for him. "Does my mastery of Fishman Karate and Hasshōken seem enough?"
For years, Issho had sparred with him, tested him, and unlike most, had never once sugarcoated the truth. When it came to training, Doflamingo demanded honesty, and Issho had always delivered.
The blind swordsman adjusted his grip on his shikomizue, lowering it with deliberate ease as the last embers of flame faded from the wood. His expression remained unreadable, but his words were measured, steady.
"Well, Doffy-kun…" Issho began, his voice like rolling thunder, "there is still room for improvement. Especially in your Fishman Karate. Do not misunderstand—it is impressive, far beyond what most would dare attempt. But remember, Fishman Karate was not designed for land-dwellers. It was born in the sea, crafted by fishmen to bend water to their will. To reshape it, to make it dance with flame instead of water… such a transformation cannot be perfected in only a few years."
Doflamingo frowned, his eyes narrowing as he mulled over the words. He hated imperfection, but Issho's assessment was never wrong. "So… more high-intensity training, then," he muttered, almost to himself, his fingers twitching as purple embers flickered once more. His mind already worked through scenarios, combinations, new applications. Where others saw a ceiling, he saw another wall to shatter.
Issho nodded slightly. "Your Hasshōken is closer. The way you've shaped its ripples into flame-shockwaves is terrifying in its own right. With refinement, it will become devastating. But the Fishman Karate… that path will demand more of you. Patience. Precision. Control."
Arnold stood behind Issho, chest still heaving from the earlier clash. His throat was dry, not from exertion but from shock. His mind replayed the image over and over again—the way Doflamingo had caught fire in his hands and shaped it, as though flames were water to be molded.
When Doffy had first approached him years ago, asking to learn Fishman Karate, Arnold had laughed so hard he had rolled across the floor of their training hall. The idea of a human using techniques designed for fishmen underwater, let alone twisting them for some other element, was absurd. Laughable.
But today, watching the sea itself burn with purple fire… Arnold swallowed hard. That laughter had long since died.
Never in his wildest dreams would he have believed such a thing possible, yet Doflamingo had done it. And not just done it—he had mastered it to a terrifying degree.
Arnold's gaze lingered on the scorched trench that tore deep into the ocean, where steam hissed and flames clung to the surface of the water like a living curse. He realized the truth in that moment: The Donquixote Family wasn't just filled with powerful warriors. They were filled with monsters. Monsters who broke the very logic of combat and reshaped it in their image.
Doflamingo chuckled suddenly, the grin returning to his lips as he straightened his posture, flames curling lazily around his hand before winking out. "Fufufufu… not enough, huh? Then I'll just have to make it enough. Fishman Karate, Hasshōken, my own Devil Fruit… I'll fuse them all until they sing as one. Until there's no defense, no counter, no escape." His eyes gleamed with cruel determination. "That's the kind of combat I want. Not brute strength… but art. Destruction as art."