Okazuru Island Port.
The Navy Hunter, Mihawk, stepped onto the pier once more, his personal small sailboat rocking softly behind him.
He had not yet reached his peak, so the coffin boat that would one day drift across the seas like a rumor still did not exist. But sailing alone into the Grand Line on nothing but a small boat was already proof enough of what kind of monster he was, strength, nerve, and navigation skill all rolled into one.
Dracule Mihawk.
Primary occupation, swordsman.
Secondary occupation, sailor and cook.
Both secondary skill trees had clearly been leveled to an absurd degree. With a sword in hand, he could cut men, split ships, row through storms, slice vegetables, and cook a meal clean enough to make pirates weep.
Mihawk pulled his boat into the most remote corner of the port, the farthest place from noise and eyes. Then he started toward Hachimangu Square.
He had barely walked for a few minutes when his eagle sharp gaze snapped sideways.
His skin tightened.
His instincts screamed.
Even the great sword in his hand began to tremble like it had just smelled death.
Mihawk's grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.
"Did Ito Ittosai hire someone to kill me?"
He had met Ito Ittosai before. The old man's sword intent had been complicated, tangled, no longer pure. Mihawk had seen enough of the world to know what that meant.
A swordsman who lost his sword heart could do anything.
The duel had been delayed. Publicized. Turned into a spectacle.
Mihawk had expected trouble.
But not this.
This pressure was wrong. It was too heavy, too deep. The kind that made even great swordsmen feel their hearts shrink.
Could Ito Ittosai really hire an expert of this level?
Mihawk rested his right hand on the hilt, eyes locked ahead.
Two figures approached at an unhurried pace.
One wore a black robe and a white smiling mask.
A funny mask.
A cheap looking smile.
And yet, in the current suffocating atmosphere, that ridiculous mask felt more terrifying than any grim expression.
Mihawk's brow twitched.
If he ever reached that level of strength, he would show up like a proper master, cool, sharp, imposing.
Not like this.
The masked man stopped a short distance away.
Then came a voice, calm and amused.
"Very good. You did not lose your will to resist. You were ready to draw your sword against me."
The man's gaze lingered on Mihawk's stance, on the slight shift of weight, on the sword hand that never relaxed.
"Your sword intent and sword heart are firm."
Brook's tone turned faintly self mocking.
"Many people love to talk about 'swinging a sword at someone stronger.' But when I face an enemy countless times stronger than myself, I can only think of escaping."
Mihawk did not blink.
His eyes stayed sharp.
"Who are you?"
The great sword in his hand still trembled, as if it wanted to flee. But Mihawk's heart did not.
He stepped forward anyway.
If he feared death, he had no business chasing the path of the sword.
The masked man chuckled.
"Just a wounded warrior."
Brook's voice was light, almost casual.
"I admire your talent and your swordsmanship. I came here to watch your life or death duel."
As he spoke, Brook let his aura fade.
The pressure withdrew like a tide, and Mihawk finally felt the air return to his lungs.
Brook smiled beneath the mask.
He did not recruit Mihawk immediately.
If Mihawk rejected him now, things would get annoying. Then Brook would have only one clean option, knock him out and take him away.
Better to wait.
Let Mihawk fight Ito Ittosai.
Let him taste danger.
Then, when the trap closed, recruitment would be easier.
If it still failed…
then Brook would pack him up and carry him off anyway.
Mihawk's eyes narrowed.
"A wounded man could suppress me with aura alone…"
His mind raced.
Only one faction produced monsters like this now.
The Hell Pirates, the rulers of the New World, the ones who dared to ignite a world war with the World Government.
In the Grand Line, the East Blue, the South Blue, the Hell Pirates were already a taboo. Civilians spoke of them in whispers, and even children cried at the mention of their name.
Brook watched Mihawk's reaction and chuckled.
"It's up to you."
Mihawk sensed no hostility now. He lowered his hand from the hilt and continued forward.
He had a duel to attend. He did not intend to waste time with a strange masked powerhouse, no matter how suspicious.
Brook turned with him, walking back toward Hachimangu Square at an easy pace.
Then he spoke as if discussing the weather.
"I heard you like the Supreme Grade blade, Yoru."
Mihawk's steps slowed a fraction.
Brook continued.
"I know where it is. Its owner registered as a member of the Hell Guild."
The words landed like a blade.
"Do you dare to attack the Hell Guild?"
Brook's voice stayed mild.
"If you need help, I can arrange a fair match between you two. The stakes would be the swords in your hands."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Of course, you could also enter the New World, kill Jubei, and declare war on the Hell Guild. Then you'd spend the rest of your life being hunted. That might be… inconvenient."
Brook's tone made it sound like a minor hassle.
But Mihawk understood.
Jubei had joined the pirate guild early, and that guild had long since been absorbed into the Hell Guild. He was a formal member now, an affiliated force, the kind of "good citizen" who paid his dues and completed tasks every year.
If someone wanted Yoru, they would also have to consider the Hell Guild's face.
And Jubei was no weakling. He was a leader among the major pirates. As long as the Hell Pirates' core members did not personally target him, he could continue to develop in the New World safely.
The rise of the Universal Government had made men like him even safer. As long as he behaved, avoided provoking the King of Hell and the second generation, and focused on carving out territory and passing down his sword school, he would survive.
Mihawk's fingers tightened around his sword's handle.
The New World was the Universal Government's territory now, preaching coexistence among all races. Pirates were forced to change their profession and become "adventurers," ranked and managed.
In name, adventurers.
In practice, many still did what pirates did, plunder, fight, conquer.
When the North Sea and West Sea were taken, those pirate turned adventurers contributed heavily to the Universal Government, and paid for it with massive casualties.
So the Hell Guild had another nickname now.
The Adventurers Guild.
And Mihawk had heard enough.
He knew what kind of organization it was.
Vicious pirate crews and ability users who refused to comply were cleaned out through missions, their wealth and Devil Fruits harvested with clinical efficiency.
When it came to governance, governments could be darker than pirates.
Stussy, Shakky, and Daenerys had erased countless crews who refused to change.
If Mihawk entered the New World, he would not be stealing Yoru under the Hell Guild's protection.
Not unless he wanted to live as prey.
With Antonio and Moore Thomas controlling intelligence across the New World, almost no one wanted by the Hell Guild could escape.
Mihawk finally stopped.
His face was calm, but his eyes were sharper than before.
"What are the conditions," he asked evenly, "for asking for your help?"
He was almost certain now.
The terrifying figure in front of him was exactly who he suspected.
And one thought surfaced, quiet but unavoidable.
He said he came here specifically to watch me.
---------------
Brook studied the young Mihawk for a moment.
He was not yet the World's Greatest Swordsman, and he did not carry that future chill, the cold arrogance that would one day make even pirates hesitate before speaking to him.
Right now, he was still sharp, still hungry, still burning.
Brook's tone softened, almost sincere.
"I've been looking for you for years. I wanted to take you in as my student."
He let out a quiet laugh behind the mask.
"But you slipped through my fingers. And now you've already carved out your own path. In swordsmanship, I have nothing to teach you."
Brook lifted a hand slightly, as if weighing options in the air.
"At most, I can give you guidance in Haki training. If you're willing to call me Teacher, that would be ideal."
His voice shifted, turning businesslike.
"If you're not, then I'll invite you in another way."
Brook's eyes curved behind the smiling mask.
"In the name of the Universal Government, I'm offering you a seat as one of the Seven Impermanence of the Soul Catching Guild."
The words landed with the weight of authority.
"Think of it as our version of the Seven Warlords. Most of the time you're free. You only fight when the Universal Government and the Hell Guild call for you."
Then Brook added, as casually as if he were talking about groceries, "There's pay. Benefits. Resource subsidies."
A faint chuckle followed.
"But don't mistake this for the old Warlords system. My Seven Impermanence won't be that loose."
Brook's tone cooled a little, though the smile on his mask did not change.
"Once you join, you become a blade in the Universal Government's hand."
He did not hide the threat, not even a little.
"If you resist, if you betray, be ready to become blood slave. Look at Jack Sparrow, enslaved for over twenty years, and you'll understand what cruelty really means."
Brook's voice stayed light, almost amused, which made it worse.
"Even if you die, your body and soul will serve forever."
He paused, then added one more detail, practical and chilling.
"And for the Seven Impermanence, I'm mostly recruiting people like you, swordsmen and pure fighters. Devil Fruit users who refuse my side are usually hunted by the Hell Guild anyway, their abilities reclaimed."
Mihawk's expression did not change.
He did not like complications.
He liked straight lines, clean cuts, victory or death.
"Then I'll be one of the Seven Impermanence," he said.
Brook chuckled.
"So quick."
Umit, who had been hovering nearby like a loyal shadow, sighed dramatically.
"What a waste, what a waste. If you became Master Brook's student, you might have earned the pure gold ring and immortality."
As soon as Mihawk refused the disciple path, Umit's fear of him dropped straight through the floor.
Seven Impermanence or not, to the underground Shipping King, Mihawk was now just a proud newcomer with a contract.
In Umit's eyes, refusing to become Brook's student was the kind of stupidity that people regretted on their deathbed.
"Yohoho. Fine."
Brook waved his hand as if brushing dust off his sleeve.
"Go fight Ito Ittosai. Leave the rest to me."
Brook turned and walked away, taking Umit with him, already wondering which Navy dog would show its teeth the moment Mihawk bled.
Mihawk watched them disappear, then moved at once toward Hachimangu Square.
He had no regrets.
His sword path was about stepping forward, about chasing sharper edges and harder walls.
If he became Brook's disciple, the road would become too safe.
Too easy.
And that would make it boring.
Okazuru Island, Hachimangu Shrine Square.
After noon, Ito Ittosai stood alone on the ring.
The sun burned overhead, bright and merciless.
Ito Ittosai squinted up at it, then smiled, a thin, dangerous curve.
The Navy had already cast its net. Mihawk would not escape.
Win or lose, the Navy Hunter would be taken.
Still, Ito Ittosai wanted more.
If he could defeat Mihawk cleanly here, in front of everyone, the world would be forced to admit he was still the strongest blade in the kingdom.
And if the kid turned out to be too strong…
then Ito Ittosai would stand on the side of "justice," and hunt him down alongside the Navy.
There was another matter, too.
Ono Tadaaki.
That eldest disciple who was growing bolder by the day, letting ambition leak from every glance.
Ito Ittosai's eyes turned cold.
I give you what I choose to give you.
If I don't give it, you don't get to take it.
He was done tolerating greed in his own house. He would clear the road for his son and grandson, no matter how useless they were.
Noise swelled like a tide as the crowd packed tighter.
And then, at last, a lone figure stepped into the arena's shadow.
The audience erupted, cheering their kingdom's greatest swordsman.
Others cursed Mihawk as a pirate, spitting venom, starving for his head.
Among them lurked pirate hunters with brighter eyes than the rest, waiting for blood. If Mihawk was injured, they would pounce.
Ito Ittosai's gaze slid across the young challenger. Mihawk's presence felt even sharper than a week ago.
That talent was terrifying.
For the first time, a thread of uncertainty flickered in the old man's chest.
So he spoke first, forcing a smile.
"Young man. I admire your courage, and your hunger for the sword."
He spread his arms slightly, as if generous.
"Become my disciple. I can recommend you to Marine Headquarters. I can even have you evaluated as one of the Seven Warlords."
His eyes gleamed.
"In my early years, I had some friendship with Fleet Admiral Kong. He'll give me face. He can re evaluate you, even pardon your crime of killing Navy men."
Ito Ittosai was already thinking ahead.
If Mihawk became his cheap disciple and earned a Warlord seat, it would smooth the path for his own son and grandson to enter the Marines.
But Mihawk did not hesitate.
"No."
He drew his great sword, Nagawesai, and the steel sang.
"Start."
He would not call Brook Teacher.
Why would he bow to this old man, swollen with power and compromise?
And the vulgar hunger Mihawk sensed from Ito Ittosai only deepened his disgust.
To Mihawk, the so called great swordsman was already dead.
Ito Ittosai's smile twitched.
"You don't know what's good for you."
He drew his own blade, the massive Fushato.
Sword intent burst from his aged body in a harsh wave.
Years had drained his blood and dulled his edge. Desire and worldly comfort had eaten away at his sword will.
But even so, he was still a rare great swordsman in this world.
Around the ring, Ono Tadaaki and the disciples leaned forward, eyes blazing.
"Master's Itto style, Myoken, is terrifying. One strike and that Navy Hunter is done!"
In the crowd, voices piled on top of voices.
"Kill him!"
"Master Ittosai, cut that pirate down!"
Those with real experience quietly backed away from the ring, widening the circle. They knew what flying slashes from true swordsmen could do.
Meanwhile, the ignorant still cheered at the edge, completely unaware they were standing where death might land.
Up on rooftops, young masters and wealthy spectators watched with amused contempt.
That was when Mihawk finally spoke, his voice clean and flat.
"Dracule Mihawk."
He lifted the great sword slightly.
"My foundation is tachi style, and I follow my own Shinto style."
A duel demanded names. It demanded styles.
It was respect, and it was intelligence, giving the opponent the shape of what they were about to face.
Ito Ittosai answered with a chuckle.
"Ito Ittosai."
He raised Fushato, the blade catching sunlight like a threat.
"I practice my own Itto style. Myoken."
He did not reveal more.
He did not need to advertise himself like a newcomer.
The dream of most sword masters was to spread their created style across the world.
Ito Ittosai already had that.
Now, he only needed to win.
And in the next heartbeat, the square itself seemed to hold its breath.
.....
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