"Don."
Standing atop the shattered remains of his small wooden boat, Hawkeye Mihawk looked up at the man hovering above, his voice calm but edged with steel.
"Oh? You know me?" Don arched an eyebrow, faint amusement in his tone.
"Your name's been appearing in the papers," Mihawk replied, his face utterly serious.
"Ah, that so? Makes sense."
Don nodded lightly, his eyes scanning Mihawk before stopping on the black blade in his hands—Yoru, one of the Supreme Grade Swords, already turned jet-black with Armament Haki.
As he studied the sword, it suddenly moved. Mihawk swung upward, releasing a flying slash that screamed through the air toward him.
Don twisted in midair, narrowly dodging as the crescent of sword energy sliced past his side.
So this was how people in this world greeted each other before speaking—through their blades.
He countered instinctively, returning a slash of his own. Mihawk leapt from the fragments of his boat, feet tapping against the air as he soared upward, Geppo-style, rushing straight toward him.
With Observation Haki locking onto Mihawk's presence, Don met his charge head-on.
Shing!
The two figures crossed paths in a flash of steel.
A thin line tore across Don's chest—his shirt sliced open.
He glanced down at the fabric and frowned slightly.
[HP: 95%]
Across from him, Mihawk also furrowed his brow.
That last strike… something about it felt off.
He hit him—yet it didn't feel like he had.
Still, that swordsmanship… was crude.
Mihawk sighed inwardly.
This young man named Don was undeniably strong—but in pure technique, his swordsmanship was far too unrefined.
Slight disappointment flickered in his golden eyes as he twisted midair again, kicking off the air to lunge back toward Don.
His sharp gaze landed on Don's chest—the gash still there, clothes torn, yet not a drop of blood. Not even a scratch.
A strange body indeed.
Closing in once more, Mihawk swung his blade downward in a clean, decisive arc.
Don blocked, but the difference in technique was unmistakable.
He could feel it. The moment their blades met, Don realized how vast the gap in sword skill between them truly was.
When Yoru's long edge slid past Don's sword, Mihawk's precision and control were evident.
"I've confirmed it," Mihawk said flatly as they crossed once again. "Your swordplay is crude."
"Yeah," Don admitted, turning toward him with a wry grin, glancing at his chest where the fabric had been neatly crossed open. Mihawk stood lightly in the air—Moonwalk, perhaps.
He wasn't wrong.
Don had trained under Koushirō, but once he left, he rarely fought relying purely on swordsmanship. Most of his battles involved his Devil Fruit powers.
So what, am I turning into Ace now?
Mihawk's words struck deeper than expected.
He was growing too reliant on his abilities.
And honestly, who could blame him? His power was simply too convenient, too efficient.
Though his swordsmanship had improved greatly, compared to Mihawk—the world's greatest—it was clear he was still far behind.
In pure swordsmanship, he wasn't a match.
Throughout this brief clash, Don had deliberately refrained from using his powers, relying only on the sword.
And the difference was obvious.
Physically, Don might have been stronger, faster, but in the realm of technique, such advantages meant little.
Mihawk had already sensed it from their first exchange—hence his subsequent moves became lighter, sharper, exploiting Don's weaknesses with ease.
Smart.
A master's composure.
The two locked eyes again—mutual understanding passing silently between them.
Then Mihawk sheathed Yoru across his back, turning toward the distant port.
"This duel's over," he said calmly. "I've seen your sword."
"Oh, I don't think so."
Don's grin returned, and he shook his head.
Flames flickered from his hand, crawling up his blade. Haki wrapped the edge in a dark-red sheen.
"You started this, remember? So the one who ends it should be me. That's only fair."
Feeling the sudden heat behind him, Mihawk stopped and turned.
The blade in Don's hand now burned like molten gold, flames dancing around the steel.
So that's how he carved that slash in the desert.
Mihawk's eyes narrowed slightly in understanding.
Don raised his sword, gaze shifting toward the distant port.
Then, as if deciding something, the flames along his weapon dimmed, and the Haki coating it flowed back into his hand.
The rasp of steel echoed through the air as he sheathed his sword.
"Let's change the stage," Don said quietly. "If we keep fighting here, this city won't survive."
With that, his body erupted in flame—transforming into a blazing streak that shot toward the port.
Mihawk exhaled, releasing the hilt of his sword, eyes following the trail of fire.
"…A flame swordsman, huh?" he murmured, stepping into the air and following suit.
At the Port.
The workers had long since fled.
Even though that earlier exchange was just a warm-up, the waves it caused had been enormous.
Had Fujitora not intervened, the surging tides alone might have destroyed the entire city of Nanohana, or at the very least, the docks.
Robin stared toward the horizon.
Her Observation Haki couldn't reach that far, and by sight alone, all she could make out was a tiny dot above the sea.
Beside her, Fujitora stood silently, his own Haki extending outward, reading the distant clash.
When he suddenly felt the two men stop, a faint crease appeared between his brows.
Just then, a streak of fire shot across the sky and landed before them—Don.
"Ah!"
Robin gasped softly at his sudden appearance, then her eyes dropped to his chest.
The torn shirt revealed eight sharply defined abs beneath.
"Is it over?" she asked instinctively.
"Not really," Don said, shaking his head. "Just a little spar. This place isn't suited for fighting—and besides, he can't fly. So he's at a disadvantage."
Even as the words left his mouth, Mihawk descended from above, eyes gleaming sharply. His gaze first locked on Don, then slid toward Fujitora—his expression shifting, surprise flickering briefly across his features.
Among swordsmen, there was a natural sense of mutual recognition.
Compared to Don, the man before him—Fujitora—was a true great swordsman.
Feeling Mihawk's gaze, Fujitora's hand moved, fingers curling around the hilt of Gambler's Edge.
"This place isn't suitable for a fight," Don interjected lightly. "You two planning to duel here?"
The tension that had begun to rise between them instantly dissipated.
Mostly because Fujitora had sheathed his blade again.
He wanted to test the world's greatest swordsman, sure—but not at the cost of innocent lives.
"Flames and swordsmanship, huh?" Mihawk's golden eyes shifted back to Don. "I'd like to witness that properly."
"Sure," Don replied with a smile. "We'll find a better place."
Though, in his mind, another plan was forming—how to lure Hawkeye aboard.
After all, this guy was also known as the Marine Hunter.
A born predator, through and through.
So… maybe I just have to beat him into joining.
END OF CHAPTER
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