Before Mihawk's blade ever reached the Krieg pirates—
On the Going Merry, silence ruled.
Inside one of the small cabins, Cry lay sleeping.
She looked nothing like a weapon. Nothing like a calamity.
Her long ocean-colored hair spilled across the pillow like calm waves under moonlight, strands gently rising and falling with her breathing. Her snow-white skin seemed almost unreal in the dim light, untouched, flawless—like porcelain warmed by life. Her lashes rested softly against her cheeks, casting faint shadows, and her lips were slightly parted, relaxed, innocent, unaware of the world's violence.
She slept like a being who had never needed to fear anything.
But then—
Her eyes slowly opened.
Not in alarm.
Not in danger.
Curiosity.
Her crystal-blue irises shimmered faintly, as if reflecting something far beyond the walls of the ship. She felt it—clear and unmistakable.
A presence.
Strong.
Sharp.
Bored… and searching.
Someone wandering the sea not for survival, not for conquest—but for challenge.
Cry did not move. She did not rise from the bed. She merely stared at the ceiling, calm and still, as if listening to something only she could hear.
Then, slowly, her eyes closed again.
As if saying: I see you.
---
Out on the open sea—
Dracule Mihawk drifted effortlessly atop his small coffin-shaped boat, the ocean parting obediently beneath him. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, yet his presence alone pressed down on the sea like a silent storm.
Without warning—
He felt it.
A gaze.
Not hostile.
Not fearful.
Not curious like a normal human's.
Something vast.
Something composed.
Something that noticed him.
Mihawk's golden eyes narrowed slightly.
"Hmm?"
This wasn't sight. This wasn't sound.
It was Observation Haki.
A refined sense that allowed its user to perceive the presence, intent, emotions, and awareness of others—like feeling ripples in water before the wave ever arrives. For a master, it extended far beyond vision, far beyond distance.
And Mihawk was a master.
He felt it again—faint, distant, yet unmistakably real.
Someone was aware of him.
Not impressed.
Not afraid.
Simply… aware.
For a brief moment, something like interest flickered in his eyes.
Then—
The distraction appeared.
A ship.
One he recognized.
The same fragile vessel he had toyed with earlier—still daring to cross his path.
Annoyance surfaced, subtle but sharp.
Mihawk sighed.
With slow, deliberate grace, he reached behind him.
His hand wrapped around the hilt of Yoru.
The blade was immense—an enormous black sword shaped like a cross, its surface dark as night, its edge so perfectly forged that it seemed less like metal and more like a concept given form. This was no ordinary weapon.
Yoru was one of the twelve Supreme Grade swords, a blade that had tasted countless battles and remained unblemished. A sword that did not scream for blood—because it knew it would always get it.
Mihawk drew it.
There was no flash.
No dramatic motion.
Just a single, effortless swing.
The air screamed.
The sea split.
And the ship before him was cleaved cleanly in two—precision so absolute it felt unreal, as if reality itself had been corrected by the blade.
The halves drifted apart, silence swallowing the destruction.
Mihawk didn't look back.
He calmly returned Yoru to his back.
Then—
He focused again.
Observation Haki expanded outward like an invisible net.
The presence was still there.
Distant.
Quiet.
Watching.
This time, Mihawk's lips curved slightly.
"…Interesting," he murmured.
For the first time in a long while—
The sea had given him something worth noticing.
Before Mihawk could turn his coffin-boat toward the source of that strange awareness—
He felt another presence.
This one was nothing like the first.
It was raw.
Sharp.
Burning with hunger and resolve.
The will of a swordsman.
Mihawk's golden eyes shifted.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his gaze toward Baratie.
And there—
He saw him.
..
..
..
..
On the floating restaurant's deck stood a man with green hair, his stance wide and grounded like roots gripping the earth. Roronoa Zoro clenched a sword between his teeth, the hilt pressed hard against his jaw as he tied his dark bandana over his head. His remaining two swords rested in his hands, steady despite the storm raging inside him.
Zoro lifted his head.
And their eyes met.
The world seemed to narrow.
For Zoro, the man before him felt like a wall—no, a mountain, vast and immovable, casting a shadow so deep it swallowed doubt and fear alike. Mihawk's gaze was calm, ancient, as if he had already seen every outcome and found them all boring.
For Mihawk, Zoro's stare was crude but brilliant—like an unpolished blade held up to the sun. It trembled, not with fear, but with the violent desire to cut through destiny itself.
Neither looked away.
The air tightened.
Steel hummed.
Mihawk stepped forward, his presence alone silencing the sea.
"So," he said calmly, voice carrying effortless authority,
"you are the one."
Zoro spat the words around the sword in his mouth.
"I'm Roronoa Zoro. The man who'll become the greatest swordsman in the world."
A pause.
Mihawk's lips curved—just slightly.
"How amusing."
..
..
..
The Duel
Zoro moved first.
He charged, sand splintering beneath his feet, blades flashing as he unleashed everything—strength, technique, ambition—into a single furious assault. His swords screamed through the air, aimed to kill, to prove his worth or die trying.
Mihawk did not even draw Yoru.
Instead—
He reached into his coat and produced a small knife.
The contrast was humiliating.
Zoro's blades clashed against it again and again, sparks bursting like fireworks, yet every strike was stopped—effortlessly. Mihawk parried with lazy precision, his movements minimal, perfect, as though Zoro's full power was nothing more than a child's tantrum.
"What's wrong?" Mihawk asked coolly.
"Is that all your ambition amounts to?"
Zoro roared and pushed harder, muscles screaming, veins bulging as he forced his body past its limits. Blood sprayed as Mihawk's counter struck—clean, merciless.
Still, Zoro stood.
Still, he advanced.
Finally, Mihawk sighed.
"This ends here."
He turned Yoru sideways.
One swing.
Not a slash meant to kill—
but one meant to teach despair.
The black blade carved through Zoro's crossed swords, through his chest, opening him from shoulder to hip. Blood exploded outward, painting the ground red.
Zoro was thrown back, crashing into the deck.
Silence.
..
..
Zoro staggered to his feet.
Every instinct screamed at him to fall. His body was shattered. His vision blurred.
Yet he turned his back to Mihawk.
Gasps echoed across Baratie.
Mihawk's eyes widened—just a fraction.
"You turn your back on me?" Mihawk said quietly.
"Do you know what that means?"
Zoro gritted his teeth, blood spilling from his mouth, but his voice did not shake.
"Scars on the back are a swordsman's shame."
Mihawk's expression shifted.
For the first time—
Respect.
He raised Yoru and brought it down.
The blade struck Zoro's chest head-on, carving a massive cross-shaped wound that burned itself into his body and soul.
Zoro fell.
But he did not scream.
..
..
..
..
Luffy caught him.
Zoro laughed weakly, tears mixing with blood as he struggled to lift his head. His voice cracked—not from fear, but from grief at the distance between himself and his dream.
"Hey… Luffy…"
He clenched his fists.
"I'm sorry."
His shoulders shook.
"But I swear this—"
Zoro raised one trembling sword toward the sky.
"Until the day I defeat that man…
I will never lose again."
Tears streamed freely now.
"Is that okay… Pirate King?"
Luffy didn't hesitate.
He grinned, wide and absolute.
"Yeah."
..
..
..
Mihawk turned away, satisfied.
As he walked back to his boat, he paused—just once.
"Roronoa Zoro," he said without looking back.
"Surpass this sword."
Then he left.
The sea swallowed him.
And the legend of that duel—
of a man who lost everything yet gained an unbreakable will—
was born.