Mihawk's dark eyes slowly met Cry's, piercing yet measured. After a long moment, he gave the faintest nod, a gesture of acknowledgment, respect, and perhaps curiosity. Then his deep, steady voice carried across the still air, calm yet commanding:
"I am Dracule Mihawk, the Greatest Swordsman in the World," he said, letting each word fall deliberately. The title weighed heavily, even in the silent space between them. Cry tilted her head slightly, her crystal-blue eyes reflecting both curiosity and innocence, trying to grasp the meaning of this imposing figure before her.
A soft, almost whispering voice escaped her lips:
"Drac…?"
Her tiny finger lifted slowly, pointing toward the massive sword strapped across his back. Her eyes seemed to ask the question before the words could form: the sword—its name, its origin.
Mihawk's gaze sharpened subtly, his expression unchanging but his interest piqued. He reached behind him with a single, fluid motion. There was a weight to the movement, a grace borne of decades mastering every gesture. With one hand, he grasped the hilt of Yoru, his black blade, and swung it free from its strap with the precision of a predator unfurling its claws. The massive weapon gleamed in the sunlight, a dark obsidian-black that seemed to swallow light.
"This," Mihawk said, his voice low and resonant, "is Yoru, a black sword of supreme craftsmanship. It is a cavalry-grade blade forged by the finest smiths of the Wano Islands, its edge honed sharper than the coldest winter winds. It has tasted the essence of countless duels, and it is said to have no equal among blades in the world."
He held it before him with a single hand, the weight seeming almost effortless, yet the sheer size of the blade spoke of immeasurable power. The tip brushed the deck lightly, producing a soft, almost musical hum that carried across the air, vibrating like a resonance of inevitability.
Cry's crystal eyes widened, the innocence in her gaze unshaken, yet her focus was absolute. She pointed again, this time not at Mihawk, but at the sword itself, her small mouth forming the question that her mind could not yet articulate: its name, its nature, its power.
Mihawk let the sword rest before him, angled just so that the sunlight traced the silhouette of its blade, the light dancing across its black steel. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her wonder, then spoke again in that calm, unwavering tone:
"Yoru. The Black Sword. It is mine, and it is unmatched."
Even in his explanation, there was no arrogance—only certainty, the quiet confidence of a man who had honed both skill and spirit to perfection. Cry, tilting her head slightly, simply observed, her mind absorbing this new presence, this massive instrument of power that seemed almost alive in his hands.
For Mihawk, the moment was brief, but it lingered. The gaze of a goddess upon a mortal sword, the curiosity unfiltered, the innocence untainted—yet he felt the gravity of her observation. It was rare. It was dangerous. It was… intriguing.
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Cry's small, delicate finger rested on her pinkish lips, the soft curve of her mouth forming the faintest pout. Slowly, with a breath as quiet as a whisper, a grin of salt emerged from her lips—tiny, glimmering particles that floated into the air, catching the sunlight like fractured stars. The granules hovered briefly, dancing in a surreal pattern, before coalescing into a solid form.
Before Mihawk's unblinking eyes, the salt transformed into a trident of crystalline obsidian. Its surface was dark as midnight, yet the sunlight passed through it in faint streaks, giving glimpses of a deep ocean trapped within—a living void, alive with currents of shifting blues and greens, swirling like the very soul of the sea itself. The weapon stood seven feet tall, perfectly balanced, and Cry grasped it at its midpoint with effortless precision. She gently stamped it into the deck of the Merry, and for a heartbeat, the ship trembled, yet there was no harm—no cracks, no splinters.(👉🏻)
The sea itself seemed to respond. Waves rose and fell in perfect rhythm, not violently, but like an excited heartbeat of water; the surface shimmered with iridescent light, reflecting the sun as if celebrating the presence of its sovereign. Tiny whirlpools formed around the trident's impact point, spinning in reverent patterns as if the ocean recognized the weapon and its wielder as a king and queen of the deep. Seabirds cried above, their calls sounding oddly like applause. Even the currents moved in subtle arcs to echo the stance of Cry holding her trident, a silent symphony orchestrated by the will of water itself.
Mihawk's eyes widened, almost impossibly. The deep, calm confidence he normally wore shattered for a fraction of a second, replaced by an unnatural, primal awe. His hand gripped the hilt of Yoru tighter, though the sword now felt smaller in comparison. He exhaled sharply, as if drawing in the enormity of the moment was physically overwhelming. Every rational thought in his mind strained against the sight before him—the innocence of the girl, the majestic elegance of the trident, and the living sea responding to her presence.
For the first time in decades, Mihawk felt something beyond skill, beyond power, beyond human comprehension. His pupils contracted, his heartbeat quickened ever so slightly, and yet he remained standing, composed—but the utter impossibility of what he was witnessing etched itself into his very being. A weapon born of the ocean itself, wielded by a being who was no mortal, no pirate, no swordsman—something entirely other.
It was a moment Mihawk knew he would never, ever forget.
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To be continued