"So fast!"
Mihawk’s pupils constricted to pinpoints, trembling violently.
Before this day, he’d only heard rumors of Rogers Darren—the so-called King of the North Blue—and the devastating swordsmanship that had earned him that title. But facing him now, blade to blade, Mihawk finally understood. The pressure was suffocating, overwhelming—like staring into the eye of a storm.
No wind-up. No warning. Just steel flashing into existence, slicing through the air without a hint of movent to precede it. There was no chance to dodge, no ti even to think.
A thousand thoughts flitted through Mihawk’s mind as Oto’s gleaming tip drew near. For an instant, he saw his reflection mirrored in that deadly edge—the sa blade that had once shared the battlefield with Golden Lion Shiki, drinking the blood of countless powerful foes.
Then, Mihawk moved.
A crimson gleam flared within his hawk-like eyes, and the blurred strike before him snapped into sharp focus.
With a single, fluid motion, he drew Yoru in an upward arc.
Clang!!
The air detonated. The clash was so violent it could shatter eardrums. Sparks scattered like fireflies in a gale.
Blocked it!
For a heartbeat, pride flickered across Mihawk’s face—only to vanish as a crushing force surged from Oto.
Boom!!
A hurricane burst outward, roaring across the island. Dust and debris erupted in all directions, swallowing Mihawk in a storm of raw power.
He was driven back more than twenty ters, his boots gouging twin trenches through the soil before he finally dug in and stopped.
When the dust thinned, the world stilled.
Mihawk stood panting, his face pale, crimson threads spreading through the whites of his eyes. His gaze remained locked on the ito he’d just barely turned aside.
Up close, the cherry blossom patterns etched along Oto’s blade seed almost alive—blooming and fading in a pulse of fragile beauty, like life itself wilting before death.
When the last of the smoke cleared, Mihawk finally lifted his head—only to feel his eyelid twitch violently.
Before him, a vast chasm cleaved through the island, stretching from beneath Darren’s feet all the way toward the horizon.
The sight was grotesque in its scale.
"Th-this..." Gecko Moria gawked, his jaw unhinged in disbelief.
One slash—just one effortless swing—had carved through half the Marine base. He hadn’t even seen the blade move.
A cold sweat trickled down his spine. His scalp tingled. Pure, instinctive dread crawled into his bones.
If that Vice Admiral had aid that at ... I’d be dead. Absolutely dead.
"He actually blocked it... Looks like Mihawk’s got so skill after all," Momonga murmured from where he sat atop a broken stone pillar, a hint of admiration glinting behind his calm eyes. He stroked his stubbled chin, cigar clamped between his fingers.
He’d witnessed Darren fight the Golden Lion himself, yet even he couldn’t truly asure how powerful the man had beco since then. One thing was certain: even if Momonga unleashed his strongest attack, he doubted he could pierce that monster’s defense.
And how did he know that? Well, that was sothing best left unsaid. What kind of explanation could you give for a man who’d once bathed in lightning plasma worth a hundred million volts—and lived?
"I thought this would be one-sided," Momonga mused, lighting his cigar. His voice dropped just enough to carry toward Moria. "But now... things might actually get interesting."
He exhaled a plu of smoke. "I wonder if that brat Mihawk can block Darren’s next sword strike."
"N-next?!" Moria spun toward him, face twisting in horror. "You an... that last one wasn’t even his full power?!"
Momonga smirked inwardly but outwardly only rolled his eyes. "What did you expect? Didn’t you notice Darren didn’t even use Haki?"
"H-Haki?" Moria stamred, his teeth chattering.
He glanced again at the vast rift splitting the ground, the sight alone making his blood run cold. Even his fla-shaped hair seed to shrink in fear.
If that’s what he can do without Haki... then what happens when he uses it? He didn’t dare imagine.
Thank God I never challenged that man to a duel, he thought, an almost euphoric wave of relief washing through him. I’d have lost more than an arm.
"Mihawk," Darren’s voice carried over the wind, calm and resonant, "that was the first strike. Can you continue?"
He raised a hand, and Oto responded instantly—flying back to hover at his side like a loyal hawk.
That was just the first strike...
Mihawk steadied his breathing, tightening his grip on Yoru until the hilt bit into his palm. A bead of sweat slipped down his forehead, pattering softly against the scorched earth.
He understood perfectly. The first strike had rely been a test. The next would show Darren’s true strength.
He drew in a deep breath, raised his gaze, and fixed it on Darren—anger sparking in his eyes. His voice ca low and cold. "Why aren’t you using Haki?"
For a mont, Darren blinked—then a faint, amused smile tugged at his lips.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Not needing to use Haki should have been a complint, but Mihawk’s pride twisted it into an insult.
Such a proud little brat...
"I honestly didn’t expect you to block that. My apologies—I underestimated you," Darren said lightly, shrugging as if embarrassed.
The offhanded tone only poured fuel on Mihawk’s simring fury. His teeth ground together. "I’ve staked everything on this challenge—just to witness your swordsmanship!"
"Even if I fall here," Mihawk declared, voice ringing with conviction, "it only proves I was unworthy!"
The words struck like a blade.
Momonga and Moria froze, both feeling it—the weight of that pride, that absolute will. For an instant, the slender swordsman before them seed to grow, towering like a mountain.
Darren’s brow twitched. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in exasperation.
Wait... that line sounds familiar.
Don’t tell Zoro stole that one from him...
No wonder Mihawk had admired Zoro so deeply later on. He must have seen a reflection of his younger self in that stubborn swordsman.
"Alright, I get it," Darren exhaled, a faint grin playing at his lips. He flicked his fingers, and a weathered longsword soared into his grasp, its dull blade hovering between them.
"Don’t bla for holding back," he said, stepping forward. His hand closed around the rough hilt.
The grip was coarse, fashioned from ancient, withered wood. The blade itself was dark and unpolished, its sheen long faded.
"Like rotting wood, its edge dulled with age," Darren said softly, grinning. "Its na is Kogarashi."
From his palm, a black, viscous aura began to flow, seeping across the blade like ink. Under the cloak of Armant Haki, the once-decayed sword blazed with new life—its edge cold, rciless, and sharp enough to cut the wind itself.
Darren’s grin widened. "Second sword... strike him down."
To be continued...
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