Even Perona and Robin, who had just turned to head back to the cabin, froze where they stood—stunned by the spectacle blossoming far out at sea. Seven or eight hundred meters away, a blood-red radiance rose like a storm front, smothering hundreds of meters of ocean in a killing chill.
Redfield's body had shifted into a wholly different form: his ears elongated to sharp points, his mouth filled with daggered teeth—four fangs above and below particularly long—and a dark crimson mask-like cast seemed to sheath his head. His hair and skin had both truly changed.
The Koumori Koumori no Mi, Vampire Model (Bat-Bat Fruit, Vampire Model).
When Redfield unveiled his vampire form, it meant he was done holding back.
They were really fighting in earnest now.
Mihawk narrowed his eyes and dared not relax for even a breath. He tightened his grip on Yoru, the Supreme Grade black blade, and poured ferocious sword will and strength into the edge.
Vmmm—vmmm—vmmm!
Yoru thrummed in his hands. Rings of inky, oil-dark light rippled out from the sword's body.
The strange black radiance spread at frightening speed, swallowing the blood-glow—and with it every other glimmer on that stretch of sea.
Silence. Pitch black. Even the five senses warped.
A heavy night fell.
Mihawk's Yoru Sword Will.
Boom!
Sword will and sword pressure collided head-on. Blood-red and pitch-black split the ocean into two colors—two worlds.
In an instant, the waves their wills threw up surged two to three hundred meters high.
Not only that—over a span of more than a kilometer, the sea seemed to be pressed down a hundred meters, parted cleanly like Moses splitting the sea.
Watching those rearing walls of water about to crash back toward them, Perona went pale.
So this… is the power of the world's top great swordsmen?!
Robin, at her side, remained serene.
"I've seen a field of ice for a hundred li, even gods frozen in place. This is hardly the limit."
Zheng!
Creed drew.
Ice Sword Will: Hyōketsu Hyaku-ri (Freeze a Hundred Miles)!
Gara—gara—!
A sweeping slash of snow-white light flashed out. The towering waves turned to a colossal glacial barrier in mid-collapse.
Tuk—tuk—tuk—!
Stray sword auras from Mihawk and Redfield hammered the ice wall in a ceaseless storm, but none could punch through.
After a minute or two, the glacier finally succumbed to that relentless chiseling—cracking, crumbling, and tumbling back into the sea.
Out there, though, Redfield and Mihawk still hadn't decided a winner.
Luckily, neither pressed the fight any further. Even so, their dueling wills refused to disperse, leaving that tract of ocean half blood-haze, half night-black for a long while yet.
"With your current strength, you're still a step short of challenging our captain. And next time you cross blades with me—no holding back."
Redfield's tone carried a faint edge; he'd felt Mihawk's quiet reservations.
"I didn't go all out because your umbrella-sword is merely a Great Grade blade, while Yoru in my hand is a Supreme Grade. That gives me an unfair edge," Mihawk replied.
"So what if it's a Supreme Grade?" Redfield snorted. "Do you think it can cut my umbrella-sword?"
His Armament Haki had long since grown sufficient to let that umbrella-blade endure even a Supreme Grade's bite.
"Then… is Creed stronger than you?" Mihawk asked, changing tack.
Redfield nodded. "The captain's swordsmanship is above mine."
No question. Even now—buoyed by his bat fruit and closing in on his former peak—Redfield still couldn't see through Creed's depths.
Maybe when my fruit awakens, I'll finally be able to approach him, Redfield thought.
"Hah—"
Mihawk drew a sharp breath.
If someone of Redfield's caliber willingly served as Creed's right hand, then it likely was true.
Stronger than Redfield in swordsmanship?
And I can't even claim a sure win over Redfield…
Does that mean the title of "world's greatest swordsman" is about to—
A different light sparked in Mihawk's eyes. He raised his voice, elated. "Excellent. I've been worried I'd lose the path forward. Seems I didn't come in vain!"
"World's greatest" is just a shell, a name. What Mihawk valued most was shattering shackles—and climbing higher on the way of the sword.
Quietly, he offered a word of thanks to Shanks. If the Red-Haired hadn't called, he'd still be in seclusion at home.
"Mihawk, why not come along with us?" Creed's figure flashed down in a streak of light as he extended an invitation. "I—and Senior Redfield—would love to have a great swordsman like you aboard to discuss sword-dao."
There were still nine and a half hours left to complete the extraction of Swordsmanship. Creed had no intention of letting Mihawk drift off just yet. Abrupt or not, he'd ask first and smooth things out later.
"I'd be honored."
Mihawk couldn't have asked for more.
He hadn't even crossed swords with Creed yet—Creed, whose swordsmanship had just been confirmed as above Redfield's.
…
When the three returned to the ship chatting like old friends, Perona and Robin blinked at them in disbelief. A minute ago they were trying to kill each other…
Men's friendships really do just… pop into existence?
"Next, we feast—to welcome Mihawk," Creed declared.
Cheers erupted. Everyone bustled into motion; even Falkor waddled out a crate at a time.
Out on the boundless, treacherous sea, a full-throated banquet was the best reward and release.
Creed's stores were plentiful. Mihawk, not fond of crowds, meant to sip a token glass and be done—until he saw the wine they were uncorking. His eyes widened.
"Heavens… that's Ramondo—the tribute red sent up to the Celestial Dragons! And—no, that—Romanée-Conti? Full ten-year vintages?!"
For once, the eternally cool, poised Mihawk was reduced to open-mouthed astonishment.
Each bottle was worth at least seven or eight million belly. The Romanée-Conti among them? No less than twenty million a bottle on the open market—and often unbuyable at any price.
Then his shock turned to protest. "You can't drink red like this—it's a crime!"
Only Redfield was taking it slow, savoring each pour. Creed and Perona, by contrast, were practically chugging like soda. It pained Mihawk to watch—peonies tossed to cattle.
Mihawk adored red wine. When free, he savored it as the finest accompaniment to sword practice. His coffin-boat even hid a few respectable bottles.
And these two were… using liquid treasure as thirst-quencher?!
"Is it really that good? Lucky you, then—Redfield hauled dozens of crates into the lower hold. Drink your fill," Creed said, amused by how fast Mihawk had dropped the icy persona.
After toppling the Golden Emperor, Creed had stripped the gold and gems, while Redfield—ever the oenophile—emptied Tezoro's wine vault. The stash was no joke. The richest man in the world collected only the best.
"Do—dozens of crates?!"
Mihawk's tongue nearly tied itself in a knot.
In that instant, he felt coming here had been the best decision he'd made in years.
Quietly again, he thanked Shanks.
Suddenly—
"Hm?"
He, Creed, and Redfield all lifted their heads at once, meeting each other's eyes.
They'd all felt it: a distant ripple, something cutting the sea toward the Creed at high speed—uninvited guests.
(End of Chapter)
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