"What condition?"
Mihawk's tone carried a trace of impatience.
Shiro grinned slyly. "If you lose, you join my crew and sail the seas with me. How about that?"
Mihawk blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Join a pirate crew? That was something he'd never considered. But the thought of crossing blades with powerful opponents across the seas… that wasn't so bad.
After a brief silence, he nodded firmly. "Fine. If I lose, I'll follow you. But I'll keep challenging you—until the day I defeat you."
"It's a deal," Shiro said with a smile. "Let's take this outside."
He turned and walked toward the door, Mihawk following close behind, his black blade gleaming at his back.
Rayleigh, Issho, and Jinbe—eager not to miss the show—hurried after them.
Moments later, the bar was empty save for a few unconscious drunks, softly snoring in the silence.
Outside, the two swordsmen faced each other in a wide, open clearing.
Mihawk was nineteen—barely older than Shiro—but already his aura was sharp enough to cut steel. The man who would one day stand as Shanks' eternal rival now stood before Shiro, a storm of ambition in his eyes.
At this point in time, the scales of power still tilted slightly in Mihawk's favor.
Shanks was only about fourteen, freshly awakened to Haki and still finding his feet as a swordsman. Mihawk, by contrast, was already polishing his blade against the world's strongest.
"Draw your blade, Shiro of the Roger Pirates!" Mihawk called, flicking his wrist as his great black sword spun once in a dazzling display. His voice rang cold and steady.
Shiro raised an eyebrow, amused. "You know my name?"
"Of course," Mihawk replied coolly. "You were the fourth seat of the Roger Pirates—young, renowned, and already a legend on the seas."
"Heh. And I know you too, Dracule Mihawk," Shiro said with a confident smile.
Mihawk's eyes narrowed slightly in surprise. Then his lips curled upward in quiet satisfaction. "To be recognized by a man like you… that's an honor."
"Oi, oi! Enough flattery, let's see some action already!" Rayleigh called from the sidelines, laughing like an excited child.
Shiro ignored him, keeping his gaze locked on Mihawk.
"Tell me, Mihawk," he asked, "how far have you come with Haki? Have you awakened Conqueror's yet?"
Mihawk shook his head. "Not yet. But I've trained in Armament and Observation for over five years."
Shiro rubbed his chin thoughtfully. So, no Conqueror's yet. If I only use a Fruit Knife like he did against Zoro I might not beat him… tch. Better not show off too much. Losing here would be embarrassing.
"Can we begin?" Mihawk asked, growing restless, his blade trembling slightly with anticipation.
"Let's," Shiro replied.
He drew his sword—Tetanus Fang—and the air around them chilled instantly, heavy with killing intent.
Clang!
Their blades collided, a crisp metallic sound echoing across the clearing. Sparks burst like fireworks as they traded blows.
Mihawk's swordsmanship was elegant yet fierce, every swing precise, every step measured. Years of duels had honed his razor-sharp instincts—he'd challenged countless swordsmen, never tasting defeat.
It was that unbroken streak that had driven him to seek out Rayleigh, hoping to glimpse a higher realm of swordsmanship. Even now, his skill had reached the very peak of a master swordsman, only a step away from becoming a great one.
Shiro's style, on the other hand, was a fusion of Roger and Rayleigh's teachings—powerful, fluid, and unpredictable. Combined with the Paw-Paw Fruit's spatial power, his movements were almost supernatural, teleporting and striking in a blur.
If it were just swordsmanship, Shiro only barely surpassed Mihawk.
But when you added his Devil Fruit and Conqueror's Haki into the mix—his advantage was overwhelming.
Yet Shiro had no intention of ending the fight quickly.
He wanted to measure Mihawk—the man destined to become the world's greatest swordsman.
The two moved like black lightning, clashing again and again—dozens of exchanges in mere moments.
By the fiftieth strike, Shiro's breathing was still calm and steady. Mihawk, however, had begun to sweat, his breath uneven.
Every swing from Shiro felt like a storm of raw power and blinding speed. Mihawk could sense it—if he stayed locked in close combat, he'd lose.
He leapt backward, widening the distance. His pupils narrowed as he gathered his strength.
Shiro's eyes gleamed. There it is… he's going for a big one.
Mihawk's muscles coiled as he gripped Yoru with both hands, his energy surging into the blade. With a single mighty swing, he unleashed a crescent of cutting energy that screamed through the air toward Shiro.
Fwoooosh!
Shiro sidestepped easily, the wind from the slash grazing his coat.
"Oi, oi," he called out with mock irritation, "you don't name your attacks? Not even a cool shout before you swing?"
In his mind, every strong attack should come with a bold name. That's just how these things worked!
Mihawk, however, simply replied with a cold stare. "Why waste time naming a swing?"
Shiro froze. He had to admit—that made sense.
Still… it kinda ruins the fun.
And truth be told, Mihawk's unspoken, unnamed attacks somehow made him seem even cooler. No theatrics—just pure, overwhelming swordsmanship.
Damn it, Shiro thought, suppressing a smirk. If I win like this, I'll still lose in style points.
He glanced down at his sword, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
"Well then… guess I'll have to even the playing field."
He raised his blade slightly and whispered,
"Little Fang, it's your turn."
A clear, feminine voice echoed back from the sword itself:
"Yes, Master!"
With a flash, the Tetanus Fang slipped from Shiro's hand, spinning into the air and slicing toward Mihawk of its own accord—its blade singing with living intent.
T/N: If you would like to read up to 20 chapters ahead for all my works, check out my P@treon: patreon.com/GhidorahWriter
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