rubble everywhere, smoke still hanging in the air, and yet a new shock had already arrived.
Akainu, Aokiji, and Kizaru were pinned down tightly. A crack had opened in the defense line.
The Seven Warlords moved.
Mihawk carried the black blade Yoru and stepped forward.
His target was clear.
Beneath the execution platform, arms folded across his chest, stood a man in layered red armor.
Madara.
The sensation of his strike being blocked earlier still lingered in Mihawk's palm.
That absolute pressure—an arrogance that sat above all living things.
Mihawk wanted to challenge it again.
The black blade rose, pointing straight at Madara's brow. Nothing but pure battle intent.
Madara tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over Mihawk.
The black blade came down.
A green flying slash tore open the ground, dragging dust as it surged toward Madara.
Madara didn't move.
He didn't even uncross his arms.
A white blur flashed out from behind him.
A short blade slid from its sheath.
White chakra-light wrapped the edge.
A single, casual flick
And the massive green slash was split perfectly down the middle.
The airwave rolled outward, blasting dozens of nearby marines off their feet.
Mihawk stopped.
The severed aftershock exploded behind him, slicing away half a broken wall.
Madara's voice carried over.
"My blade is meant for stronger enemies."
He turned, looking toward the other side of the battlefield.
"He's enough to be your opponent."
With that, Madara ignored this side completely and walked away.
Mihawk didn't chase.
The man who had blocked his slash stood in the road.
White hair. A short blade on his back. A dark-green tactical vest. A red strip of cloth wrapped around his left arm.
Sakumo Hatake.
Mihawk's eyes locked on him. That cut just now had been fast.
Sakumo held the short blade in a reverse grip, tip hanging toward the ground.
"Sorry. The time I can stay summoned is limited, so I'll probably only be able to fight you briefly."
Mihawk gripped the long handle of the black blade with both hands.
A horizontal sweep—covering every possible dodge angle in front.
Sakumo didn't retreat.
He leaned forward, dropped his center of gravity, and slid low—almost scraping the ground.
The black blade's screaming wind pressure tore past overhead.
A few strands of white hair were cut clean off.
Sakumo slipped into Mihawk's inner range.
White Fang—an upward slash aimed at Mihawk's wrist.
A long blade was best for chopping.
A short blade was best for assassination.
Mihawk flipped his wrist.
That enormous blade moved with unbelievable flexibility—then the pommel slammed down hard.
Clang!
Metal shrieked, sparks exploding.
Sakumo borrowed the force to spring back, twisting in midair, the short blade snapping out three vacuum slashes in one motion.
Mihawk swung one-handed.
The black blade drew a perfect circle.
The vacuum blades struck the pressure wall around his sword and vanished without a trace.
Nearby marines backed away in terror.
It was only a probing exchange—yet the spilled sword pressure had already carved several bottomless trenches into the ground.
No one dared approach this zone.
Doflamingo landed on a distant chunk of stone, fingers twitching like he wanted to interfere—but he ultimately stopped.
At this level, anyone who stepped in would only become a target.
Mihawk attacked again.
No more probing.
The black blade rose high, sword pressure coiling around it.
The blade turned pitch-black, as if it could swallow light itself.
Slash.
No tricks—only extreme power and speed.
This one cut could split a mountain.
It could part the sea.
Sakumo's calm gaze sharpened, killing intent condensing into something tangible.
He didn't choose to meet it head-on.
The ground beneath him shattered—
And Sakumo vanished.
The black blade fell.
A fissure stretching a hundred meters ripped open instantly, seawater surging in, rubble pulverized into dust.
At the moment Mihawk's old force ended—before new force could rise—
Sakumo appeared at Mihawk's side.
Hatake Blade Art: Void.
This strike hid all killing intent until the instant before the blade touched flesh—then it would erupt.
The hair on Mihawk's back stood up.
A lifetime of walking on the border of death saved him.
His body forced itself half a foot to the right.
His sleeve split.
A blood line opened on Mihawk's left arm.
Blood seeped out.
He was wounded.
The world's greatest swordsman—injured in less than ten exchanges.
Mihawk didn't look at the cut.
The fire in his eyes only burned hotter.
A sweeping slash forced Sakumo back from pressing the advantage.
"Fine swordsmanship," Mihawk praised.
No wasted movement.
Every strike was meant to take a life.
A killing sword.
Different from this pirate world's sword path that chased sheer destruction, chased cutting everything.
Sakumo's blade existed to end life.
"Your blade is heavy," Sakumo said.
That earlier clash—he hadn't even taken it head-on, yet the transmitted shockwaves had numbed his grip.
That man's strength was monstrous.
And the black blade itself was strange, like it suppressed the flow of chakra.
They stared at each other.
Next second
Both vanished.
At the battlefield's center, clusters of blinding light bursts erupted—sparks from Yoru and White Fang colliding at high frequency.
No eye could follow them.
Every collision spat out a sword wave.
Either a massive green flying slash
Or a dense spray of fine white blade-light.
People around them suffered.
A pirate who tried to sneak in near the edge of the duel was cut in half by a stray sword wave like a flying bullet.
Mihawk grew faster and faster, two hands on the blade, wide open swings.
He wanted to force Sakumo into a direct clash.
The black blade's weight and hardness held absolute advantage.
Sakumo saw through him.
His body moved like a ghost, weaving through the gaps in sword pressure.
Konoha's White Fang relied on more than blade skill—
He also had near-miraculous instantaneous movement.
One step and an afterimage remained behind.
The real body was already above Mihawk's head.
A hooked dive from above, short blade stabbing straight for Mihawk's crown.
Mihawk didn't even lift his head.
The black blade's back swung behind him, perfectly blocking the thrust.
The impact forced Mihawk's feet several inches into the ground.
Sakumo bounced off the block, flipping in midair, hands forming seals.
Raiton: Raijū Tsuiga (Lightning Style: Lightning Beast Tracking Fang).
Blue lightning shaped into a running wolf, roaring as it lunged for Mihawk.
Mihawk frowned.
This strange ability—wasn't a Devil Fruit?
The black blade rolled up airflow.
"The sword's change."
The blade traced a soft circle, pulling the lightning wolf into the current—then snapped outward.
The lightning was redirected, blasting a cannon platform into rubble.
Sakumo landed, breathing slightly uneven.
High-intensity taijutsu clashes plus chakra consumption were brutal on stamina.
Mihawk's breathing remained steady.
This world's top fighters had bodies like monsters.
"Again," Mihawk growled.
Black Blade: Yoru hummed.
He raised it high with both hands, his momentum compressing to a single point.
Nearby rubble actually began to float—drawn by his aura.
His strongest strike.
Sakumo gripped White Fang, chakra flooding into the short blade.
A blade only a foot long now spat out a half-meter chakra edge—
So bright it was hard to stare at.
Secret Art: White Light.
They moved at the same time.
Two figures crossed in the center of the ruins.
The black giant blade slammed into the white light blade.
White light and green light detonated together, forming a sphere of energy dozens of meters wide that swallowed everything around it.
The shockwave swept the battlefield.
In the distance, Crocodile had to turn into sand just to stabilize.
Boa Hancock was forced to wrap herself in Haki to endure it.
The two stood back-to-back.
Mihawk's chest clothing split open.
A deep, bone-revealing wound stretched from his left shoulder to his right abdomen.
Blood soaked his black coat.
Sakumo dropped to one knee.
White Fang had snapped—only half the handle remained in his grip.
A wound also cut across his abdomen. Not deep—but the sword pressure had invaded his body and was rampaging inside.
"The blade broke," Mihawk said, turning to look at him, regret in his voice.
It was a good weapon.
But against Black Blade: Yoru, the difference in material couldn't be overcome.
"The blade broke. The man didn't."
Sakumo stood, tossed the broken blade aside.
His right hand reached into his ninja pouch and pulled out a kunai.
Even with a kunai, he was still Konoha's White Fang.
Mihawk stared at him, feeling genuine respect.
If their weapons were equal, the outcome would be hard to say.
"Get another blade. Then we fight again."
Mihawk didn't have the habit of taking advantage of someone unarmed.
That was a strong man's pride.
Sakumo didn't answer.
A ninja's creed had no "fair duels."
Only mission completion.
As the two prepared for another round—Mihawk readying to sheathe his blade, Sakumo ready to bet his life—
A sudden change erupted.
A nauseating darkness appeared abruptly at the top of the Navy HQ building.
Chaotic, evil gravity.
Every gaze was pulled there.
Even Sengoku and Garp in the distance paused mid-motion.
A row of grotesque figures stood together.
At the front, a burly man with missing teeth and a face full of coarse flesh, wearing a captain's coat.
He spread his arms like he was embracing the chaos of the world.
"Zehahahahahaha!"
The laughter was harsh, grating—overflowing with greed and ambition.
Blackbeard.
He stared at Whitebeard below, battered and bleeding.
He stared at the shattered battlefield.
He stared at the otherworldly powerhouses.
"Pops! I came to send you off!"
Black smoke poured from his body, blotting out the sky as the Dark-Dark Fruit activated.
Ruins, corpses, broken stone, everything nearby began sliding uncontrollably toward him.
This newcomer was a lunatic.
"Zehahahaha! This era… is mine!"
That arrogant declaration echoed above Marineford.
(End of Chapter)
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