"Clang!"
Wind Splitter clashed with Black Blade Night once more. Ryan's feet erupted with flames, using the recoil to leave an afterimage in midair before landing steadily in the void. He wiped his side—a bloody gash ran from his ribs to his waist, a glancing wound from the blade wind earlier. Yet it was merely superficial, and the fighting spirit in his eyes burned even fiercer.
Hawkeye's fingers tightened slightly around his black blade, a faint numbness creeping into his wrist.
How many clashes had it been now? The opponent's strength was like an ever-rising tide, each strike heavier than the last, forcing him to exert more force just to maintain his stance.
"Your power has grown again," Hawkeye remarked flatly, though a flicker of surprise passed through his yellow eyes.
Most swordsmen would have long been exhausted under such intense exchanges, yet this man's strength seemed boundless, each slash carrying an unstoppable, brutal force.
Hawkeye paused, his gaze sweeping over the wound on Ryan's side—already healed as if it had never been there. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Boy, state your name."
Ryan met Hawkeye's sharp gaze, his grip on Wind Splitter tightening. The blade emitted a low hum, its edge still thrumming with residual power. "Ryan."
"Ryan." Hawkeye repeated the name, then lifted his eyes, the sharpness in his yellow pupils softening slightly into unmistakable acknowledgment. "You have the right to challenge for the title of 'World's Strongest.'"
The moment those words left his mouth, the deck of the Baratie fell into dead silence.
"The right?" Ryan arched an eyebrow, the fighting spirit in his eyes flaring violently. The veins in his sword arm bulged, and the air around him distorted visibly under the pressure of his power, forming ripples in the atmosphere. "Then let me show you just how qualified I am!"
"One Sword Style: Mountain Collapse!"
This slash was fiercer than any before it. The blade's energy condensed into a tangible black torrent, pressing the seawater downward in its wake as it surged toward Hawkeye.
"CLANG—!!"
The moment the two blades met, Hawkeye felt an overwhelming force travel through his sword. The deck beneath his feet groaned, and the Coffin Ship sank half an inch into the sea.
"Crack."
As the blades locked in stalemate, a faint, almost imperceptible fissure crept from Wind Splitter's tip, spreading an inch along its length.
Ryan's grip remained unshaken, his fingers even lightly tracing the hilt's engravings as if the clash had merely dusted off the blade. The pressure in his eyes didn't waver—if anything, it grew more intense, tinged with amusement.
Hawkeye's gaze lingered on the crack. Then, abruptly, he withdrew his strength, the edge of Black Blade Night dimming slightly.
"Why stop?" Ryan tilted his head, the flames at his feet flickering, lifting him higher. Wind Splitter remained leveled at Hawkeye, poised to strike again at any moment.
"Impressive swordsmanship." Hawkeye rested Black Blade Night against his back, his yellow eyes scrutinizing. His tone carried a newfound seriousness as he studied the crack in Wind Splitter. "Your brute-force approach is refreshing. But that blade doesn't suit you."
His own swordsmanship prioritized absolute precision—achieving maximum effect with minimal movement. He could slice distant, minuscule targets with his massive black blade, and he typically disdained such raw power.
Yet this man was different. His swordsmanship was domineering, unstoppable—fascinating, even.
Truthfully, Hawkeye was curious. How did this brawny man harbor such monstrous strength within him? It was as if he were a Ferocious Beast in human form.
"What do you mean?" Ryan lifted his chin.
"That blade of yours is decent, but it can't withstand your power." Hawkeye's voice was calm, precise. "Earlier, you could have pushed your strength another thirty percent, but the blade's vibrations held you back."
His gaze sharpened like a honed edge. "With a weapon like that, you can't defeat me."
Ryan fell silent for a moment, then looked down at Wind Splitter. The crack gleamed unmistakably in the sunlight—an undeniable flaw.
He had held back in that last strike. Not for lack of strength, but because he'd felt the blade trembling under the strain, nearing its limit.
It couldn't be helped. Wind Splitter was a Good Quick Blade, but it was designed for speed and finesse—ill-suited to his style. What Ryan needed was a heavy sword capable of channeling his full power.
"A sword is a swordsman's second life." Hawkeye ran a hand along Black Blade Night's length, reverence in his tone. "Find a blade that can bear your strength, then come again."
"Fine." Ryan studied Hawkeye for a long moment before suddenly grinning. He sheathed Wind Splitter and patted the healed wound at his side, his voice brimming with unapologetic arrogance. "When I find the right sword, I'll come back for a rematch."
He knew he'd already lost.
The crack in his blade was one thing, but more importantly, no matter how ferocious his attacks, Hawkeye's Coffin Ship had remained unshaken. That wasn't brute endurance—it was the skill of redirecting force into the sea, a mastery so refined Ryan couldn't help but admire it.
This was the control of a true master—effortless, seamless.
In truth, Hawkeye had been testing him, never going all out.
Of course. Even with his potential pushed to the limit and the unique properties of his Artificial Dragon Fruit ability, Ryan had only trained for two years. He couldn't surpass these seasoned legends overnight.
Did they think he was some kind of god?
A breeze swept past, carrying the aroma of food from the restaurant.
Ryan rubbed his stomach and glanced at Hawkeye, his tone shifting back to casual. "Fighting's made me hungry. Their seafood paella's good, and the red wine braised beef—care to join?"
Though he'd eaten plenty on the ship earlier, his appetite was monstrous. Two battles had drained his stamina, and he was starving.
Hawkeye arched an eyebrow, surprise flickering in his yellow eyes at the abrupt change in topic. He glanced down at his torn collar—evidence of their clash—then toward the Baratie.
After a pause, he replied simply, "Very well."
Ryan grinned and turned, leaping toward the swaying little ship. Twin trails of golden flame streaked behind him as he landed lightly on the deck, the gust of wind rustling Miya's bangs.
He glanced down at the woman, noting the steadier rise and fall of her chest. She'd been awake for a while.
"Quit pretending if you're up." Ryan nudged her calf with his boot, amusement lacing his voice. "Get up. I'll treat you to something good."
Miya's eyelashes fluttered, but she stubbornly kept her eyes shut, though her ears turned pink.
Exhausted from their earlier escapades and terrified by the apocalyptic swordplay, she could barely lift a finger. Playing dead was her only escape.
Ryan chuckled but didn't call her out. Instead, he bent down and scooped her up bridal-style.
He wasn't the type to discard a blade—or a woman—after use. For those he considered close, he had a softer side.
Miya gasped and instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Hold tight." Ryan murmured the words by her ear before flames erupted at his feet, carrying them both effortlessly toward the Baratie's deck.
Miya buried her face against his chest, the scent of gunpowder and tobacco filling her nose. Listening to his steady heartbeat, the terrifying sword clash from earlier suddenly didn't seem so frightening anymore.
Hawkeye watched Ryan's retreating figure, the woman in his arms, then looked down at his Coffin Ship.
The vessel floated serenely, its wooden deck unmarked, as if the earth-shaking battle had been nothing but an illusion. The corner of his mouth quirked—just slightly—into a faint smile.
This unknown brat... was interesting.
Perhaps, once he found a blade worthy of that strength, he truly could deliver a different kind of battle.
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