As the Knocking Bamboo Bar was rocked by a violent explosion and thick smoke billowed outward—
Outside the bar, on a stretch of lush green grass, a lone figure came swaying into view.
A man with yellow-white hair slicked back into a dragon-whisker pompadour, stubble covering his chin yet standing tall and straight. A wine flask hung at his waist alongside a long sword. His face carried the lazy haze of post-drinking indulgence, his gait loose and unhurried.
It was none other than "Dark King" Silvers Rayleigh, who had just "earned" himself some drinking money at a certain slave auction house.
However, the instant he saw the familiar bar now shuddering violently—windows rattling, smoke pouring out through every crack—the laziness vanished from his face in a heartbeat. His pupils constricted sharply.
"Shakky!" Rayleigh's heart jolted.
He knew very well that with Shakky's strength, dealing with ordinary riffraff was never an issue.
But as the Great Age of Pirates continued to ferment, more and more monstrously strong, fearless newcomers were flooding the seas.
No one could guarantee that some truly dangerous lunatic wouldn't come knocking.
Better safe than sorry—because what if?
Without the slightest hesitation, the haze of alcohol in Rayleigh's eyes snapped away completely.
Shing—
In a single smooth motion, he drew the sword at his waist. His body burst forward like a cannon shot, charging straight toward the bar's entrance!
Powerful Observation Haki surged outward like a tidal wave, piercing through the thick smoke and locking unerringly onto the most dangerous, most oppressive presence inside.
"Hey! You brats of the new era!!" Rayleigh barked lowly as his wrist snapped.
The blade transformed into a flash of lightning-cold steel, tearing through the air as it thrust directly toward the blurred yet overwhelming silhouette hidden in the smoke!
"This isn't a place for you to cause trouble!!"
The moment his sword tip was about to pierce the smoke—
Whoosh!
A black shadow exploded out from within, moving at a speed no slower than his own!
An even deeper, darker blade-light struck afterward yet arrived first, perfectly intercepting his thrust!
CLANG——!!!!
Sword and blade collided violently, releasing an ear-splitting roar!
An invisible shockwave erupted outward from the two men, blasting away the surrounding smoke in an instant!
A tremendous force surged back through his weapon. Rayleigh felt his arm go slightly numb as he borrowed the impact to hop back half a step, eyes narrowing as he focused on his opponent.
When he saw the familiar black top hat, the hawk-like golden eyes, and that unmistakable massive black blade—
Rayleigh froze, words escaping him reflexively.
"Hawk-Eye? Dracule Mihawk?!"
He never imagined that the one causing such a massive disturbance in Shakky's bar would be the solitary, aloof World's Greatest Swordsman himself.
As the smoke thinned, Mihawk's figure emerged fully.
He stood calmly with blade in hand. In response to Rayleigh's shock, he merely curved his lips slightly—the faint smile of a swordsman who had found a worthy opponent—offering no verbal reply.
The next instant, their gazes met.
And they moved almost simultaneously.
Shing! Shing! Shing!
Sword-light and blade-shadow intertwined instantly!
Their movements were far too fast for the naked eye to follow—only the relentless, rain-like clangor of steel-on-steel exploding through the air!
Sparks scattered everywhere!
In less than a single breath, the two supreme swordsmen had already clashed five times head-on—no flourish, no tricks, just pure speed and power.
BOOM!
After another violent collision, both men retreated at the same time, drifting back and landing steadily on the ground.
Rayleigh's sword arm tingled with numbness. His brow furrowed deeply as he stared at Hawk-Eye with grave intensity.
Mihawk's swordsmanship had grown even more refined than when they sparred years ago.
On the other side, the moment Mihawk stabilized himself, a still-intact high-backed chair flew out from the smoke behind him.
Without even glancing back—clearly having anticipated it—Mihawk rotated his wrist, drove Yoru, the Black Blade, into the ground with a sharp chhk, then leaned back effortlessly.
He sat down perfectly on the flying chair.
Moments later, he even crossed one leg over the other, hands folded calmly atop his knee.
When it came to style and presence, no one could touch him.
Meanwhile, the smoke inside the bar finally began to dissipate.
A voice carrying amusement sounded from behind Mihawk.
"Heh, heh… drawing blades the moment you meet—what a passionate welcome ceremony."
A shadow stepped out of the thinning smoke and came to a halt beside the seated Mihawk.
"Long time no see!!"
With a teasing smile, Gern Reginald Sigmar raised his hand and waved casually at the stunned Rayleigh.
"Looks like retirement's been pretty exciting for you, huh? 'Dark King' Silvers Rayleigh."
Rayleigh stared at Gern as he emerged leisurely from the smoke. The flicker of surprise in his eyes vanished almost instantly, replaced by understanding—and a complicated sense of emotion.
He flipped his wrist.
Shhk—
With a crisp sound, the sword slid back into its sheath at his waist.
That familiar, slightly lazy smile returned to his face as he spoke softly.
"Yeah… it really has been a long time, Gern. Didn't expect you to show up here of all places."
Seeing how decisively Rayleigh sheathed his blade, Gern raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, his tone tinged with playful mockery.
"Oh? Giving up already? That doesn't sound like the legendary 'Dark King.'
I thought I might get to stretch a little."
"Well, what can you do?" Rayleigh shrugged openly, his half-white hair swaying as he chuckled at himself. "I'm old. My bones aren't as sturdy as you youngsters anymore."
But his sharp gaze flicked toward Mihawk, who still sat proudly in his chair.
"Besides, there's a man here whose swordsmanship probably already surpasses mine.
One versus two—now that's a losing deal I'm not interested in."
It was both the truth and a perfectly graceful exit.
The instant Gern appeared, Rayleigh had already made the correct judgment.
Facing someone whose strength far surpassed even the admirals of the past—plus the World's Greatest Swordsman—
Resisting would accomplish nothing beyond getting his old bones shattered.
If the fight continued, he would be decisively defeated within fifty exchanges—and it would be ugly.
Turning his attention fully to Mihawk, Rayleigh spoke with genuine curiosity and scrutiny in his voice.
"But still… I never expected this.
A man like you… choosing to place himself under someone else.
That doesn't feel like the path of someone who pursues the ultimate sword and values absolute freedom."
In Rayleigh's eyes, Dracule Mihawk should have been like the Red Count—an aloof eagle soaring freely through the skies, not a man bound by any system.
Beneath the brim of his hat, Mihawk's lips moved slightly as he replied coldly, succinctly:
"Fulfilling a promise. Nothing more.
And that is a virtue everyone understands."
He hadn't joined the Marines out of submission to authority or belief in ideals.
He had simply lost to Gern—and was honoring a promise made ten years ago.
For Hawk-Eye Mihawk, who regarded credibility as a fundamental trait of the strong, this was nothing more than natural.
...
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