"You imbecile!" The old man's roar cracked through the still air like a whip, making both Zoro and Kuina jump in surprise. "What are you gawking at? Don't you see our guest is in a hurry? Go and fetch the package!"
Ipponmatsu flinched, eyes wide, caught red-handed in his admiration of the supreme-grade blade glimmering before him.
The old man's gaze softened only slightly as he sighed. Unlike his grandson, who treated weapons as priceless commodities, he saw them as living things — each forged with a spirit of its own, each born from the will of its maker. Ipponmatsu, for all his competence as a merchant, lacked that reverence.
He liked the wealth, the prestige, the fame of owning one of the Four Blues' greatest armories — but he had never once heard the song of a blade's soul.
Snapping from his daze, Ipponmatsu bowed quickly. "R-right away, Grandpa!" He turned on his heel and hurried downstairs, his footsteps echoing down the wooden staircase.
The old man muttered under his breath, "Fool of a boy… if he'd spent half as much time listening to the steel as he does polishing it, he might've learned something worth knowing."
It wasn't long before Ipponmatsu returned, panting slightly, carrying a large sealed package bound tightly in layers of reinforced canvas and thick rope. His arms trembled faintly under its weight, and his brow glistened with sweat.
He set it down with a heavy thud! on the counter, exhaling as though he'd been holding his breath the whole time.
Zoro and Kuina exchanged glances — both instinctively straightened. There was… something about it. Even through the thick wrapping, the air around the package felt different — heavier. Mihawk's golden eyes narrowed, locking onto it.
To the untrained eye, it was just a well-sealed crate. But to a swordsman like him — one who had spent a lifetime dancing on the edge between life and death — the aura bleeding through that container was unmistakable.
It was cursed. Not mildly, not playfully — but anciently cursed. Old blood and malice seemed to seep from its very core. Even through the layers of sealing and cloth, the blade's presence radiated a suffocating pressure.
That was why Ipponmatsu had struggled to carry it — not just because of its physical weight, but because the invisible will trapped within was pressing down on his very soul.
"Careful," Mihawk said softly. His tone wasn't a warning — it was an observation. "The blade doesn't like being moved."
Ipponmatsu stepped back quickly, wiping the sweat from his brow as though relieved to be rid of it. Zoro swallowed, a faint prickling crawling down his arms. He couldn't feel the malice the way Mihawk did, but his instincts screamed all the same — there was something alive in that box.
Kuina frowned, crossing her arms. "That… thing's a sword?" she muttered under her breath.
Before she could ask more, the old man stepped forward, reaching out. "Shall I open the package for you so that you can inspect it...?"
Mihawk raised a hand. "No." The single word froze the room. His voice carried quiet finality — the kind that allowed no argument.
"It's better left sealed for now, and please let Rosinante know that I have received the package…" he said, sliding Yoru from the counter and returning it to its sheath in one smooth, fluid motion. The sound of the blade locking in place seemed to still the air itself.
The old man hesitated because he wanted to get a glimpse at the blade within but then nodded slowly. He could feel it too — the restless pulse emanating from inside the sealed crate. He'd encountered cursed blades before, and this one's aura was unlike anything he'd ever felt.
Mihawk's gaze drifted toward Zoro. "Pick it up."
Zoro blinked. "Me?"
"Yes," Mihawk said simply. "If it's to be yours someday, you'll need to grow accustomed to its weight… and its presence."
Zoro hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. He reached over the counter, gripped the ropes tightly, and lifted. The moment he did, a shiver ran through his body. It was like holding a heartbeat made of metal and hatred — steady, cold, but alive. His teeth clenched, his arms straining under the weight that seemed to grow heavier the longer he held it.
But he didn't falter. He held it firm, steady, until Mihawk gave him a faint nod of approval.
"Good," Mihawk said quietly. "Let's go. The storm's worsening — and we've lingered long enough, we need to set sail before the storm hits."
The old man, sensing that the business was done, inclined his head. "Allow me to escort you out," he said respectfully. He understood Mihawk's kind — men who wasted no words once their purpose was complete.
As they made their way toward the stairs, Ipponmatsu, still curious and perhaps too bold for his own good, scratched his head nervously. "Um… Sir?"
Mihawk paused.
Ipponmatsu swallowed hard, pulling out a large, leather-bound scrapbook from under the counter. "C-could I trouble you for a signature?" he asked sheepishly. "It's just that… I've been collecting the autographs of the, uh, famous figures who've visited our shop. You don't have to, of course! It's totally fine if—"
The old man groaned and smacked his palm to his forehead. "You idiot…"
Mihawk turned his head slightly, one golden eye glinting from beneath the hood. The faintest sigh escaped him — not of annoyance, but of resigned disbelief. Without a word, he turned and descended the stairs, his cloak fluttering behind him.
The old man promptly smacked Ipponmatsu on the head with a sharp thwack! "That's not how you deal with men like him, fool!" Zoro and Kuina both burst out laughing, following close behind their master.
"Hey," Zoro said with a grin as they reached the stairs, balancing the heavy package on his shoulder, "if you want a signature, I'll give you mine! I'm going to be the world's greatest swordsman someday!"
Kuina rolled her eyes and immediately grabbed his ear, dragging him along before he could boast further. "You can give him your autograph after you stop getting lost every five minutes, Marimo!"
"Ow—hey! Let go, Kuina!" Zoro barked, staggering as Kuina tugged him through the door.
The old man's weary smile deepened, his voice soft but sincere. "Well… I truly must thank you, young man," he said, bowing deeply. "To think I'd live long enough to witness another masterpiece before I perish… If ever you have a request — anything at all — this shop will fulfill it to the best of our ability. You, and the two young ones at your side, are welcome here anytime."
Mihawk inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment. No words — only a faint nod that said more than speech ever could. The trio stepped out into the rain. It had grown heavier, cold sheets cascading from the sky, drumming against the cobblestone streets of Loguetown. The storm's breath howled through the alleys, and the air hung thick with tension.
But before they could take three steps from the shop's entrance — shadows stirred. One by one, figures emerged from the rain. Two dozen men, cloaked and dripping wet, forming a loose circle that began to close around them. The scent of sea salt and gunpowder filled the air.
The man at their head stepped forward — a hulking figure, broad as a ship's mast, his face half-hidden beneath a soaked hood. A massive cleaver-like sword rested across his shoulder, its blade chipped from countless battles. His grin was feral, teeth glinting under the flicker of lightning above.
"Well, well," the man drawled, his voice gravelly, carrying easily over the rain. "I didn't believe it when my men told me the World's Greatest Swordsman was here in Loguetown. Thought it was just another sailor's tale."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with greed. "I was planning to head to Water 7 — chase rumors about some ancient weapon — but it seems fate had better plans for me." A cruel laugh echoed from his crew, a guttural, mocking sound swallowed by the storm.
"Imagine it," the man continued, spreading his arms wide. "Dracule Mihawk's head! The bounty alone would make me a legend overnight!"
He lowered his weapon, pointing the jagged edge straight at Mihawk. "Dracule Mihawk — I challenge you—" He never finished the sentence. In that instant — the world fell silent.
Mihawk's form blurred, and a whisper of steel hissed through the air.
He hadn't even drawn Yoru. Instead, his hand had flicked to the dull-edged training blade strapped across Kuina's back. In a single, almost lazy horizontal motion, the blade swept outward. The rain paused — or perhaps it only seemed to.
No one moved. No one breathed. The downpour struck the ground around them, yet for the briefest of moments, the air within that circle was utterly still — as though time itself feared to intrude upon his strike.
And then —
Schlick—
A soft, almost delicate sound. Mihawk's arm fell back to his side, the training blade already sliding into its sheath with a muted click. He began walking forward through the rain, calm and unhurried, as if nothing had happened.
Zoro and Kuina stared. The pirates stood motionless — two dozen of them, frozen mid-breath, eyes wide with disbelief. Then, as Mihawk passed them, the rain began to fall again. One by one, heads began to tumble from shoulders — cleanly severed, rolling into the pooling water with dull, heavy splashes.
The bodies followed, collapsing into the mud, the sound of their fall muffled by the storm. Blood ran in rivulets down the cobblestones, washing away beneath the relentless rain. Zoro flinched. Kuina's hand instinctively went to her sword hilt. But neither broke stride—both following in their mentor's wake, silent and pale, the lesson carved deep into their souls.
This was the reality of the swordsman's path. Swift. Absolute. Merciless. Those men hadn't understood what they were facing. They saw the title—World's Greatest Swordsman—and thought it was a name they could steal. They hadn't realized that Mihawk didn't carry that title by pride… but by right.
As the trio walked away into the storm, the only sound that lingered behind them was the rain—soft, endless, and almost reverent, as though even the heavens bowed to the will of the man who'd just turned the street into a graveyard.
Lightning flashed once more, illuminating Mihawk's silhouette—the black cloak billowing in the wind, his presence cutting through the storm like a blade through silk. And in that fleeting light, Zoro and Kuina understood why men across the seas spoke his name with both awe and dread. He wasn't merely a swordsman. He was the sword.
****
Mary Geoise, Red Line
The storm roared like a living beast. Rain lashed against the sheer cliff face of the Red Line, each drop stinging like a whip. The wind screamed through the night, howling against the endless wall of stone that separated heaven from the rest of the world.
And within that storm — a single silhouette moved upward. Fisher Tiger.
The towering Fishman clung to the cliffside, muscles straining, his breath ragged against the deafening roar of rain and thunder. His fingers, calloused and cracked, dug into the slick rock — nails splitting, skin tearing despite the dark sheen of Armament Haki coating his hands. Even the hardened protection could not keep the stone from biting deep into his flesh.
Blood mixed freely with rainwater, running down his forearms in thin crimson streams. The cold bit into his bones, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Every pull, every grip, was an act of defiance — a challenge to the gods who sat above.
His rifle, wrapped tightly in soaked cloth and pressed against his chest beneath his shirt, thudded faintly against him with every movement. He could feel the weight of it, the faint slosh of water inside the wrappings — the desperate hope that some of the gunpowder might have survived the storm.
Lightning flashed across the sky, painting his massive form in ghostly white for an instant — his gills flaring as he gasped, eyes narrowed against the rain. Only a few more meters. He was almost there. Each breath came out as a growl, his voice lost in the storm as his bleeding hands clawed upward one final time.
And then — he reached the edge. He hauled himself over the lip of the Red Line, collapsing to one knee on the sacred soil of the Holy Land — the forbidden domain of the World Nobles. Rain splattered against the polished white stones and the trimmed grass. Every drop seemed to hiss against his burning skin, but he didn't flinch.
He'd made it. Above him, the towering spires of Mariejois glimmered faintly through the storm, halos of gold and white light flickering like cruel stars.
****
A few minutes before Fisher Tiger reached the top, about a hundred meters away from the cliff of Red Line, beneath the gnarled roots of a massive tree, three World Government soldiers huddled together beneath the canopy, trying—and failing—to stay dry.
"Bloody weather," one muttered, shaking water from his helmet. "Feels like the damn sea's fallen out of the sky."
Another laughed, fumbling with a matchstick, trying to light a cigarette despite the drizzle. "Better than being on watch duty near the dungeons," he said, his voice carrying over the thunder. "You wouldn't believe what those nobles were up to today. Heard the Manmayer family's brat was making his slaves run laps till they dropped dead. Said he wanted to 'see the color of exhaustion.'"
The third guard chuckled darkly. "That's nothing. One of the Celestial scumbags I was guarding had his slaves fight each other bare-handed—to the death. He said he was teaching them about 'meritocracy.' Ha! Guess that's the nobles' version of philosophy."
"Shhh… we'll all be hanged — and our families with us — if someone overhears us," the first soldier muttered, casting a wary glance around. His tone carried a note of caution, but not true fear. He knew as well as the others that no one ever ventured this far outside the Holy City, especially on a night like this. The storm alone would drown out a cannon blast, let alone their idle gossip.
They laughed again, hollow and cruel—the sound mixing with the storm, as natural here as the rain itself.
"Still," the one with the cigarette muttered as he finally got the flame to catch, shielding it from the wind, "you hear what's happening down at Water 7? Word is that almost all the renowned pirates from around the world are fighting for whatever that's been uncovered on the island, even the emperors of the New World have moved. The higher-ups are sweating about it."
His companion scoffed. "Please. Let the dogs fight. In the end, it's always the World Government that wins. The whole damn world's built to make sure of that." They clinked their canteens together in mock salute.
Then—Clang.
A faint sound. Muffled. Barely audible through the thunder. The soldier with the cigarette froze, his lighter halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked toward the darkness beyond the tree line.
"…Quiet." He held up a hand. "You guys… did you hear that?"
The others fell silent, blinking into the downpour. The storm crashed around them — the rain, the wind, the thunder — but beneath it all… There it was again.
Clang.
A dull, metallic echo. From the direction of the cliff's edge. The soldier's cigarette trembled between his fingers as the flame hissed out in the rain. And in that instant, before any of them could move, another sound came, carried on the wind. The soft thud of something landing over the ledge as if something or someone that had climbed out of the sea… and into the realm of gods.
The three World Government soldiers trudged toward the sound they had heard, cloaks plastered to their backs, boots slipping in the muck.
"Let's go take a look," the first one barked, tightening his chin strap. "Keep the signal snail handy—just in case." The youngest of them nodded, the small howling transponder snail in his trembling hands glowing faintly beneath the downpour. All three drew their spears, the steel tips reflecting the restless sky.
The rain muffled everything—their breath, their boots, the heartbeat of the Holy Land itself.
And then they saw it. Lying sprawled on the very lip of the Red Line, half-buried in wind-driven mist, was a figure. Broad, powerful, crimson flesh glistening darkly under the rain.
A fishman. His chest heaved with ragged breaths; every inhale a battle, every exhale a victory. Water streamed from his brow into his eyes, but he didn't blink. His fingers dug into the ground as if afraid the mountain might cast him back into the sea. For one precious moment he had allowed himself to rest—just one—and fate had sent him witnesses.
The soldiers approached slowly, their spears leveled, the storm roaring around them.
"Well, this is a first," one of them said with a laugh that was more bravado than humor. "Too scared to take the leap, fishman? Couldn't bring yourself to jump?"
Another snickered. "Looks like one of the slaves got loose again. Can't blame him. Better to freeze here than get dragged back to the kennels." They were mocking him—he could see it even through the rain, the way their eyes gleamed with the casual cruelty of men born to serve monsters.
Tiger's pulse pounded in his ears. His hand drifted toward the blade at his hip. Three of them. If I strike fast enough, maybe—
But one soldier frowned. "Wait. Look—no collar." His tone changed, wary now. "He's not even shackled…"
"Who cares?" the first sneered. "We'll take him in anyway. Let the masters decide if he's worth whipping." He raised the transponder snail. "Better call the outpost before—"
"—That won't be necessary." The voice cut through the storm like a blade through silk. Calm, unhurried, yet commanding enough to make the wind itself falter. The soldiers spun around. Even Fisher Tiger froze.
From the shadows beneath the colossal tree, figures emerged—five in total. Four were tall, armored in the elegant black and gold of the Celestial Guard. But the one in front—he walked with the poise of a man who had never once been denied anything in his life.
A single arm rested at his side, the other sleeve of his immaculate white coat pinned neatly against his chest. A transparent bubble helmet shimmered faintly around his head, repelling the rain in rippling waves.
Saint Donquixote Mjosgard.
Even through the storm's fury, his presence radiated authority—the quiet, terrible kind that could decide life or death with a breath.
"Tenryūbito-sama!" the soldiers gasped in unison, dropping to their knees despite the mud and the cold. The transponder snail slipped from trembling fingers, its eyes swiveling nervously before going still.
Mjosgard's gaze slid from them to Fisher Tiger, who had pushed himself to his feet. Their eyes met—one filled with confusion and exhaustion, the other with an unreadable calm.
"The bastard ran while I wasn't looking," Mjosgard said lightly, his tone almost casual. "Seems he thought the storm would hide him."
The soldiers blinked, confused. "Y-your…slave, Tenryūbito-sama?" one asked hesitantly.
"Of course," Mjosgard said, stepping forward, his single arm lifting slightly as if to claim Tiger. "He belongs to me."
The guards flanking him didn't move. Their faces were stone—eyes like drawn swords, unmoving even as the thunder rolled overhead. Tiger's mind reeled. What game is this?
He had expected battle. Blood. A desperate sprint into the Holy Land before the alarm could sound. Not this. Not a Celestial Dragon claiming him as property in front of witnesses.
The soldiers relaxed slightly, relief creeping into their posture. One even chuckled. "Hah… well, that explains it. Sorry, Tenryūbito-sama. We thought—"
Lightning flashed. For an instant, the rain froze mid-air, the world reduced to white light and shadows. And in that instant, the three guards moved. They were gone from Mjosgard's side, replaced by the sharp crack of displaced air. Three blurs of motion. Three faint streaks of light.
Then silence.
The storm swallowed the noise a heartbeat later. The soldiers remained kneeling, heads bowed—until one of them swayed, then another. Their spears slipped from nerveless fingers. Their bodies collapsed soundlessly into the mud.
No screams. No struggle. Only the whisper of rain. Fisher Tiger stood frozen, his every instinct screaming in disbelief. His jaw tightened. "Why?" he managed, his voice barely audible.
Mjosgard's gaze lingered on the fallen soldiers, then turned back to him. "Because," he said softly, "no one must know you were here, at least until you have achieved what you have come here for…"
The words carried no malice—only weary pragmatism. Yet they struck like thunder. Tiger's hands trembled. The man before him was a Celestial Dragon—one of the so-called gods he had come here to defy. Yet there was something different in his eyes. Not arrogance. Not delight in cruelty. Something closer to pity… or perhaps penance.
Mjosgard stepped closer, the light from a distant lightning bolt glinting off the golden insignia at his collar. "You came to burn this place down, didn't you?"
Tiger said nothing. Mjosgard's lips curved faintly, not in mockery, but in understanding. "Then burn it. Do what you came to do." The wind howled between them, tugging at cloaks and raincoats.
"I will not stop you," Mjosgard continued. "But the storm will not last forever. When the thunder quiets, the gods will awaken. Be gone before then, Fisher Tiger." Tiger's eyes widened at the sound of his name.
Fisher Tiger's instincts screamed before his mind could even register what he was doing. The moment the Celestial Dragon turned his back, Tiger's body moved—muscles tightening, blade flashing in the rain like a bolt of black lightning. He didn't think. He didn't need to. Every scar on his skin, every brand burned into his people's flesh had carved this reflex into his bones.
If he couldn't infiltrate the Holy Land tonight, he would at least send one of its so-called gods to the abyss. The blade sang through the downpour, cutting through sheets of water, drawing a clean arc toward Mjosgard's throat—
—only to meet resistance.
A deafening clang tore through the storm as metal met metal, sparks scattering like shattered stars. Another sword had intercepted his strike, stopping it dead mere inches from Mjosgard's face. The Celestial Dragon didn't so much as blink. The rain rolled off his bubble shield, his expression eerily calm—as though he had expected the attempt. As though he was certain he wouldn't die, even if his guard had failed to move in time.
"If I wanted you dead," Mjosgard said, his voice quiet but carrying through the storm, "you would already be dead."
The guard who had parried Tiger's blow pressed forward, armament haki rippling faintly along his blade, shoving the fishman back with brutal strength. The rest of Mjosgard's guards moved in perfect synchronization, encircling Tiger with drawn weapons—each one poised to strike if given even the slightest signal.
The rain poured harder, drumming against steel and stone, muting the sound of the thunder that followed. Tiger's eyes darted between them, muscles coiled, ready to explode into motion. But the Celestial Dragon merely stared at him—calm, almost pitying.
"It's up to you whether you take this chance," Mjosgard said finally, his tone still unreadable. "But you don't have long."
He gave a short nod. One of the guards—an imposing man whose face was obscured by his visor—pulled a sealed satchel from his back and tossed it toward Tiger. The bag landed heavily at his feet, thudding dully against the wet ground.
"The map inside marks the safest route to the central containment yard—the slave quarters," Mjosgard continued, his gaze never wavering. "The bag holds enough explosives to shatter the gate. That's all you'll need to make your statement."
His words were cold, mechanical even—but Tiger could sense the tension beneath them, like cracks beneath glass. The guards stood firm, but the one who had blocked Tiger's strike glared at him, fury burning behind the visor. To him, Tiger was not an ally or a pawn—he was a threat that had dared to lift a blade toward the one man they had sworn absolute loyalty to.
Loyalty not born from fear… but gratitude. Lightning flashed again, painting the scene in stark monochrome.
The other three guards moved without a word. They bent down, lifted the limp bodies of the slain government soldiers as though they weighed nothing, and dragged them to the cliff's edge. The storm howled as the bodies were unceremoniously tossed into the abyss, vanishing into the darkness below.
When the thunder rolled again, it was as if they had never existed. Mjosgard didn't look back. His single arm rose briefly—a silent command. The guards withdrew, forming a protective line as he turned and began walking toward the heart of the Holy Land. His bubble shimmered faintly in the gloom, reflecting the jagged streaks of lightning above.
The group disappeared as swiftly as they had arrived, swallowed by the storm, leaving nothing but the whisper of the rain and the faint smell of ozone in their wake. And Fisher Tiger stood alone.
The satchel lay at his feet. Its waterproof canvas gleamed under the rain, slick and dark. He knelt slowly, his breath still ragged, his mind struggling to catch up with what had just transpired. A Celestial Dragon had spared him. No—more than that. A Celestial Dragon had helped him.
He looked at the satchel, then at the edge where the soldiers had vanished. The rain stung his eyes, though it wasn't the cold that burned there.
Why?
Why would one of the gods aid the one who sought to destroy their heaven? Why would a man born to tyranny offer him the means to burn that tyranny to ash? His heart warred with itself—rage against confusion, vengeance against uncertainty. Every story, every atrocity he had ever heard whispered in the dark corners of the sea screamed that these beings were beyond redemption. That mercy was a word they had never known.
And yet… Mjosgard's eyes. For a brief moment, Tiger had seen something there. Not pity. Not superiority. Something heavier. Something broken. Was it remorse? Guilt? Or perhaps, a silent wish for the same thing Tiger wanted—the destruction of this rotting empire from within?
The storm gave no answers.
Tiger's fist clenched around the satchel's strap. His calloused fingers brushed the faint outline of the explosives inside. The map—if it was genuine—would lead him straight into the heart of Mariejois. Into the cages. Into the darkness where countless slaves lay dreaming of freedom. It could also lead him into a trap.
But then again, hadn't his entire life been one? Thunder boomed again, echoing across the cliffs, and Tiger looked up toward the Holy Land—the gleaming silhouette of its towers barely visible through the sheets of rain. His gills flared as he took a deep breath, the salt and storm mixing in his lungs. The decision was already made.
If this was a trap, he would spring it. If it was a gift, he would use it. Either way, the heavens would tremble tonight. He slung the satchel across his shoulder, feeling its weight settle against his back. Then, with a last glance at the storm-churned abyss below, Fisher Tiger turned his gaze toward the Holy City of the gods.
A world built on chains and cruelty. A paradise sustained by the suffering of his kind. He tightened his grip on his blade, the rain washing away the blood and grime from his hands.
"Whatever your reason…" he murmured, his voice low but steady, carried by the wind, "I'll finish what you started." The storm answered with another rumble of thunder, as if in approval—or perhaps warning.
Then Fisher Tiger disappeared into the night, leaving behind nothing but the whisper of the rain and the faint glimmer of rebellion rising above the Red Line.