The rain fell unreasonably hard.
The stone-paved roads of Loguetown were washed clean and gleaming, the air thick with the mingled scents of cheap tobacco, sweat, and the foul stench of impending death.
It was terrible weather. At least for a "grand ceremony" that was to be broadcast globally, it was downright awful.
But no one complained at this moment.
Tens of thousands of eyes were fixed on the towering execution platform at the center of the square.
Raindrops pounded against countless raincoats and umbrellas, merging into a disquieting, rustling chorus.
Thirty minutes until the execution.
Click.
A crisp sound of a foot stepping in water pierced through the curtain of rain, drilling precisely into everyone's eardrums.
The noisy crowd instantly fell silent.
Everyone held their breath, their gazes following the source of the footsteps.
The Navy ranks parted like the Red Sea before Moses.
That man had arrived.
Kane wore that absurdly oversized "Justice" coat, without an umbrella.
Strangely, the raindrops falling from the sky were gently pushed aside by an invisible current of air three inches above his head, sliding off to either side.
Not a single drop among the countless threads of rain could dampen the hem of his coat.
"Is that... the 'Calamity'?"
Someone in the crowd swallowed hard, their voice dry.
"The monster who beat the Pirate King into the ground... I thought he'd be some three-headed, six-armed demon, but he's so..."
"Shh! Do you want to die? That's a Navy Admiral!"
Kane paid no attention to the gazes around him—filled with awe, hatred, or mere spectatorship.
Step by step, he leisurely ascended the wooden stairs of the execution platform.
His unhurried, casual stride made him seem less like someone here to oversee the execution of the Pirate King, and more like a man attending a dull afternoon tea party.
Finally, he stood at the highest point.
There, a wide chair upholstered in red velvet overlooked the entire square.
Kane didn't even bother to straighten his coat. He simply sat down.
Then, under the watchful eyes of tens of thousands and the close-up lenses of dozens of Video Transponder Snails, he pulled a cigar from his breast pocket.
Snap.
He lit it, took a deep drag, and blew out a perfect smoke ring.
The entire sequence was fluid and effortless.
Crossing his legs and propping his chin on one hand, his lazy posture made the Navy officers standing ramrod straight below, letting the rain pour over them, look like a bunch of schoolchildren awaiting a lecture.
...
Below the platform, in the densest part of the crowd.
Several out-of-place figures were scattered about. They were still young, but the scent of something called "ambition" was already impossible to conceal.
"Fufufu..."
A blond young man draped in a pink feathered coat and wearing flashy sunglasses huddled in a street corner, watching the domineering figure on the platform and letting out his signature strange laugh.
Doflamingo's gaze was like he was sizing up a piece of prime meat, or perhaps appraising a ferocious beast.
"The bearing of an Admiral... huh? To sit in that position and still be so relaxed. It seems Roger really was beaten into submission by this monster."
He was pissed. Really pissed.
This feeling of being utterly looked down upon made the destructive urge in his veins surge wildly.
But at the same time, a stronger, more intense craving made his entire body tremble.
That position, that perspective from which one could trample the world underfoot, was utterly captivating.
Not far away.
A gloomy young man with slicked-back hair, his left hand not yet replaced by a golden hook, was staring intently at the rain being repelled by an invisible force around Kane.
Crocodile exhaled a puff of smoke, his eyes sinister.
"The Storm Fruit... So this is the power that even Whitebeard fears."
He hated water, and he especially hated this kind of gloomy, rainy weather.
But the man on the platform made him feel a suppression from a higher level of existence.
In another corner.
Moria, not yet grown fat, grinned widely, his eyes greedily darting back and forth between Kane and the passageway where Roger would soon be escorted.
"Hey-hihihi! If I could just snip that guy's shadow... No, if I could get Roger's corpse..."
These future great pirates, schemers, and ambitious men were like a pack of immature young wolves, hiding in the shadows, watching the newly crowned lion on the plains.
They were in awe, they were afraid, but more than anything—they desired to take his place.
...
However.
Amidst all these calculating and fearful gazes, there was one line of sight that was so pure it was almost blinding.
It belonged to a young man carrying an iron cross as tall as a person on his back.
Even in the crowded throng, there was a three-meter vacuum around him.
Anyone who tried to get close would feel a stinging sensation on their skin, as if being scraped by a blade, and would instinctively retreat.
Dracule Mihawk.
At this time, he had not yet grown his iconic mustache, and his sharp, hawk-like golden pupils did not yet hold the world-weary loneliness they would later possess.
All they held was a blazing fighting spirit.
He wasn't looking at the execution platform, nor at the so-called "future great pirate seedlings" around him.
His eyes were fixed solely on the Navy Admiral lounging with his legs crossed, puffing away on a cigar.
More precisely, he was looking at the sword at Kane's waist.
Even though Zangetsu remained sheathed, it didn't stop Mihawk's mind from replaying the scene of it tearing through the sea and severing the Conqueror's Haki of a king.
A black blade.
A divine weapon tempered and saturated with Armament Haki to the point of qualitative transformation.
In this era, those who could forge a black blade were exceedingly rare. And that Navy man on the platform had achieved it at such a young age.
For a swordsman determined to stand at the pinnacle of the sword path, this was more tempting than any treasure in the world.
"A black blade..."
Mihawk murmured to himself, his hand unconsciously reaching for the hilt of the "Yoru" on his back.
The cool touch slightly cooled his boiling blood, but the next second, it ignited again with even more ferocity.
"I want to try it."
Mihawk whispered, as if speaking to himself, or perhaps to the blade on his back.
The surrounding noise, the Navy's authority, the impending execution... everything faded into a meaningless background in his eyes.
A swordsman's thought process was always infuriatingly straightforward.
See a strong opponent? Challenge them. See a mountain? Climb it.
As for the occasion? What was that?
...
On the execution platform.
Kane yawned, just about to take another puff of his cigar, when his "Listening to All Things" Observation Haki suddenly twitched.
"Hmm?"
Kane paused the hand holding his cigarette, his gaze piercing through the layers of rain to lock precisely on a certain point in the crowd.
"Interesting."
The next instant.
Mihawk moved.
Clang—!
A clear, crisp ring of a blade resounded throughout the entire square.
He drew the massive "Yoru" and swung it casually.
Boom!
A brilliant emerald slash erupted from the ground, forcibly parting the crowded crowd before him and opening a path, the sword's edge pointing directly at the high platform!
"Navy Admiral!"
The young Hawk-Eye's voice was not loud, but accompanied by that sharp sword intent, it clearly spread across the entire silent square.
The entire square fell silent for a second before erupting into chaos!
Who is this kid? Is he insane?!
Drawing his sword before a Navy Admiral? Challenging the execution supervisor on the eve of the Pirate King's execution?
The reporters' flashbulbs went off frantically, and the big news reporter Morgans was so excited his feathers puffed up: "Big news! Absolutely big news! On the eve of the execution, an unknown swordsman challenges the Calamity Admiral?!"
Countless Navy soldiers instantly raised their rifles, the dark muzzles uniformly aimed at Mihawk.
"Audacious! How dare you interfere with the execution!"
"Seize him!"
But Mihawk paid no attention. He gripped his sword with both hands, the tip pointing toward the figure on the high platform, his eyes blazing with fighting spirit.
"I, Dracule Mihawk."
"Have come seeking the world's strongest swordsmanship."
"Though this is an execution ground, and you are an Admiral..."
"I challenge you to a duel!"
The moment his words fell, a vast sword intent surged into the sky, even dispersing a small patch of dark clouds above his head!
Everyone was stunned.
Doflamingo's sunglasses slid down his nose, and Crocodile's cigar was crushed in his hand.
Where the hell did this reckless fool come from?
Does he have a death wish?!
On the high platform, Kane looked at the sharp, unyielding young man, his expression unchanged, not even shifting his posture.
"My, my, young people these days really have no manners."
Kane slowly lowered his crossed leg.
He extended a finger and gently shook it at the Navy soldiers below who were preparing to fire.
"Stand down."
Two simple words, yet carrying an undeniable authority.
The soldiers instinctively lowered their guns.
Kane stood up, cigar in his mouth, and walked to the edge of the execution platform.
He looked down at the stubborn-eyed young man below, like a dragon gazing down at an ant waving a toothpick.
He wasn't angry. Instead, he grinned, revealing a mouthful of stark white teeth, smiling with unparalleled arrogance and greed.
"Kid, you've got guts."
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