Zoro gritted his teeth, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip—a memento from Mihawk's elbow. "You're a real bastard," he muttered, before charging again. This time, he went for a more complex move—Santoryu Ogi: Sanzen Sekai. He spun his swords at blinding speed, creating a vortex of black, Haki-coated blades, a deadly tornado bearing down on Mihawk like an unleashed storm. The clearing shuddered under the raw power of the attack, nearby trees bending from the shockwave.
For the first time, Mihawk actually moved. With a fluid leap, he dodged backward, evading the brunt of the assault—but he didn't just retreat. The kitchen knife danced between his fingers, and with devilish precision, he unleashed a flurry of quick parries, each strike deflecting one of Zoro's blades. Metal clashed in a piercing symphony—CLANG, CLANG, CLANG—until Mihawk, with a brutal backhand, struck Wado Ichimonji's flat with the knife, breaking Zoro's rhythm and leaving him exposed.
In a flash, Mihawk lunged, the knife aiming for Zoro's shoulder. The swordsman tried to block with Shusui, but he was too slow—the tiny blade sank into his flesh just above the collarbone, wrenching a muffled cry from Zoro. Blood spurted, staining his green kimono, but Mihawk wasn't done. He yanked the knife free with a sharp tug and drove a kick into Zoro's stomach, sending him crashing into a tree several meters away. The bark splintered under the impact, and Zoro slid to the ground, his swords slipping from his trembling hands.
Leo felt a pang of guilt—Shit, maybe I went too hard—but he kept Mihawk's facade unrelenting. He advanced slowly, knife still in hand. "Be glad I'm not killing you," he said, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. "But come back with more resolve, Roronoa. This…" He pointed the bloodied knife at him. "This is nothing compared to what you'll face in the New World."
Zoro, sprawled on the ground, panted, one hand clutching his wounded shoulder, the other gripping the dirt to haul himself up. His eyes, clouded with pain, stayed locked on Mihawk, burning with restrained fury. "Tch… I'll cut you in half someday," he growled, his voice hoarse but pulsing with defiance. Slowly, he stood, staggering, retrieving his swords one by one with near-inhuman stubbornness. He assumed a stance again, blood dripping down his arm, legs shaking but his spirit refusing to break.
Mihawk raised an eyebrow, quietly impressed.
This guy's a tank, Leo thought, his fanboy side thrilled by Zoro's resilience.
"Again?" Mihawk murmured, a cruel smile curling his lips. "Good. Show me what you've got."
Zoro charged once more, slower but driven by sheer will. He unleashed Tatsu Maki, a whirlwind of blades meant to engulf Mihawk. Haki flickered faintly around his swords, its energy faltering under exhaustion. This time, Mihawk didn't play around. With a swift sidestep, he evaded the vortex, then struck again with the knife—a precise slash across Zoro's thigh, followed by a fist to the face that sent him sprawling once more.
Zoro collapsed, breathless, his face smeared with sweat and blood. Yet he rose again, swaying, using his swords as crutches to prop himself up. He swung one last time—a simple, desperate thrust straight at Mihawk's heart. The master merely tilted his head to dodge, then drove the knife into Zoro's forearm, forcing him to drop Shusui. A raw cry tore from the swordsman's throat, and he fell to his knees, spent.
Even on his knees, though, Zoro didn't fully crumble. He stayed there, frozen in a defiant stance, his eyes boring into Mihawk with an intensity that transcended pain. His breathing was ragged, his body riddled with wounds—stabbed shoulder, slashed thigh, battered face—but he refused to admit defeat. Finally, his strength gave out, leaving him upright but immobile, a statue of broken yet unbroken will.
Mihawk slipped the knife back into his pocket, blood still dripping from its worn blade. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.
He's got guts, Leo thought, torn between pride and respect.
Then, in a voice that shattered the clearing's silence, Mihawk shouted, "Perona!"
The young woman, who'd been watching from a tree at a distance, floating with her umbrella, flinched slightly. "Hihihi! What?" she called back, drifting down with a curious pout, her ghosts hovering around her like playful shadows.
"Take him inside," Mihawk ordered, nodding toward Zoro. "He's too weak to walk, and I don't want him eaten by beasts. Not after this."
Perona wrinkled her nose, eyeing the bloodied swordsman with a grimace. "Hmpf! He's all dirty and stinky! Why do I have to do it?" she whined, but one icy glare from Mihawk shut her up. "Hihihi, fine, fine!" she grumbled, summoning her Negative Hollows to wrap Zoro in a dark aura. The ghosts lifted him gently, his limp body floating as she guided him toward the mansion.
Mihawk lingered in the clearing, alone, as silence settled around him. Inside, Leo's heart pounded.
He's unreal, he thought, still reeling from Zoro's performance. Three months, and he's already pushing me like this. In a year… he'll be ready. So will I.
Leo, in the body of the world's greatest swordsman, stood still, his golden eyes fixed on the misty horizon. His mind churned, circling back to one moment: his clash with Whitebeard at Marineford.
That fight had been a revelation. Facing the legendary Emperor, Leo had felt a terrifying power surge through Mihawk's body, a raw force capable of rivaling the titans who ruled the seas. Yoru's black blade had sliced the air with lethal precision, defying Newgate's colossal might—a man whose name alone made the world tremble. But a bitter truth gnawed at Leo, a splinter under his skin: I wouldn't have won if Whitebeard hadn't been old.
That reality frustrated him, infuriated him to no end. Yes, he'd held his own against an Emperor, but the victory—or at least the outcome—wasn't as decisive as he'd craved. Age and illness had weakened Whitebeard, and Leo knew that in his prime, the man would've crushed him, even with all of Mihawk's mastery.
This realization had reshaped his ambitions. Being the world's greatest swordsman wasn't enough anymore. That title, Mihawk had already claimed, his name etched into legend like a blade in stone. But Leo saw further, much further. He didn't just want to master the sword; he wanted to embody absolute power, an army unto himself, capable of challenging Emperors, the Marines, even the World Government. Since returning from Marineford, an idea had taken root, an aspiration that transcended everything Mihawk had been: What if I became the weapon itself? The sword itself?
TO BE CONTINUED...
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