He closed his eyes, letting the thought take root in his mind. The art of the sword, he'd realized, wasn't just about wielding a blade—it was about merging with it, becoming a living extension of its edge. Mihawk had already reached the pinnacle of that mastery, turning Yoru into a natural extension of his being. But Leo wanted more. He wanted his entire body to become a weapon, every movement, every breath, every intent a blade capable of cutting through anything. This ambition, born from his fight with Whitebeard and fueled by his otaku side, electrified him.
He extended his right hand toward a tree a few meters away, fingers spread, palm open. Eyes still shut, he focused, envisioning his arm as a sword—not a blade held, but a blade embodied.
Cut, he commanded silently, his will sharpening into an invisible force. A second passed, then a surge erupted from his fingers—a wave of pure intent morphing into a razor-sharp air slash. The whistle tore through the silence, and the shrubs ahead were sliced clean through, their severed stalks collapsing into a messy heap across meters. The cut wasn't perfect—rough, uneven—but it was there, tangible, real.
Mihawk opened his eyes, golden pupils glinting with quiet satisfaction. "Not quite there yet," he murmured, his low voice resonating in the empty clearing. He studied the damage, noting the cut's flaws—too wide, too sloppy compared to Yoru's surgical precision. But a rare smile curved his lips, tinged with excitement and pride. "Still, progress." He raised his hand before him, gazing at his fingers as if they were a new weapon, an untapped potential. "In a year… the world's greatest swordsman will become the ultimate weapon."
Inside, Leo felt a wave of euphoria crash over him.
This is so badass! he thought, his otaku side taking over. The idea of turning Mihawk into something beyond even the canon's limits thrilled him to his core. He could already picture it: strikes that split islands without drawing Yoru, air slashes hurled across kilometers, a presence so overwhelming the Emperors themselves would quake.
Kaido, Big Mom, Teach… They won't know what hit them!
His heart raced, eager—eager to see how far this body could go, eager to sculpt this legend into something entirely new.
He lowered his hand, his gaze drifting back to Kuraigana's mist. "A living weapon," he murmured, almost to himself. "Not just a master of the sword, but the sword itself." That vision consumed him, a fire burning brighter than ever since Marineford. He knew Mihawk already had it all—strength, precision, Haki—but Leo wanted to push those limits, shatter them to forge something unprecedented. With a year ahead to train Zoro, build a crew, and hone this power, he was certain the New World wouldn't be ready for what was coming.
Inside his mind, Leo grinned like a kid with his favorite manga.
In a year, he thought, the world will see what it really means to be the ultimate weapon. And I'm gonna love every second of it.
And so, a year passed…
Kuraigana's clearing was now a field of wreckage. Trees lay shattered, their trunks splintered. Ferns were trampled into tatters strewn across ground scarred by deep gashes and gouged furrows.
At the chaos's center, Zoro knelt, his exhausted body propped up by two swords stabbed into the earth. His clothes, torn and stained with fresh blood, hung in rags, and his breathing came in hoarse, stuttering grunts.
A year had passed since Zoro set foot on this dark island, a year under Mihawk's—or rather, Leo's—ruthless tutelage, transforming this training into a brutal forge to shape an already exceptional blade into a legendary weapon. Today marked their final clash as master and pupil, a duel to cap this grueling stretch.
Mihawk stood before him, upright and still, clad only in his white shirt and trousers. In his right hand, he held a kitchen knife. But the blade, worn from months of use and this last fight, was now shattered into bits, its fragments glinting on the ground like scattered crystal.
Inside Mihawk's mind, Leo's heart pounded.
A year… and he's become a monster, he thought, his fanboy side awestruck by Zoro's transformation.
The Armament Haki, once raw and untamed, now pulsed with impressive control in the swordsman's hands, a weapon refined under the iron discipline his mentor enforced. This final bout had showcased that growth—Zoro had faced Mihawk with a ferocity and precision that pushed the knife to its breaking point, reducing it to dust. But Mihawk, true to his legend, hadn't yielded an inch, his body unscathed, not a drop of blood or scratch betraying the clash's intensity.
A rare smile tugged at Mihawk's lips as he looked at Zoro, drained but still upright by sheer will. He stepped forward, boots crunching on debris, and locked his golden eyes onto the swordsman's. "Roronoa," he said, his voice low and sharp. "The next time our paths cross, we'll be enemies. Remember that."
Zoro clenched his teeth, trembling hands gripping his sword hilts. "Enemies…" he growled, his hoarse voice barely audible between labored breaths. "I'll cut you… before that happens…" But his words faded into a wheeze, his body too spent to carry the threat further. He stayed there, kneeling, eyes fixed on Mihawk as the master turned away.
Mihawk walked off without a backward glance. Inside, Leo felt a twinge of melancholy mixed with pride.
He's ready, he thought. A year, and he could already stand up to New World monsters. But now… it's my turn to move.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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