Gao Ling City stood apart from all others — one of the Four Vanguard Cities that formed the Empire's first line of defense before reaching the heart of the Blue Wind Empire itself: the Imperial City.
From above, the city pulsed with life. The clatter of footsteps and the murmur of countless voices blended into a vibrant hum as crowds filled the streets. Today was no ordinary day — it was the long-awaited Selection for the Moon Empress's Tomb.
Larger and grander than even New Moon City, Gao Ling housed not only the Empire's greatest sects, but also the pride of its martial heritage. Branch families of the Xiao Clan, Burning Heaven Clan, and Heavenly Sword Villa all called this fortress-city home. Only one sect remained apart — the reclusive Frozen Cloud Asgard, whose influence stretched not through cities or politics, but through the endless snows of the Extreme Snow Region, the coldest domain in the Empire.
The cityscape was a living mosaic of tradition and grandeur — ancient Chinese-style houses with sweeping roofs and carved pillars, interspersed with towering halls and pagodas that reached for the heavens. The streets were laid in perfect order, bustling with merchants, disciples, and noble clans from distant provinces. Beyond the crowded avenues, colossal silhouettes of fortifications loomed — the Great Wall of the Empire, its stone spine stretching beyond the horizon. It was said to link Gao Ling to the other three Vanguard Cities, forming a barrier so vast that one could only imagine the sheer number of cultivators and laborers it took to construct it.
If this mighty city was merely a vanguard… then just how enormous was the Imperial City itself?
The main gate served as the last checkpoint before the capital's sanctified domain. Here, Sky Profound Realm captains stood guard, their auras sharp and disciplined as they patrolled both ground and sky. Though no Monarchs or Tyrants resided here, the city's defenses had been greatly strengthened ever since the invasion of the white-masked beasts — the Hollows — two years ago.
Now, vigilance was everything. Gao Ling's walls no longer shielded against human enemies alone, but against creatures that defied all logic.
Since dawn, the roads leading into the city had swelled with visitors — elders and warriors escorted by their disciples, nobles draped in silks, and proud clan banners fluttering in the wind. Convoys rolled through the gates with ceremony and pride, each carrying the same unspoken ambition: to claim the honor of entering the Tomb of the Moon Empress.
Arrogance shimmered in their eyes. For many, this was not a pilgrimage — it was destiny.
Yet, amid the noise and pageantry, no one noticed a lone figure approaching from afar.
A single traveler, walking toward Gao Ling's main gate.
Something about this person — their bearing, their calm presence, the quiet authority that seemed to follow them — drew the gaze of passersby without effort. They were neither hurried nor boastful, and yet, even in a crowd filled with geniuses and nobles, this solitary figure seemed to belong to another world entirely.
Thud… Thud… Thud…
Each step echoed faintly along the cobbled road.
A lone man walked slowly through the crowd, his presence enough to part the flow of people before him. Pedestrians and cultivators alike instinctively gave way, as though an unseen force urged them aside. Though he came alone, one glance was enough to tell — this was no ordinary traveler.
He was… different.
The people of this world had never seen a man dressed like him. His garb was foreign, his aura unfathomable. Yet it wasn't his strange clothing that truly drew their attention — it was the thing strapped to his back.
"What kind of sword is that?"
"I've seen massive hammers, axes, even greatswords… but this? What is that weapon?"
"How could anyone even use something like that?"
The murmurs spread like ripples through the crowd.
Behind the man's back stretched a massive sword unlike any they had ever seen — ornate, heavy, and commanding. Blue and green gemstones were embedded along its spine, while a large sapphire gleamed at the end of its grip. The hilt was bound in white cloth, its cross-guard shaped like a golden crucifix with bars extending far longer than normal. Even the hilt alone looked too large for a conventional weapon.
And the blade — the blade — was an impossible seven feet long, pitch-black and gleaming faintly as though swallowing the sunlight. Its edge curved slightly near the tip, a single elegant motion that promised both grace and death. When compared to the man, the weapon stood a full head taller than him — and it bore no sheath. The man simply carried it as it was, strapped across his back like a burden only he could bear.
Some onlookers sneered.
"Hmph. Just another show-off. Probably here to flaunt his strength before the selection."
But as he passed, their sneers faltered.One by one, they realized their hands had begun to tremble — not from awe, but from something colder.
"…Why does it feel like my chest's tightening?"
"You too? I thought it was just me…"
He walked on, silent and unbothered, his presence alone heavy enough to quiet the crowd.
He was tall and lean, with a rugged frame that spoke of countless battles. His black hair framed a short beard and sharp sideburns, and though his eyes were hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed black hat adorned with a single white plume, his mere bearing commanded attention. Only his nose and mouth could be seen — the rest swallowed by that shadow.
His attire was unlike anything found in the Blue Wind Empire. A long black coat hung open over his bare, muscular chest, its sleeves patterned with faint crimson flowers. Beneath, he wore light purple trousers fastened by a decorated belt, tucked neatly into high boots bound with brown straps. Around his neck hung a peculiar dagger — small, but shaped eerily like the massive sword on his back, its hilt black and trimmed with gold.
Even the female disciples found themselves glancing twice, though whether from admiration or unease, none could tell.
When the man finally reached the gates of Gao Ling City, the guards stiffened instinctively. His aura pressed faintly against the air — not violent, yet suffocatingly powerful. They exchanged hesitant looks.
He was clearly here for the Moon Empress Tomb selection, meaning he was at least at the peak of the Sky Profound Realm — far beyond the strength of any guard or commander present.
They still had their duty… but few dared to step forward.
For the moment, even the city gate — proud and mighty as Gao Ling itself — seemed to fall silent before him.
"Halt! What business do you seek in Gao Ling City?"
The city guards moved into position, their voices firm — but the tremor in their tone betrayed their unease. Stopping this man required caution… and courage.
The traveler didn't respond at first. His head remained lowered, the shadow from his wide-brimmed hat concealing his eyes.
Then, slowly — deliberately — he raised his face.
The guards froze.
Beneath the shadow, a pair of piercing yellow eyes gleamed like molten gold. The man's expression was unreadable, stoic and calm… yet those eyes were sharp, predatory — like a hawk sizing up its prey. A chill raced down the guards' spines as they met his gaze. For a brief, breathless moment, it felt as though he was staring straight into their souls.
They couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
They didn't know it yet — but those eyes would soon be remembered across the continent by a single name:
"Hawk Eyes."
From the crowd behind, whispers began to spread.
"What kind of eyes are those?"
"It's like… staring into a hawk's eyes."
"Yeah… and it feels like he could kill us all with just that stare…"
Even seasoned cultivators shifted uneasily. The air itself seemed to grow heavier around the man.
The guards tensed, hands inching toward their weapons — but before they could say another word, the stranger finally spoke.
His voice was low, calm… cold.
"Tomb's selection."
Just two words. Yet they landed with the weight of a command.
The lead guard's mouth snapped shut. His instinct screamed that this was not someone to provoke. The man's killing intent wasn't overt — it was buried, restrained — but one wrong word could very well unearth it.
Right now, silence was survival.
"…Understood. Please proceed, sir."
The man gave no reply. He simply walked past them, each step steady and measured, the massive black sword on his back gleaming faintly in the sunlight.
The guards exhaled only when he was several paces away — unaware they had been holding their breath the entire time.
But then one of them, perhaps out of duty or curiosity, called out hesitantly,
"Wait! Sir — may I have your name? So we can record your entry for the city lord."
The stranger stopped.
For a heartbeat, the air seemed to still.
He turned slightly, just enough for one golden eye to meet the guard's trembling gaze.
Then he spoke, his voice calm, but edged like his blade.
"Mihawk."
A pause.
"Dracule Mihawk."
And with that, he turned back toward the heart of Gao Ling City, his coat swaying lightly behind him as he disappeared into the crowd — leaving silence, awe, and fear in his wake.
Much to the guards' shock, the man just went through the gate carrying a weird shape sword. However, no man and woman actually knew the man's true identity. Even the name was weird enough to cause a sensation. The guards having trouble pronouncing the words even write it in their language.
"Ju…ra…cu…le Mi…hawk?"
"What kind of name is that?"
"Is that man from somewhere in the Empire? Why haven't we heard of him before?"
The spectators murmured restlessly, stumbling over the foreign syllables. The name rolled awkwardly off their tongues — strange, heavy, and utterly unfamiliar.
"Wait, sir!" another guard called out. "Which clan do you represent?"
The man stopped briefly. His tone was calm, but carried an invisible edge that silenced the street.
"No," he said simply. "I am here alone. Any more questions?"
The guards exchanged nervous glances.
"N–No… thank you for your cooperation, sir."
With a faint nod, Dracule Mihawk continued on, his heavy steps echoing down the paved street as the crowd quietly parted before him.
Behind him, the guards whispered in confusion.
"There's no clan by that name in the Empire… none in the archives, either."
"Could he be from an ancient clan that vanished long ago?"
"Or one that exists beyond the Empire's knowledge?"
As they puzzled over his origins, Mihawk — or rather, the man wearing his face — walked deeper into Gao Ling City.
Everywhere he went, heads turned.
It wasn't just the strange clothing or the massive black sword on his back; it was the presence he carried — calm, regal, and terrifyingly composed. People instinctively stepped aside, creating a silent path through the bustling streets. Some bowed their heads out of respect, while others turned away to avoid the unsettling glint of that golden-eyed stare.
Still, he walked on without pause, a silent storm in human form.
Then, a soft, familiar voice echoed in his mind.
"Of all the forms you could've chosen, you chose this one? He doesn't look like much."
The voice was clear, feminine, and laced with quiet amusement. It belonged to none other than Jasmine.
Mihawk's lips curled into the faintest smirk — or rather, Yun Che's did beneath that persona.
"He doesn't look like much, you say?" he replied mentally, his voice composed yet filled with subtle pride. "This man is one of my idols from my past life. I wasn't exaggerating when I said he's the Strongest Swordsman in the World — a man who stands above all others who wield the sword."
This Dracule Mihawk was more than a disguise. It was a persona Yun Che had created — an identity forged to hide his true self, age, and purpose. The illusion was flawless: his features, his aura, even his bearing reflected that of the legendary swordsman he once admired.
A thirty-year-old swordsman from nowhere — yet one whose presence could crush lesser hearts.
"The Strongest Swordsman in the World?" Jasmine's voice dripped with faint disbelief. "That sounds like a rather bold claim for a self-given title."
Yun Che chuckled softly, his golden eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat.
"Bold, yes. But deserved. Even in my previous world, he was a man everyone feared to challenge. His sword could split mountains… and his gaze alone could silence men."
He paused briefly, his thoughts drifting.
"And his sword style — it feels natural to me. The way his blade moves, the precision, the control — it's almost like wielding Zangetsu again. His strikes are similar to my Getsuga Tenshō, but where mine overwhelms with power, his cuts with unmatched sharpness. Every swing carries purpose."
Jasmine was quiet for a moment, digesting his words. Then she spoke again, her tone softer this time.
"I understand… but still, when you wear this form — your aura, your very presence — it's different. Almost as if you've become someone else entirely."
The corner of Yun Che's mouth lifted slightly.
"Heh… I was getting to that."
His gaze turned forward once more, the city's great spires reflected in his golden eyes as his coat fluttered gently in the breeze.
"Well… you see—"
===========================
Two Days Ago — Wasteland of Death, Entrance Town
"System, rename the sword to Yoru — meaning 'Night'."
Yun Che's voice carried quiet confidence as he held the massive, newly-forged blade before him.
==================
[Ding… Sword successfully renamed to 'Yoru'.]
==================
A faint chime echoed in his mind. The dark blade pulsed lightly, as if acknowledging its new name.
Yun Che nodded with satisfaction. "Perfect. From this moment on, you'll be Yoru, the black blade of the world's greatest swordsman."
He smiled faintly, remembering the image that had inspired this creation — the cold, majestic figure of Dracule Mihawk, the Strongest Swordsman in the world of One Piece.
That man was the embodiment of composure and power.
And now, Yun Che would borrow his face — and his legend.
If he wanted to stir the Empire, he wouldn't do it as Yun Che. Not this time.
This time, he would appear as someone untouchable — a mystery from beyond the seas.
When the final fittings of the sword and outfit were complete, Yun Che opened the System's Disguise Template. He entered the final parameters with careful precision: height, facial structure, tone, clothing style — even the shadow of the wide-brimmed hat.
The moment he confirmed, a golden light enveloped him. His body shimmered, reshaping under the radiance until the figure standing there was no longer Yun Che — but Dracule Mihawk himself.
As the light dimmed, he turned toward the mirror.
What stared back was a man with hawk-like golden eyes, sharp sideburns, and a perfectly trimmed mustache — older, sterner, and carrying the weight of quiet authority.
"…So this is how I look as Mihawk, huh?" he murmured, studying the reflection. "A bit older than my usual Sasuke look… but damn — this guy's got presence."
He traced a finger along his cheek, chuckling softly. "Is his mustache always this perfect?"
The System had adjusted everything, even his apparent age — thirty years old — old enough to pass any age-detection pearl, yet still in his physical prime.
However, this transformation wasn't like his Dragon Transformation.
There were no combat perks, no inherited instincts, no borrowed sword arts.
It was purely a disguise — a visual and spiritual template.
He didn't gain Mihawk's skills or memories; he would have to recreate them himself. Every stance, every slash, every fragment of technique — all had to be rebuilt from his own experience and intuition.
But for Yun Che, that was more than enough.
Because this wasn't just about copying a legend.
It was about becoming one.
"So cool. This is your so-called idol, huh?" Kon's voice echoed in Yun Che's mind, filled with genuine awe as he took in the transformation.
"Yeah," Yun Che replied, his voice low and measured — the distinct tone of Dracule Mihawk. "I designed everything exactly like this. Nothing more, nothing less."
Kon blinked. "Is it just me… or do you sound different? Like… way calmer than usual, man. It's kind of creepy."
Yun Che tilted his head slightly, speaking with that composed detachment that came so naturally now. "Is that so? System, explain the reason for this change."
=========================
[Ding… The System has added a new enhancement to the Host's Persona Feature — 'Personality Codex.']
[To ensure a successful embodiment, the Persona Codex aligns the host's demeanor, expression, and external behavior with the personality traits of the chosen persona. The Codex is generated based on the host's memory and understanding of the target individual.]
=========================
"I see… So it basically overlays my personality with Mihawk's?"
========================
[Affirmative. The Host's inner personality remains unchanged. The Codex only influences external behavior and emotional responses to maintain character authenticity.]
=========================
Yun Che folded his arms, humming thoughtfully. "So it suppresses my usual reactions… and replaces them with Mihawk's calm, stoic presence. Interesting."
Then a faint smirk appeared across his face. "No wonder I suddenly feel like I'm radiating coolness. It'd be a total disaster if I talked like myself while looking like Mihawk. Imagine me giggling while wearing this hat."
Kon snorted, trying to imagine it — and immediately regretted it. "Yeah, that'd ruin the entire look, man. People would think the world's strongest swordsman escaped from a circus."
Yun Che chuckled quietly, his tone even and composed — a strange mix of discipline and mischief.
He took a few moments to explore the System's new Persona settings. Unlike transformations such as Dragon Mode, this one had no time limit. He could switch between identities at will through the System Console — no cooldown, no backlash.
After about an hour, the final assembly of his blade was complete.
Before him stood Yoru, his masterpiece — the black blade of legend. Its mirror-sheen reflected a deep, bluish-green hue, giving off an aura that pulsed with calm, unyielding sharpness.
He turned toward the table beside him, where several leftover materials rested. With a bit of creativity and precision, he reforged them into a smaller blade — a Kogatana dagger, shaped not like Mihawk's original crucifix, but closer to the stylized version from the games he remembered.
Satisfied, he attached it around his neck.
The System chimed again.
=======================
[Ding… Host's aura signature has been successfully masked.][Current aura: Bluish-Green Mihawk Energy Signature — replaces Host's red Shinigami or blue Quincy aura.]
=======================
Yun Che nodded approvingly. "Good. That'll keep my energy traces hidden if I ever need to use energy-based attacks. No one will be able to link this form back to Yun Che."
When the sword was finally complete, Yun Che grasped the hilt and lifted it into the air.
The weapon was heavier than it looked — about the same weight as Dragon Fault, though still lighter than Zangetsu. Yet, despite its mass, the blade felt perfectly balanced, as if it had been forged for his hand alone.
The black edge gleamed under the dim light, and he could sense the deep resonance within — an echo of the baby dragon's soul he had fused into it. The spirit within the weapon pulsed faintly, proud yet calm, acknowledging its new master.
Though this wasn't the real Yoru from Mihawk's world, Yun Che knew this blade was something greater than a mere imitation. It was infused with countless refined materials — some scavenged from ancient treasures, others stripped from the loot of defeated enemies.
Powerless sword? Not anymore.
This Yoru could grow stronger, evolve even, as long as he had the resources to refine it further.
He swung it a few times, the air whistling sharply with each motion. The blade cut clean and smooth — no resistance, no drag. Within minutes, his body adapted naturally to its weight and rhythm.
Satisfied, he slung the sword onto his back, feeling the strap lock neatly into place. It fit perfectly, as if it had always belonged there.
Once everything was complete, Yun Che dismissed the disguise, his body reverting to its natural form. The moment he relaxed, fatigue crashed into him like a wave.
The process of designing, adjusting, and channeling memories to perfect Mihawk's image had drained more mental energy than he expected.
"Ugh… I really underestimated how exhausting that would be," he muttered, collapsing onto the bed.
His consciousness began to fade almost immediately. Before sleep claimed him, he made a quick mental note:
Tomorrow — test Mihawk's movement, get used to Yoru's balance, refine coordination between sword and aura.
Day after — depart for Gao Ling City.
Within seconds, he was out cold.
--------------------------
The Next Morning
Warm sunlight filtered through the curtains, brushing across Yun Che's face. He stirred, stretching slightly — only to feel a distinct, heavy pressure on his chest and arms.
He opened his eyes slowly… and sighed.
"Sigh… these girls… so much for locking the door."
On his left arm, Retsu lay peacefully in her thin sleeping yukata, her serene face framed by soft strands of hair. On his right, Mio rested against him in a black yukata, her breathing light and steady. And right in the middle — as bold as ever — Cang Yue slept sprawled across his chest, her soft hair tickling his chin.
It wasn't the first time, but it still caught him off guard.
He smiled helplessly. "So much for a quiet morning alone."
The warmth of their presence pressed against him — comforting, chaotic, and undeniably heart-stirring.
He knew full well he could move them away with a flicker of profound energy, but he didn't.
Instead, he simply let out a quiet laugh and lay there, feeling the gentle rise and fall of their breathing.
They were trouble — all three of them — but in that moment, surrounded by their warmth and beauty, Yun Che couldn't deny it:
Trouble had never felt so peaceful.
=====================
"So, you spent the whole day training to use this Mihawk persona?" Jasmine asked again, her tone half curious, half impatient.
Yun Che nodded mentally. "Yeah. I needed time to adjust to his body structure, his stance, and his sword handling. Mihawk's techniques aren't complex, but they demand precision. His slashes are essentially mastered forms of sword energy — waves condensed to the finest edge. Honestly, they're not that different from my Getsuga Tenshō— just more controlled. His swordsmanship focuses on clarity, precision, and timing over raw power."
"So basically," Jasmine said dryly, "he spent his whole life with nothing but his sword?"
Yun Che gave a faint mental chuckle. "Pretty much. He devoted everything to the blade — to the art of the perfect cut. Died without finding a worthy successor, from what I remember. Mastering Yoru took some time; its hilt is a bit different from what I'm used to, but Old Man Zangetsu helped me fine-tune my sword waves for sharper execution. I'd say I'm ready."
He paused, then added with quiet confidence, "Though I'm still using my own style more than Mihawk's. I've… improved on his techniques — made them faster, sharper, and more fluid. Think of it as killing two birds with one swing."
Jasmine hummed softly, her crimson eyes glinting. "I've noticed. Your movements are cleaner than before. Still… I hope you use this persona wisely. It would be an insult if you turned the 'Strongest Swordsman in your world' into a laughingstock on this continent."
Yun Che smiled inwardly. "Don't worry. I wouldn't have chosen him if I intended to disgrace him. My goal isn't to flaunt strength — it's to use it. As Yun Che, I'd draw too much attention. But as Mihawk…" His smirk deepened beneath the hat. "Let's just say this guy was already overpowered back home. I might as well make him even more so here."
Jasmine rolled her eyes. "Hmph. Speaking of which — where are Kon and the others? I haven't seen that little furball in ages. My fists are starting to miss him." She cracked her knuckles with an ominous grin.
Yun Che sighed in amusement. "If you keep talking like that, he'll stay hidden forever. I sent them out early with some new instructions before I came here. They're probably working hard to master their new abilities."
Jasmine blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "New abilities? And you didn't tell me? Why wasn't I informed, Yun Che?"
Her tone sharpened, more curious than angry — but it still carried that commanding presence of a master expecting an answer.
He chuckled softly, keeping his Mihawk composure. "Woah, calm down, oh mighty master. Let me handle the event first. I'll explain later, I promise. You'll get your turn once I've got time to breathe."
Then, with a teasing grin that didn't match Mihawk's stoic face at all, he added, "Besides… remind me again — who's the master here?"
Jasmine's eyes narrowed into thin slits. "Hmph…"
She crossed her arms and looked away, her pride slightly pricked. But after a brief silence, her gaze drifted back to him, quietly studying his every movement.
Even though she wouldn't admit it aloud, there was something about him now — this calm, poised presence wrapped in Mihawk's form — that intrigued her.
Yun Che's aura felt different. Controlled. Sharper.
Almost like a blade that had finally found its true edge.
Gao Ling City — Central District
Yun Che — or rather, Dracule Mihawk — walked slowly through the crowded streets, his long coat swaying gently behind him. Each step was measured, his composure unshaken. Maintaining the persona wasn't difficult, but it required discipline.
He had to be Mihawk — calm, precise, and unreadable. That meant suppressing the grin he might normally flash, the swagger, or the casual tone he'd use to tease others. In this form, his every motion was deliberate — his aura sharp and still, like a blade unsheathed yet unmoving.
The streets grew more crowded as he approached the heart of Gao Ling City. From the distance, the towering structure of the Central Arena came into view — a vast, open coliseum built in front of the City Lord's Palace. The air was thick with energy and anticipation.
The Xiao Clan, one of the city's ruling powers, had already sealed the area around the ancient teleportation formation, ensuring no one tampered with it before the selection began.
From what the System displayed in his interface, this arena was the centerpiece of Gao Ling — a place where all public duels, tournaments, and banquets were held. The perfect stage for heroes to rise… and for fools to fall.
Today, however, the atmosphere was unlike anything the city had seen before.
For the first time in history, men and women above the age of thirty were allowed to compete — veteran cultivators, seasoned masters, and clan elders — all seeking a place in the Moon Empress's Tomb.
Yun Che's sharp eyes scanned the crowd.
Hundreds of cultivators filled the plaza, their profound energy stirring faintly in the air. Most were Peak Sky Profound Realm experts, escorted by disciples or clan guards. Normally, such individuals would be elders or sect leaders — the unshakable pillars of their clans.
"Hmph… so that's how it is," he thought. "The younger generation's tournaments were child's play compared to this."
He knew how these things went — he'd read enough novels and lived enough chaos to predict the rest.
Friends would enter the tomb together, and only one would walk out alive.
Allies today, betrayers tomorrow.
And when the treasure of a nation's founder was on the line… loyalty would crumble faster than walls in a storm.
Still, that wasn't his concern.
Let them scheme, betray, and die.
As long as his plan succeeded, the legend of Dracule Mihawk would spread through the Empire like wildfire.
"Honored guests entering the selection, please proceed to the central arena through the designated path!"
The voice of a city guard boomed across the plaza, echoing between the tall stone walls.
Yun Che exhaled softly — even that simple breath carried the faint discipline of a swordsman conserving motion.
About time.
It wasn't easy moving through dense crowds with Yoru strapped to his back. The massive cross-shaped hilt drew curious stares from everyone around him, but his stoic demeanor ensured that no one dared to speak.
From his vantage, he could see the main procession — cultivators, elders, and clan masters making their way down the stone path toward the arena.
"It seems not all clans are participating," Yun Che remarked mentally, noting the relatively small number of entrants.
Jasmine's voice echoed in his mind, cool and analytical.
"Of course. These people are the backbones of their clans. Losing a Peak Sky Profound expert would cripple their sect overnight. Smaller clans wouldn't risk it. Only those backed by powerful families or empires beyond Blue Wind would dare step forward."
Her tone softened slightly. "Still… I doubt everyone here is from the Blue Wind Empire. Some of these auras feel foreign."
Yun Che smirked inwardly. "That's fine by me. The more outsiders, the better. Once they return home, they'll carry Mihawk's story with them — the tale of the world's strongest swordsman, who appeared from nowhere."
Jasmine let out a quiet hum. "Spreading your myth, huh? Clever as always."
"Of course." He adjusted his hat slightly, Yoru glinting under the sunlight as he stepped forward. "A legend isn't born in secret… it's forged in front of thousands."
As Mihawk — or rather, Yun Che in disguise — made his way along the designated path, he noticed a stark difference between himself and the others.
Most of the participants walked proudly surrounded by escorts — disciples, guards, and clan elders flanking them on both sides. They moved like royalty, their banners fluttering, their clan insignias shining brightly under the sun.
He, on the other hand, walked alone.
No attendants.
No guards.
No crest.
Just a lone swordsman in strange attire, carrying a black blade taller than himself.
To the onlookers, the sight was jarring — a blot of mystery in a parade of prestige. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as eyes turned toward him, filled with confusion and disdain.
"Who's that swordsman?" someone whispered.
"I don't know. But look at that ridiculous outfit and sword. He looks like some foreigner trying too hard."
"Does he really think he's qualified to join the selection? This is for honored clans, not strays and drifters."
Even among the participants, heads turned and sneers followed.
One man — a middle-aged cultivator dressed in fine azure robes — stopped and turned to glare at him. His aura flickered faintly, showing the strength of a Sky Profound Realm elder, though his presence was far less impressive than he thought it was.
He spoke with a voice dripping arrogance.
"Hmph. A lone cultivator dares to walk the same path as us? This selection is reserved for the distinguished clans of the Empire — not for nameless wanderers. You should leave before you embarrass yourself."
Mihawk's golden eyes turned slightly toward him. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face, but the glint beneath it was enough to silence the nearby whispers.
For a brief moment, the entire section of the path seemed to grow quieter.
Then he spoke, calm and detached — his tone sharp enough to slice through pride itself.
"Shut your mouth. The rules say nothing about belonging to a clan."
The elder's face twisted with disbelief. "You—! Do you even know who you're talking to?"
Mihawk tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"No. And I'm not interested in finding out."
The elder's face flushed red, his pride burning hotter than his profound energy. "You—!"
He took a step forward, anger blazing — but before he could take another, a firm hand stopped him.
"Enough."
The elder froze. He turned and found himself face-to-face with another middle-aged man, this one exuding authority and calm — his Sect Master.
"Sect Master…"
The man's voice was firm but composed. "We haven't even entered the arena yet, and you're already picking fights? Do you intend to humiliate our sect before the selection even begins?"
The elder gritted his teeth, lowering his gaze. "…No, Sect Master."
"Good. Then save your temper for the arena."
The Sect Master's eyes flicked toward Mihawk briefly — cautious, calculating — then he turned away, motioning his people to move forward.
The elder followed, though not without one last glare — the kind meant to crush someone of lower status.
Mihawk didn't even spare him another glance. He simply walked forward, his expression composed, his every step radiating silent confidence.
Around him, the whispers grew again — soft, mocking, poisonous.
"Arrogant fool."
"He'll probably die before even entering the tomb."
"Can't wait to see him crawl when the real fights start."
Mihawk ignored them all.
He'd seen this pattern too many times — the arrogance of the weak who believed strength came from names and titles.
They didn't realize that sometimes, the man standing alone was the most dangerous one there.
"Hmph," Yun Che muttered under his breath, his tone cool and unshaken. "Looks like status really does matter in this world. Strength alone isn't enough — it just makes them arrogant."
He adjusted the brim of his hat and continued walking forward, his long coat trailing behind him. The murmurs around him still carried sneers and disbelief, but he ignored them completely.
By the time he reached the registration hall, the major clans had already taken their places. Each elder and sect representative was surrounded by followers, banners, and attendants — symbols of power and prestige.
And then there was him.
A lone man. No crest, no followers, no name.
The receptionist hesitated the moment Mihawk stepped forward. Her eyes flicked nervously between his strange attire, his massive black sword, and his lack of any clan insignia.
"Name… and affiliation?" she asked, uncertain.
He handed her the slip, his voice even and low. "Dracule Mihawk. No clan."
Her expression faltered. "No… clan?"
The murmurs behind him grew louder.
"What kind of name is that?"
"'Dra…cule… Mi…hawk'? Is that how you say it?"
"Foreign, probably. And no clan? What's he doing here?"
Even the nearby elders whispered among themselves, clearly unimpressed.
"Hmph. Without backing, he won't last five minutes once the fighting starts," one of the clan leaders scoffed to his disciples. "The strong without allies are the first to die."
Yun Che didn't bother reacting. His golden eyes stayed fixed on the receptionist, who finally sighed and stamped the form.
"There's… no rule requiring clan representation, so… you're cleared to participate."
He nodded once. "Good."
A guard led him toward a glowing pedestal at the side — the Age and Power Verification Pearl.
It was a more advanced version of the one used during the New Moon Palace disciple selection, enhanced with formations to detect both the true age and cultivation level of the user.
Most participants handled it nervously — after all, one hint of falsification, and they'd be instantly disqualified or worse, exposed.
When Mihawk placed his hand upon the pearl, the sphere pulsed faintly — once, twice — then turned emerald green.
================
[Verification complete: Age — 30. Cultivation — Peak Sky Profound Realm.]
================
The guards nodded and stepped aside. "You may enter."
He walked past them in silence, his aura calm and disciplined, the faint pressure of his sword energy enough to make the guards subconsciously tense.
Inside the Arena
The roar of the crowd struck him the moment he stepped through the gate.
The Central Arena of Gao Ling City stretched vast and circular, surrounded by tiered platforms packed with spectators. Nobles, cultivators, and travelers from across the Empire — and even a few from foreign sects — had gathered for the spectacle.
This wasn't just another competition.
This was the Moon Empress Tomb Selection — a once-in-a-lifetime chance to enter the resting place of the Empire's first ruler, said to hold treasures and inheritances beyond comprehension.
Even the City Lord himself was rumored to be watching from the high pavilion above, alongside the representatives of the Xiao Clan and the Heavenly Sword Villa.
When the verification concluded, a total of sixty-four participants had been confirmed.
The arena was vast — a massive, square battlefield large enough to host even large-scale duels between Peak Sky Profound Realm cultivators. Layers of shimmering profound formations surrounded it, rising like translucent walls of energy to protect the spectators from any stray attacks.
Beyond the formation, tiered platforms filled every inch of the viewing stands. Thousands of cultivators, nobles, and visitors sat in tightly packed rows, their murmurs weaving into a low hum of excitement.
Near the formation's edge, a special seating area had been prepared — luxurious chairs arranged for the honored participants and their escorts. Most of these seats were occupied by delegations from the great clans, surrounded by attendants and disciples.
And then there was one seat — a single, isolated chair — that belonged to none of them.
Yun Che — Dracule Mihawk — stepped lightly onto the railing and vanished in a blur of motion, reappearing an instant later in the reserved area. Without a word, he sat down on the special seat assigned to him, crossing one leg over the other.
He lowered his head slightly, the brim of his black hat casting a shadow over his golden eyes. His hands rested loosely atop his knee as he subtly released his Haki, spreading it through the air like a silent ripple.
He had adjusted the seat earlier — reinforced it to hold Yoru, which now towered majestically behind him, the black blade gleaming faintly under the arena lights.
The effect was immediate.
Every eye in the vicinity turned toward him.
Among the neat rows of participants surrounded by escorts, guards, and clan banners, he alone sat completely alone, occupying an entire section meant for several people. The contrast was almost unsettling — one solitary swordsman sitting calmly amid the clamor of powerful families.
His stillness was commanding.
His composure, unshakable.
His presence, impossible to ignore.
Whispers spread quickly through the rows of participants.
"Who does he think he is, sitting there like that?"
"Arrogant fool. Can't even show basic courtesy."
"Or maybe he's just too stupid to know who he's sitting among."
Mihawk didn't move, didn't even glance their way.
Their words meant nothing.
He'd long since learned that stillness unsettled people more than rage.
From where he sat, he could clearly see the banners of the Burning Heaven Clan, Xiao Clan, and Heavenly Sword Villa fluttering proudly over their respective areas.
The rest of the participants bore unfamiliar crests — minor sects or hidden clans, perhaps — but none held his interest.
His gaze drifted toward the crowd, noting that the spectators' seats were filled to the brim. Not a single empty space remained. The city had truly gathered its best for this day.
However… something felt off.
He noticed there were no representatives from Frozen Cloud Asgard. Not a single robe of ice-blue or figure bearing their signature cold aura. Perhaps their pride, or their distance, kept them away from such events.
Then, his eyes caught something unusual.
Among the rows of participants, seated in a far corner, was a lone cultivator — a woman.
He could tell by the subtle curves beneath her black robes, though her entire body was hidden. A heavy cloak draped over her frame, her head concealed beneath a hood, her face masked completely.
A woman, entering the selection alone.
In this sea of men and clans, she was as isolated as he was — another anomaly in a world that worshipped reputation.
Even through her concealment, Yun Che could feel faint traces of profound energy — calm, cold, and restrained. She didn't flaunt her power, but it was there.
The spectators had already begun whispering about her, too.
"A woman? Alone?"
"She must be crazy. Without a clan, she's dead the moment she enters."
"Hah, maybe she's just here for attention."
Yun Che leaned back slightly, studying her through the shadow of his hat.
Interesting.
He didn't know who she was, but he respected her presence. In this arena full of arrogance and noise, only two sat without a crowd — himself, and her.
The cheers from the crowd thundered across the arena — a wave of excitement and anticipation filling every corner of Gao Ling City.
But suddenly, the noise died.
A calm, authoritative voice rolled through the air, amplified by profound energy.
"Welcome, distinguished guests, to the Selection for the Moon Empress's Tomb. And welcome, honored visitors, to one of the four Vanguard Cities of the Blue Wind Empire — Gao Ling City."
All eyes turned upward toward the high balcony of the City Lord's Palace, where a middle-aged man stood proudly, his robes adorned with the insignia of Gao Ling's crest. From the respectful silence that followed, it was clear — this man was the City Lord himself.
Mo Jianfeng.
He continued, his voice echoing clearly over the vast arena.
"As we all know, the Tomb of the Moon Empress was discovered by the Xiao Clan — found by accident beneath the ruins of an ancient temple in their training zone. However, what they uncovered was not the tomb itself, but a teleportation formation leading to it."
The crowd murmured in awe as he spoke, but quickly fell silent again as his tone deepened.
"The formation is protected by an ancient array — one believed to be personally crafted by the Moon Empress herself. It was inscribed long ago that only those above thirty years of age and at the Peak of the Sky Profound Realm may enter. The tomb, however, can only support ten cultivators at a time."
Mo Jianfeng paused, letting the crowd absorb the gravity of that statement.
"As the discoverers of the formation, the Xiao Clan has rightfully reserved two of those ten spots. The remaining eight will be decided here, today — through combat. Thus, this tournament was established to ensure fairness. Any cultivator who meets the requirements may enter."
He lifted a hand, gesturing toward the participants' seats.
"Sixty-four cultivators have entered this selection. Each will battle in single combat until only eight remain. These eight victors will earn the right to enter the Moon Empress's Tomb alongside the two representatives of the Xiao Clan."
A low murmur spread across the arena. Some clan leaders whispered among themselves, their faces dark. Many had tried to pressure Mo Jianfeng earlier, offering bribes or demanding to "give face" to their sects. But in this moment, none dared speak. The balance of the great clans was too delicate — and no one wanted to risk offending the others.
"The matchups," Mo Jianfeng announced, "will be drawn at random. The victors will proceed to the round of sixteen, then eight, until the final selection is complete."
As his voice faded, the entire arena erupted in anticipation once again.
The sixty-four participants stood or sat in their designated areas, their auras pressing faintly against one another like invisible storms.
These weren't mere fighters.
Each was among the strongest cultivators below the Emperor Profound Realm.
And every single one of them had come for the same reason —the Legacy of the Moon Empress.
It was said that her inheritance worked only for women, yet every clan sought it. Even a fragment of that power could raise a family to dominance for generations.
Among them, Yun Che sat quietly, one leg crossed over the other, his golden eyes half-hidden beneath the brim of his hat.
He wasn't here for legacy.
He was here to pass time… and perhaps, gift that legacy to Cang Yue if fate allowed.
Still, as the crowd roared and cultivators whispered, he couldn't help but smile faintly.
His gaze drifted across the field until it landed on a familiar face — the haughty elder from before, puffing his chest and pretending not to notice him.
"Heh…" Yun Che murmured softly under his breath, his tone quiet but sharp.
"Let's hope I draw that arrogant fool. I'd love to show him what happens when he mocks the man with Hawk Eyes."
High above the arena, within the luxurious VIP chamber, several distinguished figures sat behind a shimmering veil of profound energy. The crowd couldn't see them clearly — but their presence radiated power and authority.
Within that chamber, four pairs of eyes watched the arena with unwavering focus.
They weren't here for the clans.
They weren't here for the tomb.
Their gaze was fixed on only one person —the lone swordsman in black.
The man who sat apart from all others.
The man whose presence silenced arrogance with a glance.
The man the whispers had already begun to call—
Dracule Mihawk.