For several long, tense minutes, the only sound in the vast banquet hall was the clinking of cutlery against fine porcelain. It echoed like distant chimes in a cathedral, the silence thick with unspoken suspicion.
Sir Crocodile, the infamous Warlord of the Sea, had to admit—though this banquet was merely a political performance, the royal family had spared no effort. The food was exquisite, the hall immaculate, and the nobility had masked their unease behind trained smiles.
But beneath that glittering surface, the tension simmered like magma under stone.
It was Queen Titi who finally shattered the stillness, her voice calm but layered with meaning.
"I would like to take this occasion to sincerely thank Sir Crocodile, on behalf of the merchants of Arabasta," she began, her eyes never leaving him. "Word has reached us that you've helped defend our port city from pirates in recent months."
Indeed, stories had begun to circulate in towns and cities around the kingdom—stories of Crocodile standing between civilians and bloodthirsty pirates, of criminals mysteriously vanishing.
At first, the people had feared him—as one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea, his reputation preceded him. But slowly, public opinion began to shift. His integration into Arabasta's society, calculated as it was, gave the illusion of benevolence.
Crocodile gave a dry chuckle, casually digging his fork into a juicy steak.
"Well, it wasn't much. As someone representing the World Government, I simply cannot allow pirates to run rampant in my presence, now can I?"
The words were smooth, the smile polished—but no one in that hall, least of all the royal family, believed them for a second. They knew better. Crocodile never did anything unless it served a deeper purpose, a darker ambition. But none dared challenge him directly—not yet.
Queen Titi tilted her head, her tone still polite. "Say, Sir Crocodile... have you come across an organization by the name of Baroque Works? It's said they don't discriminate between targets—pirates, marines, merchants alike. Ruthless, without allegiance. I wonder if you've had the misfortune of crossing paths with them?"
Her eyes bore into him, searching for the smallest crack in his mask.
Crocodile sipped his wine without a hint of discomfort. Internally, though, he was impressed. Sharp... far too sharp. If he wanted to take control of this ancient kingdom, the Queen would need to be eliminated sooner rather than later.
"I've had a few... run-ins with some of their members. Eliminated them, of course," he said with a smirk.
"Then Sir Crocodile must have some idea who is behind such a dangerous organization?" she pressed gently.
He chuckled again, this time colder. "Unfortunately not, Your Majesty. But rest assured, should I discover anything, I will inform the royal court at once."
The Queen returned to her meal gracefully, though her eyes betrayed the same wariness shared by her husband, King Cobra. He wiped his brow discreetly, awed by his wife's bravery in probing a man who could, with a flick of his fingers, turn this banquet into a bloodbath.
Crocodile leaned back in his chair and changed the subject.
"King Cobra... I understand the Alabasta Kingdom's legacy predates even the World Government itself. I've heard many rumors—that your people guard secrets... secrets that even the World Government isn't privy to. Ancient knowledge. Hidden truths. Is that true?"
Cobra's brow furrowed. He knew precisely what Crocodile was hinting at. Beneath the table, Queen Titi placed a firm hand on her husband's arm.
"Well, Sir Crocodile," Cobra replied evenly, "while we are proud of our long history, Arabasta is but a barren, isolated desert kingdom. What secrets could such a place possibly hide? They're nothing more than rumors—fables, really. Stories spread to stir unrest."
The ministers and nobles murmured in agreement, brushing off the implications. To them, these legends were just that—legends. But only the royal family knew the truth buried beneath the sands.
Crocodile's lips curled into a grin.
"Rumors... perhaps. But some say Alabasta holds knowledge of the so-called Ancient Weapons. The kind of power the entire world would kill to possess. Imagine a pirate walking straight into this very palace, carving a path through your guards, all to learn the truth."
The threat was unspoken, but its weight was unmistakable. Igaram slammed his palm on the table, face souring.
"Is that supposed to be a threat, Sir Crocodile?" he growled.
Crocodile's smile never wavered.
"I'm merely stating a possibility. Let's say—hypothetically—I discarded my Warlord status and decided to target this kingdom myself. I wonder what the royal family would do then... considering I could raze this nation to the ground, alone."
He let loose a wave of his Haki. It rippled across the hall like a storm wind, suppressing everyone in its path—guards, nobles, even the lesser ministers. The pressure bore down like gravity itself had thickened.
But just as the royal couple braced themselves—an explosion of laughter tore through the hall like a cannon blast.
"BWAHAHAHAHA!"
A voice boomed from the entrance. The doors flew open. And then it hit. A far greater Haki burst forth—immense, ancient, commanding. It collided with Crocodile's aura and crushed it in an instant. The Warlord's body stiffened as if the air itself had become iron. Sweat beaded on his brow as he turned to look.
Standing at the entrance, grinning like a demon in vacation clothes, was none other than Monkey D. Garp. The Marine Hero strode in wearing a garish pink floral shirt and yellow shorts—utterly at odds with the imperial setting. And yet, no one laughed. Because the pressure in the room had shifted entirely.
Behind him, silent and sharp-eyed, walked Bogard, his blade at his side, his presence like a coiled serpent.
"You filthy little snake," Garp said, voice laced with amusement. "I'd love to see you try."
The soldiers who had tensed now stood frozen, unsure whether to bow, salute, or run.
"You do know," Garp continued, strolling toward the table, "that threatening the royal family of a World Government kingdom is grounds for execution, right, Warlord of the Sea?"
Though his tone was playful, his Haki hadn't eased. Crocodile remained pinned in his seat, unable to move, his fork trembling in his fingers. So this... was the Marine Hero.
Queen Titi rose from her seat, regal and composed.
"Ah, finally, the last of our honored guests arrive," she said warmly, though her eyes gleamed with quiet triumph. She had indeed reached out to Marine Headquarters—but never in her wildest dreams had she expected Garp himself to come. This was no routine visit. This was a message.
A warning.
Crocodile's earlier arrogance was now met with the same mockery in Queen Titi's gaze. At her gentle request, Garp finally relaxed his Haki. Crocodile inhaled sharply, rage and humiliation contorting his face—but he said nothing. He couldn't afford to. Not now.
Bogard, ever vigilant, noted a girl seated beside Crocodile—his sharp eyes widened slightly. The Demon of Ohara... What is she doing here? He said nothing, though he would report it later.
Lily, trembling, stared wide-eyed at Garp. Even Crocodile had been helpless in front of him. She had wanted to scream—to beg for protection. But then it hit her.
Even the Marine Hero works for the World Government. Would I truly be safe? As the tension slowly ebbed, Crocodile forced a chuckle through clenched teeth.
"Hehehe... I never expected Vice Admiral Garp to personally visit a distant kingdom like Arabasta. Quite the surprise."
Garp dropped into the seat beside Queen Titi, stretching his arms lazily behind his head.
"Well, I heard some pirate bastards—ones like you—were causing trouble in these waters. Thought I'd pay a visit."
He chuckled again, but there was no warmth when he looked at Crocodile. If not for Sengoku's orders, Garp would have happily dragged the Warlord to Impel Down and thrown him in the same cell as Douglas Bullet.
King Cobra blinked in astonishment as Garp casually added:
"But don't worry, Your Majesty. Those troublemakers won't be bothering you again. I sank a dozen of their ships this morning. A pity I didn't find the one pulling the strings—they're far more organized than I thought."
Even Queen Titi's eyes widened. This—this was the legend known as Garp. The hall fell into an awed silence. And for the first time, Crocodile's calm cracked. His eye twitched. Twelve ships... Gone? His plans—his forces—his foundation. Shattered.
And now, he understood—taking over Arabasta wasn't going to be as simple as he thought.
Not with the ghost of an old era watching.
****
Water 7, Grand Line
The workshop buzzed with the hum of steam engines, clanking tools, and the quiet awe of engineers marveling at their creation. Towering in the center of the massive workshop was the prototype—the first successful sea train engine ever constructed.
Its colossal steel frame gleamed under the orange glow of industrial lanterns suspended from overhead beams. Every bolt, every gear was forged with painstaking care, exuding both power and elegance.
The engine rested on a reinforced railbed that extended out of the workshop and into the city's newly constructed tracks. Tubes and pistons coiled around the undercarriage like mechanical veins, and its massive drive wheels seemed ready to tear down the tracks with explosive force.
At its front, an unfinished façade hinted at something more flamboyant—something bold and theatrical, just like its creator. It was a machine born not just of engineering, but of dreams.
"I guess... we might have gone a bit overboard with this one," Tom muttered, scratching his belly as he gazed at the engine with a proud, almost paternal smile.
Iceburg, still in his younger days, leaned against a railing, admiration in his eyes. "Master... don't you think we should give it a name? This thing... it deserves one."
Tom raised a brow. "A name, huh?"
Iceburg grinned. "Why not name it after you, Master? You built it, after all."
Tom laughed heartily, the sound echoing like thunder in the metal hall. "Oi oi! Naming things after yourself is how tyrants get started! We build for the future—not for fame!"
His laughter faded into a more thoughtful silence as he looked again at the monstrous engine. Years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice were welded into that frame. "Still... maybe you're right. Something bold... something that tells the world it's comin'!"
He suddenly reached for a sheet of parchment, snatching up a pencil and began sketching.
"What if we shape the front like a rocket? Something that screams power. Hah! A rocket on rails!"
Meanwhile, Kokoro sat at a side table, poring over parchment and various invoices, calculating logistical needs and other requirements because Tom's megaproject was still far from completion. She didn't look up as Tom turned to her.
"By the way... where's that rascal Cutty? Haven't seen him since this morning."
Iceburg's smile dimmed slightly. "You know where he is, Master. Ever since Kyros agreed to train him... it's either fighting practice or working on his crazy designs. He's... different now. After the incident."
Tom's expression darkened. "Yeah... nearly dying will do that to anyone, especially a young child who barely understands the world."
Cutty Flam—now known by many as Franky—had come back from the brink, rebuilt not just in body but in mind. Part man, part machine, but all fire. And yet, Tom worried. The boy was struggling with more than mechanics—he was wrestling with his very identity.
"Let him be," Tom finally said, eyes drifting back to the prototype. "He's walking his own path now... and he'll need strength for what lies ahead."
At the farthest edge of Water 7, where a man-made extension of the island stretched out into the sea, lay a desolate wasteland—a graveyard of ships. Here, the derelict hulls of vessels long past their prime rotted in quiet despair. Masts snapped like broken bones.
Hulls split and rusted beneath the salty air. Every ship that could no longer sail found its final rest here, piled and stacked like wooden tombstones. A monument to forgotten dreams. But amid the decay, life moved. Steel slammed into splintered wood with a deafening boom, sending shattered planks flying as Franky, the cyborg apprentice of Tom, screamed in frustration.
"Aaargh… Damn it…!"
His mechanical fist retracted with a hiss of steam, smoke curling from his shoulder vents. His breath came in short bursts as he glared at the debris—yet another failed attempt.
CLANG!
The sound of metal fists striking corroded hulls echoed across the skeletal remains of forgotten ships. Franky's breath was ragged, smoke hissing from vents on his arms as he stared at the dented plating of a scrapped galleon.
"I don't get it... why can't I awaken it...?!"
He stood shirtless in the sun, the light glinting off his seastone-reinforced body—an indestructible masterpiece of cybernetic ingenuity. His arms, powered by hydraulic cores, could crush stone. His chest was armored, his spine reinforced with alloy. But none of it mattered here. Not against Haki.
He had glimpsed the spark of Observation Haki—but Armament remained a locked door. One that mocked him. Behind him, calm and unshaken, stood Kyros—a warrior whose name still echoed in the coliseum of Dressrosa. A legend of a thousand victories and no defeats. He watched with arms folded, his powerful legs planted firmly like a monument in the wind.
"Why...? Why can't I even grasp the basics of it?" Franky bellowed, another punch pulverizing an already broken hull.
Kyros finally stepped forward. His voice was steady, deep, and patient. "Because you still doubt."
Franky turned, panting.
"You rely too much on your new body. Its strength... its armor... You're unconsciously leaning on it to carry you through. But Haki isn't about weapons or machines. It's about will. About belief."
Franky's jaw tightened.
"Most warriors only have to temper flesh and blood," Kyros continued. "But you... you have to harmonize soul and steel. Your battle is harder than most because your body is no longer natural. But that doesn't mean it's impossible. You need to stop viewing your modifications as limitations. They're not your weakness—they're your reality. Accept that... and Haki will answer."
Franky looked at his fists—covered in metal, scarred with soot—and clenched them tighter.
"You once told me," Kyros added, "that you'd protect the people you care about. That you'd never let anyone hurt your friends again. Then stop punching the past. Start fighting for the future."
The wind blew through the graveyard, lifting dust and the scent of rust and oil. Franky's eyes lit with a flicker of realization. Break the problem into parts. Synchronize the body, then the mind. Then the will. The path was longer than he imagined. But he wasn't done. Not yet.
"Again...!" Kyros's voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.
Franky groaned, slumping his shoulders. "Ughhh... You do realize I'm not made of infinite stamina, right? Even robots need maintenance breaks, man...!"
Kyros didn't blink. He didn't budge. Like a statue of iron will forged into flesh. He simply folded his arms, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Well... if you prefer, we could always go back to the first training method."
A slow, wicked smile tugged at the edge of the former gladiator's lips—uncharacteristic, unnerving.
Franky froze. "Wait—no, no. Not that. Anything but that."
Kyros turned slightly, gesturing casually with his chin toward a bent steel rod discarded nearby—its shape grotesquely warped from intense impact. Franky's eyes widened as a cold bead of sweat trickled down his temple. That rod had history.
A vivid memory surged through his mind: bound, blindfolded, staggering across the shipyard like a drunk cannonball while Kyros struck at him relentlessly, forcing him to feel with his instincts alone.
That was the brutal "awakening" of his Observation Haki—a savage game of dodgeball with no balls and no dodging.
"I still can't believe someone thought that was a legitimate training method," Franky muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Pretty sure that was just sanctioned assault."
"I heard that," Kyros said flatly, though his smirk remained.
Franky quickly put on his best fake smile. "Hehe, no, no—of course not, sensei! I was just reminiscing about the good old days, getting smashed like a tin can in a thunderstorm! Good times!"
He straightened up abruptly, fists clenching. "No need to go back to that. I'm sure I'll awaken Armament Haki the normal way, eventually. No need to start swinging steel at my skull again—we've got all the time in the world, right?"
Without waiting for a reply, Franky turned back to the battered wreck of the galleon and resumed his relentless barrage, fists smashing into steel with renewed urgency. If he could sweat more, he would've been soaked.
BANG!…THOOM!
"Haah...haah... Just... gotta focus. Willpower... not wiring...!" he growled, more to himself than anyone else.
Kyros stood a few paces behind, arms crossed, observing silently like a mentor forged in the fires of a thousand battles. Despite the rough methods, he admired Franky's drive. The boy may have been made of metal—but his spirit, his heart, was human to the core. And that... was all he needed to turn will into weapon.
****
Shimotsuki Village, East Blue
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG!
The sharp, relentless clash of steel echoed through a quiet grove where the wind barely stirred and even the birds had fallen silent, as if watching the duel with bated breath. By the edge of a crystal-clear pond, two children—stood locked in a battle of wills far greater than their years.
Kuina's single blade trembled in her grip, her fingers raw and reddened from the friction of real steel. Her training gi clung to her like a second skin, soaked through with sweat, her breathing labored but steady. Her dark blue hair was plastered to her forehead, but her eyes—sharp, focused, determined—never left her opponent.
Opposite her stood a boy with messy green hair and a scowl forged in fire. Roronoa Zoro, gripping two worn, heavy training swords—one in each bruised and shaking hand. The blades were longer than his arms could comfortably wield, his form far from graceful, but the sheer tenacity in his stance was enough to make grown swordsmen pause.
Their palms were torn open, skin blistered and raw from hours of ceaseless dueling under the burning midday sun. They had started before the dawn mist had lifted, and now the scorching light of high noon bore down upon them. Still, neither backed down.
Because backing down wasn't in either of their blood.
CLANG—CLANG!
Zoro grunted as Kuina's precise strike bypassed his wavering defense, slamming into his side with a dull but powerful thud. He was thrown off his feet, crashing into the dirt with a pained thud. The blades were blunted steel, yes—but they were real, and they hurt like hell.
"Aaaargh…!" Zoro growled, spitting a wad of blood into the dirt. His side burned with bruising pain, but he rolled over, pushed himself up on shaking elbows, and crawled toward his fallen swords. His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he stumbled back to his feet, dirt smeared across his cheeks, teeth gritted.
"Zoro…" Kuina panted, her sword lowered slightly, not out of pity—but sheer fatigue. "Just because you carry two blades doesn't mean you can beat me. Give up before I break a few more bones in that stubborn body of yours…"
He didn't flinch.
"If two blades aren't enough…" Zoro rasped, lifting both swords once more, "...then I'll train with three."
Kuina's eyes widened. "What…?"
"I'll beat you… one day," he continued, voice rising with every word, fists shaking from exhaustion but spirit unshaken. "I don't care how many times I lose—I'll keep getting up, again and again… until I'm stronger than you!"
His shout rang through the clearing, wild and unyielding. Then, with all the theatrics only a child like Zoro could muster, he snatched a third training blade from the grass—and jammed it between his teeth.
Kuina blinked.
The scene in front of her was absurd. A sweaty, dirt-covered boy, barely able to lift two swords, now stood—no, wobbled—with three. Each training sword was taller than he was. He looked less like a swordsman and more like a collapsing scarecrow trying to perform martial arts. She couldn't help it—her serious face cracked, and laughter spilled out from her chest like water bursting from a dam.
"You idiot! You've only got two hands! Are you trying to become a circus act?!"
Zoro huffed through the blade clenched in his teeth, glaring at her with wild defiance in his eyes.
"You're the dummy…!" he growled through grit teeth. "Did you forget what your sensei taught…? It's not about one sword or two—or even three! A real swordsman becomes one with the blade!"
Kuina stopped laughing, blinking again as she took in the ridiculous sight—and then saw past it.
This wasn't just another bout. Zoro wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting because he refused to lose.
And deep down, Kuina felt a strange stir in her chest—not annoyance, not even competitiveness. It was fear. A quiet, creeping fear that this wild, brash idiot who couldn't even lift three swords properly… might one day truly catch up to her, but then her resolve sharpened, thinking about what her master had taught her these few weeks. Her grip on her sword tightened.
"Fine then, baka...!" she whispered. "Come at me with your stupid third blade… let's see if it's enough."
Unknown to the two stubborn little warriors clashing beneath the blazing sun, a solitary figure stood beneath the shade of a towering oak. Cloaked in his signature black coat with crimson trim, arms folded behind his back, and his gaze razor-sharp, Dracule Mihawk observed the duel in silence.
He was every bit the living monument of mastery that the world made him out to be. A tall, hawk-eyed swordsman with a presence that silenced even the wind. The Black Blade Yoru—one of the twelve Supreme Grade swords—rested across his back like a sleeping predator. His gaze, however, was not one of critique or command. It was… curious.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" I said, my voice carrying lazily from the thick branches above.
I'd been sprawled out on a crooked limb of the oak for over an hour now, arms behind my head, watching the same scene he was. Mihawk didn't look up. He'd sensed me long before I opened my mouth—of course he had.
He didn't bother replying immediately. Just kept watching the two brats go at it—Zoro with his ridiculous determination and Kuina with her razor-sharp precision. Finally, he spoke. His voice as smooth and cold as always.
"So that's the kid I'm supposed to be teaching?" he murmured, more to himself than to me. "He doesn't look like much. But… he has the heart."
Then, slowly, those golden eyes turned upward—toward me.
"And tell me, Rosinante," he added with that ever-so-slight curve tugging at the corner of his lips, "you didn't feed him some of your nonsense while I was away, just to tip the scales in your favor for our little bet… did you?"
There it was.
That rare smile. The kind of expression he only reserved for the ones he let through the walls he'd built over a decade. The ones who the man named Dracule Mihawk truly trusted in his life. And believe me, there weren't more than three people alive who had ever earned that smile.
I smirked right back.
"Please," I scoffed. "The kid's lucky to get my guidance. Honestly, I worry his talent might rot after spending time under a stiff old sword hermit like you."
Mihawk's eyes narrowed. "Stiff?… And just so you know, I am still in my twenties."
"Yeah, whatever…," I drawled. "You still carry around that overgrown butter knife and act like it makes you the king of swordsmen—"
"It's the world's judgment, not mine," he interjected calmly, though I saw the twitch in his brow.
"Sure, sure," I waved a hand lazily. "But don't go around puffing your chest too much. Last I checked, you've still never beaten me."
That got him. The smile vanished. His face turned the color of a storm cloud—dark and irritated. I could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.
"That again," he muttered, glancing away.
"Oh, don't be like that," I chuckled. "It's not my fault you've got the title and still can't beat your dear old friend. Maybe next time, try swinging with both hands…?"
Mihawk exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath a dragon lets out right before it lights the world on fire.
"And maybe next time," he said, voice razor-thin, "you stop vanishing for years without a trace and actually accept my challenge instead of saying that I never managed to beat you. Remind me again, when was the last time you accepted my challenge…?"
That shut me up for a moment as I sat up and sheepishly scratched my chin as if admiring the foliage above. The air between us went still. Only the distant clashing of Kuina's and Zoro's blades filled the silence.
"I had my reasons; I was really busy…" I muttered eventually, scratching the back of my head, eyes darting everywhere except at Mihawk. "You know… top-secret stuff. Very hush-hush. I was, uh… undercover. As a… very convincing rock."
Mihawk didn't blink. Just stared at me with that same unreadable face like he was deciding whether to laugh or run me through.
I coughed. "Also, there was a cat. Long story. It involved pirates, soup, and an unexpected opera career—don't ask."
He finally nodded, slow and deliberate. Curt, but not unkind.
"I see," he said dryly. "So… the usual idiocy."
I grinned. "Exactly. You know me."
"You're lucky I missed you," he muttered, turning back toward the sparring kids as if regretting every life decision that led him to tolerate my nonsense.
We continued to observe in silence again. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… old. Like two swords forged in the same fire, tested by time and distance, always drawn back together by the gravity of the path they walked.
Eventually, I looked back at the kids—at the fire in Zoro's eyes, the steel in Kuina's movements.
"They've got spirit, those two," I said.
"Yes," Mihawk agreed, folding his arms. "But the path of the sword breaks more souls than it sharpens. I wonder which of them will carry it the farthest."
I leaned back on the branch and closed my eyes with a smirk.
"Guess we'll find out soon enough."
And beneath us, the next generation of warriors continued to carve their names into the annals of fate, completely unaware that two of the world's most dangerous swordsmen were watching with the hearts of brothers… and the rivalry of legends.