"So, this is why you came back so late? Mediating a national dispute, only to find the new queen is your long-lost sister?" Stella looked at Michael, who wore an awkward expression, then glanced at Crocodile standing behind him.
"And you're saying this is Crocodile? Do you really expect me to believe that?"
"If it were me, I wouldn't believe it either," Bellemere chimed in, nodding in agreement with Stella's skepticism.
Meanwhile, five little girls had gathered around Crocodile, all staring up at her with curiosity.
Though Crocodile had transformed back into a woman, her height had decreased somewhat, but she still stood over two meters tall—towering like a crane among chicks amidst the group of little ones.
"What are you brats staring at?" Crocodile instinctively reached for a cigar but, under the scrutiny of ten little eyes, ultimately didn't light it.
"Tch, so damn annoying... Hey, Michael, get these brats away from me already!"
"Shut up, you sandy hag!" Michael flipped Crocodile the middle finger. "Can't you see I'm being interrogated here? If anything, you should be helping me explain this mess!"
"Explain what!? Even if I hadn't lived through it myself, I wouldn't believe this crap either, okay!?"
Without hesitation, Crocodile formed a middle finger out of sand and flicked it back at Michael.
Seeing that Crocodile was about to start another argument with Michael, Stella quickly cut in.
"Enough, I don't have the patience for this. Since you've demonstrated the power of the Sand-Sand Fruit, no matter how absurd it seems, I have no choice but to believe it... Michael, you should go check on that guy Hawkeye."
"He survived?"
"Yeah, thanks to your healing. Though he was on the brink of death for a while, he pulled through in the end." Stella nodded approvingly. "I have to admit, he's one tough guy."
"Of course. He's the future world's greatest swordsman, after all."
"World's greatest..." Stella's eyes widened slightly as she stared at Michael. "You think that highly of him?"
"Not high enough."
Michael shook his head and left the living room, heading towards the room where Hawkeye was resting.
Pushing open the door, a thick metallic scent of blood assaulted his senses—a smell born from freshly regenerating flesh beneath layers of wounds.
Hawkeye was wrapped head to toe in bandages, giving Michael a firsthand look at what a real-life "mummy" would look like.
His black blade, "Yoru" leaned against the bedside.
Michael reached out and flicked the blade with his finger, producing a clear, resonant hum.
"For a pure swordsman, tempering their blade into a black sword through years of Haki refinement is indeed the optimal path."
"But for someone like me with Devil Fruit abilities, whether it's a black sword or not becomes irrelevant."
Michael had initially considered forging "Morning Star" into a black sword, but ultimately abandoned the idea.
After all, he wasn't a dedicated swordsman—the benefits of a black sword were negligible for him, and the enormous time investment simply wasn't worth it.
More importantly, his sword was named "Morning Star," not "Satan" or "Lucifer"—black just didn't suit it.
Power is temporary, but style is forever!
"You... came back?" Mihawk eyes snapped open, his voice still weak to the extreme.
"Had some personal matters to attend to... Seems you're tougher than I thought."
Michael poked at the bandaged wounds on Mihawk's body, eliciting a pained groan.
"...As you wished, I clawed my way back from death's door."
"Tch, still as stubborn as ever." Michael chuckled and shook his head. "Now that you've survived, the old Mihawk is dead. From today onward, your life belongs to me."
Though spoken with a smile, Mihawk detected no room for argument in those words.
But...
"That suits me just fine."
The face beneath Mihawk's bandages twitched slightly—Michael guessed he might be attempting one of his rare, awkward smiles...
"I originally planned to have you and Crocodile both join the Shichibukai, but that no longer seems appropriate... How about you both join the Marines instead?"
"Turning wanted criminals into Marines... You never cease to surprise me."
Mihawk's eyes widened—surprised, confused, but not refusing.
After a long silence, he spoke calmly.
"If you promise me battles whenever I wish, I'll serve under you... but only you. I won't obey orders from Marine HQ or the World Government."
Michael readily agreed.
"Perfect—I specifically need someone who won't listen to them... After all, my goal is to overthrow the entire World Government."
Without waiting for Mihawk's reaction, Michael summarized his stance and plans.
Unexpectedly, Mihawk's eyes grew brighter with each word.
By the end, they burned with anticipation and fervor.
"I knew someone like you would never collude with the World Government! Creating a new world... Fascinating! Absolutely fascinating! Hahaha—cough cough—"
"Easy there. That laughing fit just added days to your recovery time..."
After casting a Holy Healing Art, Michael left the room.
He had a group of kids waiting for his stories.
As he walked toward the living room, his Den Den Mushi suddenly rang.
"Hello? Who's calling this late?"
"Ahahaha! Michael! It's me, Garp!"
"...Damn it, Garp-san! You old bastard, calling this late just to harass me?"
Michael rolled his eyes as the Den Den Mushi perfectly mimicked the smug expression of the person on the other end.
Garp, seemingly unfazed by Michael's insults, boomed with hearty laughter and said.
"Listen up, Michael!"
"That Dragon actually had someone deliver his child straight to Marine Headquarters!"
"If Rouge hadn't taken Ace out for a walk, we might never have noticed!"
Michael fell into stunned silence.
He was simply at a complete loss for words regarding Garp and Dragon's father-son duo.
How utterly reckless!
Especially Dragon!
Was he afraid someone kidnap his son? Would it kill him to give me a heads-up?
...
Though surprisingly, he didn't send the child to Foosha Village but directly to Marine HQ.
"So, have you decided on a name for the child?"
"Luffy! Monkey D. Luffy!"
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