The scent of roasting meat and rum hung thick in the evening air.
Laughter, clinking mugs, and bursts of drunken singing filled the deck of the Virtue, the ship alive with celebration.
Crocodile leaned against a wooden pillar near the stern, a half-smoked cigar pinched between his fingers. His expression was as cold and distant as ever—until the crew started passing him bottles of rum and spinning tales of wild adventures across the seas.
Bit by bit, even the former warlord began to relax.
He'd take a sip here, make a sharp comment there, and soon enough, he was part of the circle—grinning, debating, and matching toasts with the others.
When the conversation turned to the legends among them—Hawk-Eye, Fujitora, Jinbe, and Moria—their past battles and feats were spoken of with awe.
At the mention of their strength, a glint flashed in Crocodile's eyes. The old hunger stirred.
Since setting foot on the seas, he'd known defeat only once—against Whitebeard himself. Even the "Demon Heir" Bullet hadn't managed to best him outright.
At dawn the next day, mist still rolled off the waves when Crocodile stood at the bow, cigar smoke curling in the cool air.
He turned to the gathered crew and said in his usual low drawl,
"Let's make this voyage a little more interesting—how about some sparring to keep us sharp?"
The idea was met with instant cheers.
Hawk-Eye's lips curved into a knowing smile beneath his hat.
Issho rested both hands on his sheathed blade and nodded calmly.
Jinbe cracked his knuckles, the sound like distant thunder.
Even the deck seemed to hum with anticipation.
Within moments, the pairs were decided.
Hawk-Eye's sharp gaze swept over the crowd and settled on Fujitora.
"First mate, care for a friendly match?"
T/N: The author is calling Issho, Fujitora as well as Admiral here instead of first mate, chronologically it wouldn't make sense as it is well before the World Military Draft… Not sure what to do, but I like Fujitora's name so I guess I'll keep it. Let me know if you guys have an opinion on what I should do.
"Gladly," Fujitora replied, his voice calm and measured.
The two took their places on the port side of the deck.
Across the way, Jinbe stepped toward Crocodile.
"Crocodile, I'd like to test my strength against yours."
Only Moria stayed seated in the shadows near the mast, staring blankly at the duels about to begin.
The fire that once burned in his eyes—snuffed out after his crushing loss to Kaido—had long since cooled to ash.
And since joining Shiro's crew, he'd been "taught lessons" more than once by his far stronger crewmates—each time under the banner of "The Virtue's Way."
Now, the once-proud Warlord sat hunched, more ghost than man.
T/N: Similar thing here with calling Moria a warlord.
With a silent nod from Shiro, the matches began.
Hawk-Eye drew Yoru, the black blade gleaming with a silver sheen that cut the air with a sharp whistle.
Fujitora raised his cane-sword with steady hands; the edge glinted coldly in the morning sun.
They moved at once.
Sword met sword—clang!—each strike ringing across the deck like thunder.
Silver arcs sliced the air, blade winds roared, and sparks danced between them as their duel raged on.
Within moments, they'd exchanged over fifty blows.
The wooden deck trembled beneath their feet, and even the sea breeze seemed to scatter under the pressure of their blades.
At this time, Hawk-Eye had not yet awakened his Conqueror's Haki—his swordsmanship still a step below its legendary peak.
Fujitora, older and seasoned, had already reached near his own limit, though he kept his Devil Fruit's power sealed away for fairness.
"Mihawk," he'd said softly before they began, "I won't use my fruit. Let it be pure sword against sword."
Hawk-Eye had simply nodded.
In pure technique, Mihawk held the edge—every slash sharp, precise, and lethal.
But Fujitora's greater strength and experience evened the field. His swings carried the weight of age and wisdom; his instincts saved him from fatal strikes time and again.
The clash remained perfectly balanced—two masters testing the limits of their art.
Shiro stood at the railing, arms crossed, watching closely.
He murmured under his breath,
"If Hawk-Eye awakens his Haki and pushes his swordsmanship to the summit, he'll surpass Fujitora for sure.
With Conqueror's coating, he could even counter gravity itself... though, between men of their level, the margin's razor-thin.
It'd take five or six days for a real winner to emerge."
Meanwhile, on the starboard side, Jinbe and Crocodile were locked in their own fierce contest.
Jinbe's Fish-Man Karate struck with explosive force; each punch churned the air, carrying the weight of the ocean itself.
Crocodile's sand powers were fast and deadly—razor-edged blades forming at his fingertips, whirlpools of sand shifting underfoot to trap his opponent.
Water and sand collided again and again in a blur of motion.
After two hundred exchanges, Jinbe began to tire.
His movements slowed for just an instant—and Crocodile saw it.
A massive sand blade, the Desert Spada, slashed across Jinbe's shoulder.
"Hmph!"
Blood splattered across the deck as Jinbe staggered back, clutching his wound.
Shiro was beside him in a heartbeat. He crouched down, touching Jinbe's shoulder—his palm glowing faintly with the power of the Paw-Paw Fruit.
The wound sealed in seconds.
"Don't let it bother you," Shiro said with an easy grin, clapping him on the back.
"Crocodile's fought Whitebeard and Bullet. He's a veteran through and through. You didn't lose because you're weak—you just didn't use your greatest strength."
Jinbe frowned.
"My greatest strength?"
"You forgot?" Shiro leaned in, lowering his voice with a sly smile.
"Fish-Man Karate controls the sea itself. And Crocodile's sand fruit..." —he tapped his temple—
"...is weakest against water."
Realization dawned in Jinbe's eyes.
"So on the open sea," Shiro finished, smiling wide,
"You're his natural enemy."
T/N: If you would like to read up to 20 chapters ahead for all my works, check out my P@treon: patreon.com/GhidorahWriter
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