"BANG—!"
The heavy oak door to the branch commanders office didn't just open; it exploded inward, torn from its hinges by a single, powerful kick.
It flew across the room and slammed into the far wall with a deafening crash, showering the floor with splinters of wood and plaster.
"Hawkeye!"
Mike stood silhouetted in the ruined doorway, his voice booming with a fiery, dramatic energy that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building.
"The time for talk is over! Let's have a good duel!"
Inside, Dracule "Hawkeye" Mihawk was lounging on the plush sofa, legs crossed casually.
He had been in the middle of swirling a glass of deep red wine, enjoying the quiet morning atmosphere.
The sudden, violent intrusion made him flinch, nearly spilling the precious wine on his pristine trousers.
He slowly raised his head, his famously intense, hawk-like eyes blinking once. A corner of his mouth twitched, a mixture of annoyance and pure, unadulterated confusion on his face.
"Huh...?"
He looked from the destroyed door to the fired-up man standing before him.
"A duel? Mike, did you fall down a flight of stairs this morning? Or did someone finally manage to hit you in the head?"
After all this time, Mihawk felt he had a pretty good read on his... well, his friend.
Mike was the living embodiment of a slacker.
His life's philosophy was to expend the absolute minimum amount of energy required to stay employed.
The man's mind was a grand cathedral dedicated to the holy arts of napping, avoiding work, and finding new ways to enjoy life's simple pleasures.
A desire for battle? That wasn't just absent from his personality; it was the complete opposite of it.
Mihawk could clearly recall the dozen or so times he had previously invited Mike to a duel.
The excuses were legendary in their absurdity.
"Can't today, I didn't sleep well."
"Sorry, I haven't eaten yet. Can't fight on an empty stomach."
"Oof, bad timing. Got a terrible toothache."
And his personal favorite:
"I'm feeling a bit under the weather today, Hawkeye. Just not in the mood for clashing swords, you know?"
Mike had delivered every single one with a face so straight and sincere that Mihawk could only ever sigh and accept it.
And now, this same man was kicking down his own door, actively demanding a fight?
This was less likely than the sun rising in the west; this was like the sun deciding to become a square!
The only reason Mihawk had even stopped by today was out of sheer boredom.
He'd wanted to chat, maybe get Mike's bizarre-yet-brilliant insights on a new sword technique he'd been pondering.
Mike's swordsmanship was... unorthodox.
He spoke of concepts like "Breathing Styles" and "Zanzutsu," things Mihawk had never heard of, yet they held a strange, undeniable logic.
And, if he was being completely honest, there was another, simpler reason for his visit: he wanted to be praised.
He'd brought two bottles of his finest private-stock wine, specifically to share with Mike.
He knew the moment the Marine got a taste of some free, high-quality booze, the floodgates of flattery would open.
"Holy crap, Hawkeye! Are you secretly a god of fermentation?"
"I'm telling you, this is the best red wine I've ever had in my life. No contest!"
"My god, man, you're the GOAT of brewing! The Picasso of the vineyard!"
"Hawkeye! I need another bottle! Without your wine, I can't sleep at night!"
The compliments were ridiculous, over-the-top, and utterly shameless.
And every time, Mihawk found himself fighting back a proud grin.
Who didn't enjoy a little praise?
Especially when it was about a personal hobby.
The world knew his sword was unmatched, but his skills in winemaking and farming were passions just for him.
But now, the master moocher and king of slackers was standing there, radiating a battlelust so intense it was almost comical.
"That's right," Mike said, taking a dramatic step forward.
"You've been waiting for this day for a long time, haven't you? Well, here I am!"
This fight had to happen.
His comfortable life depended on it!
"Heh..." Mihawk let out a helpless chuckle, a sound laced with disbelief.
"Kid, I know you too well. This is some kind of prank isnt it?." He took a confident sip of his wine.
"If you and I actually have a serious duel today, I'll use my Black Blade as an oar and row my little boat all the way back home."
"..."
"Haaaa—" Mike didn't reply.
Instead, he took a long, slow breath.
His right hand gripped the hilt of his sword and as he exhaled, his entire demeanor shifted.
The lazy, easygoing Marine vanished, replaced by something cold, sharp, and deadly.
The very air around him seemed to grow heavy and damp.
"Water Breathing, First Form: Water Surface Slash!"
Shing!
The sword left its scabbard in a blur of motion.
The edge of the steel was coated in a shimmering, crystalline mist.
As Mike swung, he didn't just cut the air; he created a flowing arc of pressurized water and sword energy that glittered beautifully, like sunlight dancing on the ocean's surface.
"Swish—!"
The slash erupted from the blade, a razor-sharp wave of energy that tore through the office with the sound of a rushing river.
It moved with blinding speed and overwhelming force, aimed directly at Mihawk.
Mihawk's eyes widened, the casual amusement instantly replaced by genuine surprise.
With a grace that defied his size, he twisted his body, the lethal strike missing him by a mere inch.
"BOOM—!"
The slash didn't just stop.
It continued its path, slamming into and through the office's exterior wall.
A massive explosion of wood, plaster, and stone erupted outward.
The entire building groaned, the ceiling trembling violently as a waterfall of dust rained down.
The whole structure felt like it was on the verge of collapsing.
Mihawk's pupils contracted.
He stared at the gaping hole in the office, then back at Mike, who was settling back into a ready stance.
The disbelief on his face slowly melted away, replaced by the unmistakable, feral grin of a predator who had just found a worthy opponent.
"No way," he muttered, his voice a low rumble of astonishment.
"You little... you're actually serious!"
Mihawk glanced at the Yoru, strapped to his back.
The cross-hilted weapon seemed to tremble slightly, as if it could sense its master's surging battle intent.
In an instant, his entire presence changed.
The relaxed wine connoisseur was gone, replaced by an immovable mountain of power.
The will to fight poured off him in waves.
"Fine then," Mihawk's voice was deep, promising glorious violence.
"Let's fight!"
"CLANG—!"
The next moment was pure, piercing sound of blades.
Yoru was in his hand, meeting Mike's blades in a shower of sparks.
The impact of the two legendary swords was so powerful it created a visible shockwave, blowing out the remaining windows and sending papers and debris swirling into a vortex around them.
"Excellent! Just perfect!" Mihawk's eyes gleamed, his sharp gaze locked on Mike's.
The smile on his face was one of pure joy.
"Is this that 'Breathing Style' you were drunkenly rambling about? It's magnificent!"
"Heh, there's a lot more where that came from!" Mike grunted, pushing back.
He glanced at the creaking, groaning office around them, a flicker of triumph in his eyes.
'Perfect'.
'At this rate, I'll have this place leveled in ten minutes. Let's see them transfer me then!'
"Haa—" With another controlled breath, Mike's aura shifted again.
The cool dampness vanished, replaced by an oppressive, scorching heat.
The air didn't just get hot; it felt like all the moisture was being sucked out of the room.
Bright orange flames suddenly erupted along the edge of Thousand Blades, licking the air like the tongue of a dragon.
"Fire Breathing, First Form: Unknowing Fire!"
Mike raised his flaming sword, the inferno on its edge burning brighter, fiercer.
With a mighty roar, he brought it down in a devastating arc.
A slash of pure, condensed fire roared across the collapsing room, a blazing dragon of destruction aimed right at the World's Strongest Swordsman.
...
Miles above Marine Branch 186, a streak of brilliant yellow light cut through the clear blue sky, moving at an impossible speed.
Within that light, Admiral Kizaru adjusted his sunglasses.
He had been en route to deliver the transfer orders personally, a task he found dreadfully boring.
But now, his usual lazy expression was tinged with a hint of genuine curiosity.
Below him, what was supposed to be a sleepy, peaceful base was literally exploding.
"Ooh~" he cooed in his signature, drawn-out tone.
"Looks like someone's throwing a party down there, ne~?"
He narrowed his eyes, peering down at the chaos like a man trying to find his seat at the theater.
With a leisurely snap of his fingers, his body dissolved into a shower of golden particles, reforming in a flash as he shot toward the ground.
"Now then... let's see what all this fuss is about."