Chapter 2: An Unlikely Tenant
Hawkeye's piercing golden eyes swept over the grand, yet lonely, hall before returning to the young man standing before him. Roy's claim of being the island's native settled the unspoken question of ownership. A faint, almost imperceptible nod was his response.
"In that case," Mihawk's voice was a low baritone that filled the silent space, "you are the master of this island."
Roy sensed a hesitation in the man. He knew the 'plot'—Kurai Kana Island was the very territory the future Warlord would claim for his own. The pieces were falling into place. Seeing the swordsman's reserved demeanor, Roy decided to bridge the gap himself.
"Do you… want to live here?" Roy asked after a moment's thought.
A spark of interest, sharp and immediate, flashed in Mihawk's eyes. He gave another slow, deliberate nod. "The environment is… suitable."
Roy fought back a knowing smile. He's a proud one, he thought. The man clearly found the isolated, gloomy atmosphere and the imposing castle to his liking, but finding it already 'owned' by a teenager put him in an awkward position. He was a newly-minted Warlord of the Sea, a titan of the Grand Line; he couldn't very well strong-arm a child out of his home. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Roy.
"You can live here," Roy said, his voice generous and laced with a loneliness he could no longer conceal. "I've been alone here for as long as I can remember. The company would be… welcome."
This seemed to genuinely surprise the stoic swordsman. "You have no objection?" he inquired, a single eyebrow arching slightly.
Mihawk had been a drifter for most of his life, a solitary phantom ship on the world's oceans. His recent appointment as a Warlord had come with the privilege of territory, and after scouting several locations, the serene, fog-shrouded silence of Kurai Kana had called to him. The castle was a perfect bastion of quiet. He had not anticipated a resident.
"Objection? How could I?" Roy replied, his energy from the fight finally spent. He collapsed onto a nearby, dust-covered sofa, sending a small cloud into the air. "I've been bored out of my mind. My only companions are baboons who are better swordsmen than conversationalists."
"How did you come to be here?" Mihawk asked, his curiosity now piqued.
"I've been here since I was a child. The baboons… they raised me." Roy's answer was simple, leaving a world of story untold.
"I see. A true child of this island, then," Mihawk stated, the facts settling into a new understanding. "I am Dracule Mihawk."
"Roy. Just Roy." A genuine, weary grin spread across his face. "Since you're staying, and I'm finally not the only human here… did you happen to bring anything with you? Supplies? Food that isn't roasted boar?"
"I have my provisions," Mihawk confirmed, the ghost of a smile touching his own lips. The dynamic was established. He would reside here, but the island, and this castle, remained Roy's domain. For a man who valued his solitude, the presence of another was a curious development, not an intrusion. The castle was large enough for two souls to coexist without crossing paths.
Roy, however, had plans brewing beneath his tired exterior. This is Hawkeye, his mind raced. The World's Greatest Swordsman! His own training, while brutal and effective, was fundamentally mimicry. The baboons were masters of form, but they lacked the intent, the philosophy, the sheer art of a true swordsman. Having such a living legend under the same roof was an opportunity he would be a fool to ignore. He would find a way to learn from him.
The next morning, Roy was up with the sun, his body aching but his resolve firm. His plan was simple: continue his training with the baboons, and bide his time until he could broach the subject of training with his new, formidable housemate.
His training was as straightforward as it was brutal—a continuous cycle of combat. The baboons were relentless, their strength supernatural. Fifteen years of this life had forged Roy's body into something more than human; the jungle was his dojo, and every scar was a lesson.
At noon, he dragged his battered body back to the castle, the familiar exhaustion a heavy cloak upon his shoulders.
He stopped in the doorway, blinking in surprise. The grand hall, once shrouded in a dignified layer of dust, was now spotless. Sunlight, pale and weak though it was, streamed through cleanly polished windows. And there, seated in a high-backed chair, was Dracule Mihawk. He was dressed in a simple white shirt, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, and a newspaper—presumably brought from the outside world—in the other.
"Finished your training?" Mihawk asked without looking up.
Roy's eyebrows shot up. He was aware the castle had functioning amenities, but his own existence was so focused on survival and combat that he'd never bothered with domesticity. He ate, he slept, he trained. The idea of cleaning was a foreign concept. The sight of the pristine hall, and the mental image of the fearsome Hawk-Eyes meticulously wielding a feather duster, sent a wave of amused disbelief through him.
"Yeah… for now," Roy grunted, collapsing onto the now-clean sofa with a sigh of relief.
"I have read of this place," Mihawk stated, taking a sip of his coffee. "Kurai Kana was once a prosperous kingdom. It fell not to outsiders, but to its own civil strife. The baboons you speak of are a well-documented phenomenon. Exemplary mimics."
"Yeah, that's them," Roy said, his voice muffled by the sofa cushion. "Fight, eat, sleep. Repeat. It's a thrilling schedule."
A moment of silence passed before Roy pushed himself up onto an elbow, a new idea sparking in his eyes. "Hey, you're a swordsman, right? You should come see them. They're incredibly strong. I can't even last a hundred moves against their leader."
Mihawk finally lowered his paper, his golden eyes meeting Roy's. "Spar with baboons? Perhaps when I have the time."
"Right. Of course," Roy replied, the energy draining from him once more. He lay back down and was asleep within moments, his breathing evening out into the deep rhythm of exhaustion.
As Roy slept, Mihawk's gaze lingered on him. His eyes, sharp enough to judge the quality of a blade from a mile away, took in the map of Roy's struggles etched into his skin. The crisscrossing of scars, large and small, that covered his arms and torso. The thin, pale line that traced its way across his cheek, a permanent reminder of a blade's kiss. This was not the body of a boy who played at fighting. This was the body of a warrior, forged in a crucible of simian steel.
After an hour, Roy stirred, stretched his sore muscles, and without a word, walked back out into the jungle to resume his grueling routine. He was a creature of relentless habit.
It was on the third day, after observing this cycle of absolute dedication, that Dracule Mihawk finally acknowledged the invitation. As Roy prepared to leave, the swordsman's voice stopped him at the door.
"Very well," Mihawk said, fastening the ornate clasp of his cloak. "Show me these remarkable baboons of yours."
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I think it is Shanks cause of the 1cm theory. Heard of that?
If you like the start gimme some Stones and add it to your Collection.