Chapter 5: The Tremor of Destruction
The taste was indescribable, a vileness that seemed to coat his very soul. It was as if every foul thing he had ever smelled had been condensed into a single, putrid flavor that exploded across his tongue and seared its way down his throat. This wasn't just "bad"; it was an offense to the very concept of eating.
"Gah!" Roy gagged, his body convulsing as he tried to expel the horror, but it was too late. The morsel of Devil Fruit had already dissolved, its cursed power seeping into his cells. He wasn't one of those CP9 agents, his will tempered by brutal government training; he was just a jungle boy, and his stomach revolted at the violation.
He finally slumped over, gasping for clean air that did nothing to erase the phantom taste clinging to the back of his mouth. Desperate, he snatched the gourd of monkey wine from the table in front of Mihawk and gulped it down, the potent, fruity alcohol serving as a welcome, burning cleanse.
Mihawk observed this entire undignified process with an impassive stare. "Well?" he finally asked. "Do you feel anything?"
"Nothing," Roy croaked, patting his chest and stomach. He flexed his arms, jumped in place, and twisted his torso. No rubbery stretch, no strange protrusions. He was certain the fruit was a Paramecia type, but the lack of any immediate, obvious physical change was puzzling. "It must be a different kind of Paramecia," he mused.
He knew the broad categories. Some, like the Rubber or Spring Fruits, altered the user's body. Others, like the String or Gold Fruits, allowed the user to create and control a substance. Then there were the truly formidable ones, the ones classified as the strongest Paramecia—fruits that manipulated fundamental forces like vibrations, gravity, or… destruction.
Since his body hadn't changed, he ruled out the first type. He concentrated, trying to force something to manifest from his hands, but nothing happened.
"Speculation is pointless," Mihawk stated, rising to his feet. "A power reveals itself in conflict. Go and fight."
"The baboons won't spar this late," Roy countered, a bold idea forming. "Will you try it with me?"
A flicker of interest crossed Mihawk's golden eyes. "Very well."
They walked out into the moonlit clearing in front of the castle, the scene now bathed in silver and shadow. Roy unslung his battered, notched sword, its weight a familiar comfort. Mihawk stood opposite him, a silhouette of effortless power.
Roy met the swordsman's gaze. Those hawk-like eyes were the most intimidating part of him, capable of making seasoned pirates falter. But Roy had been stared down by baboons with murder in their eyes since he was a child. He steadied his breathing and focused.
He moved first, channeling his energy into his blade. "Raptor Slash!"
The familiar purple energy erupted, a dragon-headed projectile of force gouging a trench in the earth as it shot towards Mihawk.
The Warlord didn't even shift his stance. He simply drew the black blade Yoru, held it horizontally before him, and with a casual, almost dismissive flick of his wrist, sent the flying slash careening harmlessly up into the night sky, where it dissipated against the fog.
"If you wish to test your new ability, abandon the sword," Mihawk instructed, his voice calm. "Attack me with your own body."
"Right." Roy drove the point of his greatsword into the soft ground, leaving it standing like a tombstone.
He cracked his knuckles, then launched himself forward. His muscles, forged by a lifetime of jungle survival and simian combat, coiled and released with explosive power. He didn't throw a fancy punch; it was a straightforward, brutish thrust aimed directly at Mihawk's chest.
Mihawk, expecting the blow, angled the flat of Yoru to intercept. Roy's fist connected with the dark metal.
THUMP.
The impact wasn't the sharp ring of steel, but a deep, resonant thud. Mihawk's eyes widened a fraction. The force transmitted through the blade was immense, far beyond what a boy of Roy's size should possess. It was the raw, unadulterated power of a giant.
"Your physical strength is… abnormal," Mihawk remarked, not with concern, but with clinical interest.
"I grew up with baboons," Roy explained, not breaking his stance. "I ate what they ate, dug for roots they couldn't reach. My strength has always been like this." It was the truth. He'd been pulling up small trees by the time he was three. He'd never found the upper limit of his strength, but he suspected he could flip a small fishing boat without much strain.
Mihawk gave a slight push, the immense power behind the motion effortlessly sending Roy skidding backward several feet. "And now? Do you feel it?"
Roy clenched his fist again, a new sensation prickling at the edge of his awareness. "A little. I think I'm starting to grasp it."
He surged forward again, his attacks becoming a blur. He didn't try to out-finesse the World's Greatest Swordsman; that was impossible. Instead, he focused on the strange new energy humming just beneath his skin, a vibration waiting to be unleashed. With every blocked punch and deflected kick, the feeling grew clearer.
'There!'
On his next lunge, Roy didn't throw a punch. Instead, he opened his palm and swiped at Mihawk's torso.
It was an unorthodox, almost foolish move. But in that instant, a primal alarm screamed in Mihawk's mind. His instincts, sharpened by a thousand battles, overrode all logic. He didn't block. He didn't parry. For the first time in their spar, he dodged, leaning back just enough for Roy's palm to whistle harmlessly past his chest.
Roy, having put all his momentum into the missed strike, couldn't stop. His open palm continued its arc and slapped against the trunk of a nearby jungle tree.
THUMP.
The sound was dull, anti-climactic. Nothing happened.
Roy and Mihawk both stared, frozen. The tree stood completely intact, not a splinter out of place. Given Roy's monstrous strength, the bark should have shattered, the trunk should have splintered. This defied all reason.
Mihawk stepped forward, his expression one of deep curiosity. He extended the tip of Yoru and gently tapped the tree where Roy's hand had landed.
CRUMBLE.
It wasn't a break or a snap. The entire tree, from the point of impact upward, disintegrated. It didn't fall; it simply came apart into a cascade of irregular wood chips and fibrous dust, collapsing into a heap on the forest floor as if its fundamental structure had been utterly unmade.
Roy stared, his breath caught in his throat. He bent down and picked up one of the larger pieces of wood. He focused, finding that strange, vibrating sensation within himself, and channeled it into his fingertips. The moment he made contact, the solid chunk of wood fractured, then shattered into a hundred tiny splinters in his palm.
"I understand now," Mihawk said, his voice low and intent. He was looking at Roy not as a student, but as the vessel of a formidable power. "I know this fruit."
"What is it?" Roy asked, his voice barely a whisper, a mix of awe and trepidation coursing through him.
"It is a Paramecia-type," Mihawk declared. "The Crush-Crush Fruit. A truly devastating ability. It allows the user to impart destructive vibrations into anything they touch, reducing all matter to its base components. It has appeared in this sea before. Its last known user did not merely destroy a town… he shattered an entire island into a hundred scattered rocks."
Roy let out a long, slow exhale, the weight of the revelation settling upon him. This was no simple power. This was a force of nature. He hadn't gotten a comical or weak ability. He had been granted a terrible, world-shattering strength. The path ahead, he realized, had just become infinitely more dangerous, and infinitely more interesting.
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