Chapter 7: A Name Roared is a Name Remembered
When Roy returned to the castle with the ivory blade cradled in his arms, its soft, inherent glow illuminated the dim hall. Mihawk, who had been sipping his evening wine, paused mid-sip. His hawk-like eyes, usually so unreadable, widened a fraction as they fixed on the sword.
"Where did you get that blade?" he asked, his voice low and measured.
"The white sword, Shiroi," Roy announced, a note of pride in his voice. "A counterpart to your black sword, Yoru. After you arrived, I remembered the legends of a sword like this hidden on the island. See? They are two sides of the same coin." He offered the hilt to Mihawk.
The Warlord took the sword, his grip expert and reverent. He tested its balance, ran a thumb along the flawless, milky edge. There was no denying it; this was a Supreme Grade Sword, a peer to his own. The irony was not lost on him—that on this forgotten island, a second blade of such caliber had been waiting, and that this feral boy had been the one to claim it.
"This sword is a legacy," Mihawk said, his voice grave as he handed Shiroi back. "Do not merely wield it. Cherish it. Understand it." The weight in his words was a lesson in itself.
"I will," Roy promised, his expression turning serious. He took a deep breath, the moment he had been waiting for finally here. "Mr. Mihawk, I have a request."
"Speak."
"Please," Roy said, bowing deeply at the waist, the white sword held tightly in his hand. "Teach me. Teach me the way of the sword, and teach me to master Haki."
Mihawk regarded the bowed head, the scarred hands clutching the priceless blade. He saw not just potential, but a will that had been tempered in isolation.
"Tomorrow," Mihawk stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are exhausted. A tired mind cannot grasp the fundamentals." He turned and walked toward the kitchen, the conversation clearly ended.
"Thank you," Roy whispered. The adrenaline of the day finally spent, he collapsed onto the sofa, clutching Shiroi to his chest like a talisman, and was asleep in moments.
He had done it. In a single, whirlwind day, he had gained a terrible power and a legendary weapon. He had traded his rusty shotgun for a cannon.
Mihawk returned from the kitchen, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. His gaze swept over the sleeping boy, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips. He retrieved the day's newspaper from the castle's mailbox—a perk of his Warlord status—and settled into his chair, the quiet rustle of pages the only sound accompanying Roy's deep, exhausted breaths.
Roy slept through the night and well into the next day, waking with a jolt as the afternoon sun streamed through the clean windows. After a hurried wash and a quick meal, he found Mihawk not in his usual chair, but seated cross-legged on the stone steps of the castle entrance, deep in meditation.
"Master! I'm ready!" Roy called out, his voice echoing with eager energy.
The title made Mihawk's eyes snap open. "Master?" he repeated, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "Do not call me that. The day you can defeat me, you may bear the title of my student. Not before."
"Wha—?" Roy was taken aback.
"I have no need for a disciple who carries my name across the seas," Mihawk stated, his gaze unwavering. "When your blade can challenge my own, then, and only then, will you have earned the right. Until that day, I am simply Mihawk."
Roy processed this. It wasn't a rejection; it was a challenge. A goalpost set at the very summit of the world. A fierce grin spread across his face. "Understood. I'll call you 'master' on the day I beat you."
"Your foundation is unorthodox, but solid. You can sense spirit and project flying slashes. Swordsmanship, in its purest form, has little left for me to teach you. It is a path you must walk. However," Mihawk continued, rising to his feet, "what you lack is refinement and defense. I will teach you Armament Haki."
Roy's heart leaped. "Yes!"
Mihawk's training method was brutally simple. He picked up a stout, unadorned wooden stick. Roy was forbidden from using his Observation Haki, his Devil Fruit power, or his new sword. The rule was simple: fight, and do not break the stick.
What followed was not a spar, but a dissection. Roy, reliant on his preternatural senses and raw power, was stripped bare. Mihawk's wooden stick became an instrument of exquisite pain, finding every gap in his guard, every flaw in his footing. It tapped his knuckles, thwacked his ribs, and stung his shoulders with the force of a steel bar.
By the end of the night, Roy was a tapestry of bruises, able only to crawl his way to the baboon troop for food before crawling back to the castle. Every inch of his body shrieked in protest. Mihawk provided a pungent, effective medicinal salve, but nothing for the pain. The pain, Roy understood, was part of the lesson—the feeling of being overwhelmed by an armored will.
His days fell into a grueling new rhythm. Mornings were for swordsmanship, endless, repetitive swings against the relentless sea, learning the soul of the white blade in his hands. Afternoons were for his Devil Fruit, honing his control over the destructive vibrations until he could crumble a specific leaf on a branch without disturbing its neighbors.
"Your sword follows your will, but you are trying too hard," Mihawk observed one afternoon, watching Roy execute a practiced, flamboyant sequence. "You are forcing a style upon it."
"No, this is important!" Roy insisted, pausing to catch his breath. "The moves need names! Every powerful technique has to have a name you can roar as you unleash it!"
Mihawk stared, utterly blank. "...Why?"
Roy thought for a second, then nodded with conviction. "It's simple. It's more powerful that way. And it lets you say more cool stuff in a fight."
Mihawk was silent for a long moment. "...Just practice."
Under the Warlord's relentless tutelage, Roy's progress was swift. He began sparring with the baboons again, and they, in their brilliant mimicry, watched Mihawk's methods and began incorporating them into their own training. The entire troop was growing stronger.
The Baboon King, nursing its wounded pride, became a silent, watchful shadow. Whenever Mihawk trained Roy, it would hide at the edge of the clearing, its keen eyes memorizing the World's Greatest Swordsman's every movement. In its mind, the one who had so easily defeated Roy was the true power on the island. If it could imitate him, it could reclaim the glorious sword.
Days turned into weeks, then months. The map of bruises on Roy's body was gradually replaced by harder muscle and tougher skin. A year after he first bowed his head, he finally achieved it. Standing in the clearing, he focused his will, and a shimmering, black sheen crawled up his arm, solidifying like obsidian. Then, he channeled it further, the darkness flowing from his hands to coat the ivory blade of Shiroi. The pure white steel, infused with his Haki, took on a deep, royal purple hue, a perfect match for the energy of his flying slashes.
"I've finally done it," Roy breathed, a wide grin splitting his features. "Now... to try that move."
He spent the following weeks in a fever of experimentation, the thunderous results echoing from the island's shores. Unknowingly, Roy turned eighteen. The last of his boyish softness was gone, replaced by the hardened physique and sharp eyes of a warrior. One evening, as they shared a quiet meal, Mihawk broke the silence.
"Your foundation is laid," he stated. "It is time to stop swinging at the sea and test your blade against the world. We are going to sea."
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I think there is a big secret in the island where Mihawk Stays.
ADD IT TO YOUR LIBRARY DEAR READERS