In an instant, Ron moved.
Almost at the same time, the blade in his hand erupted like a storm.
The sheer speed was breathtaking — impossible to follow with the naked eye.
Each strike, each swing, seemed like a choreographed dance.
Swift and dazzling, leaving streaks of light and afterimages that filled the air.
His movements were smooth as flowing water, graceful as drifting clouds.
Every motion carried hidden depth — as though his swordsmanship had transcended form itself.
It was no longer technique.
It was art.
Faced with Ron's sudden onslaught, Mihawk's expression hardened.
Each attack that came his way shook him to the core.
For the first time in years, the world's greatest swordsman felt truly pressured.
It was as if Ron's sword had merged with the wind, his spirit blending into the very sky — ready to split heaven and earth in half with a single swing.
This swordsmanship…
Even Mihawk, the man called the Strongest Swordsman in the World, could not help but feel humbled.
He had once believed his mastery absolute.
But here, in this unremarkable sea — the East Blue — a youth barely past twenty had shown him swordsmanship far beyond his own comprehension.
And within that youth's blade, Mihawk saw something terrifyingly familiar.
A forgotten path.
A way that should not have existed — a road leading directly to the true pinnacle of swordsmanship.
At that moment, Mihawk felt powerless.
Body and mind both reached their limits.
He could barely parry the relentless blows.
His pupils trembled, his breath uneven — and for the first time, fear and awe coexisted in his heart.
If not for the divine sharpness of Yoru — and the Haki he had yet to invoke — Mihawk knew he would already be defeated.
"Impossible… this is impossible!"
Mihawk's composure finally shattered as he whispered in disbelief.
"There truly exists such a realm of swordsmanship in this world…"
Ron's lips curved into a calm, confident smile.
His voice was quiet, but carried the weight of mountains.
"Yes," he said. "This is swordsmanship of the Supreme Realm — the realm of Perfection."
"The… Supreme Realm?"
Mihawk repeated the words, his pupils narrowing.
What was Perfection?
It was the summit — the absolute culmination of an art.
If anyone else had dared proclaim such a thing before him, Mihawk would have laughed.
Boasted after a few drinks, declared themselves invincible? He would have ended them in one strike.
Even if Red-Haired Shanks himself claimed mastery beyond him, Mihawk would sneer — for in the path of the sword, he had already left that man behind.
But now…
When Ron spoke those words, Mihawk did not laugh.
Instead, he nodded — slowly, seriously.
Because what he saw before him deserved the title of perfection.
If not for Yoru — if he had been holding an ordinary blade — he would not have lasted long.
Even without Haki, he would have fallen.
"Unbelievable…" Mihawk said softly, his tone heavy with awe.
"To think that in pursuit of the sword, you have already surpassed me."
His voice carried no bitterness. Only admiration — and a deep, almost reverent respect.
"To meet you… was my greatest fortune," he admitted.
"Your swordsmanship has opened my eyes — and reminded me that the path continues beyond where I stopped."
Ron smiled faintly, lowering his blade.
His tone was modest, but sincere.
"I should be the one thanking you, Mihawk. Without witnessing your sword, I would never have reached this realm."
Mihawk chuckled softly — thinking Ron was merely being polite.
But the respect in the young man's eyes was genuine.
As the tension faded, a different fire began to burn within Mihawk.
It was the same feeling every swordsman experiences when they meet someone stronger — a spark of pure, unfiltered longing.
The desire to challenge, to understand, to reach further.
That was the essence of the sword.
Straightening his back, Mihawk raised Yoru with both hands.
"Dracule Mihawk," he declared solemnly, "requests the honor of crossing blades with you once more."
His voice rang like a great bell — steady, dignified, eternal.
His presence, calm and majestic, filled the sky like the toll of destiny.
And for the first time in years, Mihawk was serious.
The air around him changed.
It wasn't fury. It wasn't pride.
It was reverence — the respect of one swordsman to another.
Ron placed his blade at his side, bowing his head slightly.
"In that case," he replied, his voice steady, "allow me, Ron, to accept this honor."
He could feel it — this would be their true duel.
One not for dominance, but for truth.
Even though he had already surpassed Mihawk, Ron's respect was unwavering.
To him, this was not about victory.
It was about understanding.
And about paying respect — to the man who had shown him the way.
The next instant, their blades met again.
The sea held its breath.
Swordlight filled the horizon.
Each clash sang like thunder, echoing through the world — a conversation of steel, of souls, of purpose.
If Mihawk was the calm sea, vast and boundless, then Ron was the storm that rose upon it — violent, brilliant, unstoppable.
The boat rocked. The ocean howled.
But neither yielded.
The scene left everyone watching utterly speechless.
"Th-this can't be real…" someone whispered.
Could the world's greatest swordsman truly be… losing?
"Has Ron really surpassed Mihawk?" another muttered in disbelief.
The thought alone spread like wildfire through their minds.
Even Nami, who had followed Ron all this time, was left breathless.
She had never imagined that his strength — his swordsmanship — had reached such divine heights.
But amid their awe, one man remained calm.
Zoro.
He stood silently at the railing, eyes fixed on the battle.
"The Supreme Realm of swordsmanship…" he murmured, his gaze unwavering.
"What kind of existence must it take… to reach that level?"
The fight had long surpassed human limits.
Their movements were too fast to follow.
Zoro could only feel the clash — Mihawk's defense growing weaker, Ron's blade pressure rising like a hurricane.
The air around them twisted and shattered under the force of their sword intent.
And then —
Ron's slashes wove together into a storm of pure light.
Countless arcs of energy danced through the sky, intertwining like dragons.
The air rippled and spun into a massive vortex of sword aura, devouring everything nearby — waves, wind, even sound itself.
It was a dreamscape of steel and brilliance.
And at its center stood two men —
Dracule Mihawk, the Greatest Swordsman of the World.
And Ron, the man who had transcended even that title.
Their swords spoke in a language only they could understand.
And in that moment, they were not rivals, nor enemies —
but two souls standing at the summit of swordsmanship, illuminating the world with the brilliance of their blades.