Time was the fairest thing on this sea.
A full month had passed since the storm in which Golden Lion fell.
Life at G–17 had settled into an oddly steady routine. As the name Silver Dragon echoed across the ocean, the Golden Route—once crawling with pirates—had turned into an almost absurd pirate vacuum.
Any pirate with half a brain would rather detour and raid somewhere else than step within shouting distance of G–17's cold, iron fortress.
"Ugh…"
At the watch post by the fortress's main gate, a young soldier hugged his rifle and stared out at the empty sea, letting out a long sigh.
"What, homesick?" the veteran beside him glanced over and offered him a cheap roll-up.
"No."
The recruit took it but didn't light it, just frowned miserably. "I wanna make money! It's been a whole month and I haven't even seen a pirate's shadow! My new rifle's about to rust. At this rate, when the hell am I ever going to save up enough to get married?"
The veteran snorted and patted his helmet. "Be grateful. Back when Nelson was running things, we didn't even get paid in full—and half of it got skimmed to fill his gold vault. Now sure, there's no extra cash, but Major General Rain pays us double salary. Even HQ boys would envy this."
"But—" the recruit started.
"Stop the 'but.'" The veteran cut him off. "G–17's called a forbidden zone now. Unless someone's a brain-dead lunatic, who's gonna come here looking for trouble?"
And then—
"What's that?"
The recruit suddenly pointed out at sea, confusion in his eyes.
The veteran followed his finger.
Through the morning fog that hadn't fully lifted yet, a small boat with an unbelievably strange silhouette was gliding in—silent, steady, cutting the water like a ghost.
It was… a black little boat shaped like a coffin.
Long and narrow, barely wide enough for one person. Two candles burned on either side of the gunwale, their pale green flames swaying in the mist like will-o'-wisps. And the mast… was a huge black cross, flying a pitch-black sail.
"A coffin?!" the recruit's eyes bulged. "Who the hell is sailing a coffin out here?"
"Something's wrong!" The veteran's instincts kicked in. He raised the loudhailer and barked, "Stop! This is the Navy G–17 Branch military exclusion zone! Halt and submit to inspection immediately—otherwise we will take forceful measures!"
The warning echoed across the sea.
The coffin-boat didn't slow down at all. It kept coming, unhurried and relentless.
"Looking to die?"
The veteran's gaze went cold. He signaled behind him. "Give him a little color—warning shots!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A few bullets snapped out, splashing the water in front of the boat.
Just a warning.
But the man on the boat acted like he hadn't heard a thing.
He wore a wine-red patterned shirt with a black coat draped over it, and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed with white feathers. Sitting cross-legged, arms folded, the massive cross-shaped sword on his back flickering in and out through the fog.
He didn't even blink.
Only those hawk-like golden eyes shifted slightly, sliding toward the gatehouse.
"So… I'm here."
He murmured.
The next second—
In the soldiers' horrified stares, the seated figure on the boat vanished.
"Where'd he go?!"
"Above!"
Someone screamed.
A black shadow had launched from the sea—dozens of meters away—leaping high in a sharp arc and landing directly in front of G–17's main-gate plaza.
Thud.
With a dull impact, the man straightened.
He looked only a little over twenty, a light stubble on his jaw, but his face still carried the sharpness and arrogance of youth. Those golden eyes held no respect for a Navy base—only the feverish thrill of a predator finding prey.
"Enemy attack!!"
"Close it—close the gate!!"
The sergeant at the gate didn't know who this was, but he knew the man was trouble. And even though he didn't understand why the base commander hadn't appeared yet, he was the highest-ranking person on site—so he made the call.
With a shriek of metal, the front gate—reinforced personally by Rain's thunder-metallurgy—began to grind shut under the winches' roar.
The booming scrape of steel tried to seal the intruder outside.
The man watched the massive doors closing, expression unchanged.
"As if that's going to stop me."
He raised his right hand and gripped the hilt of the weapon on his back.
Shing.
A blade slid free.
It was a massive cross-shaped sword—unique, brutal, and gleaming with cold steel.
Against a barrier "even cannonballs couldn't break," the man simply flicked his wrist and cut once.
A green slash—silent, clean—skimmed across the thick steel gate.
The next second—
The doors stopped moving.
And then, in the soldiers' terror-stricken gaze, the two multi-ton alloy slabs slid apart along a perfectly diagonal line, smooth enough to be obscene.
BOOM!
The severed metal crashed down, dust exploding, the cut surface mirror-flat and still radiating heat from the instant slice.
"T-that's the gate the commander forged…" the sergeant collapsed on the ground, forgetting to breathe. "It— it got cut like tofu…?!"
As the dust settled, the man stepped over the shattered gate and walked into the fortress.
"Stop!!"
"Don't move!!"
A patrol squad finally snapped out of it and rushed in—more than a dozen rifles leveled at the intruder.
He ignored them completely and kept strolling in like he was taking a walk.
"Enemy attack!!"
"Fire!!"
The situation detonated. The soldiers stopped hesitating and pulled the triggers.
Rat-a-tat-tat—!!
Gunfire tore through the harbor. Dozens of bullets rained down; at this range, even a steel man should've been shredded.
But the man didn't even slow.
He raised the cross-sword's hilt.
Shing—
A casual flick of his wrist.
The enormous sword moved like a feather, its edge leaving afterimages too fast to follow.
Clinkclinkclinkclink—!!
A storm of crisp, metallic pings.
Every single bullet—front, side, even a sneaky angle—was either knocked away with the flat, or split clean in half.
Fragments pattered down around his boots like hail.
He didn't take a single step back.
His coat didn't even flutter wrong.
Dead silence.
The soldiers stared at him like he wasn't human. Cutting bullets—they'd heard of. But using a sword that huge, that effortlessly, to neutralize dozens of rounds… what was this?
"Too weak."
He shook his head, disappointed.
"This is the force that killed Golden Lion? Rumors really do get exaggerated."
He didn't bother slaughtering ordinary soldiers. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the steel fortress's highest point—like he could feel a stronger presence up there.
"I heard the base commander here, Rain, defeated Golden Lion."
His low voice rolled through the quiet harbor, carrying a challenge no one could refuse.
"I am Dracule Mihawk."
"I came… to test my blade against the strongest swordsman."
Dracule Mihawk.
To most of the soldiers present, the name still meant little.
But the pressure of his presence—sharp as a drawn sword—made everyone understand one thing:
This was a real monster.
Just as the harbor froze under Mihawk's aura—
BZZZT—!
A harsh electric crack exploded right in front of him.
Lightning flared, then faded, and Rain appeared.
And then—
When everyone saw what Rain was wearing, Mihawk, the half-dead Smoker on the ground, and the soldiers alike all went blank.
The terrifying "Silver Dragon"—the base commander who'd shaken the world—
Was not in his uniform.
He was in a loose silk pajama set, wearing slippers.
In his left hand: a silver fork with half a sausage on it—one bite missing.
In his right: a steak knife.
And to make it worse, there was a white napkin tucked into his collar like he'd just been having breakfast.
Mihawk: (°°)