An almost suffocating mix of awkwardness and tension filled the air.
"What the hell are you making so much noise for this early in the morning, right outside someone else's house?"
Rain stood there with an annoyed look on his face. The loose hem of his silk pajamas swayed lightly in the wind, and one of his slippers wasn't even fully on, leaving half his heel exposed.
In his left hand, he held a silver fork with half a Thüringer sausage still speared on the end, steam rising from the bite-marked piece. In his right, he held a blunt dinner knife meant for cutting steak. The white napkin tucked into his collar made him look less like a fearsome Marine officer and more like some pampered young nobleman dragged away from breakfast.
"My fried egg is getting cold."
Rain swallowed his mouthful and looked at the aggressive young man in front of him with obvious disdain.
"Do you have any idea what temperature means to a perfect breakfast? Letting a runny yolk go solid is an unforgivable sin."
Mihawk: (·_·)?
For the first time, the muscles on Dracule Mihawk's perpetually cold face twitched.
He had imagined countless ways this meeting with the man who killed Golden Lion would go.
Maybe on the deck of a ship in a storm. Maybe in the middle of a battlefield covered in corpses. The other man should have been holding those two legendary swords, radiating enough killing intent to freeze the air, meeting him in a life-and-death clash at the peak of swordsmanship.
Instead...
A man in pajamas eating breakfast?
The rage of being belittled flared instantly in Mihawk's chest.
"So you're Rain?"
Mihawk's voice dropped low, heavy with suppressed fury. His hawk-like golden eyes burned with fierce battle intent.
"I am Dracule Mihawk."
"I don't care whether your eggs are getting cold. I crossed half the Grand Line to challenge you."
Shing—!
With a clear, ringing note, the Supreme Grade Black Blade Yoru cut a sharp arc through the morning light. Its point leveled at Rain's brow, the sword pressure alone slicing through the surrounding mist.
"Draw your sword, Rain!"
Mihawk shouted, his presence rising like an unsheathed blade piercing the sky.
"Show me what kind of realm your heaven-splitting, sea-cutting swordsmanship has reached!"
Under that crushing edge, the surrounding soldiers instinctively staggered back. Smoker's face darkened, ready to step in at any moment.
But Rain just yawned lazily.
"Yaaawn..."
"Mihawk? Some nobody I've never heard of."
Rain shook his head, utterly dismissive.
"I'm in a decent mood right now. I don't feel like seeing blood this early in the day. Before I get annoyed, go find somewhere else to be."
Mihawk was momentarily speechless. Though talented, in the eyes of someone who had just killed a legend like Golden Lion, he really was just an unknown challenger.
"You won't draw?"
The anger in Mihawk's eyes intensified.
For a swordsman, refusing to draw in the face of a challenge was the greatest humiliation.
"If you refuse to draw, then I'll force you to!"
"Slash!"
Mihawk stopped wasting words and burst forward.
Though still young, his swordsmanship was already extraordinary. There was nothing flashy about this strike. The massive black blade screamed through the air as it came crashing down on Rain's head.
"This kid's got something."
At the side, Smoker's eyes narrowed.
And yet—
Faced with that overwhelming blow, Rain didn't even bother to dodge.
He just let out a helpless sigh.
"Kids these days really have no manners."
Rain slowly raised his right hand.
There was only a butter knife in it.
Clang!!
An ear-piercing metallic collision rang out.
For a split second, time seemed to stop.
Mihawk remained frozen in the middle of his strike. Yoru had stopped half a meter above Rain's head.
And holding it there—
was the tiny tip of a dinner knife.
"What...?!"
Mihawk's pupils contracted violently.
It felt as though he had struck a mountain. No matter how much strength he poured in, he couldn't move forward even an inch.
"What? Surprised?"
Rain stood there, not even bothering to lower the fork in his other hand.
He looked at Mihawk's stunned face and spoke with the same casual tone one might use to comment on the weather.
"This is the smallest knife I've got."
He gave the little silver knife a small shake, its polished surface reflecting Mihawk's twisted, furious expression.
"But for you, it's just right."
"You—!!"
A surge of hot blood rushed to Mihawk's head. It was the kind of rage born from absolute humiliation.
"Are you mocking me?!"
"Even if you're the man who killed Golden Lion, you'll pay for this arrogance!"
"Haaah!!"
With a furious roar, Mihawk jerked his blade back and spun, using the momentum to launch another strike.
This time, his sword force was even more violent, and a green aura of sword energy had begun to appear.
"Too slow."
Rain casually popped the remaining piece of sausage into his mouth and chewed twice.
Clang!
The dinner knife flicked up and tapped the flat of Yoru, effortlessly throwing Mihawk's attack off course.
"Too much wasted force."
Rain took a small step to the left, avoiding Mihawk's horizontal slash, and casually slapped Mihawk's wrist with the spine of the knife.
Smack!
Pain shot through Mihawk's hand. He almost lost his grip on the sword.
Mihawk threw himself into attack after attack like a wounded bull.
Slash, cut, thrust, lift, stab.
Every move used full power. Every strike carried murderous intent.
But Rain looked like he was taking a stroll through his own garden.
Still wearing slippers, calmly stepping and shifting through tiny spaces. That small dinner knife in his hand seemed alive—sometimes acting like a shield, sometimes darting like a venomous snake.
Clang clang clang—
The metallic impacts came in a dense, unbroken stream.
No matter how ferocious Mihawk's offense became, Rain always used that little butter knife to find the exact point where the force landed, then dissolved the attack with the smallest possible movement.
That was the realm of a true great swordsman.
In Rain's eyes, Mihawk's swordsmanship—though sharp and gifted—was still full of openings. Like a child who had just learned to write, showing off calligraphy in front of a master.
"Too stiff."
Rain swallowed the sausage, even taking the time to dab the corner of his mouth with the napkin as he commented.
"That's not how you swing a sword. Yours is too rough."
Clang!
The dinner knife caught Yoru again.
"Too much killing intent."
Rain shook his head.
"You want to win too badly. That makes your intentions obvious. True swordsmanship should be as natural as breathing."
Smack!
The knife glided past and left a red mark across the back of Mihawk's hand.
"And one more thing."
Rain narrowed his eyes, looking into Mihawk's furious yet still unclouded golden gaze.
"Your sword is crying."
"What are you even swinging for? Fame? A promise? You've got too many distractions."
"Haa... haa..."
Mihawk jumped back, landing several meters away, breathing heavily.
His clothes were soaked in sweat. The hand holding Yoru trembled faintly.
Since setting out to sea, he had challenged countless swordsmen and broken countless famous blades. He had never once tasted defeat.
But today, in front of this man in pajamas, he felt like an infant who had only just learned to hold a sword—being toyed with effortlessly.
And what truly crushed him was that the man standing before him, the one with the realm of a great swordsman, looked even younger than he did.
"What kind of monster is this...?"
Mihawk stared at Rain's absurdly youthful face.
Younger than him, yet with such monstrous strength and such terrifying mastery. That brutal reality pressed down on this self-proclaimed genius swordsman like a mountain.
What made it even worse was that Rain hadn't even coated the dinner knife in Haki at first. He was crushing Mihawk through pure swordsmanship alone.
"Is the gap between us really this wide?!"
Mihawk's voice came out hoarse, full of unwillingness and despair.
This wasn't the evenly matched duel he had imagined. It was a chasm. An abyss.
Rain looked at him, his eyes deep and almost pitying—like a dragon looking down at a tiny creature trying to challenge it.
"If you were truly strong enough, you would have understood the gap between us before we ever crossed blades."
"Was it courage that made you draw your sword at me, or ignorance?"
He lifted the dinner knife still smeared with a little butter, his tone carrying an almost suffocating arrogance.
"How pitiful. A weakling."
Those words destroyed the last line Mihawk had left.
"AAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
Mihawk let out a roar like a wounded beast.
Humiliated to the limit, his eyes went bloodshot, reason almost swallowed by fury.
But just as he was about to lose control, he met Rain's eyes.
They were calm—deep and still as an abyss.
There was no mockery in them. No pity either. Only cold indifference.
As if, in Rain's eyes, the version of Mihawk flailing in rage right now was worth even less than the swordsman who had first attacked him.
"Your heart is in chaos."
Rain added the final, fatal blow.
His voice wasn't loud, but it cracked in Mihawk's ears like thunder.
"When your heart is chaotic, your blade turns dull. Right now, you're not even worth me raising this dinner knife against."
Hum—
The words hit like a bucket of ice water dumped over Mihawk's boiling mind.
His hand froze on the hilt.
Rage, humiliation, unwillingness—all of it crashed through his chest, but in the end, his instincts as a swordsman forced it back down.
If he rushed in like a mad dog now, then he would truly have lost everything.
If he wanted to prove his sword path, he had to calm down. He had to cut with the strongest strike of his life. Even if he died, he could not die in mindless rage.
"Haa... haa..."
Mihawk's breathing gradually steadied and deepened.
He closed his eyes. All the humiliation was crushed down and swallowed, turned into the purest battle intent.
When he opened them again, the madness was gone. In its place was a clarity so sharp it made the heart tremble.
All distractions had been cast aside. In his eyes, only that man remained.
And his sword.
He realized now that he had indeed been the frog at the bottom of the well.
But even a frog in a well had the right to raise its sword at the sky.
"This is my strongest strike!!"
Mihawk lifted Yoru in both hands. His entire body, mind, and will condensed into a perfect peak.
Green sword energy surged upward, tearing apart the morning mist.
Holding nothing back, Mihawk became a meteor, charging forward with absolute resolve.
"Oh?"
For the first time, surprise flickered in Rain's eyes.
He finally dropped that lazy, half-amused expression and became just a little serious.
"Not bad eyes."
And yet Rain still held only the dinner knife.
But this time, jet-black Armament Haki instantly coated the fragile silver blade, turning it into an indestructible black knife.
"Since you've found that resolve, I'll honor it."
Rain moved, meeting him head-on.
The two figures crossed in the center of the square.
Clang!
Shhk!
A dull sound of flesh being pierced.
Everything stopped.
Mihawk remained frozen in his slashing posture, while blood burst from his chest like a fountain.
Rain stood behind him, the dinner knife dripping blood.
Clang.
The great cross-blade slipped from Mihawk's hand and smashed against the ground.
Then the proud young swordsman's legs gave out, and he collapsed backward into a pool of blood.
He had lost.
Completely.
"So this is the realm of a great swordsman...?"
At the side, Smoker stared in shock, his cigars falling from his mouth unnoticed.
Rain turned around and looked down at the severely wounded Mihawk.
That final strike had deliberately avoided the heart. For someone like Mihawk, the injury wasn't fatal.
"Why didn't you retreat?"
Rain asked. "If you had backed off just now, maybe you could've taken less damage."
Lying there, Mihawk stared up at the blue sky his own sword had torn open, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
"Retreat?"
"If I did that, then my dream of becoming the world's greatest swordsman would never come true."
That was a swordsman's pride.
Something more important than life.
"Heh."
Rain laughed.
"Good eyes."
He crouched down, the amusement in his gaze deepening.
"Kid, do you really want to become the world's greatest swordsman that badly?"
Mihawk turned his head with effort and looked at him, that fire still burning in his eyes.
"What a shame."
Rain shook his head and spoke words more devastating than the battle itself.
"It's impossible."
"As long as I'm here, you'll never be more than number two."
Mihawk's pupils shook.
"Give it up."
Rain lightly patted his face, like a devil whispering temptation.
"I'm younger than you, stronger than you, and more talented than you."
"Thinking you'll outlive me won't help either. No chance in this life."
"Pfff!!"
The damage from those words was worse than the knife wound. Mihawk coughed up blood on the spot, nearly fainting from rage.
That was more than killing.
That was annihilating the heart.
Rain laughed out loud at the look on Mihawk's face and stood back up.
He had no intention of killing him.
Because leaving Mihawk alive would make the future of this sea much more interesting.
Rain turned and walked back toward the fortress, leaving only his tall, effortless silhouette behind.
"See this world clearly, Dracule Mihawk."
His voice drifted back, echoing endlessly.
"See yourself clearly. See the world clearly. See the gap between us."
"Grow stronger. Survive by any means necessary."
"When you finally think you're worthy of making me draw a real sword, come find me somewhere on this sea."
He waved a hand without turning back.
"As for the title of world's greatest swordsman—"
"I'll hold onto it for you until then."
"Don't make me wait too long, weakling."
Morning light poured over Rain's back, stretching his shadow longer and longer.
Mihawk lay there, staring at that retreating figure with absolute fixation, fingers digging into the hard earth.
Tears mixed with blood and slipped from the corners of his eyes.
"Raiiiin..."
And in the depths of his heart, he swore it.
One day—
One day he would surpass that mountain.
No matter what.
Definitely.
~~~
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