CHAPTER 108: THE SWORD AND THE THRONE
The weight of Mihawk's words hung in the air. "If you fight, I'll be with you to the end." It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a boast. It was a simple, calm statement of fact from a man who had never found an opponent worthy of his full effort.
Satoru raised both hands in a placating gesture, palms out. "Whoa, whoa. Slow down. How do you even know I'm here for you?" He tilted his head toward the figure slowly rising from the ground. "Maybe I'm here for the old man you just knocked down."
Sophilar, now seated on a weathered rock, dabbing at the cut on his chest with a cloth, let out a dry chuckle. "Then I wonder what this young Admiral could possibly want with an old relic like me?" His voice carried the warmth of someone who had long since made peace with his place in the world—bested, but not broken. Content, even.
Satoru's hidden gaze flicked between the two swordsmen. The dynamic was becoming clearer. The easy familiarity. The lack of hostility despite the fresh wound. The way Sophilar spoke of defeat as if it were simply another step in a long journey.
Interesting.
"Well, nothing to do with you, actually," Satoru admitted. "My business is with Hawk-Eyes."
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Both Mihawk and Sophilar stiffened almost imperceptibly, their expressions sharpening with the sudden, uncomfortable realization that they had been neatly maneuvered.
Mihawk's grip on Yoru tightened. "State your purpose. If it's a duel, I won't refuse." His words were clipped, but there was an undercurrent—not eagerness, but the readiness of a blade always poised to cut. A challenge from an Admiral was not to be dismissed.
"Relax, relax." Satoru waved a dismissive hand. "I'd rather not fight you if I can help it."
This was, technically, true. The journey from Dressrosa to G-8, then from G-8 to this island, all propelled by repeated applications of Blue, had drained him significantly. Teleporting himself and Cullom across half the New World was no small feat, even for him. His reserves were low. His internal energy, what he called "cursed energy," was running on fumes.
If it came to a serious fight with the World's Strongest Swordsman right now, he wouldn't lose—but it would be far from easy. And "not losing" wasn't the same as "winning."
"Then if your business is with my apprentice," Sophilar interjected, rising from his rock with the slow, careful movements of an old man whose joints remembered every battle, "this old man will take his leave. I'm far too old to be caught in the middle of young people's affairs."
He paused, looking at Mihawk with a mix of pride and exasperation. "Teaching a student who surpasses the master—truly, I am the unluckiest swordsman in the world."
Apprentice. The word clicked into place in Satoru's mind. So that's it.
"Sophilar… was the world's greatest swordsman's master?!" Cullom's jaw dropped. Her eyes darted between the silver-haired man and the hawk-eyed swordsman, reassessing everything she had just witnessed.
Satoru's Six Eyes had already pieced together the narrative. Twenty years ago, Sophilar stood at the summit of swordsmanship, with no peers, no worthy challenges. The loneliness of the peak. Then he found a boy with eyes like a hawk and talent that burned like forged steel. So he did what any man desperate for an equal would do: he created one.
And that creation had not only reached him—but surpassed him.
"Little girl," Sophilar said, noticing Cullom's stunned expression, "what's so surprising? Even the world's greatest swordsman didn't spring from the ground fully formed. He had to learn, same as anyone." A mischievous glint entered his aged eyes. "And no matter how many titles he accumulates, when he stands before me, he is still my student. I can scold him, and he will never dare raise his blade in return."
Cullom pointed hesitantly at the fresh, bleeding wound on Sophilar's chest. "Then… those injuries…?"
Sophilar coughed, suddenly very interested in examining a distant cloud. "Ahem. Well. You see. Friendly spars between master and student can sometimes become… spirited. It was an accident. A complete accident."
Mihawk's expression remained utterly unchanged, but there was something in the set of his shoulders that suggested he was, for once, refraining from comment.
Sophilar's gaze shifted to Cullom, studying her with newly sharp eyes. "But you, little girl. You carry yourself well. Your spirit is strong. You're already standing at the threshold of Great Swordsman." He nodded, approving. "With the right pressure, the right opportunity, that threshold will break."
"Truly?!" Cullom's voice cracked with sudden, desperate hope.
Satoru, ever the opportunist, turned his blindfolded gaze toward Sophilar with undisguised expectation. A Great Swordsman under his command at G-8 would be an immense asset. The base's defenses, its offensive capabilities, its sheer prestige—all would skyrocket.
"Well," Sophilar hedged, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is… somewhat embarrassing to admit, but I am not a particularly skilled teacher. Mihawk here," he gestured dismissively at the world's greatest swordsman, "became what he is through his own stubbornness and talent, not my instruction. I simply pointed him in the right direction and got out of his way."
Cullom's excited expression faltered. Satoru's hidden disappointment was almost palpable.
Of course. It couldn't be that easy.
"But," Sophilar continued, his weathered face breaking into a genuine smile, "if you wish to train alongside this old man for a time, I can offer you something. Not a guaranteed path to the summit, but a few steps closer. It would be a waste to let talent like yours wither without guidance."
Cullom's eyes blazed back to life. But she didn't immediately agree. She turned, her posture rigid with disciplined restraint, and looked to Satoru.
She was a Marine officer under his command. Her duties were to G-8. This decision was not hers alone.
Satoru met her gaze, then nodded once. "Stay. Train. I'll have Claire cover your duties at the base."
Claire, from across the sea: "..."
"Thank you, sir!" Cullom's composure shattered into a wide, genuine grin. She all but sprinted to Sophilar's side, her earlier awe of the legendary swordsman temporarily overcome by eager enthusiasm.
"Yes, yes, very enthusiastic," Sophilar muttered, already looking slightly overwhelmed. "Now help this old man home. My bones aren't what they used to be."
"Yes, Master!"
Mihawk watched this entire exchange with an expression that could only be described as mild disbelief. His master, in the span of a few minutes, had apparently acquired a new disciple. A Marine swordsman. Who was now calling him "Master" with unbridled enthusiasm.
Ridiculous, his expression seemed to say.
With the student situation settled, the atmosphere between the remaining two men shifted. The casualness drained away, replaced by something heavier. The air thickened. Even the distant cry of seabirds seemed to fade.
Satoru's posture remained relaxed, but his focus narrowed to a single point. "Now then. Just the two of us, Hawk-Eyes Dracule Mihawk."
Mihawk's golden eyes, unblinking, fixed on the Admiral. His hand rested on Yoru's hilt. Not drawn. Ready.
Behind a nearby cluster of rocks, two figures huddled together, peeking through a gap.
"Do you know why your commander seeks out Mihawk?" Sophilar whispered, his earlier infirmity completely absent.
Cullom shook her head, her eyes locked on the two titans facing each other. "No. The Admiral didn't tell me. But… it must be an important order from Headquarters."
She watched her commander—her young, impossibly powerful commander—stand unflinching before the man who had cut mountains, defeated legions, and claimed the title no one else dared to reach for.
And she realized, with a strange, quiet certainty, that she was witnessing history. Not the past. Not the future.
Right now.
(End of Chapter)
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