Novel Chapter
Zoro's whole body trembled.
Not from fear—though there was some of that, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
No, this was excitement.
Pure, unfiltered, burning anticipation.
He swallowed hard.
"Fight me." His voice was steady. Determined. "Hawkeye."
He untied the bandana from his left arm, wrapping it around his head with practiced ease. Then he bit down on the Wado Ichimonji—one of the twenty-one Great Grade swords—and gripped his other two blades tight.
His eyes locked onto Mihawk.
This is it.
Mihawk looked at him.
Frowned slightly.
"No."
The word hit like a slap.
"What!?" Zoro's eyes went wide. "Why!?"
A swordsman doesn't refuse a challenge!
Mihawk's expression didn't change. "If you were a first-rate swordsman, we wouldn't need to cross blades." His tone was flat. Clinical. "The gap between us would be obvious at a glance."
He tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing.
"So tell me—is your courage born from ambition?" A pause. "Or ignorance?"
The words cut deeper than any blade.
But Zoro didn't flinch.
"This is my dream." His grip tightened on his swords. "And a promise. To someone I can never break faith with."
Silence.
Mihawk studied him for a long moment.
How many times have I heard that? he thought. In the Four Blues. The Grand Line. The New World. Dreamers, all of them. Dead dreamers.
But there was something in this boy's eyes.
Something... familiar.
"Fine." Mihawk reached up, pulling the cross pendant from around his neck. With a flick of his wrist, he drew a tiny knife from within—barely longer than his palm. "I'll finish you here. Then I'll go challenge the real opponent."
He pointed the knife at Zoro.
"Let's make this quick."
Zoro stared at the blade.
Then at Mihawk.
"Are you serious!?" Anger flared in his chest. "You're mocking me!"
"You're a somewhat famous swordsman," Mihawk said, voice dripping with disdain. "In the weakest of the Four Blues." He examined the tiny knife like it was a work of art. "I don't use a cannon to hunt rabbits."
A beat.
"Besides, this is my smallest blade."
"You bastard—"
"ONI GIRI!"
Zoro exploded forward, arms crossed, three swords spinning in a deadly helix—
Mihawk moved.
One motion. Precise. Effortless.
The tiny knife stabbed forward.
And Zoro—
Stopped.
Completely.
His attack frozen mid-swing, the tip of that ridiculous little blade pressed against his chest.
Sweat dripped down his face.
What—
How—
He saw through it. He SAW THROUGH IT.
"Oni Giri has never been blocked before," Zoro's mind screamed. "Not once. And he did it with a toy!"
His hands shook.
The gap between us—
It can't be this big. It CAN'T—
From the Baratie's deck, the others watched in stunned silence.
"Zoro..." Luffy's voice was quiet. Uncertain.
"That move's got a hundred percent success rate!" Yosaku's face was pale. "How did—"
"Big bro's Oni Giri didn't even touch him!" Johnny looked like he might be sick.
"THERE'S NO WAY THE GAP IS THIS BIG!"
Zoro roared, throwing himself forward again.
Slash. Stab. Spin.
Every attack came faster. Wilder. Desperate.
And every single one—
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
—was blocked by that tiny knife.
Effortlessly.
Mihawk didn't even look interested.
"Crude," he murmured. "Your technique is crude."
But there was something else in his eyes now.
Curiosity.
Because Zoro wasn't stopping.
Wasn't retreating.
His eyes burned with something beyond reason. Beyond fear.
Obsession.
"Tell me something," Mihawk said, voice cutting through the chaos. "What do you carry on your back?"
Zoro swung again. Missed.
"What do you want, after you become strong?"
Another swing. Another block.
"Weakling."
That word—
Zoro's vision went red.
"TORA GARI!"
He launched himself backward, then surged forward like a hunting tiger, both blades aimed for Mihawk's throat—
Shink.
The sound of steel piercing flesh.
Zoro's attack stopped.
Because Mihawk's knife was buried in his chest.
Right over his heart.
Zoro looked down.
Saw the blade.
Felt the cold metal against his ribs.
And kept moving forward.
One step.
Two.
I won't—
I CAN'T—
Mihawk's eyes widened.
"You want me to pierce your heart?" For the first time, there was surprise in his voice. "Why not retreat?"
He leaned closer.
"Weakling."
Zoro's lips pulled into a smile.
It wasn't a happy smile.
It was the smile of a man who'd already made his choice.
"If I take one step back..." His voice was soft. Calm. "Everything I've promised. Everything I've sworn. It'll all shatter."
He met Mihawk's eyes.
"I'll never be able to come back from that."
Mihawk went still.
Five years ago.
Marine Headquarters.
Standing across from Kai Mitarashi, the strongest man I'd ever seen.
Drawing Yoru, knowing I'd lose.
But drawing it anyway.
Because to retreat—
—would mean I'd never be able to face myself again.
He looked at Zoro with new eyes.
"Yes," he said quietly. "This is defeat."
Zoro's smile widened. "Then I'd rather die."
What resolve.
Mihawk pulled the knife free.
Blood welled from the wound, but Zoro didn't flinch.
"Boy." Mihawk's voice was different now. Respectful. "Your name."
"Roronoa Zoro!"
Zoro raised all three swords, chakra—no, will—blazing around him.
This was it.
His strongest technique.
Everything he had.
"I'll remember it." Mihawk reached over his shoulder, gripping the hilt of the massive blade strapped to his back.
Yoru.
The Black Blade.
The strongest sword in the world.
He drew it slowly, the blade singing as it left its sheath.
"As a swordsman," Mihawk said, "I'll end this with the respect you've earned."
"THREE-SWORD STYLE SECRET TECHNIQUE—"
Zoro's blades spun, faster and faster, building momentum—
"—THREE THOUSAND WORLDS!"
He became a hurricane of steel, all three swords blurring into a single devastating strike—
Mihawk swung.
Once.
CLANG.
The sound echoed across the water.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then—
Crack.
Crack.
Zoro's two ordinary katana shattered, fragments of steel spinning through the air.
He dropped to his knees.
Only the Wado Ichimonji remained, still clenched between his teeth.
Slowly—so slowly—he pulled the blade free, found its sheath at his waist, and slid it home.
I lost.
I... lost.
He stood.
Turned to face Mihawk.
And spread his arms wide, chest exposed.
"What are you doing?" Mihawk's voice was sharp.
Zoro lifted his chin.
"A scar on the back," he said clearly, "is a swordsman's shame."
Silence.
Then—
Mihawk smiled.
A real smile. Small, but genuine.
"Well said."
Yoru fell.
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