From the sidelines, Pintel leaned in and whispered to Ragetti, "...Blimey, that's just rude."
Ragetti nodded in agreement. "...Very rude indeed."
"You arrogant brat!" Gibbs bellowed, completely losing his cool.
The old pirate charged across the sand, his cutlass slicing through the air with a fierce determination. It was a strike honed by years of experience on the high seas—quick and powerful enough to split an ordinary marine in half.
Mihawk barely shifted his stance.
Clang!
The small pocket knife met the heavy cutlass with a resounding clash. With a flick of his wrist that felt almost mocking, Mihawk redirected the full force of the blow. Steel scraped harshly against steel.
Gibbs stumbled forward, his balance completely thrown off.
"Your footing," Mihawk observed coolly, his tone lacking malice but heavy with critique. "...Too wide."
In a flash, a shallow, precise cut opened across Gibbs' back, blood quickly soaking into his canvas shirt.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Gibbs spun around and charged again, swinging wildly. Another effortless block from Mihawk.
"Too much raw strength. Not enough precision."
Slash.
Another clean wound appeared on Gibbs' shoulder.
Ivankov stepped forward, his large face etched with concern. "Gibbs! Darling, that's enough! Stop this!"
Ragetti shouted from the shoreline, "Uncle Gibbs! Yield!"
But Gibbs was oblivious to their pleas. He attacked again, and again, and again. Each strike became more frantic, more desperate, fueled by sheer exhaustion. His breaths came in ragged, wheezing gasps.
Mihawk sighed, a sound nearly swallowed by the rising wind. "This... will end now."
With a final, guttural roar, the old pirate poured every last ounce of his strength into a massive downward cleave.
Mihawk didn't dodge. He stepped inside the guard.
The tiny knife caught the descending cutlass, twisted sharply, and locked it in place. Before Gibbs could even realize his weapon was trapped—
Thrust.
The small blade drove straight into the heart of Gibbs' chest.
In that moment, time seemed to stand still on the misty beach. Gibbs gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he glanced down. Crimson blood quickly soaked through his weathered coat, pooling on the white sand beneath him.
His fingers loosened, and his beloved cutlass slipped from his grip, clattering uselessly onto the ground.
He sank heavily to one knee, his fading vision struggling to focus on his captain. "...Cap'n..."
Then, he collapsed face-first into the sand.
Part IV: The Clash of Wills
"UNCLE!" Pintel cried out in sheer panic.
Ragetti was already racing across the beach, tears streaming down his cheeks. The two pirates reached Gibbs at the same time, frantically trying to stop the flow of blood.
Ivankov dropped to his knees beside them, his hands glowing faintly as his instincts kicked in. "He needs urgent care right now! We have to get him back to the ship!"
"The ship doesn't have any medical supplies. We only keep bandages and alcohol," Ragetti replied.
Ivankov was taken aback, "Aren't you coming from Drum Kingdom? Why is there no medicine on your ship?!"
"We don't have a doctor! Gibbs was the one who usually patched us up when we got hurt," Ragetti explained calmly.
"Now that I think about it, Gibbs wasn't exactly a great doctor. I always ended up with infections," Pintel added.
"This is not the time for that!" Ivankov shouted.
A sharp, metallic click sliced through the chaos. Van Augur's glasses glinted in the fading light, his massive rifle, Senriku, already raised and firmly pressed against his shoulder. The long barrel was aimed squarely at Mihawk's forehead.
He simply waited for the command.
Jack Sparrow stepped forward, his usual swagger replaced by a chilling, unwavering intensity. He never took his eyes off his fallen first mate.
"Get him," Jack commanded, his voice eerily calm. "Somewhere safe. Treat him."
Pintel nodded vigorously, his hands trembling with urgency. Alongside Ragetti and Ivankov, they carefully hoisted the unconscious old pirate and made their way into the safety of the mist, heading toward the forest.
Crocodile flicked her cigar into the sand, her golden hook shimmering as she watched them disappear. "Don't let him die out there; that would just be a hassle."
Before long, only a few figures remained on the desolate, foggy beach: Jack, Mihawk, Dragon, Augur, Crocodile, and Kuma.
The wind howled fiercely from the storm clouds, growing more violent and whipping the sand around them.
Mihawk methodically wiped the blood from his small kitchen knife with a silk cloth before tucking it back into his coat. Then, for the first time since his arrival, his hand moved to his shoulder.
"I made sure to avoid his vital organs," Mihawk stated coolly.
His fingers grasped the wrapped hilt of the massive cruciform sword resting on his back.
Shiiiiing!
The gleaming steel slid slowly from its sheath. Even before the enormous blade was fully revealed, a suffocating, oppressive pressure swept across the beach.
It was a heavy, dangerous aura—one that Jack had never felt from any swordsman in his life.
Without saying a word, Jack reached for his hip. His hand closed around the ray-skin hilt of his own weapon.
With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew Wado Ichimonji. The legendary meito caught the dim light of the storm, shining with a pure, lethal brilliance.
His right hand found its place comfortably around the hilt.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no searing pain shooting through his arm. No stiffness. His body finally responded just as he wanted—his volatile Haki kept in check, his true power unleashed.
Across the sandy expanse, the world's greatest swordsman noticed the subtle change immediately.
"You favor your right," Dracule Mihawk remarked, his voice flat and cutting through the air like a blade.
Jack smirked, tightening his grip on the hilt. "I favor whichever hand wields my sword."
Mihawk offered a slight, approving nod. "Good."
Instead of raising his own legendary blade, Yoru, he lowered the tip of the massive cross-shaped sword just above the sand.
"Come."
Jack didn't need to be told twice.
DON!
His Observation Haki surged outward with ferocity.
The rhythmic crash of the waves... the minute twitch of Mihawk's shoulders... the subtle tightening of the warlord's grip... the shifting pressure beneath his feet... everything crystallized into a vivid picture in Jack's mind.
BOOM!
The sand erupted.
In a blink, Jack vanished and reappeared before Mihawk, his body nearly parallel to the ground, defying gravity itself.
"Death's Paradise... First Form!" Jack bellowed, his voice resonating with fierce intent. "Loafer's Dream!"
Jack unleashed chaos from the very start.
He transformed into a whirlwind of silver light. One slash became ten. Ten morphed into fifty.
Fifty turned into hundreds.
To the spectators, it seemed as if countless clones of Jack had sprung into existence, unleashing an inescapable storm of steel from every direction.
CLANG-CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!
The sheer force ripped through the mist like paper.
From her spot at the tree line, Crocodile squinted through the haze, her eyes heavy with the scent of cigar smoke.
Next to her, Monkey D. Dragon loomed silently, his cloak swirling dramatically in the wind. Bartholomew Kuma stood still as a statue, Bible clutched tightly in his hands.
And then—silence.
The echoes of clashing steel faded away in an instant. Jack was a few meters behind Mihawk, his back turned, a heavy sigh escaping him.
"...Got you," Jack murmured, a smirk creeping onto his face.
Mihawk remained exactly where he was, unyielding. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then, the aftermath of the violence caught up.
SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!
Dozens, if not hundreds, of clean, deep cuts appeared on the surrounding boulders. The towering trees behind Mihawk split along perfect diagonal lines before crashing to the ground.
Yet, Mihawk's coat was untouched. Not a single thread was out of place.
Jack's grin slowly faded, his eyes widening in disbelief.
"...Impossible."
Mihawk turned to face him, his sharp, hawk-like yellow eyes locking onto Jack's. "You're quick. Your technique is impressive—it trades power for sheer speed."
"Then how?" Jack shot back, his gaze fixed on the flawless warlord.
Mihawk lifted Yoru slightly, gesturing to the shattered earth beneath his feet.
"You struck hundreds of times. I only needed to stop one."
Jack leaned in, his breath catching in his throat.
At Mihawk's feet, among the chaos of destruction, one sword mark stood out from the rest.
A single defensive parry.
Mihawk hadn't blocked a flurry of strikes; he had read the flow, anticipated the one true attack, and dismantled the entire sequence at its core.
Everything that followed had crumbled with it.
Jack let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "So that's the secret. You found the real attack."
"Your sword reveals your intent," Mihawk said evenly. "Your movement attempts to conceal it."
Jack's grin returned, wider and wilder this time. "I can't decide whether that's praise or criticism, Hawk-Eyes!"