think ill drop this shit soon lowkey don't got the ideas no more. Don't think anyone's enjoying this shit no more sadly.
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Bibi's hands moved.
Fast.
The domain slammed shut around them.
Inside the domain:
The sky was a newspaper. Every headline wrong. Every photo slightly off. The ground was a press conference floor that extended forever. Podiums in every direction. Microphones that pointed at nothing.
And in the center of it:
Bibi.
Standing exactly like a man who has given a speech before and will give one again and has never once doubted the content of it either.
He looked at Mihawk.
He looked at stein, who was already beginning to dissolve at the edges like a receipt left in the sun.
stein looked at his hands. Looked up. Shrugged.
"Yep," he said.
And was gone.
Mihawk stared at where the old man used to be.
Then looked at Bibi.
"..."
Bibi pointed at him.
"IT WASN'T 271K."
The domain pulsed.
"IT WAS SIX MILLION."
The ground cracked. Podiums shook. Every microphone in every direction turned toward Mihawk simultaneously.
"MY PEOPLE," Bibi continued, voice rising like a man who has said this before to larger rooms, "CRAWLED OUT OF HELL."
Mihawk raised his sword.
"911 WASN'T STAGED—"
Mihawk swung.
"—THE THREE BUILDINGS JUST COLLAPSED."
Mihawk swung first.
The sword came down like a geographic event. The kind of swing that has split galleons. Split icebergs.
Bibi stepped left.
A step.
Missed
The blade took a chunk out of the domain floor. Podiums fell. The crack ran thirty feet.
Mihawk looked up.
Bibi was already moving.
His fist caught Mihawk in the chest—
BOOM.
BLACK FLASH.
The impact didn't make a sound immediately. It made a sound about a half second later, like the universe had to think about it first. A deep concussive CRACK that rewrote the air pressure inside the entire domain. Every microphone in every direction shattered simultaneously. The newspaper sky rippled outward from the point of contact like a stone dropped in water.
Mihawk flew back twenty feet and caught himself on a podium that immediately collapsed under him.
He was up before it finished falling.
Outside.
The domain was opaque but they could feel it.
"Oh," Gojo said.
Sukuna had uncrossed his arms. He was leaning forward on the rail. Both hands gripping the wood.
"Is he—" Diddy started.
"Black flash," Sukuna said.
"How many?"
"One so far."
Diddy oiled his shield nervously.
Inside.
Mihawk came back fast. Low. Sword angled in a way that covered three approach vectors simultaneously. A technique that had no name because nobody who'd seen it used twice had needed to name it.
Bibi came straight through the middle of it.
The blade caught his shoulder.Tore fabric. Drew something.
Bibi didn't stop moving.
His elbow came up into Mihawk's jaw. The follow-through spun him. His other hand was already cocked—
BLACK FLASH TWO.
Upward. Under the chin. The impact sent Mihawk vertical, feet leaving the ground, coat snapping — and for one moment the greatest swordsman in the world was horizontal in the air above a collapsing propaganda domain with a look on his face that had never been there before.
He twisted mid-air. Landed on the sword. Used it as an axis. Came back around—
Bibi caught the blade between his palms.
Stopped it dead.
Mihawk pulled. The sword didn't move.
They were six inches apart. Eye to eye.
"You're not a sorcerer," Mihawk said.
"No," Bibi said.
BLACK FLASH THREE — point blank, free hand, directly into Mihawk's sternum.
The sword came free because Mihawk was gone, launched backward, skipping across the domain floor like a stone, tearing through three podiums and a row of microphone stands before he dug the sword in and used it as a brake.
He stopped.
Breathing hard.
For the first time.
Outside the domain the Smart Pirates had gone completely silent.
Even Tchkuna wasn't tapping.
Gojo was sitting up straight. Fully upright. Blindfold pushed up slightly. The way he sits when something has his actual attention and not just the surface of it.
Sukuna said nothing for a long time.
Then: "He's throwing them clean."
"How clean," Gojo said.
"Every single one."
Gojo pushed his blindfold back down.
"Damn," he said.
"DAMN," said Diddy.
"Borgle," said Alien One, quietly.
"Schmorf," said Alien Two, the same way.
Inside.
Mihawk stood. Rolled his neck. Looked across the ruined domain at Bibi.
Then he actually tried.
The sword became light. Mihawk moved at a speed that made the blade appear in four places at once, a web of arcs that closed the distance and covered every angle and had ended fights before the opponent understood they were in one.
Bibi moved through it.
Taking hits that should have been finishing blows on the shoulder, the forearm, the side — taking them and closing the distance anyway because he had decided he was closing the distance and that was simply what was happening now.
Four — grazing shot off the ribs, kept moving.
Five — took one across the back, used the momentum to spin into a hook.
Six — the hook landed and the flash detonated and Mihawk's arm went numb to the elbow.
Seven — before the arm came back Bibi was already on the other side.
Eight — Mihawk spun, sword coming around in a sweep that should have taken him at the knees—
Bibi jumped it. One inch of clearance. Came down with both hands—
NINE. TEN. ELEVEN.
Three consecutive. Same spot. Mihawk's guard. The sound they made was not three sounds. The domain ceiling cracked. The newspaper sky began to fall in chunks. Every headline on the way down read something different and none of it mattered.
Mihawk hit one knee.
Caught himself. Sword in the ground. Head down.
His breathing was audible now.
He looked up.
Bibi stood over him. Jacket torn. Something running down his arm. Expression exactly the same as when he arrived.
He raised his right fist.
"TWELVE," Bibi said.
It wasn't a warning.
The last black flash didn't make a crack. It made silence.
Mihawk went down.
Both knees. Sword the only thing keeping him from the floor. The greatest swordsman in the world, on the ground, in a propaganda domain, beaten by a statesman.
He stayed there.
Bibi straightened his jacket.
Raised his right hand.
Fist curled.
Slow. Deliberate. The pose of a man who came, said what he came to say, and proved it twelve times with his hands.
The domain dissolved around him. Chunk by chunk. Headline by headline.
Bibi got smaller at the edges. The way stein had. Like a receipt left in the sun.
He didn't move. Didn't lower the fist. Didn't change his expression. Just stood there in the dissolving light getting erased one layer at a time, pose completely intact, until the last piece of him was just a raised fist against nothing—
And then that was gone too.
Outside.
Nobody spoke for a while.
Mihawk was on the ground.A Marine walked over. Looked down at him. Looked at where the domain had been. Walked away without saying anything.
That was the correct call.
Sukuna stared at where it had been for a long time.
"Twelve," he said finally.
"Clean," Gojo said.
"Every single one."
Pause.
Sebas walked back from wherever he'd been watching. Got on his barrel. Fixed his cape. Looked out at the water like a captain who had planned all of this.
He had not planned any of this.
"Good fade," Sebas said.
Nobody argued.
Tchkuna's little feet went tap tap tap.
The Smart Pirates sailed away from Marineford with one fewer crew member, no explanation, and the quiet satisfaction of people who had witnessed something they would never be able to describe to anyone who wasn't there.
The Grand Line opened ahead of them.
Tchkuna pointed.
They followed.
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I am not suicidal.
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