Perona burst into laughter, a shrill sound that echoed through the room. "Hihihi! Test him? You mean thrash him, right!" she teased, floating after Mihawk as he headed for the door. "Poor Zoro, he's gonna get wrecked again!"
Mihawk didn't reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly—a reaction Leo allowed, amused by her jab. He descended the mansion's spiral staircase and stepped out into Kuraigana's damp, misty air.
The forest stretched before him, a maze of gnarled trunks and thick ferns, haunted by the cries of Humandrills. Leo guided Mihawk's body with confidence, his sharpened senses already picking up the distant sounds of combat—metal clashing, guttural grunts, and the snap of breaking branches.
He soon reached a clearing where Zoro trained, drenched in sweat and panting. The green-haired swordsman was surrounded by the fallen bodies of defeated Humandrills, his three swords still in hand, his headband soaked with perspiration. His taut muscles quivered from exertion, but his eyes blazed with fierce determination.
Through Mihawk's eyes, Leo felt a surge of admiration—a mix of professional respect and pure fanboy excitement.
This guy's a beast, he thought. And I'm making him even stronger than in the canon. Too cool!
Mihawk stepped forward, his imposing presence silencing the forest's noises. Zoro looked up, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Master," he growled, his voice rough but respectful, though laced with his usual cockiness.
Leo, in Mihawk's mind, took a deep mental breath.
Okay, badass moment.
Then, in a cold, cutting tone, Mihawk spoke: "You're improving, Roronoa. Your effort is commendable. But it's not enough." He took another step, his golden eyes sizing Zoro up like he was appraising a blade. "Attack me. Now. Like you mean to kill me."
Zoro frowned, his breathing still uneven. He stabbed his swords into the ground for a moment, crossing his arms with a hint of defiance. "Fine by me, but you didn't bring your blade," he said, casting a skeptical glance at Yoru, absent from Mihawk's belt. "You planning to fight barehanded or what?"
Mihawk reached into an inner pocket of his shirt and pulled out an unexpected object—a small kitchen knife, its worn blade barely larger than a penknife. He held it between two fingers, brandishing it with disarming nonchalance. "This," he said, his voice dripping with feigned disdain, "is still enough to put you in your place."
Zoro's eyes widened, a mix of shock and outrage flashing across his face. "A kitchen knife?" he snarled, his voice pitching up in disbelief. "Are you screwing with me?"
Inside Mihawk's head, Leo was giddy.
Oh, this is so Mihawk! Too iconic!
But outwardly, Mihawk remained stone-faced, his smirk widening just a touch. "Prove me wrong," he replied, his voice an icy whisper. "Attack."
Zoro gritted his teeth, his hands tightening around his sword hilts.
Three months had passed since Zoro set foot on this grim island, three months under Mihawk's—or rather, Leo's—merciless tutelage, which had turned this training into a brutal forge to hone an already exceptional blade. Armament Haki, still raw and wild, pulsed in Zoro's hands, a weapon he was beginning to master thanks to the iron discipline his mentor enforced.
Zoro's fingers clenched around Wado Ichimonji, Shusui, and Sandai Kitetsu.
Without a word, Zoro lunged forward. He unleashed a lightning-fast strike—Oni Giri—his three swords carving deadly arcs through the air, their blades glinting under the grayish light filtering through the trees. Armament Haki coated his weapons in an uneven black sheen, a raw but imperfect power thrumming with wild energy. The blow aimed for Mihawk's chest, a slash that would've cleaved an ordinary man into three pieces.
But Mihawk didn't budge an inch. With an almost lazy flick, he raised the kitchen knife, its tiny, worn blade meeting the three swords with supernatural precision. A deafening CLANG rang through the forest, followed by a shockwave that rustled the surrounding ferns. Zoro's swords, despite their Haki-enhanced might, stopped dead against the little knife, as if hitting an invisible wall. Inside Mihawk's mind, Leo felt a rush of pure adrenaline.
Holy crap, this is too awesome! he thought, awestruck by how effortlessly Mihawk's body turned this taunt into a display of dominance.
Zoro grunted under the strain, his muscles bulging as he pushed against Mihawk's unyielding resistance. "Tch… You're not even fighting for real!" he spat, leaping back to catch his breath, swords poised for another strike.
Mihawk tilted his head slightly, his smirk growing. "And you're not taking me seriously," he replied, his voice a chilling murmur. "Attack like your life depends on it, Roronoa. Or this knife will cost you an arm."
Those words lit a fire in Zoro's eyes. He roared, launching another assault—Tora Gari—his swords now aiming for Mihawk's throat and legs in a pincer move. Armament Haki crackled around his blades, more stable than before but still tinged with raw ferocity. The swords whistled through the air, swift as predators, ready to tear through flesh and bone.
Mihawk, still rooted in place, sidestepped at the last second, his body flowing with inhuman grace. The kitchen knife sliced through the air in a clean line, striking Shusui's flat with unexpected force. The impact threw off Zoro's attack, unbalancing him slightly, and in the same fluid motion, Mihawk pivoted, his elbow slamming into the swordsman's chest. Zoro flew backward, his boots gouging ruts in the dirt as he fought to stay upright. A pained grunt escaped him, but he straightened up instantly.
Through Mihawk, Leo was inwardly ecstatic.
He tanks like a monster! And that Haki… It's already better than I expected.
But outwardly, Mihawk remained merciless. "Weak," he snapped, his voice cutting like a blade. "You strike like a child swinging sticks. Again."
TO BE CONTINUED...
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