Whoom.
Two vast slashes bridged sky and sea, meeting head on. Clouds split like torn cloth. This was not a crash of Conqueror's Haki, but cutting power pure enough to shear the air.
Stray edges peeled off and went hunting. They carved trenches through the island and kept going, hissing over the surf until several unlucky Sea Kings surfaced in two parts, pale bellies up.
Even the men who knew Shanks best stared toward the island's heart in shock. They had seen their captain's sword at work. They knew the strength kept quiet in that easy grin. And yet the man called Hawk-Eye was meeting him stroke for stroke.
Red and green light stained the world. The only sound under the wind was the high clean scream of air being parted.
Steel rang once.
A long black blade thrust from the drifting smoke, its line so keen it looked like it had eyes of its own. One lazy sweep and the fog was gone.
Dracule Mihawk stepped through, short black hair neat, white shirt already darkening where it clung to muscle, hawk eyes flat and calm, Yoru steady in both hands. He looked every inch the swordsman people swore the seas had been saving for a hundred years.
Across from him, a Western blade flashed and a second figure came on with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.
"Incredible swordsmanship, Mihawk," Shanks said.
Then Griffon drew back and the redhead stopped talking. His next stroke came like sunrise, sudden and total. If he could not win in flying slashes, he would take it close and prove it blade to blade.
"You have got to be kidding," someone breathed on the Red Force.
"He is at a disadvantage at range."
"I have never seen anyone push Shanks around in slashes. Not without Haki."
On the rail, Ozz sat with one leg slung over the other and a quiet baby in his arms, watching as if it were a stage show he had seen once before.
"Mihawk's strength is not only in what he throws," he said.
He was right.
Shanks sank his stance and closed hard.
For a heartbeat the crew watching forgot how to breathe. Their eyes filmed red at the edges and their mouths fell open, as if that would help them see the truth of the exchange.
In the center of the field Mihawk waited, both hands on Yoru, eyes fixed on the man charging him. A tiny flex of the knees. The black blade tipped back a fraction.
"Good," he said.
Steel sang.
Two shapes crossed and froze in mirror frames, arms still where they had finished their cuts.
Mihawk looked down first. A red line opened under his left ribs and spread, soaking white to rose to crimson. Not a scratch.
Shanks did not smile.
A beat later a long wound unzipped across his chest and threw a fan of blood forward, soaking his shirt from throat to belt. He stared down, then lifted his head and met the black blade's gaze.
Shock faded. Something steadier took its place, the relief that comes when reality matches the claim on a crown.
"So that is the world's greatest swordsman. Your blade is merciless," he said, and laughed softly. "This one is yours."
…
"Ah, ah, ah…"
"Quit bawling," Shanks said, sitting cross-legged on the deck while three grown men wrapped his chest. He grinned and they wailed louder.
"I am fine. It was technique, not life and death. No point whining when the other man is the best there is."
He thought they were grieving his loss. Lucky Roux and the others were mourning something else. They had spent the last hour hearing Hongo rattle off stories about Ozz. Somewhere between the one about the CP agents and the one about the godawful poker night, the penny dropped.
"This is not about the cut," Benn Beckman said around a cigarette. He explained the wager Ozz had floated while Shanks was off crossing blades.
Shanks' reaction made the earlier shouting sound tame. "What. Oh no."
He clapped a hand over his face. "How could you bet with Ozz. Buggy and I learned that lesson the hard way. Never play games with him. No bets, no contests, no friendly little coin tosses. We never won. Not once."
The deck went quiet for a beat, then several men put their arms around each other like condemned brothers. Beckman sat at the rail and smoked and said nothing. A favor owed to the Black Emperor had no visible due date and no fixed price. It would come when it came.
Ozz watched their faces and let his mouth curl at one corner. He snapped his fingers and bandages leaped from the ship's lockers and wrapped Mihawk from ribs to shoulder until the swordsman looked like a mummy.
"Hey," Hawk-Eye snapped, the vein in his temple ticking. He glared at Ozz. Ozz looked back as if he had done him a kindness.
…
"Party."
If there was one tradition the Red-Haired Pirates had taken whole from the Oro Jackson, it was this. Win or lose, live or survive, throw a feast. Two defeats did not dent the noise.
Cups clattered. Plates went round. Men laughed until the stars pulled closer to hear. Lucky Roux kept sneaking glances at Mihawk, then tried to copy the way he lifted his glass. The swordsman ignored him. He had grown used to monkeys and baboons learning by imitation.
Wound tied and shirt thrown back on, Shanks slung an arm around Ozz and dragged him toward the light.
"Come with us for a while," he said, still bright despite the bandage seeping through at the edges. "With you and Mihawk aboard, the trip will be a riot."
Ozz bounced Uta in one hand, pinched her cheek, and then shook his head. "We cannot stay long. I have somewhere to be."
"Where."
"The East Blue."
Ozz lifted Uta high, and when she squealed he set her carefully into Shanks' arms. The captain froze, surprised by the weight and the trust both.
"I am going to see Buggy," Ozz said.
Shanks' grin bent sideways. "Give him hell for me."
"Always do."
Uta yawned without warning and blinked slow at the lantern light. Shanks tucked her in one elbow, careful of the fresh bandage across his chest, and raised his cup with the other hand.
"To losses that make us better," he said.
The crew roared it back and drank. Mihawk lifted his glass a fraction and let the night hide the smile at the corner of his mouth.
At the far end of the deck Beckman watched Ozz out of the smoke and thought about open wagers and the men who cannot help walking into them because that is what they are. On another rail Ozz watched his friends, old and new, and thought about how easy it was to love a ship you did not belong to.
Somewhere a tired Sea King drifted down into the green dark. Somewhere a rumor began to coil itself into a rule sailors would pass to each other over years.
Never bet with Ozz.
He always pays his debts. He always collects. He never cheats. That is not what makes it terrible. What makes it terrible is that he does it in daylight, smiling, with the whole deck watching, and still you say yes.
Ozz laughed at something Shanks said and clinked his cup against the redhead's and briefly, just briefly, let himself imagine what it would be like if he stayed. Then he handed the thought back to the sea.
"Drink," Lucky Roux shouted.
They did.
The Red Force turned slow under the stars. The island behind them went quiet and small. The East waited where the dawn would be, and a clown with a bad temper and a big heart was about to have company.
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