Chapter 52 – The Swordsman
Thud...
Thud...
Thud...
Violent sword slashes ripped through the uninhabited island, tearing the ground apart. Trees were uprooted, grass shredded, and even the towering mountain at the island's heart began to crack under the weight of the overwhelming power unleashed.
Even the clouds above were split in two, as if the air itself had been torn open by the shockwaves from their clash.
The rumbling lasted for half a day before silence finally returned to the devastated island.
Tachibana Kyūjō stepped forward, his right hand coated in advanced Busoshoku Haki, gripping tightly onto his signature black blade—Rairyūken, the Black Dragon Sword—its dark sheen resonating with his aura.
He stopped just a few steps away from the man who, though bloodied and battered, still stood tall—Dracule Mihawk.
"This battle is over, Mihawk," Kyūjō said calmly. "You've lost."
Mihawk, his breath heavy, locked eyes with him. His expression remained unreadable as he replied,
"I'm still on my feet. How is that a loss?"
Kyūjō shook his head slowly. "You really don't see it? The gap between our strength is obvious. I haven't even gone all out."
Mihawk's face didn't change. Silently, he raised Yoru, his obsidian-black sword, now wrapped once again in Haki. He pointed it forward, his grip unwavering.
"A swordsman who fears his own blade or fears death has no right to call himself a swordsman. Dying in battle—there is no finer end."
Before Kyūjō could answer, Mihawk dashed forward, unleashing one last desperate swing with every ounce of strength he had left.
Light and shadow flashed violently.
In the blink of an eye, they had passed each other.
They stood back-to-back, unmoving.
Then—clang!
Yoru spun through the air, knocked from Mihawk's grasp by the force of Rairyūken. It arced high before landing blade-first in the ground some distance away.
Mihawk's hands trembled uncontrollably, the blow having carved shockwaves through his arms. Yet, he didn't flinch. He turned, spreading his arms wide and shouted,
"A wound on the back is a disgrace for a swordsman! Do it! Strike me down!"
"...Hah," Kyūjō chuckled under his breath, a faint twitch forming on his temple.
What is this guy even saying?
You're Dracule Mihawk, not Roronoa Zoro. What—are you hoping I'll slash your chest and help you become some kind of tragic legend too?
Just as he was about to humor that ridiculous idea, Kyūjō froze.
A thought struck him like lightning.
These past few days, he'd been struggling to figure out how to save Fisher Tiger. The distance was too great, and he couldn't risk exposing himself to the World Government. It was a complicated mess.
But now—a plan began to form.
What if Mihawk delivered Fisher Tiger to the New World for him?
With Kyūjō protecting them in secret, the World Government wouldn't dare make a move unless they wanted to expose their hidden weapons or forbidden powers.
Besides... there was another issue aboard Fisher Tiger's ship.
Arlong.
That slimy shark had dared to hurt Nami.
Turning him into fish stew would honestly be too kind.
Having made up his mind, Kyūjō sheathed Rairyūken, a blade worthy of the title Saijō Ō Wazamono, and with the calm of a ninja from a neighboring nation, activated his strongest move—
"Verbal Assault."
"Oi! What the hell do you think you're doing?! You want me to kill you just because you lost once? What kind of swordsman are you if you give up like that?"
"If swordsmen quit every time they lost, our way of life would've died out ages ago!"
"You're one of the greatest swordsmen of this era, Mihawk! Your choices don't just affect you—they shape the next generation! The ones who look up to you!"
"If they lose hope because of your words, then you will be the one who killed the spirit of swordsmanship!"
"You, Mihawk, will be remembered not as a legend—but as the man who made swordsmen go extinct. Still want me to kill you?!"
Mihawk: "..."
Well... that escalated quickly.
He hadn't realized his death could trigger the downfall of an entire profession.
And with Kyūjō delivering that whole speech so passionately...
...he really didn't feel like dying anymore.
— — —
Later, in the mess hall of Marine Base G-11 on Malt Island...
Tachibana Kyūjō and Mihawk sat across from each other at a long table, enjoying a feast made from Sea King meat.
Kyūjō sipped on orange juice. Mihawk, ever the refined one, enjoyed a glass of dry red wine.
After downing his drink in one gulp, Kyūjō glanced at Mihawk and asked,
"Mihawk. I just saved your life, right? So I was wondering—can I ask a tiny favor?"
Mihawk gave him a tired look.
"Calling not killing me a rescue... Sure, why not."
"What do you need?"
Kyūjō gave a sly smile, then leaned in and whispered his plan about rescuing Fisher Tiger.
— — —
Mihawk raised an eyebrow.
"You—a Marine—want to save a World Government fugitive? A Fish-Man?"
Kyūjō shook his head.
"Nope. Not me. That's all you, Dracule Mihawk. Has absolutely nothing to do with Admiral Candidate Tachibana Kyūjō of the Marines."
Mihawk: "..."
This man is absurd.
He's scared to go against the World Government himself—so he's pushing the job onto me?
Even if Mihawk wasn't particularly loyal to the Government, it still felt... slightly insulting.
Still, in the end, he agreed.
After all, Kyūjō had saved his life.
And he, Dracule Mihawk, was a man who sailed the seas alone.
A man who rowed through the Grand Line using a sword.
Whatever lay ahead, he would never turn back.
— — —
A few days later...
Kyūjō and Mihawk stayed on Malt Island together, exchanging philosophies on swordsmanship, sparring lightly to test each other's resolve and technique.
Their duels were no longer battles of dominance, but reflections of spirit.
After a week of hospitality and discussions, Mihawk finally boarded his personal ship and set sail—toward a new mission, and a new path carved by the words of a fellow swordsman.
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