In the shallow, swift-moving river, Sanji and Heaby faced off, their glares locked. A tense air hung between them—not just as enemies, but fueled by a ridiculous clash of male pride. It was a petty rivalry, yet both were deadly serious, with no hint of jest.
The rushing water lapped at their ankles, unnoticed. Heaby spoke first.
"You seem somewhat skilled, but you can't beat me. Know why?"
With a swift flick, Heaby swung his jointed sword, its tip slicing through the air, carving rock and water effortlessly, creating a fleeting arc of spray. His skill was undeniable.
Sanji's expression didn't waver. Unimpressed by the water or gouged rock, he fixed Heaby with a cold stare.
Heaby smirked, expecting fear. No one had ever bested his swordsmanship—an invincible technique, he believed. Confident a weaponless man couldn't stop him, he boasted, "I'm stronger. I've fought countless swordsmen, and none surpassed my blade. Not one. Apologize now, and I might let you go—"
"Don't care," Sanji cut in, ruffling his wet hair, his quiet anger simmering. "How strong you are doesn't matter. What bugs me is a delusional jerk like you acting like a ladies' man!"
"What? Acting?!" Heaby snapped.
"Before I kick you to pieces, let's be clear: I'm the real charmer!" Sanji declared.
Heaby's claim of never letting women escape had sparked this odd rivalry. Sanji's eyes blazed with unprecedented fervor.
"'Acting' is an insult," Heaby retorted. "I am a ladies' man—way cooler than you."
"Where?!" Sanji shot back. "I don't lose to you in anything!"
"My face beats yours 10-0," Heaby sneered.
"Joke's on you! It's 100-0 in my favor!" Sanji roared.
"Don't flatter yourself! Those swirly brows can't win a woman's heart!"
"Look who's talking! That hairstyle and long chin aren't winning any prizes!"
"Yet I'm irresistible! I win!"
"Shut up! You're just a lonely guy deluded into thinking he's popular!"
"Such an insult! Just because your swirly brows scare women off!"
"I'm way more popular! Far more than you!"
To an outsider, it was a pointless argument. Their bickering escalated, forgetting the original conflict over Chopper. Determining who was more charming here was impossible—so strength would settle it.
"Enough of your lip!" Heaby growled. "I'll make you understand with skill!"
"Try it, jerk. I doubt you can," Sanji taunted.
Heaby swung his sword with finesse, its reach targeting Sanji from a distance. Confident in his advantage, he extended the blade without moving closer. The weapon moved swiftly, its path unpredictable.
The sword clattered, snaking toward Sanji, who dodged with a light sidestep.
Heaby wasn't fazed—many had dodged his first strike. But dodging didn't mean escaping. With a flick of his wrist, the blade writhed like a serpent, chasing Sanji with erratic twists, defying its initial trajectory.
The tip curled as if to ensnare him, its unpredictability the key. Few could react to such sudden shifts, lulled by dodging the first blow. As Sanji's eyes tracked the blade, it was inches away. Heaby grinned triumphantly.
"I'll tear you to shreds!" he shouted.
But Sanji kicked the ground hard, splashing water as he leapt upward. The sword's encircling attack left the air above open, and Sanji's split-second judgment and speed stunned Heaby. Spinning midair, Sanji landed gracefully.
Heaby swung again, aiming to slice with the blade's rock-cutting edge. One hit would ensure victory. But Sanji ducked effortlessly, the blade grazing the wall as Heaby yanked it back in haste.
That moment of panic was fatal. Sanji seized the opening, kicking off the ground to close the distance at blinding speed—faster than Heaby could fathom.
In an instant, Sanji was close enough to touch. Heaby froze, and Sanji's right leg swung.
The leaping kick, fueled by momentum, delivered unimaginable pain. Heaby gasped, too late to react, as his body soared through the air.
"Flanchet Shoot!" Sanji called.
"Dobufo?!" Heaby choked.
Unable to brace, Heaby crashed onto his back, splashing water as he rolled. When he stopped, Sanji's expression remained sour. That kick was a mere graze by his standards—not serious. But Heaby, clutching his stomach, staggered to his feet, already wobbling.
"Ugh…!" he groaned.
"What's wrong? That all you got?" Sanji taunted, his icy gaze piercing.
Heaby felt belittled. Sanji had dodged and struck effortlessly, as if it were natural. Panic rising, Heaby lost his composure, his caution growing.
In desperation, Heaby attacked again, his blade howling overhead. Sanji judged it no threat, sidestepping lightly, unfazed by the speed. He felt neither fear nor anger—just disappointment.
Heaby, sensing disdain in Sanji's eyes, grew frantic, swinging wildly. "Uoooaah!"
The blade slashed freely, but Sanji's resolve didn't waver. "I said, is that all?"
Despite Heaby's focus, he couldn't track Sanji. Slipping through the frenzied strikes, Sanji's foot was suddenly before Heaby's face, landing before he could react.
"Collier!" Sanji shouted.
"Obu?!" Heaby grunted.
The kick's force sent Heaby crashing, his head slamming the ground. Coughing up swallowed water, he raised his face in panic as Sanji loomed, leg raised.
"Épaule!"
"Bu?!"
Another blow. Crawling on all fours, Heaby collapsed again, his face hitting the ground, nose bleeding from the sharp pain.
Two hits left him dazed. Sanji waited, bored, muttering, "Never lost? So you only fought weaker guys."
"Don't mock me! My true power's coming!" Heaby gasped.
"Then you're even worse. Don't boast if you can't fight seriously from the start."
Heaby pulled his blade back, readying his true swordsmanship. But Sanji's kick struck first.
"Côtelette! Selle!"
"Guoh?! Ooh…?!"
Two swift kicks rocked Heaby, who barely stood, consciousness fading, teetering dangerously. Sanji turned away, delivering a final barrage of powerful sobats.
"Mouton Shot!"
Heaby, unconscious, couldn't defend. The kicks sent him crashing into the rock wall, embedding him without falling into the river.
The fight ended without fanfare. Victory was expected—an easy win. Sanji sighed, realizing his soaked cigarettes were useless, and muttered, "Too bad. Even that directionless idiot swordsman's better than you."
Smirking, he walked off, adding, "Also, I'm way more charming."
With no further interest, he scanned for a way up, his mood oddly lighter.
Zoro and Hotdog faced off, each waiting for the other's move. Hotdog drew a weapon from his waist—a spiked flail attached to a long chain, suggesting ranged attacks. Yet his build screamed close combat.
Zoro dismissed the thought. Whatever Hotdog's style, he wouldn't lose. Removing the bandana from his arm, he tied it around his head, focus sharpening. The ritual brought a unique clarity.
Hotdog's weapon intrigued him. He'd been itching to cut iron, and this was a perfect chance. A wicked grin spread across his face.
"Why're you grinning? Scared silly?" Hotdog taunted.
"Nah. Just had something annoying me earlier," Zoro replied.
He drew his swords—two in his hands, one in his mouth. No probing this time; he wanted it over quickly. Power surged through him, like a beast ready to pounce.
"Sorry, but this might just be stress relief. Try to make it interesting," Zoro said.
"Don't underestimate me! You'll regret that!" Hotdog growled.
Silently, Hotdog stepped back, shifting his stance. Zoro caught the subtle move, sensing an attack. As expected, Hotdog hurled the flail, aiming for Zoro's head. With a swift swing, Zoro deflected it with both swords.
He'd aimed to slice it, but the flail only scratched. Despite the successful block, Zoro frowned.
"That's nothing!" Hotdog roared, yanking the chain to swing the flail wildly, stirring a fierce wind. A hit would be devastating, yet Zoro watched calmly.
Hotdog threw again, a straightforward attack. Zoro deflected it upward, unmoved. The pattern repeated—throw, deflect, throw, deflect. Hotdog's confidence, or perhaps laziness, kept him repeating the same move. Zoro's expression soured.
The monotony wasn't the only issue. Each deflection carried Zoro's full intent to cut the iron, yet it barely scratched. Iron wasn't easy to slice, he realized, treating the fight as training.
Finally, Hotdog changed tactics, discarding the flail and charging. Closing in, he swung a powerful heel drop.
Zoro's eyes locked on, cold yet eager, as if relieved. "Smash you!" Hotdog bellowed.
Zoro stepped back, dodging as the kick shattered the ground. Unimpressed, he'd seen worse.
"My kicks break iron!" Hotdog boasted. "One hit, and you're done!"
"Iron, huh…" Zoro muttered, dodging a flurry of kicks. They weren't fast or frightening, lacking impact despite Hotdog's size. Bored, Zoro stopped moving.
Seizing the moment, Hotdog leapt, spinning to deliver another heel drop.
"This is it!"
A few steps aside, and Zoro evaded. As Hotdog fell, Zoro jumped, closing in midair. Hotdog, shocked, realized too late his momentum-based attack couldn't adjust.
The moment decided the fight. As they crossed, Zoro unleashed a triple-sword slash.
"Crab Pincer Strike!"
"Gaaah?!"
Hotdog's chest was slashed deeply, blood spraying despite his muscled frame. Crashing onto his back, pain wracked his chest and back, shock stealing his composure. Fear of death erased his bravado.
Landing smoothly, Zoro stood with his back to Hotdog—not intentionally, just how he landed. Hotdog saw an opening, but Zoro didn't budge.
Zoro's mind was elsewhere—how to cut iron? His serious attempt had failed, confirming his training was lacking. As he pondered, Hotdog rose, charging for a final chance.
"Iron's tough to cut…" Zoro mused.
"You showed your back! Die!" Hotdog roared, swinging a massive kick.
"Give it up. I gave you your last chance," Zoro said.
Despite moving later, Zoro was faster. His slash struck first.
"Dragon Twister!"
"Gyaaah?!"
Spinning, Zoro's slash tore through Hotdog, sending his massive body flying, blood spraying. Unconscious, he crashed headfirst, limp on the ground.
Zoro sheathed his swords without savoring the victory, roughly removing his bandana. "World's strongest, iron-breaking kicks? Nice claim. It's free to say. But some guys out there kick harder—annoying as he is…"
Wrapping the bandana around his arm, he strode off. Hotdog wasn't worth more words, likely unconscious. Zoro glanced around casually.
"Now, gotta find Usopp and Chopper. Where'd those idiots go? Lost again? Gotta track 'em down," he muttered, sighing. He didn't dwell on his own situation.
"We came from the south, so east next. Right, then," he said, turning right.
But he was wrong on every count. The Merry was docked on the island's east, meaning they came from there, and Zoro was heading north. Oblivious to his errors, the chronically directionless swordsman wandered off, doomed to get lost again.
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