The Nameless Cloak undulated around Mihawk like dark smoke given form as he walked the dirt path through Syrup Village. Villagers who spotted him didn't linger; they slipped past without a word, eyes down, steps quick.
As opposed to Shells Town, where residents hadn't spared him a second glance.
Unbothered, he absorbed the scene ahead. The village sprawled in pastoral innocence, thatched cottages scattered across rolling green hills like wildflowers. Warm yellow walls and cheerful blue shutters remained untouched by shadow. Wooden fences wound between the homes, dividing small gardens where vegetables grew in neat, orderly rows. On the highest hill, a grand mansion's cream walls rose against the falling sun.
The placid environment drew him forward along the lane toward his first destination: Meshi, a quaint restaurant nestled among the cottages that matched the village's rustic ease. Stone walls supported a steep thatched roof, the ridge patched with weathered straw beside a tall brick chimney. Three red-framed windows lined the side wall, and above the entrance hung a wooden placard.
Mihawk committed every detail of the village to memory. These were new memories worth keeping. Not like the ones he'd gathered in his past life when entering a new location: routes and exits, lines of sight and blind spots, guards and their rhythms, cover he could slip behind, and tools at hand that could turn into weapons.
Wonder replaced that old, calculating checklist when he stopped outside Meshi. Thatch rustled in the breeze, releasing the dry scent of straw mixed with woodsmoke. Smooth stone steps bore the wear of countless visitors over many years.
Navy-blue double doors stood two meters away, their paint faded by years of saline air. Above them, a wooden sign displayed carefully carved letters. Small window panes caught the light, set in frames painted with warm tones.
This experience carried his attention to the surrounding sounds: laughter down the lane, a door hinge creaking, insects busy over the garden plots.
He let it all settle, detail by detail, until it held.
Next, he crossed the distance and pulled open one of the doors.
Warmth enveloped him as he entered, together with the savory scents of cooked food and the gentle sounds of conversation and clinking cutlery. Inside, tall, pale green partitions divided the tables into semi-private booths along the windowed wall.
At the far left, behind the counter, an old man sat in a wooden rocking chair. He held a newspaper in his hands, reading intently. Behind him, stone walls were lined with pots, shelves of dishes, and cooking implements. Though thin and deeply lined, he appeared comfortable in his rust-colored shirt beneath a dark apron, his long grey hair neatly pulled back and a long-stemmed pipe resting between his lips.
When the door clicked shut behind him, the old man barely glanced up from his newspaper with disinterest; the patrons in their booths, however, began whispering among themselves as he approached the counter.
"How can I help you?" the old man asked.
"I'm looking for a young man named Usopp."
A heavy silence settled over the restaurant. Even the old man looked up with a troubled expression, shook his head, and returned to his paper.
With the old man now silent and the patrons' eyes fixed on their plates, Mihawk left and made his way toward the one person he expected would willingly shed light on what had transpired.
As for Zora, he'd have no trouble finding her after she set out for Syrup Village. He could either rely on his Observation Haki or use one of the new abilities the Fate Parchment had gained after he formed the Sacred Covenant with her.
☠ ☠ ☠
Zora's eyes opened to the sight of the skiff's interior. The first sensation that hit her was the soreness in the back of her neck, followed by the realization of her body's awkward position.
She pushed herself up onto her knees with a groan. As she shifted, her fingernails dug into the wooden deck while memories of their encounter flooded her mind. How could it be possible? It couldn't be right! There was no way the difference in their abilities was so vast – the world's strongest swordsman couldn't be so far beyond her reach... he had ended their duel with a single strike from his sheath before she could even swing.
The devastating reality sank in as she slowly got to her feet, working the soreness from her neck. Her katanas lay placed neatly beside where she'd fallen.
Shame coursed through her as she secured her weapons. Such a disgraceful defeat! Even worse was the pose she had landed in – one he clearly got a full view of.
Her face warmed at the thought.
But her embarrassment rapidly transformed into something fierce. She hadn't pursued swordsmanship for all these years to be bested by the sheath of what looked like a toy knife. Worse still was that damned smug expression he wore throughout their entire encounter. She cursed under her breath as anger consumed any remaining shame.
These matters all demanded confrontation. Looking around the empty skiff, she realized he was nowhere to be found. Then she remembered he'd mentioned their destination: Syrup Village.
Zora looked up at the slope ahead and decided she'd head there to have words with him.
Before stepping off the boat, she remembered the stuffed cloth sack that Mihawk had kept by his side. Curious, she made her way around the central mast to the prow.
A quick glance revealed the sack's absence. In its place, a note was stuffed into a hole that hadn't been in the skiff's bottom before.
She retrieved the note and read the brief but cutting message: 'Zora's Task: Take a bath. Your current state is unacceptable.'
Leaving orders for her like she was some servant? The fact he'd taken the time to write them out, complete with her name, only made it worse. Or maybe it was worse that he'd carved a hole in their boat. She hadn't decided yet.
Zora crumpled the paper in her fist. "I'm going to kill him one day."