The air in the living room was so thick with tension it felt like it had been sucked dry. Not far away, the two young maids and Perona had wide eyes, their gossip-loving souls burning brightly.
For the first time since he had arrived, a look of utter bewilderment appeared in Mihawk's sharp, hawk-like eyes. He genuinely wondered if there was something wrong with his hearing, or perhaps, with the other man's brain.
Be his… crew?
A surge of anger mixed with pure absurdity rose from his chest. His fingers tightened around the teacup, his knuckles turning white. However, just as he was about to voice his outrage, a bizarre thought wormed its way into his mind. Aaron Kyle is a relic from the old era, an elder of the Roger Pirates… in terms of seniority and age, it almost makes sense…
No! Mihawk shook his head abruptly, banishing the ridiculous thought. What was he even thinking? He had come here for a duel at the pinnacle of swordsmanship, not to play some childish family game. He placed the teacup down on the table with a sharp clink, breaking the suffocating silence.
"Mr. Kyle," he said seriously, his voice a few shades deeper than before. "Please do not make such jokes."
"Sigh…" Hearing this, Kyle let out a sigh full of genuine regret and slumped back into the sofa. "What a pity. It seems Whitebeard's method still relies too much on technique."
This completely random remark made the serious words Mihawk had carefully prepared get stuck in his throat once again. He found himself utterly unable to keep up with this man's erratic train of thought. Beside him, Sakura and Rin secretly exchanged glances before lowering their heads in perfect sync, their shoulders shaking as they tried to stifle their laughter.
Seeing Mihawk's icy expression on the verge of cracking, Kyle finally stopped his teasing. "Alright, alright," he said, waving his hand. "Since you don't agree, we'll change the condition." He sat up straight, a hint of appreciation flashing in his golden eyes. "It's simple: we fight. If you lose, you have to work for me for a while."
Work? The word was far more normal than "be my son," but coming from this man, it still felt strange.
Kyle was already doing the math in his head. Who wouldn't want a self-reliant great swordsman who can cook, never gets lost, and has a cool, aloof personality? He's got the looks, the power, and is full of gravitas. He doesn't just have top-tier swordsmanship; his life skills are maxed out. He lives alone in that giant castle and keeps it tidy, which means he can cook, clean, and maybe even farm! Such a perfect tool—ahem, partner—who looks good, fights well, and even comes with a built-in GPS… he's a must-have.
Mihawk fell silent. Ultimately, his yearning for the ultimate path of the sword overshadowed everything else. The chance to clash with the man who had sliced through Marineford, to witness that power with his own eyes… for that, sacrificing a period of his freedom seemed like a small price to pay. Besides, he didn't necessarily believe he would lose.
"Very well. I agree," Mihawk finally responded in a deep voice.
"Excellent!" Kyle snapped his fingers, a satisfied smile on his face. "Then it's settled. Tomorrow morning, Abandoned Island Number Three on the east side of the archipelago. Sakura, Rin, please prepare a guest room for our new companion."
"Yes, Lord Kyle!" the two girls replied happily.
Mihawk felt like he had just been thoroughly played.
The next day, at dawn.
Abandoned Island Number Three was a desolate place, covered with jagged rocks and sparse vegetation. The sea wind howled across the landscape, carrying a cool, salty chill. Kyle arrived in his usual relaxed manner, wearing a casual shirt and shorts with his hands in his pockets, looking less like he was here for a duel and more like he was out for a morning stroll.
Across from him, Mihawk had already drawn the black blade from his back. The moment "Yoru," one of the Twelve Supreme Grade Swords, was in his hand, Mihawk's entire aura changed. The aloof atmosphere from the previous night was torn away, replaced by a towering, razor-sharp intent. He was no longer the awkward young swordsman from the living room; he was a true challenger, ready to ascend to the world's summit. The tip of the black blade pointed diagonally toward the ground, its dark surface reflecting no light, as if it could devour everything.
"Aaron Kyle!" Mihawk's voice cut through the sound of the wind, filled with a fervent battle intent. "As a swordsman, my lifelong pursuit is to stand upon the supreme throne! Today, with all that I am, I will challenge the height where you now stand!"
"Oh, bravo! Full of spirit!" Kyle clapped twice. He glanced at the weapon he had brought—the massive, dark-gold naginata, "Nidhogg." It was a blade, but not the same as the sword in Mihawk's hand. A duel between swordsmen was about skill in close quarters. Bringing a ten-foot-long polearm felt a bit like bullying a kid.
Thinking this, Kyle casually plunged Nidhogg into the ground beside him. With a heavy thud, the massive weapon was buried deep in the rocky earth, its blade still humming. Mihawk's eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of surprise on his face. What does he mean by this?
"Sorry about that," Kyle chuckled, spreading his hands. "This is a sword duel, and it wouldn't be fair to use that thing. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a smaller… ahem, more suitable blade."
Before he finished speaking, he did something Mihawk never expected. Kyle's right hand moved to his waist, striking a pose as if drawing a sword from an invisible scabbard. The moment his hand moved, the surrounding light and shadow seemed to be pulled by the motion, converging and twisting toward his palm. The air hissed, and an invisible pressure spread out, ruffling Mihawk's clothes.
Light and shadow shifted, and the pressure dissipated. When everything returned to normal, a magnificent Western longsword was held quietly in Kyle's hand. It had a golden cruciform guard engraved with intricate, ancient patterns. The blade was long and straight, gleaming with a sharp, cold light, as if it carried the glory and legend of a bygone era.
The moment he saw the blade, Mihawk's hawk-like eyes, usually as still as an ancient well, constricted to pinpricks. As a master swordsman, he could feel the "breath" emanating from that blade—a unique imprint left on a weapon by a peerless warrior who had poured his Haki and his very life into it for years.
Kyle gave the sword a casual twirl, its edge cutting through the air with a clear, ringing sound. He looked at the solemn expression on Mihawk's face, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips.
"Come on, young man," he said.
"Its name is 'Ace'."
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