The golden short swords raining from the heavens showed no sign of slowing. They descended relentlessly toward Mihawk, whose sharp eyes widened, heart pounding like a storm in his chest.
The sword technique that Thorne Ashveil once described… it's magnificent, he thought, a faint smile curling on his lips. But in his hands—it surpasses imagination itself.
Mihawk gritted his teeth, every muscle in his arms quivering as he struggled to block the attack.
"I've done everything I can… and yet, I can't stop this technique," he murmured. He exhaled slowly—calm, accepting.
"To die by such a sword… as a swordsman, that is an honor beyond words."
A faint, wistful smile touched his face. "It's only a pity… I won't get to discuss swordsmanship with Ashveil again."
As that thought crossed his mind, the colossal character for "death" seemed to flash before his eyes. The storm of golden blades descended like divine judgment.
Even the World's Greatest Swordsman closed his eyes, waiting for fate's blade. The world held its breath. Every spectator stood frozen, hearts pounding in disbelief.
Time itself seemed to halt—because everyone knew: Dracule Mihawk, the greatest swordsman alive, was about to fall to another man's sword.
But in that instant—Thorne Ashveil vanished.
The golden blades were less than a meter from Mihawk when Ashveil reappeared before him.
Boom!
A hundred golden short swords crashed upon Ashveil's shimmering Conqueror's Haki barrier. Ripples of molten gold spread outward, humming with a deep, resonant tone that shook the air.
The ground beneath him fractured and caved in from the overwhelming force.
When the blinding light finally receded, Mihawk opened his eyes. His pupils contracted in disbelief. Ashveil had taken the full impact—of his own technique.
"The only man alive who can withstand Thorne Ashveil's attacks…" Doflamingo's voice trembled, "…is Thorne Ashveil himself."
"What a monster," Ace whispered, eyes wide. "He combined absolute offense… with absolute defense. That shouldn't even be possible."
Whitebeard crossed his massive arms, silent, unreadable.
Mihawk swallowed, his voice raw. "Ashveil…"
Ashveil merely smirked, relaxing his stance as the golden aura faded from his body.
"Hey, Mihawk. Looks like I win again. Don't bother me for the rest of the day," he said, tone light but exhausted.
Mihawk's lips curved faintly. Once again, Ashveil had saved him—guided him in the way of the sword, and now shielded him from death itself.
"Fine," Mihawk said, regaining composure. "But tomorrow, I'll come find you again to discuss swordsmanship."
Ashveil groaned, rubbing his temples. "Do whatever you want. Just… let me rest for one day."
Turning to the stunned Whitebeard Pirates, Ashveil's voice sharpened like a command.
"Stop gawking! Set sail—before this island sinks!"
The pirates jolted back to life. The ground beneath them was cracked, molten, and trembling—the island moments away from collapsing into the sea.
They scrambled to evacuate, dragging Mihawk and Ashveil toward the ship.
Moments after they reached a safe distance offshore, the island let out a final roar and sank beneath the waves.
Even aboard the ship, the air thrummed with awe and disbelief.
Marco strode over, clapping Ashveil on the shoulder with a grin.
"Ashveil, even the World's Greatest Swordsman couldn't match your strike. You're terrifying—in the best way!"
He laughed. "Also, thanks for that win—I made a fortune off it! A million Berries easy! Drinks are on me when we get back!"
Ashveil gave him a tired, unamused look. "You're insufferable, Marco."
As the crew continued their excited chatter, Ashveil sighed, slipping away once they docked. By the time he reached his quarters, his patience had run dry. He fell face-first onto his bed.
"Sigh… I really hate fighting. Why can't I just live quietly for once?"
Stuffing cotton in his ears, he finally drifted into a deep sleep.
---
Meanwhile, the base bustled with noise and gossip.
Boa Hancock, who had been tending to Ashveil's chambers during the battle, now stood amidst the others—head held high, her presence radiating regal pride.
Her voice, soft yet commanding, broke through the noise.
"Dracule Mihawk," she said, her tone edged with disbelief and curiosity. "Are you saying Ashveil defeated you in a single move? You bear not even a scratch."
Mihawk glanced away, but before he could answer, Marco cut in with wild enthusiasm.
"You wouldn't believe it, Hancock! Ashveil unleashed a technique so powerful even Whitebeard said he might not survive it!"
Hancock arched a graceful brow, skepticism glimmering in her eyes.
"You're exaggerating."
"Nope," Marco insisted. "When those golden swords were about to hit Mihawk, Ashveil used some kind of spatial ability—appeared right in front of him and took the entire thing himself!"
He gestured animatedly, excitement spilling over. "The whole island shattered! Light everywhere! I swear, it was like watching a god at work!"
The others nodded fervently, still awestruck.
Hancock's lips curved—not into a giddy smile. Her usual arrogance did not fade, but the faintest warmth flickered beneath it.
She tilted her chin slightly, eyes glinting with admiration and something dangerously close to affection.
"Hmph. As expected of Thorne Ashveil," she said, voice proud and melodic. "Even his strength carries the grace of a king."
She turned away, her long hair flowing like silk behind her. "It is only natural for a queen to recognize the worth of one such as him."
Yet as she walked off, her expression softened ever so slightly, her voice barely a whisper—
"Thorne Ashveil… even your strength is beautiful."
______
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