It's officially over! ⚔️🖤
As Mihawk in One Piece has reached its final chapter, bringing this journey to an end at 159 chapters on P@treon.
But don't worry—this isn't goodbye.
More stories are on going and more are coming!
Stay Tune !
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The Kingdom of Veridia, nestled atop rugged mountains accessible only by guarded passes or by sea, was a small independent state living in t
The Kingdom of Veridia, nestled atop rugged mountains accessible only by guarded passes or by sea, was a small independent state living in the shadow of greater powers.
Its fame, however, stretched far beyond its borders: the Summit Fencing Tournament. Every two years, the world's finest swordsmen—pirates, mercenaries, wandering knights, and renowned masters—converged on this ancient stone arena carved into the mountainside.
The air was sharp and crisp, thick with the scent of stone and palpable tension. Vibrant banners—purple and gold—fluttered in the wind around the oval arena, which could hold thousands of spectators from all corners, drawn by the promise of epic duels and technical prowess. The crowd's roar shook the ancient stones.
The announcer, a stout man in a garish outfit, bellowed into his transponder snail: "And now, ladies and gentlemen! Prepare to be dazzled! The prodigy of the seas, the very embodiment of grace and power! The Pirate Prince… CAVENDISH!"
A hush of anticipation fell, shattered by a torrent of hysterical applause, almost entirely female.
Cavendish made his entrance. No, he didn't walk—he glided. His pristine white cape, lined with pink, flowed behind him like a swan's wings. His tailored fencing attire accentuated his lean frame. His sword, Durandal, gleamed in the mountain sunlight. He greeted the crowd with a theatrical bow, a charming smile on his lips.
And chaos ensued.
Dozens of women, young and old, literally fainted in the stands, swept away by a wave of collective passion, while others screamed his name until their voices cracked.
"You see?" he murmured to himself, savoring the adoration. "They haven't truly forgotten me."
His opponent was a stark contrast.
A massive man, clad in worn leather and tarnished steel plates, with a two-handed bastard sword resting casually on his shoulder. His scarred face wore a scornful sneer.
He spat on the ground. "The Pirate Prince, huh?" he growled in a raspy voice. "Pretty face for a magazine, but on this field, strength rules. I'm gonna win this tournament, pocket the prize, and top it off with the bounty on your head, Cavendish! That'll buy me a good beer!"
Cavendish raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Such vulgarity. You tarnish this noble arena with your presence." He assumed his stance, Durandal's tip aimed with pinpoint precision at his opponent's heart. "I'll dispatch you quickly. I have an audience to please."
The gong rang out.
The mercenary charged like an enraged bull, his heavy sword swinging down with a menacing whistle. Cavendish didn't budge an inch. At the last moment, like a leaf caught in a gust, he pivoted with hypnotic fluidity. The heavy blade missed his cape by inches, slicing only air. In the same motion, almost effortlessly, Cavendish extended his arm. Durandal flashed, swift as lightning.
Shing!
The mercenary's sword flew through the air, landing meters away. The man froze, a moment of shock on his face, before glancing at his empty right hand. A thin trickle of blood beaded on his forearm where Durandal's tip had grazed the skin, just enough to disarm without serious injury.
"Tch… too fast…" he stammered, pale.
Cavendish was already behind him. He didn't even turn, sheathing his sword with a sharp, elegant click. "Vulgar and slow. A disastrous combination."
The arena fell silent, then erupted in a thunderous ovation. The mercenary collapsed to his knees, defeated as much by the display of skill as by the humiliation.
The Pirate Prince bowed again, tossing his magnificent blond hair, drinking in the cheers like fine wine.
Yes. This was it. This was him. Mihawk could terrorize the New World, but here, today, Cavendish reigned supreme over hearts and minds.
***
The thrill of victory still coursed through him as he pushed open the door to his private lounge, a lavish space furnished with velvet sofas and scented with incense, reserved for tournament favorites. The smile frozen on his lips twisted into a grimace of pure rage.
His two trusted crewmen lay unconscious on the floor, sprawled in grotesque positions.
In the center of the room, back to the door, stood a man. Tall, lean. His black hair was slicked back, and he wore a smooth, expressionless white porcelain mask, revealing only a piercing right eye.
"WHAT THE…!" Cavendish roared, his hand instantly gripping Durandal's hilt. Fury overwhelmed his usual vanity. "YOU WRETCH! HOW DARE YOU?! INTRUDING IN MY SANCTUARY! TOUCHING MY MEN!"
The masked man turned slowly. His single visible eye fixed on Cavendish with an intensity that chilled the Pirate Prince's blood despite his anger.
The silence in the lounge was heavier than any roar from the crowd.
Cavendish drew Durandal in a fluid motion, the blade's tip trembling slightly despite himself, aimed at the intruder. "Who are you? Answer! Or I'll cut you to ribbons right here!"
The man didn't respond. With a slow, deliberate hand, he reached for the edge of the porcelain mask.
His fingers gripped it. A sharp motion, and the white mask fell, revealing the face beneath.
Angular, severe features. Pale skin. Yellow, feline eyes, sharp as blades, piercing Cavendish, obliterating his bravado, his vanity, his anger with a single look.
Those eyes… eyes the whole world knew. Eyes that had seen legends fall.
Cavendish's legs weakened. The name caught in his throat, a raspy breath. "You… here?"
Dracule Mihawk, the World's Greatest Swordsman, the Reaper of Men, whose name dominated headlines and crushed the ambitions of the mighty, stood there in his lounge, impassive.
He didn't flinch.
"Cavendish," Mihawk said. "I came for you."
"You… here?" Cavendish repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper, choked by disbelief and a primal fear he refused to name.
The man before him was a monster, a titan of the modern age whose recent feats—the death of Whitebeard, the fall of Doflamingo—had redrawn the map of power in the New World.
Cavendish gripped Durandal's hilt until his knuckles whitened. "For me?" he managed, forcing a haughty note into his voice. "If it's for my head, know I won't go down without a fight, Mihawk! Even against you!"
A faint twitch crossed Mihawk's thin lips. "Your head holds little interest," he said with disarming coldness. His eyes swept over Cavendish, from his pristine boots to his perfect blond hair, in a clinical assessment. "Your blade, however, shows… potential. Potential squandered in these courtly theatrics and this vain quest for adulation."
Cavendish felt a burn rise to his cheeks. "Theatrics?!" he exclaimed, fury flaring, pushing back some of the fear. "I am Cavendish! The Pirate Prince! My duels are works of art, admired by thousands! My name echoes across every sea!"
"Across calm, shallow seas," Mihawk countered, his voice still calm. "You perform for a crowd that knows nothing of the true essence of swordsmanship. You revel in ease, cutting down brutes like the one you just humiliated." He gestured vaguely toward the arena. "It's spectacle. It's hollow. How do you expect to earn true renown this way?"
The accusation struck Cavendish to the core. There was a cruel truth in Mihawk's words, a truth he buried under layers of vanity and applause.
But hearing it laid bare, even from him, was unbearable. "You… you dare call me weak?!" he growled, stepping forward, Durandal aimed straight at Mihawk's heart with renewed resolve. "You know nothing of my strength! Of my will!"
"I see unpolished talent," Mihawk corrected, unfazed by the blade inches from his chest. His piercing gaze seemed to see through Cavendish. "Talent that could reach heights if forged in stormier waters. If tested by challenges worthy of it." He paused deliberately, letting his words sink in. "That's why I'm here. I'm offering you a chance to leave this stage. Join my crew, Cavendish. Sail with me. And discover what it truly means to face the summit."