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Cavendish stood motionless, his heart pounding in his chest. Facing him, Dracule Mihawk, the world's greatest swordsman, gazed at him with an intensity that seemed to pierce his very soul. Mihawk's words still echoed in Cavendish's mind: "I've come for you."
"You… you want me to join your crew?" Cavendish managed, his voice trembling despite his efforts to maintain his usual confidence.
Mihawk tilted his head slightly, his piercing yellow eyes unwavering. "Yes. You have talent, Cavendish. But you waste it on these futile spectacles, chasing the admiration of an ignorant crowd."
Cavendish felt a surge of anger rise within him. "Futile?" he exclaimed, his voice rising. "My duels are masterpieces, admired by thousands of fans! My name, Cavendish, the Pirate Prince, resounds across the seas!"
Mihawk remained impassive. "Calm and shallow seas," he replied, his voice sharp as a blade. "You settle for performing for spectators who know nothing of true swordsmanship. You defeat opponents unworthy of you, crude and unrefined. That's not swordsmanship. It's theater."
Mihawk's words struck Cavendish like a dagger. There was a cruel truth in them, one he'd always buried beneath layers of vanity and applause. He opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Deep down, he knew Mihawk was right. His victories, though spectacular, lacked substance. He'd never faced an opponent who truly pushed him to his limits.
But admitting it was unbearable. "You dare call me weak?" he growled, stepping forward, the tip of Durandal trembling slightly as he pointed it at Mihawk. "You know nothing of my strength, my resolve!"
Mihawk didn't flinch, even with the blade less than a meter from his chest. "I don't see weakness," he corrected calmly. "I see unrefined talent. Talent that could reach great heights if forged in rougher waters. If faced with challenges worthy of it." He paused, letting his words sink in. "That's why I'm here. Join my crew, Cavendish. Sail with me. Discover what it truly means to face the pinnacle."
Cavendish's breath caught. The idea of sailing with Mihawk, of testing himself against the greatest, was both terrifying and exhilarating. But a question nagged at him. "Why me?" he asked, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. "There are hundreds of swordsmen in the world. Why me?"
Mihawk's eyes narrowed slightly, as if appraising a blade before forging it. "Because you possess a unique gift, Cavendish. Or rather… Hakuba."
Cavendish felt a cold shiver run down his spine. "You know about Hakuba?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Mihawk nodded. "Yes. And I believe with proper training, you could master that power. Channel it. Make it truly formidable."
Cavendish fell silent, his mind racing. Hakuba, the shadow lurking within him, was both his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. An entity he feared as much as he respected. No one had ever offered to help him control it. Most saw it as monstrous, an unpredictable threat. But Mihawk… Mihawk saw potential.
"I… I don't know," Cavendish admitted, lowering his sword slightly. "Hakuba is dangerous. Even I can't always control it."
"That's why you need me," Mihawk replied, his voice firm but without arrogance. "I can teach you to tame that power. To become more than a mere showy prince."
Cavendish flinched at the words. "Showy prince?" he repeated, his vanity flaring. "What about my fans, then? My reputation? If I join your crew, will I still be able to shine in the spotlight?"
Mihawk let out an almost imperceptible sigh. "Your reputation is a burden you carry willingly. If you sail with me, you'll earn recognition far greater. Recognition that comes from true strength, true feats. Not the applause of a fleeting crowd."
Cavendish clenched his teeth, torn between his pride and the opportunity before him. He couldn't deny the allure of Mihawk's offer. But he needed more. He needed to know.
"Fine, Mihawk," he said at last, squaring his shoulders. "I'll consider your offer. But first, I want to measure the gap between us. A duel. Here and now."
Mihawk raised an eyebrow, a glint of interest in his eyes. "A duel? In this cramped box?"
Cavendish shook his head, a confident smile spreading across his lips. "No. In the arena. Before the crowd. If I'm to consider following you, I want to see with my own eyes what it means to be the world's greatest swordsman."
Mihawk considered for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. The arena is fitting. Let's go."
Cavendish felt a rush of adrenaline. A duel against Mihawk, before thousands of spectators? It was the perfect chance to prove his worth—or at least to grasp the scale of the challenge ahead.
They left the box, striding through the stone corridors of the stadium. Outside, the cool mountain air of Veridia greeted them, charged with the excitement of the tournament. The crowd, still buzzing from Cavendish's last fight, fell silent as they saw the two men enter the arena.
The announcer, a small man in a garish suit, stammered into his snail transponder, his voice trembling with excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen! An unprecedented event! The Pirate Prince Cavendish will face… Dracule Mihawk, the world's greatest swordsman, in an extraordinary exhibition duel!"
A stunned silence blanketed the arena, followed by an eruption of cheers. The spectators, men and women alike, leapt to their feet, their shouts shaking the stands. Cavendish's fans, in particular, screamed his name, while others whispered Mihawk's with awe and fear.
Cavendish stepped to the center of the arena, his white cape billowing behind him. He saluted the crowd with his usual theatrics, savoring their adoring cries. But his gaze remained fixed on Mihawk, who stood motionless, Yoru resting casually on his shoulder.
"Prepare to be dazzled," Cavendish called to the crowd, his voice ringing with confidence. Then, turning to Mihawk, he added, "And you, prepare to see what the Pirate Prince can do."
Mihawk didn't respond, merely drawing Yoru with fluid grace. The massive black blade, intimidating and light-absorbing, gleamed under the sun. Cavendish took his stance, Durandal sparkling in his hand.
The gong sounded.
Cavendish lunged, swift as lightning, his blade arcing precisely toward Mihawk. But Mihawk parried effortlessly, Yoru deflecting Durandal with a metallic clang that echoed through the arena. Cavendish pressed with a flurry of rapid strikes, each sharper than the last, but Mihawk dodged or parried with unnerving ease, as if anticipating every move.
The crowd held its breath, mesmerized by the deadly dance of the two swordsmen. Cavendish, driven by pride, redoubled his efforts, his attacks growing more frantic. But the more he struck, the more he realized the vast chasm between them. Mihawk didn't even seem to tire, his movements fluid and efficient, each parry a masterpiece of precision.
Suddenly, a shadow passed over Cavendish's eyes. A familiar, cold, menacing sensation rose within him. 'No, not now…' But it was too late. Hakuba was taking over.
In an instant, Cavendish became a whirlwind of violence. His already swift movements became nearly invisible, Durandal striking with inhuman ferocity. The crowd gasped, torn between awe and terror. Even Mihawk seemed momentarily surprised, but he adjusted his stance instantly, parrying Hakuba's onslaught with unrelenting precision.
Their blades clashed at dizzying speed, each impact sending sparks flying across the arena.
Hakuba, unleashed, was a force of nature, but Mihawk remained unshaken. Then, in a single fluid motion, he executed a devastating counterattack. Yoru descended with controlled force, sending Cavendish hurtling across the arena. He crashed into the stone wall, the impact snapping him back to himself.
Hakuba faded, leaving Cavendish panting, his body aching. He struggled to his feet, his gaze locked on Mihawk, who hadn't moved, Yoru resting once more on his shoulder.
"Do you understand now?" Mihawk asked, his voice calm but commanding. "Even with Hakuba, you're not yet at my level. But with proper training, you could become a formidable blade."
Cavendish, still reeling, felt a strange clarity settle over him. He'd always known Hakuba was a double-edged sword, but Mihawk was offering him a chance to master it. A chance to become more than a prince adored by the masses.
He stood, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "You're right," he admitted, his voice steady despite the pain. "I want to become stronger. I want my name etched in history, not just in the hearts of my fans. I'll join you, Dracule Mihawk. Teach me."
Mihawk nodded, a faint hint of approval in his eyes. "Good. We leave at dawn. Prepare yourself."
The crowd, which had watched the exchange in hushed silence, erupted into a thunderous ovation. Cavendish, despite his defeat, gave one last theatrical salute, his cape flaring with flair. He knew this duel would mark a turning point in his life.
As they left the arena, Mihawk glanced back at him. "One last thing, Cavendish. If you want to shine, do it with your blade, not your theatrics."
Cavendish flashed a grin. "Don't worry, Mihawk. I'll shine… in my own way."
Outside, Perona awaited, hovering slightly above the ground, her negative ghosts swirling around her. "So, he said yes?" she asked with a mischievous smirk.
Mihawk didn't reply, offering only an impassive glance. Cavendish, meanwhile, puffed out his chest. "Of course I said yes! The Pirate Prince never refuses a chance to become a legend!"
Perona rolled her eyes. "Ugh, another one who's gonna be a handful."