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The Nachtrone glided silently in the shadow of an unnamed island, a jagged mass of rocks and wild vegetation a few miles from Ker-Bisth. The
The Nachtrone glided silently in the shadow of an unnamed island, a jagged mass of rocks and wild vegetation a few miles from Ker-Bisth. The waves lapped gently against the black hull, and the steel-gray sky hinted at an approaching storm. Mihawk stood at the prow, scanning the horizon.
"Why are we stopping here?" Cavendish asked, his voice betraying barely contained impatience. He adjusted his white cape, which snapped in the wind, and cast a disdainful glance at the barren island. "It's just a pile of dull rocks! Nothing like the elegance of Veridia!"
Mihawk didn't turn. "Discretion," he replied simply, his voice low but sharp. "Ker-Bisth is a viper's nest. We can't dock the Nachtrone there without drawing attention."
Law, leaning against a crate, raised an eyebrow under his cap. "A viper's nest, huh? I already see one among us," he said, his drawling tone laced with irony. He met Cavendish's gaze, who shot him a venomous look.
"Keep your remarks to yourself, quack," Cavendish growled, his hand brushing Durandal's hilt. "I'm not in the mood for your provocations."
Kiku, checking the rigging near the mast, let out a loud sigh. "If you two are going to bicker again, do it off the deck. I've got work to do." She drove her hammer into a loose plank, the sound ringing out like a warning.
Mihawk raised a hand, silencing any retort. "Kiku, Cavendish, Law, you stay aboard. Keep the Nachtrone ready to leave at a moment's notice." He turned to Perona and Korran, who stood by the railing. "You two, take the dinghy for supplies. Food, water, repair materials. Stay discreet. No ghosts, Perona."
Perona pouted, crossing her arms. "Hihihi! No ghosts? You want me to be bored, Mihawk?" But a single look from her captain silenced her. She floated to the dinghy, followed by Korran, who slung a canvas sack over his shoulder.
"And you, Captain?" Korran asked, his hunting knife tucked into his belt. "Not coming with us?"
Mihawk didn't answer immediately. He removed his black cape, revealing a plain tunic, and pulled a wide hood over his head. Then, with a precise motion, he adjusted a black cloth mask that covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his piercing eyes visible. Yoru, ever imposing, was concealed in a leather sheath strapped to his back. "I have business to attend to," he said finally, his voice muffled by the mask. "I'm taking the skiff."
Cavendish raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Business? In a place like this?"
Mihawk ignored him, descending into a small skiff tied to the Nachtrone's side. Before rowing, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read it silently. He tucked it away and began rowing toward Ker-Bisth.
Ker-Bisth was no ordinary island. It was a living chaos, a melting pot where the New World dumped its dregs and ambitions. The docks, crowded with ships bearing dubious flags, teemed with sailors, smugglers, and merchants of flexible morals. Cobblestone alleys wove together like a spider's web, lined with creaking-signboard taverns, dusty-windowed shops, and warehouses where suspicious crates changed hands under furtive glances. The air smelled of salt, sweat, and gunpowder, mingled with the sweet tang of exotic fruits hawked in the streets. Garish lanterns swung above market stalls, casting dancing shadows on the damp cobblestones.
Mihawk, his hood up and mask in place, slipped out of the skiff and tied it to an isolated dock, out of sight. Despite his disguise, he couldn't help feeling a strange fascination with the place. 'The world of One Piece has a unique way of crafting places where chaos becomes an art form.'
He paused, watching a group of pirates haggle over weapons with a shifty-looking merchant. A green-haired woman with a sword at her belt laughed loudly at a crude joke, while a man with a star-shaped scar reloaded a flintlock pistol.
He pressed on, his sharpened senses catching every detail. A narrow alley led him to a tavern tucked between two warehouses, its sign—a broken anchor—creaking in the wind. The door, scarred with knife marks, opened into a smoky interior where the stench of stale rum mixed with tobacco and fried fish.
As he entered, the din of conversation stopped abruptly. Every eye turned to him—wary, hostile, or merely curious. Weathered pirates, smugglers with ring-laden fingers, and even a woman with round glasses and a notebook stared. Mihawk, unfazed, crossed the room and stopped at the counter, where a bartender with a face marred by an old burn sized him up.
"A drink," Mihawk said, his voice muffled by the mask but clear, commanding.
The bartender narrowed his eyes, wiping a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag. "Who're you?" he growled. "We don't serve guys hiding their faces. You a Marine? A bounty hunter?"
Mihawk didn't answer immediately. He scanned the room, noting hands inching toward weapons, whispers growing louder. He thought of Shanks, of his easygoing way in taverns like this, defusing tension with a smile and a round of drinks. 'But I'm not Shanks.' A faint smile curved his lips beneath the mask.
He rose slowly, moving behind the counter as if he owned the place. The bartender, outraged, raised a hand to stop him. "Hey, where you going?" he barked, grabbing a club from under the counter.
Before he could move further, an invisible wave swept the tavern. Mihawk's Haki struck like a silent storm. The bartender collapsed, the club falling from his limp hands. Around him, patrons dropped one by one—some onto tables, others to the floor, their glasses shattering in a cacophony of broken glass. Only the woman with round glasses, at the far end of the room, remained standing, her eyes wide behind her lenses.
Mihawk spared her no glance. He moved behind the counter, ignoring the slumped bodies, and stopped before a wooden door reinforced with iron, barely visible in the shadows. A small snail camera fixed above it blinked with its bulbous eye, recording every move.
He looked up at the snail, slowly removed his mask, revealing his angular features and yellow eyes that gleamed like a predator's. "Are you going to keep playing silent?" he asked, his voice low but laced with cold menace. "If this door doesn't open on its own, I'll make a slaughter."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the creak of lanterns outside. Then, with a metallic click, the door opened slowly, revealing a dark corridor stretching into the building's depths.
Mihawk adjusted his hood, tucked his mask into his pocket, and stepped inside without a word. The door closed behind him, swallowing his figure into the darkness.