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The sand, fine and abrasive, now swirled with heightened violence around the former Shichibukai, forming menacing vortices that scraped against the velvet walls and black carpet, gnawing at them in places.
Mihawk, still standing firm before this miniature sandstorm, did not flinch. His eyes remained fixed on Crocodile. Then, he slowly closed his eyelids and reopened them.
"I knew it would come to this," he said. "Part of me had hoped… for a different curiosity. A spark of interest beyond territory and wounded pride." He gave the faintest shrug, almost imperceptible. "A vain hope, it seems."
Crocodile let out a harsh, humorless laugh. The sand whipped about more violently. "Interested? In becoming your lackey? Your subordinate?" The word was spat like poison. "You've lost your mind, Mihawk. Or you're looking to die. If it's a fight you want…" His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, and a perverse glimmer of excitement danced there. "…then, Hawk, you've found the right man. I'll grind you to dust and scatter your ashes in this cesspit!"
The heat became so intense that the sweat that should have beaded on Mihawk's brow evaporated before it could even form.
Mihawk slowly shook his head, never breaking eye contact. "I didn't come to fight, Crocodile. I came to hire you. The offer still stands."
A roar of pure, inhuman rage tore from Crocodile's throat. "Hire me?!"
The sandstorm exploded. It no longer simply swirled — it concentrated, densified with terrifying speed immediately to Mihawk's right. In a fraction of a second, a monstrous hand, sculpted from compact, burning sand, as wide as a shield, burst from nothingness. It clamped around Mihawk with the brutal force of a giant vice, its incandescent grains gripping the collar of his black tunic and part of his chest.
Mihawk was lifted off the ground, his boots leaving the ragged carpet. The sand hand held him suspended at eye level with Crocodile's furious glare. The crushing pressure and intense heat burned even through the thick fabric, smoke curling up where the searing sand met cloth.
Yet Mihawk did not struggle. He didn't even grimace. His face remained perfectly calm, his golden eyes locked on Crocodile's pale, hate-filled ones. He seemed as unshakable as a marble statue caught in a desert storm. Only the faintest tightening at the corner of his lips perhaps betrayed discomfort.
"You see?" Crocodile growled, a cruel smile stretching his lips. "Without your oversized toy, you're just a man, Mihawk. A man I can reduce to ashes with a flick of my wrist. Your arrogance—"
Mihawk cut him off.
"Pluton."
Crocodile's roar died in his throat. The giant sand hand instantly disintegrated. The grains lost their cohesion and searing heat, falling harmlessly in a gray shower onto the already-damaged carpet, with the sound of fine hail. Mihawk landed lightly on his feet, his boots thudding softly against the ground. He did not stumble. He merely straightened his shoulders slightly, as if nothing had happened.
Crocodile, meanwhile, seemed petrified. All trace of rage vanished from his face, replaced by sheer astonishment, then by a cold wariness even more dangerous than his anger. His wide eyes fixed on Mihawk with an almost feral intensity. The glowing tip of his cigar, forgotten, slowly burned through his vest without him noticing.
"What?" The word escaped as a rough whisper.
Mihawk, unruffled, raised a hand and began adjusting the collar of his tunic, smoothing out the blackened, wrinkled fabric. The gesture was disconcertingly casual — almost insulting after the assault he'd endured. He took his time, his long fingers working methodically, before lowering his gaze to inspect any further damage to his clothes.
"Pluton," he repeated calmly, as if commenting on the weather. Then, lifting his piercing gaze back to Crocodile, he added, detached: "Poseidon. Uranus." He paused deliberately, letting the names echo in the sudden silence. "The three Ancient Weapons. Relics of such power that a single one is said to be capable of destroying the entire world."
He took a step forward, ignoring the small cooled dune of sand at his feet. His eyes never left Crocodile's.
"I know you searched for Pluton, Crocodile. For years. In the sands of Alabasta." Mihawk saw a dangerous spark light up in the yellow eyes, but he pressed on, relentless. "You wanted its power. To take revenge. To erase the humiliation Edward Newgate inflicted on you. To show him — and the world — that Crocodile was not a man to challenge."
Crocodile said nothing. His breathing quickened slightly, his fists gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. The scar on his nose seemed deeper somehow.
"How…" Crocodile finally croaked, his voice rough, strangled by emotion. "…how do you know that? How dare you…?"
Mihawk cut him off again, with a calm wave of his hand. "The details don't matter for now. What matters, Crocodile, is that I know." He stressed the word. "I know much more than you imagine. Much more than just the name of a legendary weapon."
He took another step, closing the distance dangerously between himself and Crocodile's chair. The former crime lord didn't back away, but his body coiled like a spring ready to strike.
"Join me," Mihawk repeated. "Sail at my side. And all the answers you seek… I'll give them to you." He tilted his head slightly. "I'll show you the truth about Pluton. About Poseidon. About Uranus. Their nature, their history…" He paused dramatically, letting the suspense weigh heavy. "…and their location."
Crocodile swallowed hard. His eyes stayed locked on Mihawk's, searching for lies, for trickery. But all he found was that chilling confidence, that absolute certainty that was the Hawk's hallmark.
"And… Pluton?" he finally asked, his voice barely audible. "You claim to know where it is?"
A faint smile touched Mihawk's lips. "I don't claim. I know." He held Crocodile's gaze. "And I can tell you this, right now, as a sign of good faith: Pluton…" He paused, almost savoring the painful, undivided attention of his opponent. "…is not in Alabasta."
Crocodile jolted as though struck. "What?! But… the Poneglyphs… the research…" His eyes widened, another wave of stunned, restrained fury washing over him. Years of effort, of scheming, of elaborate plans — reduced to ashes by a single sentence. The revelation was a stab in the gut, but also a terrible liberation. All that time wasted… "How… how can you be so sure?!"
Mihawk ignored the question. "The details, Crocodile, will come with your answer. Join me. And you'll discover not only the truth about the Ancient Weapons…" He lowered his voice slightly. "…but even deeper secrets. Truths about the Void Century, about the World Government, about the very origin of this world. Things that make the quest for a mere weapon…" He made a faintly dismissive gesture. "…almost trivial."
He then stepped back, breaking the suffocating proximity, and slowly moved to the empty chair to Crocodile's left. He sat down with natural grace, crossing his legs, adopting a relaxed posture that contrasted sharply with the palpable tension emanating from the former Shichibukai. He had reclaimed control of the space, of the dynamic.
"Well?" Mihawk asked, his golden gaze fixed on Crocodile with renewed intensity. "The offer still stands. Join my crew."
Crocodile remained silent for a long moment. The gears in his mind turned furiously, weighing pride against the lure of priceless knowledge. The cold rage gave way to cold calculation — more typical of the man. He took a deep breath, absentmindedly relighting his dead cigar. The acrid smoke filled the already stifling air again.
"Suppose…" he finally said, his voice regaining some of its usual drawl, though laced with deep suspicion. "…suppose I consider this… grotesque proposal." He took a drag, watching Mihawk through the veil of smoke. "What exactly do you expect of me? In exchange for these… revelations?"
Mihawk inclined his head slightly, as if the question had been expected all along. "Nothing more than what I already told you, Crocodile. I want your strength. And your ambition itself." He looked him straight in the eye. "I want you to help me become the Pirate King."
A short, dry laugh, cynical and bitter, burst from Crocodile's throat. A laugh devoid of joy, full of scorn and rekindled disbelief.
"The Pirate King?" he sneered, shaking his head with derision. "So you were serious at Marineford, Mihawk! A dreamer! A pathetic idealist lost in pirate fairy tales!" His laugh died as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp glare. "After everything you've done… Dressrosa, Kaido… you think playing king on a cheap throne will take you to the top? The One Piece isn't waiting in some palace, Hawk!"
Mihawk didn't flinch. He met Crocodile's scornful stare with his usual calm.
"A dreamer? Perhaps." He leaned forward slightly. "But tell me, Crocodile…" A faint, almost conspiratorial smile played at his lips. "…I'm not the only one, am I?"