The chefs aboard Baratie, the famed restaurant on the sea, stood frozen, their expressions a mix of disbelief and horror. For a few long seconds, silence reigned—until someone finally broke it with a panicked scream:
"Run!"
The ship, which had just come to a halt, immediately lurched forward again. Patty, unwilling to endure the anxiety in stillness, grabbed a shovel and began frantically paddling across the deck, as if that might help him escape the memory of what he had just witnessed.
Anything to avoid remembering that moment.
The spectators who had gathered to witness the conclusion of the duel scurried back into the restaurant, pale and shaken, huddling together without uttering a single word.
Zoro, having finally regained his composure, stared out at the two figures still standing on the field. A strange sense of frustration gripped his chest—sharp, bitter, and unshakable. But that emotion only lingered for a moment before he clenched his fists, reigniting the flames of determination.
"Even Captain Gawain has that kind of power…?"
He exhaled sharply, adjusting his timeline.
"I'll have to push back my challenge. Five years? No... eight... maybe ten, just to be safe."
"Yes. Ten years it is!"
Zoro gritted his teeth as he said it. His voice trembled, and a redness filled his eyes.
It was only now that he remembered—Gawain had never planned on making it out of this fight alive.
"Damn it…"
"How the hell am I supposed to become the world's greatest swordsman if you die first?!"
...
...
…
He's aiming to kill me with this strike.
The moment the thought crossed Gawain's mind, the last shred of hope dissipated.
He had wondered, just for a moment, whether Mihawk might spare him, just as he had shown mercy to Zoro. Perhaps he would see some potential in him, the way he had seen it in the swordsman from the East Blue.
But no—Gawain understood now. Mihawk saw something fundamentally different in him.
He doesn't see me the way he saw Zoro.
A strange calm fell over him.
With that realization, Gawain closed his eyes. The tremble in his body ceased, and his breathing grew steady. The world around him fell into silence, save for the sound of Mihawk's measured breath.
Seeing this, Mihawk lowered his blade slightly. In his hawk-like eyes, there was no longer cold indifference—but something resembling admiration.
"You've realized something," he said softly.
"Interesting. Looks like I won't be lonely for the next few years... or maybe even the next ten."
He smiled faintly.
"Of course, that's assuming you survive."
A beat passed.
Gawain's eyes snapped open, flames burning in their depths. His voice was calm, but laced with conviction:
"What is the essence of Haki?"
Mihawk raised a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.
"Not the best time to ask your opponent a question, boy."
"But..." he shrugged, "since you've caught my interest, I suppose I can indulge you."
"Haki... Some say it's will. Others say it's faith, or ambition, or even courage. But in my opinion, it all comes down to one thing."
"Belief."
He stepped forward slightly, his gaze sharpening.
"Let me ask you plainly: do you believe you can strike me with your next attack? Do you believe you'll survive this battle? Do you believe that the oath you once swore will come true?"
Gawain stood silent for a moment.
And then—he remembered.
He remembered how, back when he first tried to awaken Armament Haki, he had devised fallback plans.
If he couldn't awaken it on his own, he'd rely on comrades.
If it didn't work in the East Blue, he'd go to the Grand Line, or even the New World.
But Mihawk was right—any power born from belief, courage, and will evaporates the moment doubt creeps in.
Panels and skills could be earned from the system.
But fighting spirit? That could not be faked.
"I understand now."
Gawain's grip tightened around Seikō Masamune. But before he could act, Mihawk's voice cut through the air:
"Tell me—do you believe you can survive my next strike?"
"I do."
Gawain's eyes gleamed with unshakable light.
And in response, something stirred within him.
A force long dormant finally awakened.
A visible black aura surged along his arm, engulfing the silver-white blade of Seikō Masamune and turning it pitch black.
Armament Haki!
At the same time, a familiar prompt echoed in Gawain's mind:
"Armament Haki awakened. Current Level: LV-1."
He blinked.
Huh, not LV-0 like Observation Haki? Does that mean awakening it through realization starts at LV-1?
No matter... I'll test it out later.
He raised his blade and faced Mihawk, a new fire burning in his soul.
"Round two," he declared.
"Come."
A low hum echoed from Mihawk's blade.
The black sword in his hand resonated, and his gaze locked on the now-blackened Seikō Masamune.
The Haki in Gawain's blade was still immature—a candle flame that could be snuffed out with the slightest breeze.
Far from transforming the weapon into a true black blade.
But even so...
Gawain was radiant.
So bright, in fact, that Mihawk hesitated.
He almost didn't want to kill him.
But his pride as a swordsman wouldn't let him hold back.
"This is my respect to you..."
"Survive."
With those words, he moved.
Darkness flashed.
Mihawk stepped down, cracking the deck beneath their feet, his blade whistling forward.
Even before it reached him, Gawain felt the pain—his skin stung, and a thin cut had already appeared beneath his clothes.
But still, there was no fear in his eyes.
He understood now.
What he lacked was never the means to stand at the summit—it was the belief that he belonged there.
After all, belief was the core of all Haki—especially Conqueror's Haki, the rarest of them all.
Seikō Masamune, resonating with Gawain's will, trembled in his hand.
And then—
Steel met steel.
Blade met blade.
Power met power.
Ding!
The clash was thunderous. Shockwaves exploded outward, blasting seawater into the air. The deck beneath their feet cracked and shattered.
The last thing Gawain saw was a black blade descending toward his neck—
In the final moment, just before darkness took him,
he heard the faint echo of the system:
"Understand your heart... Temper your will... Unlock your potential..."
The sea was ever-changing.
Just moments before, the sky had been clear—but now, a chilling wind swept across the ocean.
In only a few breaths, dark clouds had gathered.
Thunder boomed. Lightning cracked. Raindrops the size of beans fell from the sky.
They struck the shattered remains of the deck, washing fresh blood into the sea. The scent drew circling sharks—but even they dared not approach the man with the eagle-like gaze.
"This really puts me in a difficult position," Mihawk muttered, looking down at the young man lying at his feet, blood pouring from the gash across his chest.
After a long silence, he raised his blade and placed it against Gawain's neck.
But in the end—he couldn't do it.
He sighed and lowered the sword.
"Someone else can teach you this final lesson."
"Sometimes, you have to win—even if your opponent is far stronger than you."
"I hope you don't lose too much before that day comes."
He turned to leave.
But just then, his steps halted.
Swish!
A sudden spray of blood burst from Mihawk's shoulder.
He turned sharply.
His clothes had been torn.
And beneath them—a fresh, glaring scar marred his exposed skin.