The Going Merry cut through calm waters under a cloudless sky, but the atmosphere on deck was anything but peaceful.
Gil stood at the bow, arms crossed, watching the horizon. Behind him, he could feel Nami's presence—or rather, her deliberate absence. She'd been avoiding him since they left Syrup Village, keeping to her maps and navigation with an intensity that felt like armor.
He'd tried talking to her twice. Both times she'd brushed him off with clipped responses about checking their course.
Fine, he thought. Let her sulk.
But it didn't feel fine. Something was wrong, and it gnawed at him in a way he couldn't quite name.
"Gil! GILL!" Luffy's voice shattered his thoughts. "Look! A restaurant! On the ocean!"
Gil turned. Sure enough, a massive structure floated ahead—a ship converted into what looked like an elaborate dining establishment, complete with a fish-shaped figurehead and ornate architecture that seemed wildly out of place in the middle of nowhere.
"Baratie," Nami said quietly from behind them, consulting her map. "It's famous. Floating restaurant run by pirates-turned-cooks."
"FOOD!" Luffy's eyes lit up like stars. "Real food! Not Sanji's—wait, who's Sanji?"
"You mean not my cooking," Usopp said, offended.
"Yeah, that's what I said."
Zoro smirked from where he lounged against the mast. "Finally. I'm sick of fish."
As they approached, Gil studied the restaurant with interest. The craftsmanship was impressive—whoever built this understood both ships and architecture. But more than that, he could sense something else. Power. Not overwhelming, but present. People here knew how to fight.
They docked alongside several other vessels, and Luffy was already vaulting over the railing before anyone could stop him.
"That idiot," Zoro muttered, but he was grinning.
Inside, the Baratie was elegant in a rough-edged way—white tablecloths and proper place settings, but the staff all had the bearing of fighters. The maître d' who greeted them was a tall man with a braided beard, eyeing them with the assessment of someone who'd seen his share of trouble.
"Welcome to the Baratie," he said smoothly. "Do you have a reservation?"
"Nope!" Luffy grinned. "But we're really hungry!"
"I see. Right this way."
They were seated near a window overlooking the ocean. Gil noticed Nami chose the seat farthest from him. Across the restaurant, other patrons ate and talked—merchants, sailors, a few who looked like bounty hunters sizing up the room.
A waiter approached, young with blonde hair swept over one eye. He moved with a fluid grace that Gil recognized immediately—a fighter's balance. The waiter's visible eye landed on Nami, and his entire demeanor transformed.
"Mademoiselle," he said, practically floating to her side. "You grace our humble establishment with beauty that outshines the very sun. I am Sanji, and I would be honored to prepare anything your heart desires."
Nami blinked, caught off guard. "Oh. Um, thank you?"
"For you, I shall create a masterpiece—"
"She'll have the fish," Gil said flatly. "We all will. Whatever's fresh."
Sanji's eye swiveled to him, the romantic haze evaporating into something colder. "I don't recall asking you, moss-head number two."
"I'm not—" Gil started, then stopped. "Just bring the food."
"Gil," Nami said quietly, and there was warning in her voice.
He met her eyes. For a moment, something passed between them—complicated and unspoken. Then she looked away.
Sanji departed with promises of culinary excellence, and Luffy immediately started complaining about being hungry. Usopp launched into a story about the time he'd cooked for a hundred people (a lie). Zoro ordered sake.
Gil watched Nami sketch something in her notebook, her expression distant.
The food, when it arrived, was exceptional. Even Gil had to admit it. Luffy ate like a natural disaster, Usopp tried to pace himself and failed, and Zoro drank steadily. Nami picked at her meal, distracted.
Then Luffy, in a moment of characteristic chaos, leaned back in his chair too far.
It happened in slow motion. The chair tipped. Luffy flailed. His arm stretched out, grabbed the tablecloth, and pulled—
Dishes, glasses, food, everything crashed to the floor in a spectacular cascade of destruction.
The entire restaurant went silent.
"Oops," Luffy said.
A man emerged from the kitchen—massive, with a peg leg and a braided mustache that could double as a weapon. His chef's hat sat at an angle, and his eyes promised violence.
"You little shit," he growled. "Do you have ANY idea how much that costs?"
"Sorry, old man!" Luffy grinned. "It was an accident!"
"ACCIDENT?!" The chef—clearly the owner—stomped forward. "You're going to work off every berry of that damage, you rubber bastard!"
What followed was chaos. The owner, who introduced himself as Zeff through a series of bellowed threats, dragged Luffy into the kitchen. The sounds of crashing pots and Luffy's protests echoed through the restaurant.
Gil sighed and paid for their meal with some of the money they'd gotten from the Black Cat Pirates. Nami watched him do it, something unreadable in her expression.
"We should go," she said quietly.
"And leave Luffy?"
"He got himself into this."
"He's our captain," Zoro said, not opening his eyes. "We wait."
So they waited. Hours passed. Other patrons came and went. Sanji brought them drinks—free for Nami, grudgingly provided for the others. Gil noticed the cook watching them, particularly noting the weapons they carried.
"You're pirates," Sanji said eventually. It wasn't a question.
"Yep!" Usopp said proudly. "The great Captain Usopp and his—"
"Luffy's the captain," Gil corrected.
"I was getting to that."
Sanji lit a cigarette, studying them. "What's your dream?"
The question hung in the air. Zoro answered first, his hand resting on his swords. "To become the world's greatest swordsman."
"To become a brave warrior of the sea!" Usopp declared.
They all looked at Gil. He considered lying, deflecting. Instead, he said simply: "To be free."
Sanji's eye narrowed slightly, as if he understood more than Gil had said. Then he looked at Nami. "And you, mademoiselle?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "To draw a map of the entire world."
Something about the way she said it felt like goodbye.
Before anyone could press further, the doors burst open.
A ship had pulled alongside the Baratie—a massive galleon that dwarfed the restaurant. Men poured out, dozens of them, all armed. They looked half-starved, desperate, and dangerous.
At their head walked a man in golden armor, a massive shield on his back. Don Krieg. Even Gil had heard of him—the most powerful pirate in the East Blue, commander of a fleet of fifty ships.
Or he had been. This man looked like a shadow of that reputation, his armor dented, his crew decimated.
"Food," Krieg demanded, his voice carrying across the restaurant. "Feed my men."
Zeff emerged from the kitchen, Luffy trailing behind him covered in dishwater. The old chef took one look at Krieg and his crew and nodded.
"Sanji. Feed them."
"But Chef—"
"No one starves in my restaurant. Feed them."
Gil watched this exchange with interest. Zeff was a fool or a saint, and he suspected the old man was neither. This was something else—a code, maybe. A line he wouldn't cross.
Krieg's men ate like animals, tearing into the food Sanji brought out. Their captain ate more slowly, his eyes never leaving Zeff.
"I want this ship," Krieg said when he'd finished. "The Baratie. I'll take it as my new flagship."
"No," Zeff said simply.
"I wasn't asking."
Krieg's men stood, weapons drawn. The other patrons fled. Gil's hand moved to his sword, but Zoro was already standing, his expression eager.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle at first—a pressure, a weight that made the hair on Gil's neck stand up. He knew this feeling. He'd felt it before, in himself, in others who'd touched something beyond normal human limits.
A small boat appeared in the distance, a single figure seated within it. As it drew closer, Gil's eyes narrowed.
The man was tall, lean, with a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a plume. A massive sword—a cruciform blade that looked more like a cross than a weapon—rested across his back. His eyes were sharp, predatory, the color of gold.
Dracule Mihawk. The world's greatest swordsman.
"You," Krieg snarled. "You've been following us for days! Why?!"
Mihawk's gaze swept over the pirate fleet with something like boredom. "To kill time."
He'd destroyed Krieg's entire armada because he was bored.
Gil felt something stir in his chest—recognition, perhaps. Or challenge. This was what true mastery looked like. This was the peak.
Mihawk's eyes found him across the deck, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. Two predators acknowledging the other's presence. Mihawk's lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but close.
"Interesting," the Warlord murmured.
Then Zoro stepped forward.
"You," the swordsman said, his voice steady despite the sweat on his brow. "You're Mihawk. The greatest."
"I am."
"Fight me."
Mihawk studied him with those hawk-like eyes. "You're weak."
"I know." Zoro drew his swords—all three of them, the white-handled Wado Ichimonji held in his teeth. "Fight me anyway."
Something shifted in Mihawk's expression. Respect, maybe. Or curiosity. He reached up, but instead of drawing the massive blade on his back, he pulled out a small knife—a cross-shaped dagger no longer than a hand.
"A frog in a well knows nothing of the ocean," Mihawk said. "I'll use this to show you the distance between us."
Zoro's jaw tightened around his sword. "Don't underestimate me."
"I'm not. This is the smallest blade I have. Anything less would be an insult."
They moved.
Gil had seen Zoro fight before—had sparred with him, even. The man was skilled, his three-sword style unorthodox but effective. Against normal opponents, he was devastating.
Against Mihawk, he looked like a child.
The Warlord moved with minimal effort, that tiny knife deflecting every strike. Zoro attacked with everything he had—speed, power, technique—and Mihawk simply... existed in the spaces between his attacks, redirecting them with almost casual precision.
"Is that all?" Mihawk asked.
Zoro's breathing was labored. Sweat dripped from his face. But his eyes—his eyes burned with something unbreakable.
"Not even close."
He attacked again, faster, more desperate. His swords became a whirlwind of steel. And still, Mihawk stood unmoved, that small blade dancing between the strikes like a leaf in the wind.
Gil's hand tightened on his own sword. Every instinct screamed at him to intervene, to help. But he didn't move.
This was Zoro's fight. His moment. To interfere would be to disrespect everything the swordsman stood for.
Nami grabbed his arm. "Gil, do something!"
"No."
"He's going to die!"
"Maybe." Gil's voice was quiet. "But this is what he chose. What he needs."
Luffy stood frozen, watching his crewmate fight. For once, the captain wasn't smiling.
Zoro unleashed his strongest technique—a three-sword strike that should have been impossible to block. Mihawk caught all three blades with his dagger, stopping the attack cold.
"Magnificent," the Warlord said. "You have spirit. But spirit alone isn't enough."
He pushed, and Zoro stumbled back.
"Why do you fight?" Mihawk asked.
Zoro straightened, blood running from a dozen small cuts. "I made a promise. To someone precious to me. That I'd become the strongest."
"Then you should know—" Mihawk sheathed his dagger and drew the massive blade from his back. The sword was as tall as a man, its edge gleaming in the sunlight. "—that I will not hold back against a swordsman who fights with such conviction."
"Good," Zoro said, and smiled.
He charged one final time, pouring everything into a single strike. Mihawk met him head-on, and their blades clashed with a sound like thunder.
For a heartbeat, they stood frozen.
Then Zoro's swords shattered.
Two of them broke completely, the blades spinning away into the ocean. Only the Wado Ichimonji remained intact, and Zoro stood there, chest heaving, defeated.
"Step back," Mihawk said. "You've lost."
"No." Zoro sheathed his remaining sword and spread his arms wide, facing Mihawk directly. "A swordsman's back is his shame. If I'm going to die, it'll be from the front."
Mihawk's eyes widened slightly. Then he smiled—a real smile, full of genuine respect.
"What is your name?"
"Roronoa Zoro."
"I will remember it." Mihawk raised his blade. "And I will wait for you, at the top. Grow strong, Roronoa Zoro. Surpass this sword. Surpass me."
He struck, and Zoro fell.
Luffy caught him before he hit the deck, and for the first time since Gil had met him, the captain looked truly shaken.
"Zoro? ZORO!"
The swordsman's eyes opened, barely. Blood soaked his chest, but he was alive. Barely.
"Sorry, Luffy," he whispered. "I worried you."
"Don't talk! We need—"
"I won't lose again." Zoro's voice was stronger now, fierce despite his injuries. "Until I beat him and become the greatest... I won't lose again! Is that okay, King of the Pirates?"
Luffy's face crumpled, then reformed into something harder. Determined. "Yeah. That's okay."
Mihawk turned to leave, but his eyes found Gil one more time. "You have the eyes of a king," the Warlord said. "But you're holding back. Why?"
Gil met his gaze steadily. "Because this isn't my story."
"Hmm." Mihawk's smile was enigmatic. "We'll see."
Then he was gone, his small boat disappearing into the distance.
The silence that followed was broken by Don Krieg's laughter.
"That's it? That's the great Roronoa Zoro? Pathetic!" He turned to his men. "Kill them all. Take the ship."
What followed was chaos.
Krieg's crew attacked en masse. Sanji kicked his way through them with a fighting style that was all legs—powerful, precise strikes that sent men flying. Luffy stretched and punched, his rubber body making him nearly impossible to hit.
Gil drew his sword and moved into the fray.
He didn't try to be flashy. Didn't try to overshadow. He simply fought—cutting down the men who came at him with efficient, brutal strikes. His Conqueror's Haki leaked out in small bursts, making weaker enemies hesitate or collapse.
But he kept it controlled. This was Luffy's fight, ultimately. Krieg was Luffy's opponent.
Nami watched from the sidelines, her staff in hand but unused. Gil caught her eye once, and the look she gave him was complicated—sad, almost.
Then she turned away.
Krieg revealed weapon after weapon—guns built into his armor, poison gas, explosives. He was a walking arsenal, and he used every dirty trick he had.
Luffy took it all. Every hit, every explosion, every underhanded tactic. And he kept getting back up.
"Why?!" Krieg roared. "Why won't you stay down?!"
"Because," Luffy said, blood running down his face, "I'm going to be King of the Pirates. And I don't lose to guys like you."
The final clash was spectacular. Luffy's fist, stretched back impossibly far, met Krieg's armored body with the force of a cannonball. The golden armor cracked, then shattered, and Krieg flew backward into the ocean with a massive splash.
Silence fell.
Then Luffy grinned, gave a thumbs up, and collapsed.
They stayed at the Baratie for three days while Zoro recovered. The swordsman's wounds were severe, but he was young and strong. He'd live. More than that, he'd grow from this.
Gil spent most of that time on the Going Merry, maintaining his weapons and thinking. About Mihawk. About the distance between where he was and where he could be. About the fact that he was holding back, and whether that was wisdom or cowardice.
Nami was packing. He could see her through the window of her room, carefully organizing her maps and navigation tools. She moved with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before.
On the third day, Sanji joined the crew. The cook had his own reasons—a dream of finding the All Blue, a legendary sea where all the oceans met. Zeff gave his blessing with a kick and some gruff words that fooled no one.