Dracule Mihawk's FIRST PERSON POV:-
I watched him die.
It wasn't a tragedy. It wasn't a spectacle. It was a farce.
The so-called King of the Pirates, the man who had supposedly conquered the Grand Line, who possessed the strongest will in the seas… he died on his knees. He died with a smile, yes, but he died at the hands of two nameless, faceless executioners who likely couldn't even cut through a block of iron without dulling their blades.
The rain began to fall, washing the blood from the scaffold, but it couldn't wash away the bitter taste in my mouth.
Is this the end he got? Or was it the end he wanted?
I stood motionless in the dispersing crowd, the chaotic cheers of the new "Great Pirate Era" washing over me like sewage. They were celebrating. Fools. They saw a treasure map opening up; I saw the degradation of strength.
Why train?
Why spend eighteen years turning my body into a living weapon? Why meditate until my mind is as still as a frozen lake? Why refine my Haki until it can cut the very air I breathe, merging it seamlessly with my sword arts until the blade is no longer steel, but an extension of my soul?
What is the point?
If the pinnacle of strength ends like that — shackled, sick, and executed by weaklings for the entertainment of the masses — is the title of "Strongest" even worth the blood it costs to achieve it?
My hand drifted to the hilt of the weapon on my back. Yoru. The Black Blade. It was heavy, a weight that anchored me to the earth when everything else felt fleeting. It was cold against my spine.
I remembered the promise.
It wasn't a promise made to a king or a god. It was a quiet vow made in the ashes of a small, burning village in the West Blue. A promise to a father who died holding a dull kitchen knife to protect his family. A promise to a mother who whispered it with her last breath.
Be strong enough that you never have to be afraid. Be strong enough that no one can ever look down on you.
I tightened my grip on the crossguard. The metal bit into my palm.
I didn't want this chaos. I didn't want this "Great Era" Roger had just birthed. I looked at the faces around me — greedy, violent, stupid. They were rushing to the sea to plunder and burn.
All I wanted was peace.
It sounds ridiculous for a man who carries a blade taller than himself, but it is the truth. I wanted a world where strength was respected, not used as a bludgeon for greed. I wanted to open a dojo. A quiet place.
I wanted to teach people the true way of the sword — not as a tool for murder, but as a path to discipline. To clarify.
But you cannot teach the weak if you are not the strongest. In this world, peace is a luxury bought with violence. To build my sanctuary, I first have to climb a mountain of corpses. I have to reach the pinnacle. I have to become a monster so that I can eventually rest as a man.
My father used to tell stories. He spoke of the monsters cultivated by the World Government. Of the hidden warriors who maintained the "balance," which I never saw.
I looked at the scaffold one last time. Roger was gone.
I turned away. The crowd parted around me, not out of respect, but out of an instinctual, animalistic avoidance. They sensed the predator in their midst, even if they couldn't name it.
'Mom was right, I really need some friends.'
The thought surprised me. I had always walked alone. But seeing Roger die… knowing he had a crew, a rival, a "Whitebeard"… it made the solitude of my path feel.... sad.
I wished, just for a moment, for an equal. Someone who understood the weight of the weapon. Someone who wasn't driven by gold or fame, but by the sheer, crushing burden of needing to be better. Someone who walked the same lonely road to the summit.
I sighed, the sound lost in the thunder.
I began to walk toward the docks, and I needed to leave this island. It reeked of failure and false hope. But as I patted my pocket, I felt the grim reality of my situation.
I had no ship. I had no crew. And I had exactly enough berries to buy dried meat and water for a month.
"Pathetic," I muttered to myself. "The future World's Strongest Swordsman, walking in the rain because he can't afford a ride."
I wandered aimlessly through the back alleys of Loguetown, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the Marines were starting to clamp down. The stone streets were hidden in shadows deep. I liked the shadows. They were honest.
I turned a corner, heading toward a dilapidated pier where I might be able to steal a skiff or bargain for passage.
And then, I felt it.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a movement.
It was a cut.
It felt as if the air in the alleyway had suddenly developed a razor's edge. A sharp, localized pressure pressed against my Observation Haki like a needle against the skin.
I stopped. My hand didn't move to my sword — it didn't need to yet — but my entire body shifted, my stance widening, my center of gravity dropping.
I turned.
Standing at the other end of the alley, just emerging from the shadows of a tavern, was a guy, looking around the same age as me.
He was tall, perhaps an inch or two taller than me. He wore a heavy, dark coat that looked travel-worn. His hair was black, save for a single, striking streak of white that slashed across his temple. His face was marked by three thin scars, precise lines that spoke of a claw or a very sharp blade. He was staring right at me.
His eyes… they were gold.
I looked at his back. Wrapped in cloth was a weapon. The shape was unmistakable.
An axe.
A brute's weapon. A tool for lumberjacks and berserkers. Usually, I would dismiss an axe-wielder as a man who relied on muscle over technique, a clumsy fighter who used weight to compensate for a lack of skill.
But not this one.
I looked at his posture. His feet were planted perfectly, distributing his weight evenly. His shoulders were relaxed, but there was a tension in his neck, a coil of readiness. He didn't carry his body like a brawler. He carried it with the grace of a master swordsman.
I could see it. I could feel it. The density of his aura. The quiet, thrumming power that radiated off him like heat from a stone.
He is strong.
Really strong.
It was the first time in years I had looked at someone my age and felt… dangerous.
And then, it happened.
Thrummmmmm
A vibration ran through my spine. It started at my shoulder blades and echoed down into my hands.
Yoru… was humming.
My eyes widened slightly, the first break in my composure. Yoru, the Black Blade, the Supreme Grade Blade, had never reacted to another weapon. It slept through battles. It ignored the steel of Marines and pirates alike, treating them as unworthy of notice.
But now, in this dirty, rain-soaked alley, it was singing. A low, hungry, resonant pitch that vibrated against the sheath on my back.
It was recognizing something, like acknowledging a peer.
I looked back at the axe on the stranger's back. Even through the cloth wrapping, I could feel a similar vibration coming from it.
"This..." I whispered, a rare spark of genuine interest igniting in my chest. "...is interesting."
THIRD PERSON POV:-(Moments ago)
Aster had just left the dusty storage room. He had the bag of berries, the snail, and the Geppo manual tucked securely inside his coat. He had a mission. He had a path to follow.
He turned into a narrow alleyway, looking for a shortcut to the docks where his black sloop was moored.
He took three steps into the alley and stopped.
He didn't stop because he chose to. He stopped because he heard a peculiar song.
It wasn't a wall of stone. It was a wall of sharpness.
Fifty feet away, standing in the rain, was a guy around his age.
He was lean, dressed in a white shirt that was open at the chest, revealing a silver cross necklace. He had short, dark hair.
But it was his eyes that stopped Aster.
They were strange. Yellow, ringed with concentric circles. Like the eyes of a hawk.
They were staring directly at Aster.
Aster stared back.
His instincts, usually quiet until a fight began, were screaming.
Whoa, Flamey's voice rumbled in his mind, waking up from his nap. Okay. Okay. That kid is strong.
The spirit let out a low whistle.
He is strong, Aster. Like... really strong. I haven't felt a human aura that sharp since... well, since the blond guy with the glasses.
Aster narrowed his eyes. Rayleigh? You think he's as strong as Rayleigh?
No no no, Flamey corrected. The old man will one-shot this kid any day. What I meant was he's cut from the same cloth. He has the same sharp aura.
Aster didn't respond to the spirit. He was focused on the feeling. It was a physical sensation, like standing next to a naked blade. The air between them seemed to be cut into ribbons.
Then, he felt it.
A vibration on his back.
Crimson Abyss, the Supreme Grade axe that his father had given him, woke up.
It didn't just wake up. It sang.
Through the Voice of All Things, Aster heard the axe's voice clearly. Usually, it was a low, sullen grumble, hungry for battle or complaining about lack of maintenance.
But now, it was singing a high, clear note of joy.
(Iron. Black Iron. Brother. Rival. Finally.)
The axe was vibrating against the magnetic clip on his harness. It was pulling, subtly, towards the man.
Aster's gaze shifted. He looked at the massive cross-shaped object strapped to the stranger's back. It was wrapped, but the aura bleeding off it was unmistakable.
It was a Black Blade. A Supreme Grade weapon.
Aster's hand twitched. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to draw his axe. Not to kill. But to test. To see if the man's blade was as sharp as his eyes.
He saw the stranger's hand twitch, too.
They stood there in the rain, two blade-men meeting in the urban jungle. The execution was over. The Pirate King was dead. The crowds were cheering for a new era of chaos.
But here, in the silence of the alley, a different kind of era was being acknowledged.
"This is interesting," Aster thought, a small smile touching his lips.