Several days later, the warship carrying Gern and Mihawk slowly surfaced from the depths, passing through the massive soap bubble and docking at the Marines' exclusive harbor of the Sabaody Archipelago.
Sunlight filtered through layers of towering mangrove branches, refracting across countless drifting bubbles and scattering dreamlike hues through the air.
The island was as noisy and chaotic as ever—pirates shouting, vendors hawking their wares, the wails of slaves, and the hypocritical laughter of nobles all interwoven into a bizarre yet strangely vibrant tableau of life.
Stepping onto solid ground, Mihawk glanced toward the bustling, mixed-blood streets in the distance and frowned slightly.
He preferred quiet places.
Turning his head, he looked at Gern beside him—who had already removed his Marine admiral's coat and changed into an expensive black casual suit—and finally voiced the question that had been lingering in his mind.
"Why do you care so much about that deep-sea island?" Mihawk asked coolly, though a hint of genuine puzzlement crept into his tone."With your strength and status, the trouble that comes with protecting it seems to outweigh the benefits."
In Mihawk's eyes, Gern's actions on Fish-Man Island looked more like a burden than a gain.
Gern straightened his collar. Hearing that, he let out a snort of laughter tinged with mockery and weary sarcasm.
"Benefits?""You think I live like you lone wolves—feed yourself and you're done?"
He clicked his tongue and continued bluntly,"Maintaining an entire base, servicing warships, developing weapons, personnel stipends, daily expenses… every single one of those is an astronomical cost."
He shot Mihawk a sideways glance and kept complaining,"And those old foxes in the World Government? They clamp down on funding tighter than iron shackles. They'd love for me to split one coin into two halves and still expect me to work myself to death for them. Dream on. So naturally, I have to find my own ways to 'generate income.'"
Gern patted the bandage-wrapped black blade at his waist."The passage fees from Fish-Man Island will be a stable source of revenue from now on. Neptune might be a bit timid, but at least he knows how to read the situation."
Then, deliberately, Gern looked Mihawk up and down with an expression of exaggerated disdain.
"Besides, keeping you around isn't cheap either.You only drink top-tier red wine, only wear bespoke clothing, your weapons need premium-grade maintenance oil, and even that 'coffin board' boat of yours requires special timber just to keep it seaworthy. Which part of that doesn't cost money?"
Mihawk froze for a moment, then awkwardly tugged the brim of his hat lower and turned his face away, letting out a low snort.
"Hmph… those are merely basic necessities of life.Custom tailoring, top-tier maintenance, premium alcohol… nothing more."
Though his tone remained aloof and proud, there was a faint trace of guilt buried within it.
"'Nothing more,' huh?" Gern sighed theatrically, rubbing his temples."All those 'nothings' put together could fund a small Marine branch for years! The world's greatest swordsman really does live up to his reputation—in every sense."
Mihawk: "..."
Gern didn't bother pressing the issue further. His gaze drifted toward the towering mangroves in the distance, scanning the numbers painted on their massive trunks.
When his eyes landed on the number 13, they brightened slightly. An unconscious smile—nostalgic, yet tinged with playful anticipation—curved across his face.
"Area Thirteen…" he murmured, stroking his chin."If that's the case, the legendary 'Rip-Off Bar' should be somewhere around here, right?"
An image surfaced in his mind—an elderly woman with glasses, a cigarette perpetually in her mouth, sharp-tongued and foul-mouthed, yet soft-hearted beneath it all.
"Come on, Mihawk." Gern's mood visibly lifted as he took the lead toward Area Thirteen."I'll take you somewhere interesting. You'll meet the former number-one beauty in the world—a woman who once shook the balance of the entire era."
Mihawk watched Gern's suddenly… sly grin with mild confusion, but said nothing and followed in silence.
...
Sabaody Archipelago, Mangrove Area Thirteen.
Compared to the other numbered zones, this area was noticeably more remote—and more rundown.
Gern led Mihawk through several narrow alleys before stopping in front of a bar that looked utterly unremarkable, even somewhat dilapidated.
The crooked signboard above the door read: "SHABONDY BAR."
But those who knew the place were familiar with its far more infamous nickname—
The Rip-Off Bar.
Even from outside, loud noise spilled through the walls: raucous shouting, clinking glasses, and off-key singing. Clearly, a sizable group of pirates was inside drinking themselves senseless.
Gern lowered the brim of his hat slightly and shot Mihawk a look that said follow me, then pushed open the creaking wooden door.
In an instant, a wave of hot, murky air rushed out—thick with the stench of cheap alcohol, tobacco smoke, and sweat.
The bar was small and dimly lit, yet packed wall to wall with pirates of every shape and size, each one looking fierce and vicious.
They were boasting loudly about their so-called heroic exploits or gambling noisily around crowded tables, the atmosphere bordering on madness.
But in the very next second—
It was as if an invisible hand seized the entire room by the throat.
Silence fell.
"Clatter!"
A pirate's glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor, yet he didn't even notice. His eyes were wide, fixed in terror on the doorway.
Every gaze in the bar snapped toward the entrance, drawn like iron to a magnet—
Toward the second man who had just stepped inside, walking behind the man in the hat.
Tall and straight-backed. A profile as cold and sharp as a hawk's.And above all—
That unmistakable black top hat.
And that massive, cross-shaped black blade that sent a chill straight down the spine just from looking at it.
"Yoru."
It was as if the world itself had been muted.
The bar, moments ago deafening with noise, became so silent you could hear a pin drop.
Every pirate's face was etched with disbelief, overwhelming terror, and utter confusion.
"H-Hawk… Hawkeye Mihawk…" one pirate whispered, his voice trembling as he spoke the name like a curse.
"The… the world's greatest swordsman… Dracule Mihawk?! Why is he here?!"
These pirates—who might still bully others in the first half of the Grand Line—found themselves utterly incapable of even entertaining the thought of resistance when faced with the man who stood at the pinnacle of swordsmanship.
They shrank back like frightened quails.
As for the man walking in front—the one wearing a hat that obscured most of his face—he was instinctively ignored by everyone.
Mihawk's presence was simply too overwhelming. Too terrifying.
After all, who would ever imagine that a Marine Admiral and the world's greatest swordsman would appear together in a place like this?
(The Fish-Man Island news coverage had not captured Mihawk in any photographs.)
Mihawk himself couldn't be bothered to look at the trembling riffraff. His eyes swept over the shelves behind the bar instead, as though evaluating whether there was any alcohol here worthy of drinking.
Behind the counter, Shakky—Shakuyaku—who was wiping down a glass, had already noticed the disturbance at the entrance.
At first, she spotted the shattered glass on the floor and smiled faintly—after all, that meant she'd be able to rip someone off for a hefty sum again in a moment.
Then her gaze fell on Mihawk, and a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes.
But when her eyes shifted to the man in front—the one wearing a hat, a faintly amused smile on his lips—
Her experienced eyes narrowed slightly.
The next moment, Gern, who had taken a seat at the bar, casually hooked a finger under the brim of his hat and tipped it upward, revealing his face.
When she saw him, even Shakky's pupils shrank sharply.