"Shoot him down!"
The command cracked through the air like thunder.
Momonga, watching from the sidelines, twitched at the words. His expression soured, lips curling in quiet disbelief.
What kind of swordsmanship is this supposed to be? he thought, exasperation bubbling in his chest. Not a single named technique! Just faster slashes and a bit more Haki each time! What an absolute joke…
But where Momonga's reaction was annoyance, both Moria and Mihawk stood frozen in awe.
In that instant, the ancient, decayed blade in Darren's grasp—Kogarashi—howled with destructive energy. The moment the Vice Admiral spoke, that raw, suffocating aura erupted outward like a storm unbound.
The island's magnetic field convulsed violently, the air warping with heat and pressure. Sparks of blue lightning flickered through the haze, distorting the world into a mirage of blinding power.
Boom!!
A blinding flash. A roar that tore through the heavens.
Kogarashi, its body now sheathed in a solid layer of Armament Haki, shattered the sound barrier as it launched forward, faster than thought, faster than fear itself.
Here it comes!
The approaching edge carried death. Mihawk's instincts screamed in warning, his focus narrowing to a single, lethal moment.
He had learned from the first strike. His Observation Haki surged to its limits, grasping for that one sliver of a chance amid the suffocating threat hurtling toward him.
Even before the blade reached him, the shockwave struck—violent winds tearing at his clothes, his hair, his very breath.
Yoru thrummed in his grip, the obsidian blade humming with anticipation. Mihawk moved.
Clang!!
The collision was cataclysmic. The explosion of sound tore through the ruins, shattering every remaining pane of glass. Moria instinctively clutched his ears and ducked, fearing his skull might split apart from the noise.
And yet—Mihawk had done it.
The young swordsman's strike had found its mark, intercepting the incoming blade in a perfect, instantaneous counter.
Tip met tip.
For a brief heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then the air itself erupted.
A tidal wave of pressure exploded outward, pulverizing the ground in a radius of hundreds of meters.
But Mihawk's victory lasted only a heartbeat.
Because in the next instant, the black Haki coating Kogarashi flared—igniting like a second-stage rocket. Concentric rings of pure destructive energy burst from its edge, propelling the blade forward again with crushing force.
Mihawk's eyes widened as the world tilted beneath him.
The impact slammed into him like an avalanche.
Five meters. Ten. Thirty.
He slid backward over a hundred meters, boots gouging trenches into the ground. The earth split beneath his heels. His arms screamed in pain.
The released shockwave ripped past him, continuing on—tearing a monstrous gash straight through the ocean. Water roared skyward, waves collapsing with thunderous fury.
And then—silence.
The air hung still.
Moria stood like a statue, his face drained of color.
Even the distant Marines, long since retreated to what they thought was a safe distance, could only gape in pale, trembling awe.
Drip... drip... drip...
Blood spattered from Mihawk's hand, trickling down the hilt of Yoru. His chest heaved as he fought for air.
The whites of his eyes were shot through with crimson veins. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
The Haki guarding his arm had shattered under the impact. The skin between his thumb and forefinger had split open, flesh raw and bleeding. The shock alone had ruptured blood vessels deep within his arm.
A chill crept up his legs. He could feel seawater pooling around his boots. Another inch, and he'd have been sent plunging straight into the ocean.
"He blocked it again…" Momonga muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. "That's insane…"
Even though Darren's technique relied more on his magnetic field than pure swordsmanship, its sheer speed and force were enough to destroy nearly anything it touched.
And yet that brat—what was he now, fifteen? sixteen?—had not only predicted the moment of attack but had intercepted it head-on.
The thought left even the seasoned Vice Admiral dumbstruck.
In truth, Momonga had once been a skilled swordsman himself—long before he'd eaten the Rumble-Rumble Fruit. Even out here in the North Blue, he'd earned the title of a Master Swordsman through sheer discipline and will.
And so, he could see clearly what few others could: the depth, the precision, the unyielding strength behind Mihawk's cut.
Stripped of Devil Fruits and tricks, relying on swordsmanship alone—this kid could very well surpass him.
Momonga exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Another monster… No wonder Darren took an interest in him."
Drip... drip...
Blood pooled at Mihawk's feet, but the young swordsman only laughed—a low, trembling sound filled not with pain, but exhilaration.
"Magnificent… truly magnificent…"
Moria blinked, utterly bewildered. Has he finally lost it?
"Is he out of his mind? He's half-dead, and he's grinning like that?" Moria whispered in disbelief.
"Coming to the North Blue…" Mihawk's voice carried softly, but it was steady, radiant with conviction. "It was the right choice. This journey… was worth it."
Despite his youth, his composure held an almost regal stillness. That fierce, honest smile—the smile of a man who had brushed against the edge of greatness—fit him perfectly.
"Darren!" Mihawk raised Yoru once more, its edge glinting in the fading light. "What kind of swordsmanship is that? Such a powerful, dominating technique deserves a name!"
"A name?" Darren blinked, momentarily lost. He looked at the blade in his hand, at the faint shimmer of magnetic energy twisting around it.
How was he supposed to explain that it wasn't a 'technique' at all—just magnetism and timing?
Still, seeing Mihawk's earnest, fiery gaze, he coughed lightly and answered, "Swordsmanship is swordsmanship. As long as it kills the opponent, what need is there for names?"
The words struck Mihawk like lightning. His pupils dilated.
"As long as it kills… names don't matter…" he repeated softly. Then, louder: "So that's it… so that's it!"
Darren: ???
What's it?
I don't even know what I meant, and you already do?
But Mihawk's eyes were blazing now, filled with a feverish light.
"I understand!" he declared. "This—this is the essence of swordsmanship!"
Darren: …
You what?
"So that's the truth!" Mihawk continued, trembling with excitement. "The path I've walked until now was the wrong one! Darren, you're a true legend!"
"True mastery—true strength—lies in transcending forms and techniques! Every swing should carry the weight of countless possibilities! Every strike, the culmination of all paths!"
"Once you grasp that, every slash becomes an ultimate technique! Every cut… a killing blow!"
"Names are meaningless—mere crutches for the weak! True strength requires no explanation!"
Darren: …
He stared at the boy blankly for a moment, before managing a slow, dignified nod.
"…It seems you've realized something profound," he said with an expression of solemn wisdom that was pure, practiced bluff.
But inside, his thoughts raced wildly.
So that's why Hawk-Eyes doesn't name any of his moves in the future… because of this?!
"Precisely!" Mihawk said, eyes shining.
He stepped forward, lowering his head in a deep bow, his voice ringing clear. "I thank you for your enlightenment, Darren!"
"Now—show me your strongest strike!"
Darren: …
Moria: …
Momonga buried his face in his hands, groaning.
He's not a swordmaster at all…
He doesn't know the first damn thing about swordsmanship!
Those 'unnamed techniques' of his—
He's just too lazy to come up with names!
To be continued...