Mihawk cut through the rolling waves, his coffin boat rising and falling as he headed straight toward the ship.
Amon did not move from the deck.
He stood high above, eyes fixed on Mihawk without blinking.
Mihawk was one of the most unpredictable great swordsmen in this world, and Amon was genuinely curious about him.
In the original story, the man was famous for his odd temperament. He once got his sleep disturbed by the Krieg Pirates and responded by cutting down fifty ships from the East Blue's largest pirate fleet.
Then he chased them all the way into the East Blue, intent on wiping the problem out for good.
Yet when everyone thought he was simply bloodthirsty, he showed an almost strange calm toward Roronoa Zoro.
He accepted Zoro's challenge, satisfied him, and even made an exception by drawing the black blade on his back as a sign of respect for a fellow swordsman.
Later, when Zoro and Perona ended up on his island after Kuma sent them flying, Mihawk did not make things difficult for them. He let them stay and eat under his roof, and he even taught Zoro swordsmanship.
Zoro's rise after those two years had a lot to do with Mihawk's instruction, especially the understanding of how to use a black blade, which made Zoro far more lethal.
Mihawk's strength had always been debated.
Some argued he was "only" a Warlord, so he should be a level below the Emperors, roughly around an Admiral tier.
Others believed his strength already matched an Emperor. They pointed to his sword clashes with Shanks, where neither side clearly won, and to what he showed during Marineford, where his pressure did not look inferior to any top-tier monster.
So when Hawk-Eyes appeared, Amon dropped the thought of going inside to rest. He wanted to see what Mihawk was here for.
If he guessed right, it was because of that sword strike.
So he waited on the deck, calm and still, watching the coffin boat approach.
...
Mihawk's vessel might have been small, but it moved fast.
He rode it across the waves without any oars at all, the boat slicing forward like it had a will of its own. In no time, he reached the ship.
Amon stood above him on the deck, silent.
Mihawk remained silent too, lifting his head slightly to meet Amon's gaze.
Then he noticed Amon's age.
A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes.
In Mihawk's mind, a swordsman capable of releasing a strike like that should have at least three or four decades of sharpening behind him.
Yet the man standing here looked too young.
So young that Mihawk's certainty wavered.
Did he misjudge?
Was there another expert hidden on the ship?
A moment passed.
Amon still did not speak.
Finally, Mihawk's hawk-like gaze sharpened and he broke the silence first.
"I am Dracule Mihawk, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. May I ask your name?"
Amon's mouth tilted into a faint smile.
"So it really is the world's strongest swordsman, Mihawk." His eyes swept over Mihawk's wet clothes, the dripping cloak, the soaked hat brim. "I'm Amon. Just a simple Jar merchant."
"A merchant?"
Mihawk looked at him as if he had heard a strange joke.
In this world, strong people usually fell into one of three categories: pirates, Marines, or bounty hunters.
A merchant was not on the list.
"Yes." Amon's tone stayed casual. "More precisely, a Jar merchant."
He leaned forward slightly, voice carrying a lazy ease.
"By the way, Great Swordsman, did you come here to buy a Jar? One hundred thousand beli each. Absolutely worth it."
Mihawk was a famous supporting figure in this world, and Amon's instincts immediately treated him as a potential buyer.
He still needed three more to reach ten. Anyone with a name was worth trying to hook.
Mihawk's gaze did not shift.
"Buy a Jar? No." His voice was flat. "I sensed a sharp sword technique released in this direction and came to investigate. Do you know who used it?"
His mind was entirely on that strike. He had no interest in Amon's sales pitch at all.
He refused cleanly.
A refusal he would later regret.
If Mihawk bought now, Amon could have sold him one for one hundred thousand beli. Later, when Mihawk learned just how absurd these Jars were and tried to buy one, the price would no longer be that friendly.
He would want to slap himself twice.
Why did he have to act cool back then?
...
Amon heard the refusal and immediately felt mischievous.
He actually found Mihawk kind of… entertaining in the original story.
So he started, then stopped on purpose.
"Heh. Of course I…"
He let the pause hang, long enough to bait the hook. Long enough for Mihawk's attention to tighten.
Then Amon finished, smiling.
"I don't know."
Mihawk's expression stiffened.
Amon did not give him time to react.
"Alright, I'm lying. The truth is, that sword technique was mine."
"You?"
In Mihawk's eyes, a strange light flashed. The air around him shifted. His battle intent rose like a blade sliding out of a sheath.
A swordsman like him rarely met an opponent worth drawing steel for.
Now one stood in front of him. He did not care about the risk.
Even if it meant death, he would still want that fight.
"If the technique just now was truly yours," Mihawk said, voice sharpening, "then please accept my challenge."
He drew the supreme grade blade from his back, the black blade Yoru.
Against a swordsman of Amon's level, he would not insult the moment by holding back.
...
Amon blinked.
Mihawk's warlust was immediate, like he would start cutting the moment the next word landed wrong.
Amon had spent the whole stretch of time refining techniques.
He was hungry.
He had no desire to waste hours trading blows with a man he had no grudge against.
At their level, a fight would not be decided quickly. Not unless one side was willing to throw everything away.
So why?
Winning gained him nothing.
Losing was not an option. Not in this lifetime.
Amon's thought was simple.
He would rather fish, cook, and lie down like a lazy bastard than burn half a day on a pointless duel.
So he answered without hesitation.
"No. Not fighting. Not interested. I'm hungry. I'm going to eat."
Mihawk had already begun imagining the clash, three hundred rounds of steel and blood, the kind of duel that made the world feel alive.
And what he got instead was that sentence.
He paused, almost unable to process it.
Hungry?
Not fighting?
Was that something a great swordsman was supposed to say?