"An honor? Hardly."
At the mention of respect from Issho, Dracule Mihawk merely responded with a cold snort.
"The so-called great swordsmen who've fallen to my blade are too many to count."His tone carried the aloof indifference of someone who had stood at the summit for far too long.
"So you'd better not perform worse than the Snake Princess."
"Snake Princess?" Issho repeated the title, brows knitting slightly even as he remained on guard. "You mean one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea—the 'Pirate Empress,' Boa Hancock?"
"Not her."
From behind them, Gern cleared his throat and answered in an even voice, "The former Snake Princess. Toritoma. My woman."
"I see… one of the 'Calamities' under your command, Lord Gern."
"I'll let you make the first move," Mihawk said calmly.
Issho understood at once. The corners of his lips lifted faintly.
"Then… forgive the offense!"
Before his words had fully faded, the steady aura around him sharpened like a drawn blade. The ground beneath his feet fractured inch by inch as his figure shot forward in an instant.
His cane-sword—Gambler's Fireline—was drawn completely. Visible to the naked eye, violet ripples of gravity surged wildly along its blade.
"Gravity Blade—Fierce Tiger!!"
With a low roar, Issho unleashed the gravity he had accumulated to its absolute limit, pouring it into the edge of his sword as he slashed forward at Mihawk.
The path of his blade birthed a colossal lateral gravitational force, descending like a mountain tiger. The crushing pressure surged forward with the slash, gouging trenches into the earth as if the very weight of the heavens had tilted sideways.
Faced with this fusion of masterful swordsmanship and the eerie might of a Devil Fruit, Mihawk's sharp features did not so much as flicker.
He made no elaborate preparatory stance.
He simply shifted his massive black blade, Yoru, from a diagonal hold to a proper grip—
—and raised it casually to meet the incoming strike.
"CLANG—!!!"
The collision exploded like thunder.
The anticipated scene of steel buckling under gravity never came.
Instead, Yoru held firm against Gambler's Fireline.
The lateral force—enough to crush a warship—met the black blade and was severed cleanly, neutralized by sheer force of will and edge.
It did not even produce a ripple.
Issho's expression shook violently. Sweat formed on his brow.
What he had struck did not feel like a sword.
It felt like a mountain range—one that gravity itself could not move.
After parrying the gravity-charged tiger, Mihawk spoke no further.
The counterattack began.
There were no flashy technique names. No superfluous movements.
A simple turn of the wrist.
Yoru became a succession of the most straightforward, direct—and deadly—slashes imaginable.
Each cut carried the will to sever all things. Each strike precisely targeted the weakest seam in Issho's flowing sword rhythm. They were so fast they blurred beyond sight.
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang—!
The training grounds rang with the sound of metal colliding in a relentless downpour.
Under Mihawk's pure and domineering swordsmanship, Issho was forced to divert the full power of his Gravity Fruit toward defense and force dispersion. Gambler's Fireline spun like a wheel in his hands as he barely managed to block and deflect.
Yet his body was driven back again and again beneath the onslaught.
Each step carved deep footprints into the earth. His sword arm went numb from the shock. The web between thumb and forefinger throbbed painfully.
In pure swordsmanship—
He was completely suppressed.
As Issho strained to endure, desperately searching for the faintest opening within Mihawk's airtight storm of steel—
Mihawk's golden eyes sharpened first.
He caught it.
A minuscule stagnation—an instant hitch caused by the transition between gravity manipulation and sword technique after too many consecutive blocks.
"It's over."
The words formed silently in Mihawk's mind as his wrist exerted sudden force. In less than a thousandth of a second, the trajectory of his blade changed.
The relentless barrage transformed into a single, unadorned horizontal slash.
Plain.
Uncomplicated.
Yet imbued with the intent to sever the very path of all things.
It was impossibly fast. Impeccably precise.
As if he had foreseen every possible response Issho might attempt, the blade struck the exact point where Gambler's Fireline's force transition was most awkward—most structurally vulnerable.
CLANG—HUMMM!!!
The collision rang clearer than before, tinged faintly with something like a wail.
An overwhelming, utterly pure cutting force surged down Issho's blade. The skin of his palm split open instantly; blood seeped forth.
He could no longer hold the hilt.
Gambler's Fireline flew from his grasp, spinning at high speed through the air in a brilliant arc—
Before embedding itself diagonally into the ground dozens of meters away with a sharp thunk, the blade trembling faintly.
Issho himself staggered back seven or eight steps before he could barely steady his footing. His chest heaved. He breathed in shallow bursts.
The calm that usually defined his face was gone, replaced by solemn gravity—and a trace of undeniable shock.
He had been crushed.
Thoroughly. Cleanly. Without embellishment.
In the opponent's most specialized domain.
From beginning to end, Mihawk had used no special techniques. Only the speed, strength, precision, and battlefield insight of fundamental slashes—yet they had completely surpassed him.
Mihawk looked at the faintly panting Issho. The cold severity on his face gradually receded, returning to stillness like an ancient well.
With a smooth motion, he reversed his grip and sheathed Yoru across his back.
Clang.
Then he regarded Issho calmly and delivered his verdict.
"Not bad."
"Your swordsmanship is solid. Your integration of gravity and blade is… distinctive. At the very least, you did not waste the time it took me to draw Yoru."
From him, this was high praise.
But then his tone shifted, and a subtle note of regret entered it as he pinpointed the heart of the matter.
"Unfortunately…"
"You are not a pure great swordsman."
What did he mean by "not pure"?
Simply this:
Issho's peak swordsmanship was not his sole source of strength.
Perhaps not even his core.
The formidable power of his Devil Fruit granted him terrifying combat prowess—but at the same time, it may have become a crutch… and a barrier.
His blade was stronger because of gravity.
But because of gravity, it might never reach that supreme realm where only the sword exists—where blade and will are one and nothing else remains.
Mihawk's assessment struck with surgical precision.
"Hey now, Mihawk, if you put it that way—" Gern stepped forward leisurely, hands in his pockets, nodding toward the bandage-wrapped black blade at his waist, Bahuang. "Doesn't that mean I'm 'not pure' too?"
At that, even Borsalino couldn't help the slight curl of his lips. Barrett pressed his mouth thin. Even Zephyr shook his head helplessly.
Mihawk turned his head toward Gern.
For once, his glacier-like face showed an unmistakable shift in expression.
He shot Gern an unceremonious look of disdain and snorted.
"Hmph."
The meaning in his golden eyes was obvious: What nonsense are you spouting?
"You?" he said flatly. "You're not 'impure.'"
His gaze swept over the bandaged black blade Bahuang at Gern's waist, then returned to Gern's smiling face. He delivered the conclusion word by word.
"You're not a swordsman at all."
"???"
The smile froze on Gern's face.
Mihawk didn't give him a chance to argue. He laid bare the truth in a tone of plain factual statement—each word a merciless strike.
"I have never seen anyone who calls himself a swordsman throw his own blade like a javelin in the middle of a fight…"
He paused, as if recalling certain past 'duels' that might have scarred his sense of swordly dignity.
"…and then charge in swinging his fists for close-quarters brawling."
Gern: "…"
He opened his mouth, clearly intending to defend himself—perhaps call it "tactics" or "unexpected strategy."
But beneath Mihawk's icy gaze—the look that declared, You will not profane the title of swordsman—he swallowed his words and awkwardly rubbed his nose.
"Haha." Even the ever-composed Zephyr let out a laugh this time. Ain and Binz covered their mouths, shoulders shaking.
Mihawk's pinpoint sarcasm had utterly shattered Gern's faint attempt to sneak into the ranks of true swordsmen—
—and mercilessly expelled him from the discussion.
Conclusion: Heaven-Shaking Gern possessed power terrifying beyond measure—
—but the words "pure swordsman" had almost nothing to do with him.
When he fought, he used whatever was most convenient.
A blade?
Merely a particularly handy tool.