I kept walking, letting the crowd fade behind me as I turned into a narrow alley. The air was cooler there, quieter too.
Eventually, I found myself standing in front of a run-down bar tucked between two buildings. With nothing better to do and nowhere else to be, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The interior matched the outside, dim lighting, scuffed wooden floors, old tables, and a thick layer of stale air. Only a handful of people were present, most nursing cheap drinks in silence.
Then I heard it.
"Oh, that skull? Son that's what's left of a guy they used to call Killer Giant." a rough, raspy voice said from the corner. I turned my head to see an older man, broad-shouldered and muscled, leaning over a table, speaking to a younger man with his back to me.
"Gold Roger dropped him in one strike." the old man continued with a crooked grin. "Guy was famous back in the day, used these absurdly huge blades. Swung them around like they were nothing. That mark right there." He said, pointing to a small cracked skull on the table. "was the wound Roger left him with. Cut so clean, it burned right through."
He leaned back, taking a slow sip from his mug. "Want to hear more?"
I quietly stepped closer. 'This story rings a bell, I think I've heard it before.'
I took a seat at a nearby table, not too close to interrupt, but close enough to listen. Maybe the old man knew more than just bar tales.
But before the old man could continue his tale, he suddenly turned his head in my direction, his sharp eyes locking onto me.
"You there!" he barked, voice rough but not hostile. "Yeah, you. You've got that look, curious, like you want to know more. Come closer, no need to lurk like a shadow."
No point in pretending otherwise.
I stood up, calm and unbothered, and made my way toward their table.
As I got closer, my eyes dropped to the floor beside the younger man, resting near his feet was a sword. Not just any sword. Long, massive… with that unmistakable crucifix-shaped hilt.
Yoru.
My brows furrowed slightly. I knew that weapon. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of this world would.
The man who had been sitting with his back to me turned slightly, his sharp, hawk-like eyes meeting mine.
It was him.
A younger version, no doubt. But there was no mistaking it.
Dracule Mihawk.
The future greatest swordsman in the world…
"Quite the crowd today." he chuckled, motioning for me to sit. "You picked a hell of a time to wander in, Fishman."
I pulled out a chair slowly and sat. Mihawk just went back to sipping his drink and listening.
The man let out a long sigh before continuing, his voice dipping into something softer, almost nostalgic.
"Back in those days…" he began, staring into his drink. "even now, I'd say Roger was the only man who truly didn't fear the Grand Line. It was a sea of devils, and for good reason. No one went near it. But him?"
The old man gave a short, almost disbelieving chuckle.
"He'd come into my bar, this very one, grinning like a madman, telling me he was heading there like it was just another stroll through town. Like it was nothing. And I'd look at him, thinking, you're out of your damn mind, Roger."
His eyes grew distant for a moment, and when he spoke again, the pride in his voice was edged with grief.
"When I heard he'd conquered the Grand Line… even then, I was stunned. But hearing he was going to be executed? That… I never believed I'd live to see the day."
He paused, the weight of old memories settling on his shoulders. His gaze dropped, and his tone turned bitter-sweet.
"Tomorrow marks the end of a good friendship." he said, voice low but steady.
Then, without another word, he raised his mug slowly into the air. The light caught the rim as he stared at it for a beat longer… and then he drank, deep and solemn.
"I hope you lot, the new generation, won't turn out to be a bunch of cowards," the old man said, his eyes sharpening with a spark of challenge. "and that you'll keep that spirit of conquest burning in your blood."
"Hmph. Never." Mihawk replied bluntly, shaking his head, eyes steady and unwavering.
"That won't be the case for me." I said firmly, locking eyes with the old man as I shook my head.
We said at the same time.
He looked at the both of us, really looked, like he was weighing something in his mind… then grinned wide, some wrinkles crinkling at the corners of his eyes.
"With guys like you around… maybe there's hope after all." he said, his tone suddenly lighter. "Hell, drinks are on me!"
He laughed, loud and full of life "Eheheahahaha!" as he grabbed a couple of dusty bottles from behind the bar and poured us each a glass of rum, the liquid glowing gold in the dim light.
He raised his cup high.
"To the next generation!" he cheered.
I lifted mine. Mihawk did the same.
After finishing our drinks, Mihawk and I stepped out of the bar. The streets of Loguetown were still lively, we walked side by side in silence.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye before speaking.
"How about you join my crew?" I couldn't miss such an opportunity. 'He is still young and has not achieved his goal.'
He stopped walking, turning his head slightly toward me.
"Why would I do that?" He asked, calm but sharp.
Then I paused, making sure he was listening. "You want to become the greatest swordsman in the world, right?"
His expression didn't change but his eyes narrowed.
"If you follow me." I continued, voice steady and convincing.
"You will be. I can promise you that. Because I'm aiming for the very top myself...
The pinnacle."