Chapter 410

The island was alive with laughter, music, and the raucous cheer of drunken pirates. The Red-Haired Pirates, a rising force in the New World, were in the midst of a grand celebration—a rare moment of respite after a hard-fought victory. Bonfires blazed across the sandy shore, casting flickering shadows over barrels of rum and overflowing plates of roasted meat.

But amidst the chaos, two men sat in a small pocket of silence, their presence alone enough to shake the world.

Shanks leaned back against a weathered crate, his crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, the edges fluttering slightly in the sea breeze. One hand held a tankard of rum, while the other casually gripped a worn copy of the World Times.

His sharp eyes scanned the front page, where a black-and-white image of an elderly Marine Admiral was prominently displayed. The man in the photo had long silver hair tied back neatly, his face lined with age yet carrying the sharpness of a warrior. His pristine white Admiral's coat bore the kanji for "Silver Frost."

Admiral "Silver Frost" Ginshimo.

Shanks let out a low whistle and turned his gaze to the man seated across from him—a lone figure clad in a dark, high-collared coat, his pitch-black blade resting against his back.

"So, you're telling me this old man is the same one you beat to get that new fancy title of yours?" Shanks mused, tapping the newspaper before taking a long swig of rum. Recently the rumors of the ascension of the new World's Strongest swordsman have been circulating across the seas.

Dracule Mihawk, the one who currently held the title of greatest swordsman in the world, did not respond immediately. His piercing golden eyes, like a hawk scanning the horizon, lingered on the photograph.

"I cannot call myself the strongest unless and until I defeat Rosinante in direct combat," Mihawk finally said, his voice calm yet resolute. "As for whether that's the same man…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly.

Mihawk's attention flickered to the bounty poster lying between them, the edges curling slightly in the warm island wind. His piercing golden eyes flickered toward the newspaper again, resting on the photograph of a man he had once fought.

The face of Admiral "Silver Frost" Ginshimo stared back at him—etched with age and wisdom, yet carrying a fire that had been missing when Mihawk had crossed blades with him.

Back then, the man had fought like a warrior bound by invisible chains, his blade steady but his spirit dim. Mihawk had seen it in his stance, in his every movement—the dull resignation of a man who had lost something vital long ago.

But now, even through the ink of a printed image, Mihawk could see it. The fire had returned.

His words… had they somehow rekindled that dying flame? Had Ginshimo found a reason to break free from his shackles?

Mihawk's gaze lingered for only a moment longer before shifting to something else entirely.

A single bounty poster lay between them on the wooden crate, the edges curling slightly under the island breeze. A name. A bounty. A legend in the making.

Shanks, catching Mihawk's focus, let out a small chuckle. "Still can't believe it, huh?"

Mihawk leaned back, fingers absently tracing the rim of his goblet.

"It's not disbelief," he murmured. "The number is lacking."

Shanks raised an eyebrow, amused. "Lacking? Really?" He grinned, tapping the poster. "If someone overheard you, they'd think you were talking about Garp. Not even twenty, and he's already sitting on a bounty that size."

His words carried a note of nostalgia as he leaned back, folding his arms, his gaze drifting toward the night sky.

"Feels like just yesterday, me and Buggy were clashing with Rosinante. But look at him now… even the World Government is wary enough to put out a bounty like this."

His tone shifted, the warmth fading slightly as the conversation turned to something more serious.

"… So," Shanks began, his voice casual, yet probing, "any idea where our mutual friend has vanished to?"

Mihawk remained silent.

"There hasn't been a single piece of news about him in almost a year now," Shanks continued, watching Mihawk closely. "The entire New World is on fire, engulfed in the war between the Donquixote Pirates and the World Government, yet he hasn't shown himself."

A man like Rosinante—who could shake the balance of power itself—choosing to remain in the shadows? Unsettling.

Shanks, despite his carefree nature, was still a captain, a man who understood the weight of power and influence. And he knew that when someone like Rosinante was missing for this long, it meant one of two things—

He was preparing for something… Or he was already in the middle of something far bigger than anyone had realized.

Mihawk still gave no answer. Instead, he quietly lifted his goblet, finishing his wine in a single measured sip before refilling it once more.

Shanks pouted. "Oh, come on. You're just ignoring me now."

But he knew the truth. For all their years of camaraderie, for all the drinks shared between them, Mihawk and Rosinante's bond ran deeper.

If a day ever came when Shanks and Rosinante stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, Shanks already knew— Mihawk would not stand beside him. That thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Shanks had always prided himself on his ability to bring people into his crew, to unite those he deemed worthy.

And yet… in all these years, he had never truly been able to bring Mihawk to his side.

Across from him, Mihawk remained as unreadable as ever, his lips barely curving into the faintest ghost of a smirk.

Shanks, who suddenly seemed to have a flash of inspiration, leaned forward with a cocky grin, resting his elbow on his knee.

"So… if I beat you right now, does that make me the World's Greatest Swordsman?" He puffed out his chest dramatically, his smirk widening like that of a mischievous child.

Mihawk merely arched an eyebrow, his golden eyes sharp as a honed blade. "That depends." His voice was steady, precise—carrying the weight of a swordsman who measured every word as carefully as he did his strikes.

"Do you believe you can defeat me?" he asked, his gaze unwavering. "And even then… would you truly call yourself the strongest while Rosinante still walks this world?"

He set down his goblet, tilting his head slightly. "Since when did your skin become so thick?"

Shanks burst into laughter, loud and carefree, slamming his tankard onto the crate. "Damn, Mihawk, you always gotta kill the mood, huh?" He wiped away a stray tear of amusement, yet even as he laughed, his fingers twitched—a subconscious movement toward the hilt of Gryphon.

Mihawk had that effect on people. Even in the midst of a grand celebration, where music and drunken revelry ruled the night, his presence felt like a silent challenge.

But tonight, Mihawk had not come for battle. Then, amidst the roaring cheers and clinking of tankards, something else caught both their attention—a sound that was softer, lighter… purer.

Laughter. A child's laughter.

A tiny girl, no older than three, weaved effortlessly through the towering pirates, her golden curls bouncing with every step. Her giggles rang out like wind chimes on a quiet breeze, and the hardened warriors of the Red-Haired Pirates, men who were feared across the Grand Line, found themselves utterly at her mercy.

One pirate dramatically clutched his chest as she poked his leg, groaning as if he'd been mortally wounded, before toppling over with an exaggerated cry. The surrounding men erupted in laughter. Another pirate, far too willing to indulge her, hoisted her onto his shoulders, spinning in circles as she shrieked in delight.

And then there was Buggy.

"UTA! GIVE ME MY NOSE BACK!"

The clown-faced pirate wailed in absolute horror, clutching at his bare face as if his very soul had been ripped away. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he stumbled after the tiny menace, arms flailing in desperation.

Uta, her cheeks flushed with mischief, held up Buggy's bright red nose like a sacred trophy, her grin stretching from ear to ear. She bolted away with the prized possession, and rather than stopping her, the pirates cheered her on, forming a living blockade to keep Buggy from catching her.

"DON'T ENCOURAGE HER, YOU IDIOTS!" Buggy shrieked, tripping over a barrel as the crew doubled over in laughter.

Mihawk watched the chaos unfold, then turned his gaze toward Shanks, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

"Yours?"

Shanks, mid-swig of rum, nearly choked. He coughed violently, pounding a fist against his chest before wiping his mouth, still grinning.

"Hah! No, no! She's not mine!" He chuckled, shaking his head. "That little bundle of chaos is Uta. Picked her up a while ago."

Mihawk's eyes flickered back to the child, who had now climbed onto a pirate's shoulders, laughing as she dangled Buggy's nose just out of reach.

Shanks exhaled, his expression softening as he leaned back. "Believe it or not… we found her inside a chest on a pirate ship." His voice, though light, carried an underlying weight.

Mihawk said nothing, waiting.

Shanks' fingers idly traced the rim of his tankard before he sighed. "When we went back to her island…" He shook his head, leaving the rest unsaid.

But Mihawk understood. He had heard fragments of Shanks' past before—found inside a chest, raised by the Pirate King himself. A child of the sea.

Perhaps when Shanks had opened that chest and found the terrified little girl inside, something deep within him had stirred—an old, distant echo of himself.

Mihawk did not need to ask what had become of her home. The silence spoke louder than words. Not all pirates were like the Red-Haired Pirates. Only a select few in the seas carried a code of honor, a line they refused to cross.

The rest? They were monsters—savage, lawless creatures who pillaged, burned, and destroyed without a second thought.

Shanks exhaled, tipping his head back toward the stars.

"…She's got a hell of a voice, though," he mused, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "She's gonna be a singer one day."

Mihawk swirled the wine in his goblet, his expression unreadable. "A singer, raised among pirates…" He took a slow sip, savoring the taste before lowering his glass. "The sea will either make her strong… or break her."

"Aye," Shanks agreed, his eyes lingering on the girl as she danced between the pirates, her laughter like a melody on the wind.

"We'll see."

For a while, the two men sat in companionable silence, the music and merriment continuing around them.

The two men sat in silence, letting the sounds of the celebration wash over them. The crackling of bonfires, the raucous clash of tankards, and the booming laughter of men who had stared death in the face and lived to tell the tale—it all blended into the night, a symphony of pirates who knew how fleeting life could be.

Mihawk swirled the wine in his goblet, his golden eyes half-lidded, seemingly indifferent to the chaos around him. Shanks, on the other hand, leaned back on the crate, stretching his legs out lazily, his signature smirk never fading.

Then, with that familiar glint of mischief in his eye, Shanks turned to Mihawk and casually asked, "So, tell me—what's it like being a 'government dog' these days?"

Mihawk slowly lifted his gaze, expression unreadable. A lesser man might have flinched under the weight of that stare. But Shanks? He just kept grinning, deliberately prodding the bear.

The swordsman let out a slow breath, setting his goblet down with a quiet clink. "I tolerate it." His voice was measured, calm, but there was a sharp edge to it—like a blade drawn just enough to remind someone it was still deadly.

He picked up the newspaper Shanks had discarded earlier, flipping it over to reveal another article—this one detailing the latest upheaval in the New World.

The Donquixote Pirates.

Mihawk's gaze lingered on the name before he continued. "With the Donquixote family uprooting the World Government's strongholds in the New World, they're growing desperate. The balance they relied on has already crumbled."

He set the paper down, fingers tracing the rim of his goblet absently. "Now they send the Warlords to try and find a breakthrough. A futile effort."

Shanks chuckled, tilting his head back. "So, they expect you to be their blade against the Donquixote family?" He whistled, shaking his head. "I bet they'd lose their damn minds if they knew you were here, drinking with me."

Then, his smirk widened.

"Do they even know how close you are to Rosinante?" The question hung in the air for a moment.

Mihawk remained still, the firelight casting deep shadows across his face. He reached for his goblet, took a slow sip of wine, and finally spoke, his voice quieter this time—yet no less sharp.

"No. And they won't."

Shanks studied him, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. He knew Mihawk well enough to recognize the unspoken truth beneath those words.

Mihawk was many things—cold, distant, an enigma even among the greatest warriors of the sea. But loyal?

There was only one man on these seas to whom he had ever truly been loyal.

Donquixote Rosinante.

*****

Amazon Lily, Calm Belt

Amazon Lily, the legendary island of women, was a paradise hidden deep within the Calm Belt, untouched by the corruption of the outside world. Towering cliffs wreathed in emerald green rose from the ocean like the fangs of an ancient beast, their surfaces adorned with cascading waterfalls that shimmered under the golden light of the sun.

Vibrant flowers, their petals wide and brilliant, flourished in the humid air, filling it with a scent both exotic and intoxicating. The island pulsed with life, from the songs of unseen birds hidden in the dense jungle to the distant roars of creatures long forgotten by history.

At its heart stood Kuja Castle, an imposing yet elegant structure carved into the very rock of the island's highest peak. The grand halls and stone-paved courtyards bore the mark of a civilization that had thrived in isolation for centuries, their strength forged not in diplomacy but in battle.

The warriors of the island—the Kuja—were feared across the seas, their skills in Haki making them a force that even the most seasoned pirates hesitated to challenge.

Yet, despite their fearsome reputation, the Kuja now found themselves navigating an era of uncertainty. The Donquixote Pirates, their unlikely yet steadfast allies, had strengthened Amazon Lily's prosperity. Since aligning with Donquixote's banner, the Kuja had enjoyed regular supplies of resources—food, weapons, medicine—all without having to sacrifice their autonomy. For the first time in years, they were truly thriving.

But prosperity came with its own set of dangers.

Now, with war raging in the New World, the Donquixote Family's hands were full battling the World Government, their forces stretched thin. Though shipments of supplies still arrived like clockwork, the Kuja had begun feeling the weight of mounting pressure from less scrupulous forces—pirates, slavers, and opportunists who saw their temporary vulnerability as an invitation.

On the coast of Amazon Lily, where golden sands met the crystal-clear waters of the Calm Belt, a ship rocked gently against the wooden pier, its sails bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Donquixote Pirates.

Crates of provisions—dried meats, barrels of fresh water, medicines, exotic fruits, and even newly forged weapons—were being offloaded by both Kuja warriors and the visiting pirates, their cooperation seamless.

The Donquixote ship's crew, honoring Kuja tradition, was composed entirely of hardened yet seaworthy women. They worked efficiently, their admiration for the Kuja evident in both their words and actions.

Though the Donquixote Family could not spare manpower for defense, their commitment to their allies was unquestionable. Even under immense strain, they had never once failed to send aid.

A group of Kuja warriors, their serpentine companions coiled around their shoulders, observed from the cliffs above, their eyes sharp, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. They did not complain about the situation; they were warriors, not beggars. They had survived alone before, and they would do so again if necessary.

But even so…

The fact that the Donquixote Family, despite their war, had continued to support them—that alone was enough to solidify the Kuja's respect for Doflamingo and his people. They would not forget this loyalty.

And should the tides of war ever shift toward Amazon Lily, the Kuja would be ready to repay the favor.

"Hancock... are you sure about this? What if the matron catches us? She'll skin us alive!" Marigold whispered harshly, her voice barely audible over the sound of waves lapping against the ship's hull.

She clutched the edge of her cloak tightly, her fingers trembling slightly as she followed her older sisters through the dimly lit dock. At first, the thrill of sneaking onto the ship had been exhilarating—the idea of venturing beyond the shores of Amazon Lily, of feeling the wind of the open sea on their faces.

But now, as they crept closer to the cargo hold, unease gnawed at her stomach like a hungry beast. They were just children, with no adults watching over them. If something went wrong, no one would be there to protect them.

Sandersonia, the middle sister, merely chuckled, reaching out to lightly shove Marigold's shoulder. "Why are you such a scaredy cat, Mari?" she teased, her emerald eyes twinkling with mischief. "It's just a little ride. We'll be back before anyone even notices!"

Marigold frowned, but before she could argue, Hancock—the eldest and the mastermind behind this entire scheme—turned her sharp, calculating gaze toward them. Unlike Sandersonia, whose excitement was barely contained, Hancock was calm, composed. Yet there was a glimmer of something dangerous in her dark eyes, an unshaken confidence that sent shivers down Marigold's spine.

"Stay quiet," Hancock murmured, her voice barely above a breath. "And follow my lead."

She moved like a shadow, her every step calculated, her senses on high alert. Despite being only on the cusp of her teenage years, there was already something commanding about her presence—something regal, untouchable. Even as the youngest of the group, Marigold could feel it.

She hesitated, her grip tightening on Hancock's sleeve. "Hancock... I really don't think this is a good idea." Her voice wavered. "The seas aren't safe right now. I've heard the warriors talking. Every day, more of our people come back wounded. Some don't come back at all."

Hancock stilled for a fraction of a second, but she didn't turn around.

Marigold pressed on, trying to make her sister see reason. "They say Amazon Lily is in more danger than ever. The Donquixote Pirates are fighting the World Government, and we're caught in between. If we get caught out at sea, no one will be able to help us!"

For a moment, silence hung between them, thick with unspoken fears.

Then, Hancock finally turned her head, her expression unreadable. "That's exactly why we need to do this," she said, her voice firm. "If the seas are dangerous, we need to see it for ourselves. We can't just stay hidden on the island forever, relying on others to protect us. One day, we'll have to fight for ourselves."

Marigold swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond.

Sandersonia grinned, nudging her gently. "See? Hancock has a plan. Besides, we'll be back before the ship even reaches its destination."

Marigold exhaled shakily. She didn't like this. She really didn't. But she also knew her sisters. If she didn't come along, they'd go without her. And if something happened... she wouldn't be there to help them.

Reluctantly, she nodded. "Fine," she mumbled. "But if we get caught, I'm blaming both of you."

Sandersonia let out a quiet giggle, and Hancock simply turned back toward the ship, leading the way.

With their hearts pounding in their chests, the three sisters crept up the gangplank, slipping into the shadows of the cargo hold. Unbeknownst to them, the tides of fate were already shifting, and their reckless decision would set them on a path from which there would be no return.