The silence of the beach was deceptive—something, or rather someone, was lurking in the shadows of the trees. "Stay here," Mihawk murmured, his voice low and sharp, an order that brooked no argument.
Perona frowned, floating a little higher to shoot him an indignant glare. "Hihihi! What? You think I'm gonna get eaten by some monster or something? I can handle myself, you know!" she protested, crossing her arms with a pout. But Mihawk ignored her, his focus locked on the edge of the mangrove where faint rustling began to stir—uneven footsteps, muffled whispers, and the metallic clatter of poorly maintained weapons.
Suddenly, figures emerged from the shadows—a band of pirates, or what was left of them. There were about fifteen, their clothes in tatters, their faces hollowed by hunger and exhaustion, their wild eyes gleaming with a mix of desperation and madness. Some still carried weapons—chipped swords, rusted pistols—but their stances betrayed a deep weakness, as if the New World had chewed them up and spat them out without mercy. Leo, in Mihawk's mind, watched them with fascination.
Survivors… or ghosts of ambition. The New World doesn't forgive, huh?
One man stepped forward from the group, his gait unsteady but resolute. He was tall and gaunt, with a scruffy beard and a scar slashing across his forehead. His clothes, once those of a pirate officer, hung on him like a shroud. "Dracule Mihawk…" he rasped, his hoarse voice trembling with awe and fatigue. "We recognize you. We… we've been stuck here for days. Our captain's dead, our ship wrecked by a sea monster. The New World… it's broken us." He fell to his knees, hands clasped in desperate supplication. "Take us with you! We'll do anything you want!"
Other crew members, those still lucid enough to grasp the situation, shuffled forward, their voices blending into a plaintive chorus.
"Please, Hawkeye! We want to live!"
"We'll serve you faithfully!"
But among them, a few, driven mad by hunger and isolation, growled like beasts, their bloodshot eyes fixed on Mihawk with savage hostility. One, a stocky man with wild hair, drew a dagger and charged, screaming, "His head's worth billions! We can still make it out of this!"
Before Mihawk could react, the scarred man—evidently the group's leader since their captain's death—spun around with a swift motion. He drove a rusty dagger into the attacker's throat, and the man collapsed in a gurgling heap. Silence fell again, heavy and oppressive, as the other pirates shrank back in terror. The scarred man wiped his blade on his torn pants and turned to Mihawk, dipping his head slightly. "Name's Korran," he said, his voice steadier now. "I'm not begging like them. I'm offering a deal: my service for your help. I'm strong, I can fight, and I can lead these fools if you give me a shot."
Mihawk stared at him for a long moment, his golden eyes sizing him up like a blade testing a whetstone. Then he glanced at the raft, its frail frame a stark contrast to the ragged mass of pirates. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips—a smile Leo couldn't suppress, fueled by pure otaku excitement.
Oh, here it is, the badass moment I've always dreamed of role-playing!
Mihawk's gaze returned to Korran, and he spoke, his low voice ringing like a verdict: "This raft can only take one more."
A murmur of shock rippled through the group. The pirates exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from hope to despair, then to brutal savagery. Korran blinked, instantly grasping the implication, but before he could speak, another crew member—a scrawny man with gray hair—yelled, "Then we'll fight for the spot!"
In an instant, the beach erupted into a battlefield, the pirates throwing themselves at each other in a chaotic melee—a bloody battle royale for the right to follow the Hawk.
Mihawk stepped back a few paces, leaning against a palm tree with studied nonchalance, Yoru still sheathed on his back. Perona, floating beside him, burst into laughter as the slaughter began. "Hihihi! Look at this! They're totally nuts!" she exclaimed, her ghosts swirling around her like an invisible audience. Leo, in Mihawk's mind, relished the show.
It's like an anime tournament! May the best one win!
The fight was absolute carnage. The white sand quickly stained red as the pirates tore into each other with desperate ferocity. A massive man with a broken axe brought it down on an opponent's skull, splitting his forehead in a spray of blood and brains. Another, more agile, stabbed a dagger into a comrade's back, leaving him to collapse screaming before a third slit his throat. Shouts of rage and pain mingled with the dull thuds of bodies hitting the sand, some pirates fighting barehanded, ripping flesh with nails or teeth in an animalistic frenzy.
Korran, at the center of the fray, proved the most formidable. He dodged a sword swing with surprising agility for his weakened state, countering by plunging his dagger into his attacker's eye. Another pirate tried to strangle him from behind, but Korran broke free with a brutal elbow and snapped the man's neck with a sharp twist. His gaze remained cold and calculating, every move precise despite the hunger gnawing at him.
Leo, impressed, mentally noted: This guy's got potential. He can fight and keep his cool. Perfect nakama material.
But as the number of fighters dwindled—a dozen bodies already littering the sand, mangled and still—an unexpected challenger rose against Korran. It was a younger man with messy black hair and crazed eyes, a survivor who'd avoided direct clashes until now. He wielded a short, blood-stained sword, his breathing rapid but determined. "I'm the one leaving with the Hawk!" he roared, charging Korran in a desperate lunge.
The duel that followed was titanic, a raw and visceral clash that stood out from the earlier chaotic butchery. Korran parried a sword strike with his dagger, the impact shaking his weakened arms, but he countered with a kick to his opponent's knee, throwing him off balance. The young pirate, nicknamed Ryn by the others, sprang up with feline agility and struck again, his sword slashing Korran's shoulder. Blood flowed, but Korran didn't flinch, his eyes burning with cold resolve. He feinted low, then drove his dagger into Ryn's side, wrenching a hoarse scream from him.
Ryn, far from collapsing, grabbed Korran's wrist and tried to disarm him, the two locked in a deadly struggle. Sand flew around them, their grunts echoing in the humid air. Ryn managed to sink his sword into Korran's thigh, but Korran, fueled by desperate strength, smashed his forehead into Ryn's nose with a sickening crunch. Seizing the moment, Korran yanked his dagger free and stabbed it into Ryn's chest—once, twice—until Ryn crumpled, eyes blank, his blood pooling into the sand.
Korran stood panting, drenched in blood—his own and others'. Around him, the last conscious pirates moaned, too wounded to go on. He was the sole able-bodied survivor, a lone figure amid a field of death. He turned to Mihawk, his dark eyes glinting with a mix of exhaustion and triumph.
All the while, Mihawk and Perona had lounged as spectators. Mihawk, leaning against the palm tree, watched the scene with icy detachment, arms crossed. Perona, floating beside him, had initially laughed at the spectacle, but as the battle dragged on, she began to whine with boredom. "Hihihi, they've been beating each other up forever! It's always the same—blood, screams, blah blah blah! Can't we just go back to the raft?" she groaned, dropping her parasol onto her lap with a dramatic flourish.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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