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Dracule Mihawk never expected to have children. He had a mission to focus on, and the ship was too small to allow anyone else on board. Any pit stops Mihawk made would be to restock his necessities before continuing his journey; rarely would he spend more time on land than on the ocean. Even after receiving the title of World’s Strongest Swordsman and Seven Warlord of the Seas, Mihawk never felt it was worth being with others, preferring the peace of his island.
He knew no sane person would agree to live like he did, isolated with only the Humandrills for company. No matter how Shanks tried to twist it, Mihawk was neither a people person nor a good conversationalist. There was a lot a human needed to thrive on a gloomy island like Kuraigana, and Mihawk believed himself to be the sole human able to accomplish it.
Until he saw the existence of Seraphim.
Mihawk had a feeling, despite having never seen them before, that Vegapunk was up to something that could shake the world. The man had industrialised Sea Prism Stone and created artificial Devil Fruits; it would be no surprise if he had invented something to replace the Seven Warlords. Despite his prior warnings, the Marines had also been overconfident lately, daring to traverse near Kuraigana.
The lynchpin that solidified Mihawk’s assumptions was the presence of the Pacifistas during the Marineford War; to use such expensive creations and never flinch with their destruction was quite telling. Mihawk kept an ear out for other signs along the war home, such as whispers between Warlords, Marines, and Pirates; anything noteworthy was remembered. However, none of them was favourable to the outcome he desired.
Mihawk might have to move if the Marines kept sending annoyances his way. He loves being chased; however, the battle needed a purpose outside of wanting to rid the Marines of weaknesses. It would get frustrating to wake up to the sight of the Humandrills shrieking above fallen combatants.
Sighing, Mihawk leaned against the backrest of Hitsugibune and looked to the shifting skies. The most significant loss from Vegapunks’ inventions might be his farm, a small plot of fertile land for daily activities. He would miss being able to tend to it; it had grown so much since he started.
Familiar cloudy skies appeared in the distance while Mihawk contemplated methods for transferring the farm to a new location, and he narrowed his eyes. Amongst the usual Humandrill that plagued the island, two new auras moved closer to his home. Humans had arrived at Kuraigana, one familiar –Roronoa, and the other was not –he could feel bits of Gecko Moria on her, possibly a crew member.
Without a second thought, Mihawk cursed Bartholomew Kuma under his breath. Kuraigana rarely had visitors due to the lack of activity and difficulty navigating harsh storms and rough waves. Hitsugibune, while a boat with no such survival capabilities, was compensated by Mihawk’s luck and made its way through without encountering a single obstacle.
Thus, only Bartholomew could cause such accidental arrivals.
Mihawk deeply regretted allowing the man to explore Kuraigana. His fellow Warlord must have sent them to a location where the Humandrills seldom stayed, leading them to believe it was safe. He wondered if Vegapunk had left a human version of Bartholomew behind for him to slice up, a one-time exception to allow himself human emotions.
As his mind spun, Hitsugibune floated, and soon, Mihawk reached the island.
He wondered if they could be convinced to leave.
Two years. Mihawk had spent two whole years with the additional humans. He surprised himself when they lasted a week without him feeling the urge to remove them from his premises. Mihawk could admit they had their charms; the Ghost Girl was always helping around the place, and Roronoa proved to be fantastic entertainment.
They reminded him of his past, of brighter days when all he was focused on was becoming the best. Mihawk had long lost that spark, nurturing it to improve the younger generation instead. Everything was so that he could happily retire to his farm and live the rest of his life peacefully. It was unfortunate that he could not fall in battle, but Roronoa had no intent on ending his life; he merely wished to prove his strength to Mihawk instead.
“What’s the point of killing him?” Roronoa had said during one of their dinners together.
It was his answer to the Ghost Girl's question, confused by the one-sided rivalry Roronoa festered. Mihawk had been curious and would usually be disappointed by Roronoa’s response; it was humiliating for a swordsman to endure defeat. However, the glint in Roronoa’s eyes spoke volumes of his resolve.
He remembered laughing at him, amused by the thought of going all out without death lingering behind the fighters. Roronoa reminded Mihawk vaguely of Shanks, willing to kill yet foolishly optimistic; he would work well with someone who matches his grit—the blond-haired kid from Bariete could work.
Unfortunately, Roronoa was displeased by his response and made a fuss about being looked down upon. The Ghost Girl did not help the situation either, taunting Roronoa for his childish reply and goading him into a fight. Mihawk watched the two argue over the dining table and bit into his meal.
Yes, this has become the norm.
Kuraigana was no longer a gloomy and quiet island for Mihawk to retire, but a rowdy daycare where the adults reverted into squabbling children hell-bent on getting Mihawk on their side of the argument. The Humandrill improved their status from Mihawk’s farmers to Roronoa’s training dummies and the Ghost Girl’s playdates.
He had never expected everything to change in two years, yet Mihawk could not find himself despising it. As much of a handful as they were, Mihawk enjoyed their banter; if only they would cease trying to pull him into their games, he would even dare say he might miss their liveliness.
Mihawk sipped his coffee and looked out at the morning sky.
Today was the day Roronoa returned to his crew. They had agreed for the Ghost Girl to guide him –Mihawk had been astounded by his inability to walk in a straight line. The bare necessities would be Mihawk’s responsibility, along with procuring a boat large enough for the two of them to use. The Ghost Girl had whined about Mihawk’s refusal to tag along but silenced herself swiftly at the sight of her allowance.
“Use it wisely,” Mihawk warned, placing the hefty pouch into the Ghost Girl’s awaiting hands. "It should last for a month; don’t overspend.”
“I know, I know,” the Ghost Girl rolled her eyes and slotted the pouch into her pocket. “My time will be better spent dragging the lost child here anyway.”
They saw an empty space where the Ghost Girl had gestured. Roronoa had left while they were conversing, yet his form was not visible on the ship. Mihawk gazed at the pale girl before heading for his home.
He had taught them Observation Haki; there was no need to barge in. The Ghost Girl did impeccably in that field, being the one who was tasked with dragging their wayward swordsman back to society. Mihawk trusted that she could do the same—maybe even better—now.
“RORONOA ZORO!”
Contrary to Mihawk’s expectations, the Ghost Girl stayed behind while Roronoa went on his journey. She returned to Kuraigana in a bad mood, sobbing around his home about losing her entertainment around the place –Mihawk was hard-pressed to agree. He had known of their budding friendship but never expected it to be to such a degree.
“He didn’t even say goodbye!” The Ghost Girl whined, her arms tight around her toy. “What if we never see each other again?”
It was a rhetorical question. Neither of them was blind to the outcome of their reunion, which would end in either a victory or a loss for the swordsmen. The Ghost Girl could have her party another time; Mihawk had waited a very long time for this day.
As if understanding his judgement, the Ghost Girl bursts into tears and hits her toy repeatedly. “It’s unfair! Why are men always the ones who stick together? It’s not cute at all!”
Mihawk saw her words as baseless accusations; he had never treated either of them as more than his students. All he did was to train them to be stronger, enough to hold their ground against the Pacifistas and not waste their talents in combat. Nothing he had done was without that thought in mind. Thus, the Ghost Girl was incorrect in his apparent closeness with Roronoa.
However, seeing her weep shook his foundational claims. The Ghost Girl was emotional, be it as a facade or her true feelings. She could easily cry at the drop of a hat, but this time was different. There was no fanfare about her sadness; it lacked the usual shouts and loud body movements.
Today, the Ghost Girl was silent.
“I just,” she hiccuped, rubbing the corners of her eyes. “Am I a nuisance? Did the Warlord send me here by accident?”
She had never questioned her presence on Kuraigana before. Between Roronoa and the Ghost Girl, she adapted to the island faster—her experience in Thriller Bark might have been a factor. She even had the energy to name all the Humandrills that populated the place. She was excited and joyful, constantly participating in Mihawk’s training even after complaining the whole day.
The Ghost Girl seemed happy enough, but Mihawk knew better. The first time Mihawk called upon her, she threw a tantrum.
“Pe-Ro-Na,” the Ghost Girl hissed, her fear of Mihawk dwindling with each passing day. “My name is Perona!”
Mihawk sat in his seat, fingers crossed on his knee, and raised an eyebrow. To him, names were just secondary. Her title was also related to ghosts, which meant she revelled in being the Ghost Princess. He could not comprehend her frustration but understood her thoughts; it was unfair to call Rorono Zoro his name while with the Ghost Girl, her title.
Closing his eyes to think, Mihawk leaned against the backrest of his chair. He rarely had such human interactions, so it took a while for him to dissect and process his reply. They still had many months to interact, and Mihawk did not want the noisy one hounding his back.
“Who cares? You’re the Ghost Princess, aren’t you?” Roronoa senselessly said. “You aren’t a princess now, so Ghost Girl fits.”
There was no need to ponder further. Mihawk had long taken his cup of wine from the table before the Ghost Girl leapt over it to strangle Roronoa. She had a firm grip for someone with sticks for arms, and Mihawk mentally added more physical training on top of her Devil Fruit’s.
The conversation ended then, but Mihawk noticed the minute twitches whenever he called her ‘Ghost Girl’. He had yet to use her name, and she soon got used to it over time, treating it as a pet name –instead of Mihawk’s attempt to distance himself from them. Therefore, her current appearance, while predictable, was still a surprise to experience.
“Hawk-Eyes, why did he send me here?” the Ghost Girl’s watery eyes stared into Mihawk’s calm ones.
Unfortunately, Mihawk had no answer for her. Bartholomew’s connection to the Strawhat’s crew was clear to everyone, especially when he revealed their Captain's blood relation to the Revolutionary Army’s leader. On the other hand, the Ghost Girl was an outlier; she was a member of Gecko Moria’s crew and was to be captured as per the Warlord’s Decree. Yet, here the girl was, at Kuraigana, without a single wound on her.
They held each other’s gaze as Mihawk remained silent. The Ghost Girl heaved a heavy sigh and floated to the side of his seat, laying her head on his armrest. Her tears had stopped running, but she was fooling nobody with her red nose and puffy eyes.
“Can I hug you?”
The days passed, and Mihawk had heard enough about the cuteness of bears to last a lifetime. Both parties avoided the topic of the Ghost Girl's breakdown, pretending it never happened. It had been for the best. Mihawk continued to train her as he deemed fit, less harsh than he had been with Roronoa but still challenging to endure for an untrained person.
The only exceptions to their daily lessons were when their storages were low. Try as Mihawk and the Ghost Girl might, their skills in brewing wine were lacklustre, to say the least. It was challenging to listen to the wailing about his home’s lifeless decor without alcohol.
Standing at the entrance, Mihawk watched the Ghost Girl comb her fringe for the thousandth time, hoping it would shine –whatever that meant. He thought back to his grocery list and compared it to the boat he was planning to borrow. It would be a tight fit, but Mihawk would have to make do with it. Glancing at the floating Ghost Girl, he nodded in complete trust that everything was in his favour.
“Done!” the Ghost Girl exclaimed, landing on the ground by Mihawk’s side. “Let’s go already; I want to get more clothes!”
Mihawk held back the urge to comment on her never-changing attire and went to the sailboat, the Ghost Girl following behind. He had gone on trips with Roronoa and the Ghost Girl before, and despite their critical expressions at his choice of transport, they would be wiped away after leaving the island. It had not been awe that left their mouths agape but terror.
“Are you insane?!”
“Never do that again, and yes, I am begging you.”
“I can’t believe it. You’re the opposite of the stupid swordsman; is the world on your side?”
“Listen, I would rather– HEY!”
They soon accepted their fate after Mihawk did the same to return to Kuraigana, faces pale and eyes lifeless. It was a pathetic sight; for students, he trained to faint on a journey without danger, Mihawk had increased their difficulty four times after they recovered. He cared little for their arguments as long as his name remained unsullied.
While Mihawk recalled the past, the Ghost Girl seemed to have been rambling the whole time. Indifferent to her uncaring audience, she shared details about her recent activities down to the last minute detail. It was a habit she had picked up within the first week of only living with Mihawk, where, unlike with Roronoa, he would not react.
There were a few moments where the Ghost Girl would kick up a fuss, and Mihawk would have tea and cookies –made by her, ready to calm her down. She would nibble on the pastries and melt into her seat, continuing to share her stories without requiring Mihawk’s ears.
He did pay attention to her daily nonsense. Still, he lacked the capabilities to contribute about the ‘frustrating uselessness of sanitary items,’ or ‘Mr Bear’s need for a makeover,’ or heavens forbid, ‘how to spice up Hawk-Eyes’s boring love life.’ Mihawk would prefer to steer clear of such topics, showing any interest holds the possibility of extending her fascination for them.
“Hawk-Eyes,” the Ghost Girl tapped his arm. "Can I buy you new clothes?”
Despite the refusal on the tip of his tongue, Mihawk decided to contemplate his answer further. The Ghost Girl was desperate for a positive reply. She wanted to lay her claim over him as she did to Roronoa for one reason or another. She gave Roronoa a nickname and added parts of herself to his attire—tiny bears and hawks hidden in a red sash. Roronoa did not mind the changes, putting them on with false reluctance.
Inversely, Mihawk had dodged every attempt she made. From decorating under his hat, changing the plume, and even scribbling Yoru’s sheath on his back, he had not allowed her close to his personal belongings. There was no purpose behind her actions; they were, at most, students and teachers; they lacked the friendship she held with Roronoa.
Nevertheless, Mihawk could not find a reason to reject either.
“As long as it is within budget.”
Today was the day the Ghost Girl would depart. Mihawk brought Yoru along with him to the living room, where he laid out the latest newspaper on her favourite seat. All he had to do was wait for the Ghost Girl to complete her pastries before his peace would return.
The doors slammed open as Mihawk finished the thought, and the Ghost Girl came with her tray of freshly baked jam-stuffed bread. She smiled brightly, appearing much happier than when she first arrived. The Ghosts around her reflected her joy, floating around to claim their parts of the living room.
Some approached Mihawk, laughter gurgling from their open mouths as they circled his chair, close but never approaching to touch. He waved them away, hearing their excitement doubling when the Ghost Girl floated before his sight. She held a tray to him, presenting the steaming bread.
“Want one?”
“No.”
She gasped in shock before accusing him of being ungrateful. Mihawk could only watch as she settled onto her seat and bit into her hard-cooked snack. Hearing her vigorously devour the pastries, Mihawk savoured the silence, counting down as he read through the newspaper.
Then, she screamed.
“He’s alive!” The Ghost Girl leapt out of her seat to float around the room, her Ghosts cheering on her retelling of the article. She stopped before Mihawk to show him the headlines, screeching in eagerness to return to his side. “Look, it’s Moria-sama! He’s really alive!”
“Moria is a persistent guy.” He said, lowering his paper to close his eyes; he had a feeling the Ghost Girl would not take his words kindly. “Just like the zombies he manipulates.”
“HUH?” As he expected, the Ghost Girl was not receptive to his comment. “Did you just speak badly of Moria-sama?” She pointed at him and continued with a shout. “You thankless jerk!”
Mihawk processed her words with a fine-toothed comb, unable to understand exactly when he had received anything from the zombie user that deserved gratitude. Unable to find anything, he replied with disinterest. “I owe him nothing.”
“But you owe me!” The Ghost Girl said, her hand resting over her chest. “How many times do you think I’ve cooked for you?”
It was confirmed in a way, as Mihawk recalled the Ghost Girl’s initial culinary skills, able to terrify even Roronoa on sight. The Humandrills’ iron stomach was used as her guinea pig, and after some trial and error, the Ghost Girl could finally make rice balls; it was –thankfully- only an uphill slope from there. Unfortunately, she seemed to have forgotten the months required to reach her current standing.
“I cooked more than you.”
She gasped and tried again. “Well, I help you with farming, too!”
“I allowed you to stay here.”
He could recognise the signs of her outburst from her choke, and the Ghost Girl predictably resorted to name calling –to get the last laugh despite the losing argument. Mihawk heard her float out of the living room to pick up her stuffed bear and travelling hat. His eyes lowered to the paper, where an article about Roronoa rests.
Everything Mihawk had done was to nurture the future generation. The Ghost Girl and Roronoa have been taught to stand on their feet, with or without their captains; he trusted them to pull through. Mihawk would be disappointed otherwise.
“I’m leaving.” The Ghost Girl reentered the room, to the mild surprise of Mihawk.
“Do whatever you like.”
She puffed her cheeks out and stomped toward the door. “There are no hard feelings, so that’s good!”
Despite her sharp words, he could sense anticipation from her return. Not even Roronoa had announced his departure to either of them—too busy getting lost, he believed. It seemed that the Ghost Girl had bonded stronger than Mihawk had been led to believe. Perhaps she saw him as more than a mentor—a friend?
Mentally sighing, Mihawk spoke. “Be careful on your way.”
He swiftly returned to his newspaper afterwards, busying himself with articles he had yet to read. Upon noticing the range of emotions fluttering through the Ghost Girl, Mihawk knew the incoming waterworks might be too much for him to handle. He steeled himself and waited.
“Too kind!” the Ghost Girl cried out, spinning to meet Mihawk’s uncomfortable gaze with tears in her eyes. “Damn you! Don’t start being nice all of a sudden!”
She wailed at her spot, bear squished to her face while furiously rubbing away the fountain of tears. The Ghost Girl seemed distressed by her uncontrollable mood, hiding her face behind her arms instead. Mihawk fought back the desire to leave his seat –unsure if the unconscious thought was out of kindness or survival instinct.
“Thank you for everything!” She exclaimed.
“You’re a noisy woman.”
Once her sobs softened, Mihawk took the chance to interrupt her. “It’s perhaps a good decision to leave here now,” He walked towards the window and stared in the direction of Majora, “In the Reviere, there’s still a session ongoing, and a strange topic was brought up.”
This was the closing act for their relationship –as it had happened with Roronoa. Mihawk would bid her goodbye just as he did with Roronoa. The tides of the balance were tilting, and his current position was too capricious. While Mihawk could enjoy being chased once again, he could not allow his students to be caught up in it.
As much as the Ghost Girl would miss Roronoa and himself, Mihawk had experience in the New World, knowledge of how pirates operate, and how the marines manipulate. Should they meet again, it would unfortunately be as enemies.
Mihawk thought he would be freed. He had suffered with the intruding children for two years and a few months after that. He deserved a break from babysitting, and Crocodile’s offer had been taken with that in mind. It was decided that Mihawk only needed to sink a few Marine ships before returning to his farm; Crocodile had additionally guaranteed the crew's strength. Thus, it meant more time for Mihawk to be by himself.
However, despite his immense luck in survival, it had not extended its blessing to retirement.
“So that’s a Seraphim,” The Clown said, squinting into the distance. He had gained overflowing confidence against enemies after Crocodile and himself joined, no longer the trembling calf Mihawk saw at Marineford. “He looks just like you, Hawk-Eyes!”
There was no need to seek out the Seraphim's physical appearance; Mihawk could feel the connection between himself and his apparent spawn as clear as day. He had known of Vegapunk’s creations and understood it would be a safer replacement for the Seven Warlord system, but seeing a younger version of himself threw him off kilter.
He had a child. No matter the schematics of its creation, Mihawk’s genetics ran along the exposed green blood it pumps. The Seraphim has traits typical of Lunarians, and judging from its ability to cut like a blade without one, it owned the Blade-Blade Devil Fruit. This meant that not only did he have a child, Mihawk shared it with at least one other person.
However, that was unimportant, a paling fact compared to the realisation that he, Dracule Mihawk, has a child.
Through sheer willpower and prior knowledge of the Seraphim’s existence, Mihawk could remain stoic. He deeply regretted not visiting EggHead Island earlier; to miss the chance to claim the lives of his former coworker and the scientist would frustrate him for a long time. However, he had to overcome his current predicament before returning to his farm –a sanctuary of peace.
“Did you get your blood nicked by the Doctor?” Crocodile asked, switching gazes between Mihawk and the Seraphim. “I’ve heard rumours but never expected them to be a carbon copy.”
“Do you think I have a Seraphim in my image?” The Clown seemed excited at the prospect, his body contorting under the cover of the cloth. “What would they call it, I wonder,” He cupped his chin in thought, muttering various names before snapping his fingers in delight. “I got it!”
The Clown rose to his full height—allowed by the cloth—and cackled. “The Seraphim must be flashily called ‘King of the Pirates, God D. Buggy!”
“Ridiculous,” Mihawk said.
“Frivolous,” Crocodile added, his hook raised and pointed to the approaching Seraphim. “If you have the time to play around, go and test the Seraphim out.”
The Clown shrunk back to his original size in a split second and hid behind the balcony curtain. He twiddled his thumbs and shifted his eyes to Mihawk. “Shouldn’t Hawk-Eyes do it? It’s his child…”
His words faded into silence at Mihawk’s glare. The Clown was testing his patience today, from the absurd ship to his declaration of attaining the One Piece; Mihawk had been tempted to use a weapon other than a sword on him. It is a disgraceful thought to have as a swordsman, but Mihawk believes Yoru would forgive him; the Devil Fruit the Clown had consumed was annoying.
However, putting his shock aside, Mihawk would not say he was not curious about the Seraphim. Knowing Vegapunk, he possibly had tested various combinations to achieve the pinnacle of swordsmanship. With the addition of Lunarian’s near invincibility and the Blade-Blade Fruit’s capabilities, the Seraphim should at least hold an edge over Mihawk in durability.
Judging by how the Seraphim mowed through the Clown’s crew, however, he was slightly disappointed. The Seraphim was almost below Roronoa’s level, and only due to the Lunarian genes could he last longer. Mihawk could accept the Seraphim as a rival but –with its artificial nature, doubts that he was able to keep up with himself.
He resisted the urge to sigh, touched Yoru’s grip, and heard her whisper into his mind. She had recognised the sword that hung on the Seraphim’s back and craved its blood for the false sword to disappear from the oceans. Yoru’s desires grew louder over time, questioning Mihawk’s delay in fulfilling her wish.
Mihawk would have fallen into Yoru’s song and danced to her tune if he had been a lesser man. Unfortunately for her, Mihawk could block her out as effortlessly as she could speak. Though unwilling to bend to Yoru, her words held some merit; they gave an excuse for Mihawk to leap into battle without feeling as if it was done on the Clown’s orders.
Between listening to his cursed sword or the Clown, Mihawk preferred the former.
Unsheathing Yoru from his back, Mihawk heard loud gasps from his crewmates; even Crocodile had given Mihawk space, eager to watch him in battle. He glared at the Clown, daring him to start another one of his ridiculous charades, and watched him slide behind Crocodile. The Clown gestured to the Seraphim with both hands, his usual smile appearing strained.
“Go ahead, just don’t–” He quailed at Mihawk’s returning glare and shook his head. “Please go all out; the Cross Guild can foot the bill!”
He certainly could not.
“So, is he going to be permanent?” The Clown asked while hiding behind the couch.
He pointed to the Seraphim, who seemed attached to Mihawk’s side, arms around his waist despite the bruising it took. Mihawk had found out the Seraphim was called S-Hawk and noticed the small bursts of excitement whenever Mihawk called him as such. It would be seen as adorable to anyone else, but Mihawk only felt agitated,
The battle had been to Mihawk’s calculations, and S-Hawk went down without exerting effort. However, after his victory, S-Hawk became interested in following him and, with a weak promise not to harm the Cross Guild, was allowed entry into the tent. The two were seated at the balcony’s table, sipping on wine.
“Is there a problem with it?” S-Hawk asked, leaning into Mihawk’s side.
Mihawk wonders if he has a curse on himself. Something that seemed to signal to children that he was an excellent parental figure; the Ghost Girl was straightforward enough, and he noticed Roronoa’s subconscious expectancy for praise. He glared at Crocodile’s amused gaze and looked at S-Hawk.
“You can’t stay.” The Clown’s aggression withered at S-Hawk’s glare. “You’re a Pascifista, a glowing beacon for the Marines to come after us!”
His words made sense, and Mihawk could see they affected the rest of the crew—sans Crocodile and Mr.1. Their gazes toward S-Hawk changed from amazement into fear, and they each stepped away from him cautiously. S-Hawk seemed uncaring of the darker atmosphere, eyes solely focused on the wine in Mihawk’s hand.
Passing S-Hawk his cup, Mihawk watched the child version of him guzzle the wine down as if he were worried it would be taken away from him. It was depressing for Mihawk to witness, for someone with his genes and love for wine to never obtain a drop of it. Mihawk almost felt terrible.
“Should children be drinking alcohol?”
“He can do whatever he wants.” Mihawk crossed his legs and passed a bottle of wine over.
While S-Hawk could be viewed as a child, the Seraphim was anything but. The invention curled up on his side was still a Pacifista; a bottle of alcohol would be the least of their worries. Mihawk himself had learned of the properties of wine long before he came of age, having to suffer a few hangovers a day before drunkenness was lost on him.
Vegapunk was never a man to work in halves and would have made the Seraphim similar to their counterpart and impervious to external danger. They can be defeated –as seen with his swift defeat in Mihawk’s hands, but poison should never be something they would fall to.
“Is there any more?” As if to wish to prove Mihawk right, S-Hawk held the empty bottle up.
The crew members in the tent shifted in their seats, waiting for the red flush to overtake the Seraphim’s face before he lashed out in a drunken stupor. However, Mihawk took another bottle from under the table and passed it over. They watched as S-Hawk sharpened his finger into a blade before slicing the neck open.
He poured it into the glass and passed it to Mihawk. His actions were smooth and had a sense of elegance as he awaited Mihawk’s next move. It reminded him heavily of the Ghost’s Girl’s act of shoving every dessert she made in his face or Roronoa’s excitement over completing his training in half the given time.
A child desires to please their parents, and in all those cases, Mihawk was unfortunately in the role of their father –sometimes mother, when the Ghost Girl cries for it.
The room was thick with anticipation; Mihawk had never accepted anything from the crew members, preferring to eat his own food and pour his own wine. Everyone wanted to see how the individualistic man would react to a child –the one sharing his genes, giving him his favourite brand of wine.
Mihawk closed his eyes from their booming heartbeats and sparkling eyes. “You can drink it instead.” He pushed the wine glass towards S-Hawk, watching the bright eyes dull. “This is a different brand from earlier.”
Pointing to the logo pressed onto the bottle's body, Mihawk was treated to an expression -long lost to himself, appearing on S-Hawk’s face. It was joy, pure without a hint of solemnity or caution, just happiness at finding something he enjoyed. Mihawk wondered how long it had been since he was happy.
“Thank you,” S-Hawk mumbled, hiding his head behind the glass. “It tastes good.”
It was evident to everyone that S-Hawk had not sipped the wine yet and thought the sight looked cute. Mihawk and Crocodile, on the other hand, saw it as a threat. For the Seraphim to know something –especially a favoured meal, was enjoyable, showed the lengths Vegapunk went to to create them.
Sharing a look with Crocodile, they believed it was best if the Seraphim steered clear from their foolish crew members –Mihawk even saw a few picking out more wine bottles for S-Hawk. The Marines must have yet to figure out such a function for the Seraphims -too awed by their destructive power to truly hold an advantage over the information war.
The actual danger of the Seraphim would be the one bearing either the genes of Doflamingo or the Clown. One had knowledge that moved the World Government to his liking while the other –if Vegapunk had deemed him worthy of recreating, the general understanding of the Pirate King’s activities. They might be able to pinpoint the location of Laughtale just from the memories of the Clown’s Seraphim.
Mihawk would take S-Hawk out of the tent, and if he were to convince the Seraphim to help him with his farm along the way, it would be no one’s business but his own.
As Mihawk had expected, S-Hawk adapted to the farm swiftly. The muffled happiness from drinking wine was incomparable to his excitement over ploughing the fields and harvesting the ripe vegetation. Every pluck of the potatoes would garner a glance over his shoulder to Mihawk’s area, and any larger hauls would be deemed worthy of being presented to him.
S-Hawk seemed not to have the functions to think further beyond the farm, merely wanting to show off his hard work and great luck with the harvest. He would appear stunned when Mihawk shared the benefits of the vegetables he pulled out and gazed forlornly back to the tent –possibly wishing to partake in the nutritional meals Mihawk spoke about.
The Marines must have thought the Seraphim only to be war machines, if S-Hawk could fall prey to simple temptations like food and water. Mihawk sighed when farming soon became an educational class, with every new plant being questioned on its properties, nutritional value, and whether there is a signature dish.
“Hawk-Eyes,” S-Hawk said, seated on the nearby rock formations. “Was it you who trained the Pirate Hunter?”
Leaving the amusement of Roronoa still being called as such behind, Mihawk nodded. “Yes, was he a worthy opponent?”
He had kept up with his students’ activities through the news and his assumptions, proud that one had infiltrated Hachinosu undetected and the other went on to wound Kaido. The two of them had grown up well, and if S-Hawk’s firm gaze said anything, Roronoa had easily defeated the Seraphim.
S-Hawk lowered his head to glare at the rocks he sat upon and punched a hole through it. “He was a frustrating opponent. I have lost to him and the technology of Vegapunk.”
Mihawk could imagine the disappointment of S-Hawk’s failure to defeat a fellow swordsman, having gone through the same range of emotions himself. However, within his defeated back, there laid a sense of hunger –a desperation to become stronger. The sight was ironic; it was a cycle between Mihawk, Roronoa, and S-Hawk to defeat the one they had lost and eventually land at the pinnacle of swordsmanship.
“I am,” S-Hawk bit his lips, eyebrows furrowing as he looked away from Mihawk. “I have failed as a swordsman and wish to retrain myself.”
Aside from Mihawk’s confusion at being told that, S-Hawk’s deponent appearance raised alarm bells in his head. He instinctively cleaned up after himself, placing the tools away and removing his gloves to throw into the nearby bin. Throughout his actions, Mihawk kept S-Hawk in the corner of his eyes yet never looked straight at him.
Roronoa and the Ghost Girl had been enough; Mihawk did not wish to be saddled with a Seraphim for a student, much less one –as the Clown liked to put it, worked as a beacon for Marines. As he picked Yoru up, a hand pulled on his shirt –thankfully clean of dirt and red eyes met yellow.
“Just a tip would be fine.” The Seraphim seemed to have picked up on Mihawk’s distance and compromised. “I don’t want to lose to him again.”
Mihawk closed his eyes in thought, weighing the impact of his assistance. He might not have known it before, but now he understood his capabilities in strengthening those he taught. With only two years –and a few months for the Ghost Girl, they are wreaking havoc around the New World. He had credited most of their feats to their untapped talents, but S-Hawk thought otherwise.
If not, why else would he want Mihawk to train him and not simply become better himself?
The Seraphim had Mihawk’s genes and other factors within its body, yet he chose Mihawk. It was off-putting, and everything in his gut pointed to Mihawk refusing to discuss further in favour of sending S-Hawk away from the island. However, as with his two students, Mihawk wished to increase his potential rivals.
For even without asking, he knew S-Hawk would aim for him eventually.
Everyone wanted to be the best, and Mihawk sat on that throne for swordsmanship. However, unlike Roronoa, S-Hawk lacked humanity and would seek his death should the Marines desire it. The temptation to push the Seraphim further, where even as the world burned to the ground, they could have a battle to remember –one where Mihawk could die from.
Such a juxtaposition between the two hungry combatants amused Mihawk.
And thus, he spoke.
“What have you told the Seraphim?”
Crocodile approached Mihawk languidly, arms swaying by his side as if nothing was wrong. His words, while calm, hid steel. Mihawk could tell the man was ready to defend his newly found business even from Mihawk’s overwhelming strength. However, there was still a sense of curiosity hidden in his gaze, wishing to hear the conversation between them.
“I have only said what was necessary and bid him goodbye,” Mihawk replied, facing the taller man. “I may have no interest in either of your ambitions, but encouraging danger towards them would be counterintuitive.”
They gauged each other’s expression, and Mihawk was confident he gave nothing away. He had long sensed the presence of Crocodile before the Seraphim pleaded for assistance, and his words merely touched upon swordsmanship, not the Cross Guild. Even then, nothing incriminating was said, and the information –even if leaked to the Marines- would serve them no purpose.
S-Hawk was a swordsman with a unique composition; Mihawk would assume only the Lunarian and Crocodile’s subordinate could understand it.
He glanced at the distance and saw the man he thought of walking towards the training room and turned back to Crocodile. Mihawk spotted the moment Crocodile’s scrutiny turned into satisfaction, and the man took a puff of his cigars, smirking. Enough has been said between them, and Mihawk preferred to use the time left on land to sort out his harvest.
“I would hate to be disappointed.” He said, walking past Crocodile. “Train your men well, Crocodile.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, Hawk-Eyes.”