Logue Town, East Blue
The salty breeze carried the scent of the sea and sizzling street food through the bustling port of Loguetown. The cries of merchants hawking their wares blended with the chatter of travelers and the rhythmic clatter of boots on cobblestone streets. It was chaos, life, and adventure all at once—the beating heart of the East Blue.
"Master… Didn't you say you were taking us somewhere special to train?"
Little Zoro tugged at the edge of his master's dark cloak, his wide green eyes scanning the crowded thoroughfare with both awe and confusion. "Then why are we here… on a human-populated island?" His voice was curious, almost wary—as though too many people in one place was somehow a trap.
Hawk-Eye Mihawk said nothing. His presence was cloaked not just by the hood draped low over his eyes, but by an aura so composed and still that he might as well have been a shadow slipping through the noise of the city. To any passerby, he was merely a tall man escorting two children—hardly worth a second glance.
Not even the Marine patrol that marched past them—their white coats gleaming, boots echoing sharply against the stone—spared the trio a look. They were laughing and chatting, utterly unaware that one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea, the Greatest Swordsman in the World, walked just a few feet away. The man who could cleave their ship in two with a single swing of his black blade.
"Where are we exactly?" Zoro asked again, craning his neck to look up at Mihawk. His little face was scrunched in both curiosity and faint irritation.
Before his master could respond, Kuina crossed her arms with a sigh that carried all the exasperation of an older sister forced to babysit a particularly dense sibling.
"Marimo, you dummy! We're in Loguetown—can't you even recognize the most famous island in all of East Blue?"
"Marimo?" Zoro blinked, his brows knitting as his confusion deepened.
Kuina smirked. "Yeah. Fits you, doesn't it? All green and clueless."
Zoro's eyes twitched. "Oi! What did you just call me—?"
But before he could finish, thwack!—a small pebble bounced off the back of his head.
He spun around, growling. "What was that for?!"
Kuina was already several steps behind him, pointing down another street with a look of triumph. "That's for walking into the wrong alley, genius. Mihawk-sensei's going that way."
Zoro looked around—and indeed, their cloaked master was already several paces ahead, gliding down the opposite street like a silent specter.
"Huh?! When did he—?!"
"Honestly," Kuina sighed, rolling her eyes, "You'd get lost even if you were tied to his sword."
Zoro's face flushed with indignation. "Like hell I would!" he barked, sprinting back toward them, his little sandals clattering against the cobblestones. He weaved through startled townsfolk, knocking over a crate of apples in the process. "Oye! Wait up!"
Kuina laughed—the bright, ringing sound cutting through the noise of the port—as Mihawk continued forward, unbothered, his cloak fluttering like a dark sail in the breeze.
"Master, is this the island you told us about…?" Zoro asked again, his voice half-lost amidst the noise of the crowd and the cries of gulls overhead. His small fingers clutched the strap of the wooden swords slung across his back, his green eyes darting from the merchant stalls to the passing ships, still trying to make sense of this chaotic place.
Mihawk's boots clicked steadily against the cobblestones as he moved forward, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow untethered from its source. "No," he finally replied, his tone calm, distant—like the surface of still water concealing unknown depths. "We are here to pick something up."
Before Zoro could press further, Kuina's voice rang out with sudden excitement.
"Zoro… look!" she pointed ahead, her eyes wide with awe. "That's the scaffold! The one where the Pirate King, Gol D. Roger, was executed!"
Zoro's head snapped up, his gaze following her finger—and there, towering above the rooftops and the crowd, stood the scaffold. Even from afar, it commanded silence.
The massive wooden structure loomed over the town square like a relic of myth—aged but preserved, every beam and iron bolt maintained with the precision of a holy shrine. The platform where the Pirate King had once stood was bathed in sunlight, the wood polished to a dark amber sheen. The twin execution spears, their metal tips glinting faintly, were crossed above it like grim sentinels of history.
Around the perimeter, several Marines stood watch—their white uniforms pristine, rifles slung across their shoulders as they patrolled with a sense of practiced pride. A low chain fence encircled the monument, keeping the throngs of tourists and traders at bay. To the Marines, this scaffold was a symbol of authority—proof of the World Government's triumph, the site where justice had supposedly triumphed over chaos.
But to the world beyond their uniforms, this was something else entirely. To pirates, wanderers, and dreamers, this was holy ground. The place where one man's final words had set fire to the seas—igniting the Great Pirate Era that reshaped the world.
Kuina's breath caught in her throat as they approached the square. "It's… even bigger than I imagined." Her voice was soft, reverent.
Zoro said nothing at first, his eyes locked on the platform—on the place where the Pirate King had smiled in the face of death. A faint shiver ran down his spine, though whether from awe or excitement, he couldn't tell.
"Mihawk sensei," Kuina said suddenly, turning toward Mihawk. "Can we go see it up close?"
Mihawk paused mid-step, his golden eyes lifting to the distant scaffold. For a moment, the hum of the city faded—replaced by the whisper of the wind through the banners that flanked the square. He weighed their request in silence.
Finally, he inclined his head. "Very well. We are in no hurry."
A flicker of excitement lit both children's faces. "Let's go!" Kuina said, grabbing Zoro's wrist and tugging him forward through the bustling crowd.
As they neared the square, the air seemed to grow heavier, charged with the weight of history. Vendors and sailors spoke in hushed tones, some gazing up with admiration, others with disbelief—as though expecting to see the Pirate King's ghost still standing tall, laughing at the heavens.
Mihawk's eyes, sharp as hawk's talons beneath the hood, lingered on the scaffold. "It hasn't changed much since that day …" he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Both Kuina and Zoro froze mid-step. "You were here that day…?" Kuina's voice trembled with awe. "You saw the Pirate King's execution… Mihawk-sensei?"
The swordsman's stride slowed. Beneath the shadow of his hood, his golden eyes flicked toward the massive scaffold rising over the square. For a heartbeat, the world around them seemed to fade—the crowds, the gulls, even the murmuring wind—until only the memory remained.
"Hmm." A soft sound, but heavy with meaning. He gave a slight nod.
"Yes," he said quietly, his tone carrying a rare weight. "I was here that day… and so was your master. The entire island was flooded with people—pirates, Marines, merchants, wanderers—all gathered to witness the fall of the Pirate King."
His voice trailed, distant, as though he were speaking to ghosts. Zoro's brow furrowed. "Do you think it's true, Master? That the Marines actually caught him?"
Mihawk's eyes glimmered faintly under the hood—sharp, knowing. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"They wish," he said, his voice low but edged with certainty. "Even the Marine Hero, Garp—a man who hounded Roger across half the seas—could never corner him. The World Government wants the world to believe they brought him down."
He turned his gaze skyward, watching the clouds drift across the pale sun. "But from what I know… Roger surrendered of his own will. He chose his death—to ignite life in the hearts of men. To set the seas ablaze with dreams."
The words hung heavy in the air, carried away on the sea breeze like sparks before a storm.
Kuina's eyes widened slightly. "Then… you mean—"
"Roger wasn't captured," Mihawk finished for her. "He chose to die. And in doing so, he gave birth to an age the world can never extinguish."
Zoro's gaze lingered on the scaffold. For the first time, the boy felt a strange fire stir deep within him—something primal, the whisper of ambition.
Mihawk's tone shifted slightly, his eyes flicking toward Kuina. "Your master likely knows more than most. He knew Roger personally. Having trained under Garp, he crossed paths with the Pirate King and his crew more than once."
Kuina nodded softly, still absorbing the enormity of what she'd just learned. But her focus shifted suddenly—her instincts prickling. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement: a few rough-looking men slipping away into the crowd, their eyes flicking toward the cloaked swordsman before vanishing down a side street.
Zoro noticed it too. "Master… those guys—"
"I know," Mihawk said calmly, not even glancing their way. His voice was cool, almost amused. "If even you two can sense them with your fledgling Observation Haki, it means they're hardly worth worrying about."
He resumed walking, his cloak rippling in the strengthening wind. The first cold raindrop landed on Zoro's cheek. Then another. The clouds above were darkening fast, the horizon bruised with the color of an approaching storm.
Mihawk tilted his head back, scanning the sky. The hawk-like sharpness in his eyes deepened. "A storm's coming," he murmured. "A big one. We've lingered long enough."
Kuina glanced upward nervously as the wind began to howl through the square, sending banners snapping and raindrops scattering across the stone.
"Let's collect what we came for," Mihawk said, his voice cutting clean through the rising wind. "If we don't set sail soon, the weather will trap us here for days… perhaps longer."
Lightning flashed in the distance—a single, blinding vein across the clouds—as the greatest swordsman in the world turned away from the scaffold and led his two young pupils back into the storm, leaving behind the monument where legends were born and destinies began.
The rain had just begun to fall in earnest by the time the trio reached the far end of Loguetown's main street. The crowds thinned, replaced by the rhythmic drumming of rain on rooftops and the creak of wooden shutters in the wind.
They stopped before a massive building—a three-story giant that loomed over the surrounding shops like a fortress of steel and oak. Its wide façade was emblazoned with the sign:
"Ippon Armory—Forgers of Legends."
Zoro's jaw dropped. "Whoa…"
The structure stretched across nearly the entire block, each floor boasting huge glass windows through which glinted an ocean of weapons. What had once been, a decade ago, a modest little weapon shop tucked into the heart of the port had now grown into an empire—a sprawling monument to craftsmanship and power.
This was the shop whispered about across all Four Blues—the only weapon shop in the world ever to display three Meitō of different grades at once. The day that happened, its name was etched into history. Merchants, pirates, bounty hunters, and even marines from distant seas now sought its wares.
But what few knew—and what no one dared speak aloud—was that the shop had a silent benefactor. A shadowed patron who had, for years, supplied it with rare ores, forbidden blueprints, and blades of quality so high they defied explanation.
Zoro's eyes gleamed as he stared up at the sign. "Master… are we here to pick up a sword for me?"
Hope burned bright in his voice. His fingers twitched toward the single blade that was wrapped heavily and strapped to his back alongside the training swords—Wado Ichimonji, his most treasured possession. He had already embraced the three-sword style, yet only one blade truly belonged to him. Ever since he'd learned that Kuina had been gifted a sword from her own master, Zoro had secretly dreamed of the same—a weapon worthy of his path.
Maybe today was that day. Mihawk, however, said nothing. His face remained unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. Even he did not know exactly what awaited him inside. A message—brief, coded, and bearing the seal of the Donquixote Rosinante—had reached him through Donquixote's hidden channels. It spoke of a single package left in his name: a black blade, cursed, origin unknown.
He had yet to decide whether the sword would ever leave his possession… or whether it should.
The heavy bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside. A rush of warm air met them, thick with the scent of oiled steel and polished wood.
The main floor was vast — easily the size of a small plaza. Two grand staircases of dark mahogany curved upward on either side, leading to the second and third floors. Along every wall, weapons were mounted in perfect symmetry — gleaming broadaxes, halberds, polearms, rifles, and short cannons, each marked and labeled meticulously.
Half a dozen assistants bustled about, polishing blades, helping customers, and noting down orders. The rhythmic sound of steel being set into its scabbard filled the air.
Above them, the second level gleamed like a shrine. That floor was reserved for blades — the heart and pride of the establishment. And at the far end, visible even from below, stood a massive display case of dark wood and gold trim. Within it sat three empty stands, each lined with red velvet cushions. Only their nameplates remained—relics of glory long gone.
Zoro's eyes widened at the sight of the names, his pulse quickening because one of those names was very familiar to him; it was the name of Kuina's blade. To see even the placeholders of such legends was enough to make his young swordsman's heart race.
"Welcome! Welcome to the greatest weapon shop in all the Four Blues!"
The booming voice drew their attention to a round-bellied man directing two assistants. His hair was slicked back, his expression confident to the point of arrogance. It was Ipponmatsu, the current heir of the legendary armory. He turned toward the trio, still smiling — until his gaze fell on the tall man in the black cloak.
"I am here to see the owner," Mihawk said flatly, his voice cutting through the bustle like the edge of a blade. "I've come to collect a package."
At first, Ipponmatsu looked ready to boast that he was the owner now — that the once-humble shop was under his name. But then his eyes caught a glint of steel from beneath Mihawk's cloak.
That sword. The great black blade strapped to his back — long, majestic, flawless, and darker than night itself.
For a heartbeat, Ipponmatsu forgot to breathe. There was no mistaking it. His grandfather had drilled the image of every renowned weapon in the world into his mind a hundred times over—the blade pattern, the shape of the guard, the pattern of the hilt, and the kind of aura each weapon radiated.
This was no imitation. No decoration. This was Yoru, the Supreme Grade Blade—one of the thirteen in existence. And the man who wielded it could only be one person.
"I— ah—" Ipponmatsu swallowed hard, his earlier bravado vanishing like mist. "P-Please… please come in, sir."
He turned to his stunned assistants, barking orders with sudden urgency. "You heard me! Close the upper floor to all customers! Now!"
The assistants scattered immediately, whispering among themselves as they hurried to comply.
Ipponmatsu bowed low, gesturing toward the grand staircase. "This way, please. The third floor is reserved for our most… discerning guests."
Zoro and Kuina exchanged curious glances as they followed Mihawk up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath their feet. The air grew quieter above — colder, sharper, filled with the silent hum of hundreds of blades.
As the trio followed Ipponmatsu up the final staircase, the hum of the grand armory below began to fade — replaced by the faint creak of aged wood and the soft patter of rain against the windows. The third floor felt like a different world entirely.
Gone were the polished marble floors, the gold-trimmed displays, and the glittering chandeliers that had defined the lower levels. Instead, the air here carried the faint scent of iron and oil, the warm musk of old timber and years of craftsmanship.
It was simple, humble — a stark contrast to the opulence below.
Those who had known this place before its meteoric rise would have recognized it instantly. This floor was a faithful recreation of the original weapon shop — the one that had stood quietly in Loguetown long before fame and fortune had transformed it.
The weapons here were arranged with practicality rather than display. There were no glass cases or engraved plaques. Many blades rested bare atop sturdy wooden barrels, while others leaned against walls lined with faded parchment tags — handwritten notes describing their make, origin, or price.
The flickering glow of a few oil lamps bathed the room in warm amber light. It felt less like a store and more like the workshop of a man who truly loved his craft. At the far end, behind a scarred wooden counter, an old man dozed in a creaking chair. His legs were propped up on the counter, his thin chest rising and falling in the rhythm of a deep, unbothered sleep.
Ipponmatsu sighed, half exasperated, half fond. "Grandpa… Grandpa, wake up!" he said, hurrying over to shake the man gently. "We have guests — he's here for that special package!"
The old man grumbled something incoherent, scratching his chin before opening one clouded eye. For a moment, he blinked blearily, as though his mind was struggling to pull itself out of the fog of sleep. Then he saw the man standing before him.
The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of Mihawk's lips beneath his hood. He could sense the old man's wisdom even while he slept — calm, grounded, and yet surrounded by an aura of quiet strength, a strength of knowledge. This was no ordinary shopkeeper.
As the old man sat up, his gaze sharpened instantly. The sleepy haze vanished. His eyes — though dimmed by age — glimmered with recognition.
"I'll be damned," he murmured, his voice rough like sanded wood. "So it really is you, isn't it… Dracule Mihawk, the man who currently carries the title of the strongest swordsman in the world..."
Zoro and Kuina stiffened slightly. Even Ipponmatsu looked startled that his grandfather had identified the cloaked man so easily.
Kuina opened her mouth, ready to protest when the old man addressed Mihawk as the strongest swordsman in the world. Her pride bristled at the words—not out of disrespect, but because the spark of defending her own master's pride refused to be silent.
The old man noticed immediately. His weathered lips curved into a knowing smile as his gaze shifted toward her.
"So," he said warmly, his tone carrying both amusement and understanding, "you must be his student, then…"
He didn't need to ask whose disciple she was. Only one man—Rosinante's pupil—would have the audacity and confidence to challenge the title of the World's Greatest Swordsman in Mihawk's own presence.
But the old man merely chuckled softly, the sound like the creak of old wood. "Don't worry, child," he added with a twinkle in his eye. "Titles mean little to those still sharpening their own edge. And even less to those who have sharpened theirs…"
Mihawk smiled faintly, inclining his head in quiet acknowledgment of the old man's words. To him, such titles were little more than noise—fleeting echoes in a world obsessed with labels. What mattered was not fame or recognition, but the endless pursuit of perfection. As long as his blade continued to carve its way toward the true pinnacle of swordsmanship, nothing else held any meaning.
The old man didn't bow, didn't gape, and didn't even ask the obvious questions that so many others would have in the presence of Mihawk. Instead, his attention shifted—not to the man, but to the blade.
His eyes lingered on the great black sword strapped across Mihawk's back. His breath caught, a mixture of reverence and curiosity flickering across his face.
"That sword…" he whispered, his voice trembling slightly with awe. "So the rumors were true. The Supreme Black Blade… Yoru."
Mihawk inclined his head once more, a silent acknowledgment. The old man's fingers twitched—the instinct of a craftsman who had spent his life touching steel. "Would you permit me… to take a closer look?" he asked softly. "Just a glance. My hands may no longer be steady, but my eyes… they still remember what true steel looks like."
The room fell still. Even Ipponmatsu seemed to hold his breath. To ask to handle that sword—to even approach it—was something no one dared. For a long moment, Mihawk said nothing. His golden eyes met the old man's—sharp meeting steady, pride meeting wisdom.
Then, with a faint rustle of his cloak, he reached behind him. When Yoru left its sheath, the air seemed to shift. The faint hum of the rain outside dulled, as though the world itself had paused to watch. The room filled with a quiet pressure—the kind that made even the strongest heart hesitate.
Mihawk placed the black blade on the counter, the edge glinting like a strip of midnight lightning.
The old man's trembling hands brushed along the blade's length, reverent but sure. For a long while, he said nothing—only tracing the line of the steel, feeling its texture, its coldness, its soul.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but full of awe.
"Perfectly balanced… not a single imperfection. It's no longer a forged blade—it's a living will."
Zoro stared, wide-eyed, unable to tear his gaze away. Kuina, too, her hands clasped together, felt her heart beating faster. And Mihawk—silent, composed, almost statue-like—simply watched the old man's reaction with something that might have been respect. The storm outside rumbled faintly, thunder rolling across the distance like an omen.