As Mihawk in One Piece

The midday sun hammered Dressrosa's bay like a smith striking an anvil. The turquoise water shimmered, blinding, clashing starkly with the deathly atmosphere cloaking the port. Dozens of cannons, their black muzzles trained on the sea, bristled along the ramparts and piers. Hundreds of royal soldiers, armor slick with sweat under the day's scorching heat, gripped their pikes or adjusted their sights, fingers trembling on triggers. A palpable, electric tension crackled in the air. At the center, alone, tiny yet overwhelmingly present, a simple wooden raft glided forward.

Dracule Mihawk stood motionless, a jade statue. Positioned at the raft's bow, he paid no visible heed to the cannons, the nervous shouts of officers, or the terror-filled gazes tracking him. His black coat, open across his chest, didn't stir despite the sea breeze.

Dressrosa. A kingdom of excess and orchestrated cruelty. A hornet's nest ruled by a pink-threaded spider.

["Stay back," he had simply ordered Perona, Korran, and Kiku before leaving his ship. Korran's fury had been explosive, refusing to let his captain fight alone. Kiku, stoic, had bowed her head. Perona, delighted, hid her glee behind her fan.

But all had obeyed.

They knew that look.]

The look of a man about to unleash monumental chaos.

Mihawk had chosen to go alone. Unshackled. Especially against an opponent like Donquixote Doflamingo. More vicious, more unpredictable than a Marine Admiral like Issho.

Issho had a code, a twisted sense of honor. Doflamingo? He thrived on pleasure and power alone.

The raft gently nudged the main quay, wood scraping against polished stone.

No soldier approached.

A vacant circle, dozens of meters wide, formed instinctively around the landing point.

Mihawk stepped onto Dressrosa's soil, one foot, then the other, with deliberate slowness.

The silence grew oppressive.

Only the lapping of waves against the pillars and the city's distant buzz disturbed the air. Fingers twitched on cannon triggers; breaths came short and sharp.

Will he actually order them to fire? Mihawk thought, a faint sarcasm flickering in his mind. Attack without even meeting me?

He recalled the Doflamingo from the manga—a ruthless strategist who favored manipulation and traps over direct confrontation with a formidable foe.

But Mihawk had anticipated this. Attacking from afar would give him the perfect excuse to reduce the port to ashes.

Then, a shadow cut across the blinding sky. A flamboyant figure, borne by invisible threads, descended in a graceful swoop. The pink-feathered coat swirled like the wings of a depraved raptor. Doflamingo landed twenty meters from Mihawk, on the cobblestones, with theatrical lightness. His frozen smile was a macabre masterpiece—wide, toothy, but devoid of warmth, his eyes hidden behind pink lenses reflecting the Hawk's impassive form.

"Fufufufu…" His forced, drawling laugh shattered the silence. "Dracule Mihawk! What an unexpected honor!" His voice was syrupy. He spread his arms in an ostentatious welcome. "Welcome to my humble kingdom of Dressrosa! To what do we owe the rare pleasure of a visit from Hawkeye himself? Still fleeing the Marines, or just craving our famous wines?"

Mihawk didn't move. He could sense the dark, dangerous energy radiating from the Pirate King. Invisible threads quivered in the air around him, poised to slice or bind.

He's tense…

"Doflamingo," Mihawk greeted, his low, monotone voice carrying over the soldiers' anxious murmurs.

No title, no superfluous courtesy.

Then, after a deliberate pause that made his host's smile falter slightly, he answered the question.

"I'm here for that, actually."

The simple phrase landed like a stone in oily water. Doflamingo blinked slowly behind his glasses. His grin stayed plastered, but a muscle twitched faintly at his jaw.

"For… that?" he repeated, the sweetness in his voice fraying at the edges. "You mean… the wine? Or Dressrosa's safety from Marine hassle? Fufufu, be clearer, dear Mihawk. Hospitality has its limits."

Mihawk didn't flinch. He raised his arms slowly—not in surrender or appeasement, but in a broad, encompassing gesture, like a lord claiming a domain.

"For that," he repeated, each syllable heavy as a verdict. His eyes locked onto Doflamingo's again. "Give me Dressrosa."

The silence that followed was absolute. Staggering. Soldiers on the ramparts held their breath, disbelieving. An officer dropped his sword, its clatter on the stone piercing the sonic void. No one moved to retrieve it.

Doflamingo stood frozen. For three endless heartbeats, his porcelain smile didn't budge a millimeter. Then, slowly, he began to laugh. A low, muffled chuckle that swelled, gaining volume and a hysterical edge, echoing eerily across the paralyzed port.

"Fufufu… Hahaha! HAHAHAHA!" He leaned forward slightly, a hand on his stomach as if seized by a fit. "Oh, Mihawk! Your sense of humor… deadly! Give you Dressrosa?" He snapped upright, laughter cut off. The smile vanished, replaced by a glacial fury that twisted his features. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. "You know what happens to those who disrespect me, Mihawk? Who dare covet what's mine?"

His hands, buried in his trouser pockets, must have been fists clenched white. The invisible threads now crackled in the air, taut as bowstrings. Mihawk sensed them, that deadly web poised to snap shut. He remained perfectly relaxed.

"This isn't a request, Doflamingo," Mihawk replied, his voice still serene, a violent contrast to the storm brewing in the other. "It's an order. This island…" He cast a brief, disdainful glance around. "…has an acceptable defensive position. A suitable stronghold. I'm taking it."

The provocation was so colossal, so absolute, it left Doflamingo speechless for a moment.

"You're insane," Doflamingo hissed, voice reduced to a menacing whisper. "Mad. Or seeking death. No one takes what's mine. No one. Especially not a lone swordsman on the run." He stepped forward, his threads humming dangerously. "Kaido won't let this slide. Neither will the Marines. You're a dead man walking, Mihawk."

High in the palace, at the grand hall's windows, the Donquixote Family held their breath. Diamante, clutching his firecracker coat, paled. Trebol trembled, his mucus dripping faster. Sugar, on tiptoes, watched the scene below with sudden interest, a forgotten doll in hand. Gladius fiddled with his goggles' mechanism, ready to explode. Pica emitted a low, continuous growl, like an overheating engine.

"Kaido?" Mihawk finally moved. His right hand rested lightly on Yoru's hilt, the massive black sword still securely sheathed in its cross-shaped guard on his back. The simple gesture, as natural as a blink, hit like a silent detonation. Doflamingo instinctively stepped back half a pace, a purely animal reaction to a supreme threat. His earlier words to Gladius echoed with chilling clarity: "Those who've seen [him draw]… understand."

"Kaido's busy playing shogun in his opium land," Mihawk said, eyes never leaving Doflamingo. His tone hadn't shifted, but each word now carried a blade's edge. "And the Marines are scrambling to pick up the pieces in the New World." He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The air crackled with restrained energy. "By the time they arrive, this country will already be mine."

He stopped, hand on Yoru.

"You have until sunset," Mihawk declared, his voice final, clear, and sharp as a blade, carrying to the farthest soldiers. "To leave my island. With whatever you can carry. After that…" He let the sentence hang, but the silence that followed spoke louder than a war cry.

The implication was clear: after that, it would be war. One man against a kingdom.

Without waiting for a reply, Mihawk turned his back on Doflamingo. The move was an act of absolute insolence, total disdain for the hundreds of cannons, thousands of soldiers, and the demonic power of the fallen Heavenly Demon. He walked toward his raft, black cape fluttering lightly in the sudden breeze.

Doflamingo stood rooted, quaking with pure rage. His face twisted into a grotesque grimace, his smile replaced by a snarl of unadulterated hate. The threads around him vibrated like harp strings under insane tension, slicing the air with a high-pitched whine. He stared at Mihawk's broad, invulnerable back as he stepped onto the raft.

"You… you dare…" he managed to choke out, voice strangled by fury. A trickle of pinkish drool formed at the corner of his lip.

Mihawk didn't turn. He stood again at the raft's bow, gazing straight ahead at the open sea, as if the armed port and the humiliated Pirate King behind him no longer existed.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Doflamingo suddenly shrieked, voice shrill, to the soldiers poised to shoot. His clenched fists emerged from his pockets, trembling. Every muscle screamed for vengeance, demanded this insolent man be torn to shreds. But deep in his gut, where the cunning beast that had survived public execution and Mariejoa's depths resided, a cold voice warned of the living legend who'd just turned his back. The legend standing before him.

Firing now would be suicide. That wasn't how he played.

The raft drifted slowly from the quay, indifferent to the cannons, the hateful glares, the warlord who, on the port, suddenly looked like a petulant child whose toy had been snatched.

Doflamingo watched the craft recede, his breathing a hiss. Rage mingled with cold resolve.

"Fufufu…" A new laugh, hoarse and dangerous, escaped his lips. He straightened, adjusting his glasses with a sharp flick. Then he turned to a terrified officer nearby.

"Evacuate the port," he ordered, voice regaining some control but laced with a promise of deferred violence. "And prepare everything. Absolutely everything." His eyes tracked the black silhouette shrinking on the horizon. "This hawk… thinks he's found a perch. We'll clip his wings. Before sunset."

Dressrosa's trap had just snapped shut. But the prey it targeted wasn't what the spider had planned. And the spider itself had just realized, with cold fury, it might have become the prey. The countdown to dusk had begun.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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