As Mihawk in One Piece

Mihawk, eyes closed, seemed to be sleeping deeply in his worn leather armchair.

The dim light from the porthole cast sharp shadows across his impassive features. This rest, this apparent serenity, was abruptly shattered by the door slamming open with a piercing screech. Korran, his face streaming with sweat and soot, eyes wide with urgency, burst inside.

"Captain! Captain! They're here! Doflamingo's ships… they've surrounded us!"

Mihawk slowly opened his eyes. His golden irises, devoid of any hint of surprise or panic, fixed on Korran with an intensity that nearly made the giant step back. "Surrounded?" His voice was a low, gravelly murmur, sharply contrasting with his subordinate's frenzy. "Predictable. Doflamingo favors strangulation over a head-on naval duel. Facing me directly on Dressrosa would cost him too much. A naval strategy… reasonable."

Before Korran could respond, the world exploded.

BOOM! BOOM! CRAAACK!

The ship shuddered violently under the impact of multiple simultaneous salvos. The deafening roar of cannonballs tearing through the air and striking the water or the ship's metal hull echoed like continuous thunder. Sprays of saltwater and pulverized debris erupted through the open portholes. The acrid stench of burnt gunpowder and vaporized seawater instantly filled the cabin.

Korran, gripping the doorframe to keep from falling, his blood boiling with impotent rage, shouted, "They're hammering us from all sides!"

Mihawk rose with deliberate slowness, grasping Yoru. He stepped toward the porthole.

Beyond the curtains of foam and smoke, the scene was apocalyptic. A half-dozen imposing warships, bearing the grotesque Jolly Roger of the Donquixote Family, formed a deadly circle around the ship. On the deck of the largest, a garishly pink-painted flagship, a flamboyant figure stood tall.

Doflamingo, his feathered coat swirling in the wind of the explosions, laughed uproariously, a distorted "Fufufufu!" that carried across the distance, triumphant and cruel. At his side stood the pillars of his terror: Diamante, draped in his sparkling firecracker cloak, a predatory grin on his lips; Gladius, hands in his pockets; Trebol, dripping with mucus, chuckling with a slimy giggle; and Lao G, perched in a grotesque pose.

"So this is the new ship of the Hawk-Eyes!" Diamante bellowed. "The lone swordsman's got real ambitions of conquest now? You'll drown before you can even draw your blade!"

Another cannonball struck the rear deck of Mihawk's ship, sending a shower of metal shards flying. Korran roared, the muscles in his arms bulging. "Captain! Let me out there! I'll make them choke on their own cannons! I'll—"

Mihawk turned to him. His gaze wasn't cold, but an absolute, chilling neutrality. "You'll die, Korran."

The words fell like blades. Korran froze, his momentum shattered. "Wh… what? But—"

"You're strong. For an ordinary human," Mihawk continued, his voice flat but piercingly clear despite the chaos. "But against them, out there, on this sea? You're weak. A target. You'd be dead in under a minute if you set foot on that deck. Your courage is useless here. Obey. Stay below."

The brutal truth of the assessment hit Korran like a blow. He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, a wave of frustration and sudden shame overwhelming him. He knew Mihawk was right.

"Damn it…"

A high-pitched cackle cut through the din of explosions. Perona, floating through the wall, a mocking ghost, pointed an accusatory finger at Korran. "Hihihi! Look at him! The big oaf, all red! Like a lobster fresh out of the pot! Thought you could play with the big bad guys? And bam! Mihawk put you right back in your place, you shrimp!"

Korran growled, ready to erupt at the young woman, but before he could say a word, Mihawk moved. A hand, fast as lightning, shot out, grabbing Perona not by the arm but by the collar of her gothic dress, just under her pink bow tie. He yanked her toward him like a mere sack.

"Gyaaaaah!" Perona shrieked, her eyes turning to saucers, all her arrogance gone. "Let me go! My collar! You'll ruin my outfit! Mihawk, you brute! LET ME GOOO! HELP! Someone! Kiku! Korran! Save me! This maniac's gonna kill me!"

Korran, still reeling from his humiliation, watched the scene with a mix of shock and a twinge of grim satisfaction. Seeing Perona panic like that was… refreshing.

But the order was clear. He met Mihawk's gaze one last time, saw the absolute command in those golden eyes, and lowered his head.

"Your orders, Captain." His voice was hoarse, thick with bitter frustration, but obedience won out. He charged toward the door leading to the lower decks, away from the carnage.

Mihawk, still dragging a flailing Perona, who squealed and thrashed like a pig headed to slaughter ("My negative ghost! Mihawk, I'll curse you! I swear! I'll make you so depressed you'll…"), stepped out of the cabin and headed for the bridge.

Inside the armored helm station, Kiku was a model of icy focus. Her leather-gloved hands danced across the controls and levers. Her usually impassive eyes were locked on the radar screens and external views, analyzing the trajectories of the cannonballs with supernatural speed. The ship, despite its massive size, twisted, pitched, and rolled with uncanny agility under her expert touch, narrowly dodging the bursts of explosions. Impacts occasionally rattled the hull, but no direct hits had landed yet. Her face was a stone mask, with only a slight tension at the corner of her lips betraying the colossal effort.

Suddenly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile brushed her lips. Her fingers tapped a rapid sequence on a coded keypad. A green light blinked on a discreet panel marked with a stylized symbol of a nocturnal bird with spread wings.

Outside, on the seemingly smooth flanks of the ship, thick steel panels slid open silently, revealing batteries of strange, menacing cannons. They weren't aimed forward or aft but perpendicular to the hull, pointing directly to the sides—a deadly 180-degree blind spot.

FWOOOOSH! KRAK-BOOM!

The roar that followed wasn't from enemy cannons. It was deeper, more visceral, like the growl of a prehistoric beast waking up. Dozens of specialized projectiles, trailing luminescent streaks through the smoke-darkened air, erupted simultaneously from the ship's flanks.

They struck with surgical precision, hitting the decks, turrets, and waterlines of the nearest enemy ships, the ones that had recklessly drawn too close. Explosions tore through Doflamingo's battle line. Screams of panic and pain replaced the triumphant laughter. A secondary ship, hit at its ammunition hold, erupted in a massive fireball, splitting in two.

At that exact moment, Mihawk, still dragging a now half-fainting Perona, who was wheezing from terror and near-suffocation ("I… I'm gonna be sick… Mihawk… please…"), emerged onto the upper bridge. The wind, thick with smoke and burning particles, whipped his black coat.

He surveyed Doflamingo's flagship, where sadistic jubilation had momentarily given way to shock. Diamante had stopped laughing, Gladius was frantically adjusting his goggles, Trebol was giggling nervously, and Lao G was frowning. Doflamingo himself, his smile frozen but his eyes narrowing behind his pink-tinted glasses, studied the ship with renewed interest.

Mihawk raised his voice slightly, each syllable cutting through the battle's clamor like a blade, addressing the Donquixote Family directly.

"Doflamingo." His voice was a glacier in motion. "Wondering about my ship?" He cast a brief, disdainful glance at the side cannons. "Allow me to formally introduce it."

He paused for theatrical effect. Perona, dangling pitifully from his grip, let out a feeble whimper.

"This is the Nachthrone." The name landed like a hammer. "My ship."

A collective thought rippled through everyone's minds: 'Why is he introducing his ship?'

Inside, Mihawk was secretly gleeful.

'Finally got to do it. Not Sabaody, but it'll do.'

TO BE CONTINUED...

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