Work Text:
Zoro lowered Shusui slowly, then angled it to the side, lifted the sheath up, and slid the black blade back home. The guard clicked against the scabbard mouth with a finality signaling the end of battle. Zoro had finished his morning exercise: a troop of Humandrills lay bleeding and defeated on the shattered ground of Gloom Island, hooting in pain and not moving lest they attract his ire.
“Well done, Roronoa,” said Mihawk, watching from a window in the half-ruined house overlooking the field Zoro fought in. “You have earned your breakfast.” Zoro grinned at him, his hard face giving even the kindest smile a faint grimness, and started his walk back inside.
“It’s easy now that I’ve got Haki,” muttered Zoro, scraping his chair against the floor. Perona sniffed at him: of course, even Haki-infused attacks wouldn’t hit her projected body.
“All you did was fight some smelly monkeys!” she said. “I’ve slaved over a hot stove all morning making your breakfast!” Zoro immediately leaned over the table to butt heads with her as best he could while she was incorporeal.
“What are you talking about, dumbass? You had your ghosts do it for you!”
“It’s my Devil Fruit, so it’s the same thing!” Perona stuck her tongue out.
“That’s not how it is!” cried an exasperated Zoro.
“Is so!”
“Not today,” said Mihawk, strolling down the stairs. “I have no tolerance for your tomfoolery.” Zoro and Perona struck identical sulking poses.
“I was a Warlord’s general,” she whispered, loudly.
“I’m the world’s number two swordsman,” said Zoro. Mihawk looked at him incredulously. For a moment, both Zoro and Perona anticipated a harsh remark or even anger—but instead, the world’s greatest swordsman burst into peals of loud laughter, a “Wahahahahaha!” that bounced off the walls and echoed. This persisted for at least forty-five seconds until Mihawk sat down and began to eat a scone, still chuckling occasionally.
“I don’t get what’s so funny,” said Zoro, a little hurt despite himself. Mihawk shook his head with a small smile on his face.
“You are a very talented swordsman, Roronoa, so I often forget your fatal flaw. In East Blue, when I gave you that scar, I thought I made the distance between us quite clear, but it seems I must spell it out for you. You may be the most likely contender to take my head, but that is because of your potential, not your ability.”
“I’ve trained under you for almost two years!” protested Zoro. “If that doesn’t elevate my rank, what could?” Mihawk fixed Zoro with a hard gaze.
“I know of any number of swordsmen who could match or defeat you at your current level,” he said, steadily.
“So name them,” said Zoro, proud as usual. Perona was looking between them like she was observing a tennis match, and awaited Mihawk’s smash. Mihawk held up both hands and began to count on his fingers.
“Shiliew of the Rain of the Blackbeard Pirates, Pica of the Donquixote Family, Flowers Vista, Fossa, and Blenheim of the Whitebeard Pirates, the Emperor Red-Haired Shanks, Dark King Silvers Rayleigh, Blind-Eyes Issho, Navy Admiral Borsalino, and so many of the Wano Country that I can scarcely name them all, in addition to myself, Roronoa. There may be yet others who are great but whose names are not large enough to find my ears.”
“Lots of those are ability users,” replied Zoro, “and they don’t enter into a discussion of swordsmanship.”
“There is no opt-out clause for greatness,” said Mihawk. “A true swordsman defeats opponents regardless of circumstance. Losing to a supernatural power is beneath me, and may eventually be beneath you. But it currently is not.”
“Sensei...” murmured Zoro, and Mihawk shook his head.
“Not in that language. I am simply your teacher, and so I must teach you this most vital of lessons. Listen to me, now.” Zoro bowed his head in deference. He had been raised to obey and respect his teachers, and Mihawk’s invocation of that bond was enough for him to cease his rebellions.
“Yes, teacher.”
“I understand your confidence. I possess it myself. It is confidence born of countless enemies falling to the edge of your blade, born of spirited clash with equals who will someday become inferiors. However, this confidence is the downfall of a swordsman. You will never defeat me with skills I have taught you; indeed, to even approach the spot of second greatest in the world, you must take these abilities and expand on them against those of your caliber and higher.
“My arrogance is my concern. It may someday lose me my head. Take care that in the meantime, your spirit does not lose you yours.” So saying, Mihawk took a sip of his wine and allowed his plate to be carted off by Perona’s Hollows. Zoro sighed heavily and cracked open a bottle of beer, guzzling it down in seconds. After a moment, he looked down at Shusui and asked a question that’d been on his mind for some time.
“Have you ever heard of the samurai Ryuma?” asked Zoro, placing the bottle down on the table. Perona perked up with interest at the reference to her former comrade. Mihawk stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“It has been quite some time,” replied Mihawk, “but in my younger days I had quite the fascination with sword-lore. I only know of two stories involving Ryuma that seem to bear the mark of truth rather than myth: his defeat of a dragon, and his acquisition of the sword you now bear, Shusui.” Zoro stroked Shusui’s sheath with a finger. Maybe, he thought, I’ll understand it better if I know of its history.
“Tell me about it,” said Zoro. Perona walked down the stairs and her projection vanished. Much like the projection, she had perfectly combed hair, a frilly dress, high heels, and a parasol over one shoulder. Apparently, tales of Ryuma’s exploits in life were important enough to merit a physical appearance. Mihawk took note, raising an eyebrow, and waited for her to get situated to begin telling his story. He had a good voice for story-telling: he spoke with an unusual gravity, seeming to compel the listener with his voice, and he took his words seriously, slowly, solemnly.
“The black blade Shusui was forged by a master smith of the Wano Country for a renowned swordsman by the name of Musashi; any blade he touched was said to be gentler than the breeze and sharp enough to cut out the eye of an insect without killing it. Such a man requires a sword equal to his abilities, you must understand, and as he had gained great wealth and prestige through honorable duels, he was able to commission the greatest swordsmith of his era to create Shusui.
“The blade was completed in the autumn, while leaves fell about the forge, and it is said that when Shusui was dipped into the water to cool, it refused to bubble or boil despite cooling the metal—this is where its name, which means Clear Autumn Water, is derived. After being fitted with a handle and various other decorations, it was tested for hardness and delivered to Musashi in a box of sandalwood, cushioned by perfumed silk, just as the last leaves fell from the trees.
“Now, in those days the greatest swordsmen also had rivals of note. Musashi’s rival was known as Kojiro, and had studied in a rival school; indeed, their duels as youth had rung throughout the Wano Country. Musashi’s fire of hatred, though, had cooled, while Kojiro’s burned hotter than ever. Kojiro had friends in high places, and so heard of Shusui’s creation while it was still being delivered. His honor was poisoned by hatred, and Kojiro determined to steal the sword. With the utmost secrecy, he ordered a copy of the sword made by the original smith. As soon as he received the sword he used it to slay its maker, a terrible omen.
“On the third night after Musashi received the sword, Kojiro broke into his house and replaced the true Shusui with the fake. The deception was quickly discovered; for just as an artist is never able to perfectly replicate the brush-strokes comprising a painting, a smith cannot make the same sword twice. The replica Shusui had a different, lesser spirit than the original blade, and Musashi fell into a deep depression. Meanwhile Kojiro, realizing that he would not be able to hide his magnificent sword, fled the Wano Country under cover of darkness and began a career as a bounty hunter, satisfied that he had defeated Musashi at last.
“Years passed, as years do, and a young man named Ryuma came to be a powerful samurai, in possession of the greatest warrior’s spirit in the world. He possessed honor so staunch that he would fight to the death over an accidental touching of sheaths, and in fact was well known to do so, but was notoriously poor with money, often destitute. During one such episode, he happened to fall in the dust before the house of Musashi’s family, perishing of hunger. One of the daughters of the now-elderly Musashi, Chiyo, gave aid to Ryuma, and in exchange Ryuma offered his life to her, as was his wont. Chiyo was a woman of great virtue, and wished only to bring rest to her father. She requested that he search the ocean and recover Shusui for their family.
“Ryuma agreed heartily, and learned all he could of the sword and its thief before setting out on a quest to find Kojiro and his stolen sword. He searched the four blues and the Grand Line without success for many months, and finally slowed down in a small island called Whiskey Peak, near Reverse Mountain. This island was a haven for bounty hunters, so Ryuma hoped to find a clue there. Resting his sore feet, he sat on a bench and spent the last of his money on a large meal.
“All at once, he heard a crying noise and began to crawl about the floor, causing other patrons to laugh at him. Bounty hunters being a proud and rowdy lot, they threw food and drink on him, but Ryuma was unconcerned with glory, and allowed it until he found one man at the bar, a black-sheathed katana strapped to his belt. “Your katana is crying,” Ryuma told the man, “because it was won dishonorably.” Sensing a fight, the other patrons backed away.
“‘Nonsense,’ said the man. “I won this in fair combat against a samurai of the Wano Country.” Ryuma looked him firmly in the eyes.
“‘Then you will have no issue proving your claim with a duel,’ he replied. The man made for his sword, but he was a coward, and rather than attack Ryuma, he utilized the power of destruction on the wall of the inn and ran out of it quickly. Ryuma, known for his speed, pursued the man out of the destroyed wall, sandals throwing up a haze of road dust behind him. Eventually they reached the island’s harbor, where the man, who had been Kojiro all along, leaped aboard a ship and laughed at Ryuma as he ran toward the end of the pier.
“‘Fool!’ shouted Kojiro, brandishing Shusui. ‘I have escaped you, samurai!’ Ryuma merely continued to run and made a similar leap to Kojiro’s. In one great blow, he not only cleaved Kojiro neatly in two, he split the ship and the very waves themselves. He took Shusui from Kojiro’s corpse and returned at once to the Wano Country.
“‘I have returned with your sword,’ said Ryuma, presenting the blade with his eyes lowered to Chiyo, who burst into tears. While Ryuma had been away, her father had taken sick and was soon to die. She led him into the perfumed chambers of her father, Musashi. Ryuma presented the sword to him, and as Musashi took it in his old, leathered hands, he shook his head and handed it back.
“‘This sword has been rightfully won by you, Ryuma,’ said Musashi in a slow voice. ‘It is not mine to take any longer. I only hope that you may bequeath upon me the blade with which you slew Kojiro, that I might die with my honor and peace intact.’ Ryuma unbuckled the blade at his belt, plain by comparison, and rested it in Musashi’s hands. The old man gave a long sigh of satisfaction, and breathed no more. Ryuma shed tears for the honor of such a man, and Chiyo declared his debt fully paid. After burying her father in the proper way, she traveled with Ryuma for many years, learning the way of the sword, and eventually founded a school of her own. Ryuma, for his part, traveled with the Shusui for the rest of his days and was never parted from it.”
Mihawk took a sip of wine to moisten his throat, and Perona retreated back upstairs in tears. It seemed that hearing the honorable history of her double-deceased comrade had upset her. Zoro followed with an apologetic glance back to Mihawk and a short bow.
When Zoro stormed through the door to Perona’s room, three Hollows flew threw his body, leaving him with an overwhelming sense that his value as a human being was less than that of a guano stain. Perona also took the liberty of throwing a pillow at him. After he recovered from the forced pessimism, he approached her more slowly. She didn’t send any more Hollows after him, so he sat next to her on her bed, scratching the back of his head.
“So you miss him, huh?” he asked, a little gruff. He was a thoughtful guy, but often had a hard time expressing empathy. He, too, had a sword-user in his past who he missed terribly, but he wasn’t about to spill about her.
“Yeah,” said Perona, muffled a bit by the pillow. “All the others were either leches or gross. Or both,” she added, recalling Absalom. “But Ryuma was always polite, and he was always willing to have tea with me in the basements...even if he wasn’t very cute.” She poked her head up a little.
“He was a great man,” Zoro agreed. “I’ve done my best to forget the circumstances of my winning this sword. The body of a warrior like that shouldn’t have been disrespected.” Perona, who’d never considered that the Ryuma she knew had been a mockery of the original, blinked. Then she heaved a sigh.
“I just wish I had something to remember him by,” she muttered, face returning to the pillow. “I hate to think of all his things rotting on Thriller Bark with no one to tend them.” Zoro thought for a moment, about honor and debts.
“Well,” he said, slowly at first, “I do still owe you for patching me up a few months ago. I’ll go back to Thriller Bark, and bring you something of his. That’ll set us square.” Perona sat up straight, eyes shining.
“Really?” she asked, incredulous.
“Yeah, of course,” said Zoro, and then trailed off as she hugged him tightly, face in his chest.
“You have gigantic boobs,” she said after a few seconds. Zoro flushed, visible even under the tan that covered his naturally yellow-brown complexion, and eventually pried her off, muttering about “sexual harassment”.
“Well, I’m off,” said Zoro, then turned around as if making for the door and walked right into the wall. “I could have sworn the door was right there...” Perona bit her lip.
“Maybe you should take Mihawk with you,” she suggested. “If only as a compass.”
“Three, two, one, push!” Zoro tensed up and pushed off the shore with both arms. It had taken a few days to build another coffin-boat big enough for two, and to make more of Mihawk’s waterproof green-burning candles, but it had been worth it. The interior of the boat, though small, was plush and comfortable, even though it was Zoro’s job to row the two of them across the perilous Grand Line.
Perona waved to them from the shore. While they were gone, she was to keep the Humandrills in check and stop dust and damp from taking over the house. She had horrible seasickness, and so wasn’t at all interested in accompanying them.
“Put your back into it, Roronoa,” said Mihawk, across the boat. “You have to earn your lunch aboard my ship.” Zoro spat over the edge.
“You didn’t bring any packed lunches,” he replied, grinning at his own cleverness. Mihawk looked fairly unconcerned with this, however, and the reason only became apparent hours later, after they’d traveled through a storm that precipitated toadstools and Zoro was beginning to feel slightly winded, but not even vaguely tired, from all the rowing.
A massive Sea King burst out of the water, and Zoro made to turn the boat, but Mihawk waved his hand dismissively and drew Yoru. Zoro tracked Mihawk’s movements: he seemed to just wave his sword back and forth in the Sea King’s direction. Shortly, it was sliced clean through in multiple places.
“What a prodigious power of destruction,” murmured Zoro, just in time for Mihawk to kick him into the sea.
“Swim for it,” he said, calm. “I will wait for you on the nearest island.”
Zoro landed on the beach thirty minutes later. Mihawk sat by a controlled green fire and simply held out a hand. Zoro tossed a chunk of Sea King into the air, chopped it to pieces with Kitetsu III, and funneled them into the pot over the flames with the same edged cyclone that had sliced them. The smell of cooking Sea King was similar to that of eel, and Zoro quickly hungered. They ate quickly, blowing on the hot chunks of meat. Zoro licked the grease from his fingers, while Mihawk wiped his on a handkerchief
“Go to the market on the other side of this island and buy me a bottle of wine,” he ordered. “The hunt has made me thirsty.” He proceeded to list the vintages he would approve of, and handed Zoro a stack of beri notes to spend buying the wine and some beer for himself. “Do not tarry. Go, now.” Grumbling to himself, Zoro set off once again, obedient mostly because he could not disobey.
The forest was thick, but this was an autumn island in the summer: it was warm and dry, and the browns, reds, and yellows of the trees heavy with dying leaves made the walk a scenic one. When he finally emerged onto a dirt road, perhaps because he had become so lost that he had to stumble on the right direction, he was relieved. He seemed to have emerged right on the edge of the town’s main street. After a moment’s thought, he tied his bandanna over his distinctive hair, in the hopes of not being recognized.
It was a quiet night. This wasn’t the sort of place pirates frequented: no good farmland to accrue food or treasures, no precious metals, and no particular party scene to speak of. When Zoro strolled into the bar, he found it clean, swept, and full of murmured conversations. He restrained the urge to spit on the perfectly smooth floor. It was altogether too peaceful for a pirate.
He walked up to the bar and began negotiating prices for alcohol; mostly wine, which he could enjoy, and a little bit of beer, which Mihawk wouldn’t touch and therefore would be only for his personal pleasure. After haggling down to a price even Nami might be proud of, Zoro leaned back against the counter, looking at the bar patrons. Most of them were obvious townies, except for one: a woman, drinking a white wine.
She was fair-skinned and dark-haired, with a little curl at the tips of the strands, and wore white pants, with a brightly colored shirt under a white leather jacket. A few emerald green feathers were braided into the tips of her hair, and two swords were strapped to her belt: one on each side, with more European-style guards than Zoro’s katana. As soon as Zoro looked at her for more than a few moments, her eyes flicked up to meet his. He had been expecting an exotic color, and wasn’t disappointed: they were ice blue, and calm. She raised a hand and beckoned him over to the table where she sat alone.
“If this involves sex,” said Zoro frankly, “not interested.” He wasn’t unused to being come onto, but he’d never had any particular interest in sex or the strange kissy-cuddly thing people called “love”. He was very happy with the kind of love involving spilling blood on the battlefield for your mates, but not so much the marriage kind. In any case, the woman laughed.
“Don’t flatter yourself, mystery swordsman,” she said, faint traces of a grin on her lips. “You look like someone who can handle a little alcohol. Have some moscato.” She offered the bottle and he casually took a sip directly from it, testing the waters. If he’d expected her to be disgusted, he was disappointed: she chuckled and poured herself another glass.
“If you handle your swords as well as I handle alcohol, we’ll probably get along,” said Zoro. “But I doubt it.” A trace of a smirk flitted across his face. Zoro took great pride in his smirk, having practiced it in front of a mirror as a child. The woman seemed annoyed by his expression.
“Wipe that silly grin off your face. I suppose you use a three-sword style...or, no, from the looks of you, you call it Santoryu, right?” Zoro grunted.
“You speak a civilized language,” he said, surprised but not showing it. “I was wrong about old dogs.” The woman’s frown deepened.
“I invited you to have a drink, swordsman to swordsman. If you’re going to whip out your cock over everything I say, you can buy your own damn alcohol.” Zoro thumbed in the bar’s direction.
“Already did.” The woman sighed.
“Leave. It’s been fifteen years since I fought someone for pride, and I’d rather you didn’t test me.” The bartender reappeared at the bar. Zoro kicked back his chair with the casual force of someone who wanted to show how little they cared and collected it, almost unsure himself of why his attitude was so nasty toward this woman. He made for the door, but the woman called to him.
“One question, Sir Santoryu,” she said.
“Fire.”
“Why are you looking down on me? Because I’m a speed-type swordsman? Because I’m a woman?” Zoro snorted.
“Because you aren’t as good as me.” There was the scrape of wood on wood, and the bartender winced at the scratches the woman’s chair made as she slid it back to stand.
“You talk big for a man I’m about to cut,” she said, angrily.
“Don’t count the scars on my face until you make one,” Zoro replied. She reached for a sword.
“Not in my bar, please!” implored the bartender. After a pause, the two walked outside. There was no point in reckless destruction of property when there wasn’t much room to maneuver in the first place. The woman drew both her swords: they were of the same moderate length, but for some reason one seemed more dangerous than the other. Swords had personalities, and one was obviously an imperious and proud weapon, while the other was more shrinking, and had to be firmly directed. Zoro cleared all his swords in their scabbards, but didn’t draw.
“Do you like my swords? Moralltach,” she said, raising the one with the powerful aura, “and Beagalltach,” she said, raising the other. “They’re thirsty and anticipating much red wine for the tasting.” Zoro indicated his katana in turn, in order of seniority.
“Wado Ichimonji, Kitetsu III, Shusui,” he said. “Who do I have the honor of defeating today?”
“‘Hummingbird’ Morgan Harper,” said the woman, Morgan. “And you? Go ahead and say your name in the order that feels best to you.” Zoro threw caution to the wind. Nothing was more conspicuous than a battle in the middle of a town.
“‘Pirate Hunter’ Roronoa Zoro!” he said, placing Wado Ichimonji in his mouth. The few spectators that had gathered took a step back but Morgan only smiled.
“Really? What a pleasant surprise. I’ve been wanting to test myself against your generation.” Morgan held out her arms. They didn’t tense up much, but a curious noise, something like a hum or buzz, filled the air. “I’ll make sure to show you the power of a female speed-type!” Zoro’s answer was a bloodthirsty grin, and then Morgan was gone.
Not quite: he’d blocked what felt like a thousand blows in seconds, and Morgan was behind him. The hum had increased in volume. A sword-breaking technique? he thought, feeling the stress the metal had endured. But how...? When Morgan charged again, he was more attentive, and dropped low while twisting, sending up a massive cyclone given a lasting edge by his Armament Haki. He looked up at her, expecting to see her trapped and bleeding in the cyclone. Instead, he saw her with what appeared to be wings, floating in the center and dispersing the attacks that made up the twister in all directions.
“I use the speed of my arms to vibrate the blades of my swords at high speed,” explained Morgan, apparently unfazed by Zoro’s onslaught. “A thousand blows of little strength can equal one of titantic power.” With a decisive slash, she dispersed the Tatsumaki entirely, and remained in the air from the great force generated by her vibrating swords. As Zoro watched, she tilted her wrists to direct the force in other directions, flitting about just like a hummingbird. That’s how she moves so quickly, he realized. She’s light enough that just taking her feet off the ground makes her incredibly fast.
Consumed in thought, he almost missed her coming directly for him in a blur of white, black, and color. This was to be a direct assault. Positioning his swords carefully, he launched himself forward and met her midway, exchanging blows so quickly that the onlookers could hardly tell what was going on in the action, especially as a fine red mist began to obscure their vision. At last, in the fear of his swords breaking from her technique, Zoro broke contact and sucked in a deep breath, only to choke on all the blood in the air and cough. He looked down and saw his shirt in tatters, sliced to ribbons by vibrating blades, and his chest beneath was in similar condition. They weren’t skin deep, either; he could clearly see his ribs rising and falling beneath a thin veneer of flesh.
“I’ll die if this keeps up, won’t I?” asked Zoro, breathing hard. He’d never been so exhausted by such a short period of battle before. Morgan smiled and nodded.
“What is it you said? Don’t count the scars on your face?” She sheathed Beagalltach and vibrated the more violent sword behind her, waiting to build up power before she sprang. “One.”
The left side of Zoro’s face exploded in pain. He held a shriek in his throat, turning it into a agonizing groan that escaped between clenched teeth. Finally, he could hold it in no longer, letting out a horrible shout. Morgan turned around and raised her sword again, Zoro, clutching his left eye, could do little but raise his other arm and pray. He clenched the eye he could still see out of, and stubbornly did not pray to gods he didn’t believe in.
Morgan’s sword never fell.
When Zoro opened his right eye, Mihawk was standing over him, holding off Moralltach with his eating knife. When she drew Beagalltach and attacked with both, he easily fended her off. She gasped, sweating after thirty seconds or so.
“Hawk Eyes!” she hissed. Mihawk did not smile, but inclined his head.
“Hummingbird. A pleasant reunion. I would, however...” Mihawk reversed his grip on the knife and lunged low. Moments later, both Morgan’s swords fell to the ground. “Prefer if you did not maim my student further.” He grabbed Zoro by the arm and led him away, through the forest. The last thing Zoro saw before passing out was Mihawk’s other arm clutching a paper bag of alcohol.
Zoro could smell the sea when he woke up. A scrap of cloth had been tied over his left eye, and without his depth perception the world seemed curiously out of proportion. Mihawk, who had taken off his shirt, was lying next to him in the coffin, apparently content to let them drift. When Zoro sat up, he could tell they had gotten to the Florian Triangle, after just a night of Mihawk rowing.
Mihawk woke up as soon as Zoro started moving. As two grown men, it could have been uncomfortable for them to sleep together, but after a swift talk, they had determined that neither of them had the slightest smidgen of interest in sex or romance (or in fact gender, in Mihawk’s case; he tolerated male pronouns because they were familiar, not fitting), which made the whole arrangement more utilitarian than anything.
In any case, Mihawk was delighted to find that they had not drifted out of the Triangle. From there, his flawless eyesight would easily find the path to Thriller Bark. Sure enough, Zoro was again put on rowing duty, and within thirty minutes Thriller Bark loomed above them. From there, it was Zoro’s responsibility to guide them to where Ryuma’s things might be, which predictably was an exercise in folly. Eventually, they simply scoured the buildings one by one until they found an area that seemed likely.
Ryuma’s rooms were surprisingly close to the ruined tower where Zoro defeated him, and ransacking his belongings revealed a fairly diverse collection of clothing: a decent number of the gi he owned in life, sashes, and his wooden shoes. Zoro stuffed a decent number of these into a sack that was lying around, and professed a desire to get the hell out of Thriller Bark. Mihawk’s quiet ponderation of the real estate prospects didn’t slow him down a bit.
By the time they arrived back at Gloomy Island, they’d stopped at a hospital, knowing Perona’s medical knowledge wouldn’t suffice to heal a ruined eye. In the end, Zoro lost it, but wasn’t interested in a patch. The eye scarred shut, and as far as he was concerned it looked cool. A little training to overcome his newly unbalanced vision and he was golden, especially with Observation Haki on his side. It was inconvenient, but Mihawk advised him to simply adjust, reminding him of the many disabled pirates, like Red-Haired Shanks, who had not stopped because of their disabilities.
“If Whitebeard would withstand a gut filled with magma in his seventies with a terminal illness,” Mihawk concluded, “you can stand a lost eye.” Zoro leaned back in the boat as best he could while he was rowing it, glad that Gloomy Island was finally coming back into view. Perona waited for them at the pier.
“What happened to your eye, Zoro?” she asked, biting her lip. Zoro smiled kindly down at her.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“And what did we learn from our little excursion?” asked Mihawk, disembarking as gracefully as he did everything else. Zoro lowered his head.
“Arrogance is no replacement for skill. The number two spot is still far away.” Mihawk nodded.
“Very good. Let’s go ho...back to the house.” No one missed the slip, and yet they held it in their hearts until they were all parted again.
“You’ve lost that superior attitude towards me,” Tashigi said to Zoro, miles and months away from that time. Zoro paused, and blinked in recognition, parrying Monet’s attack lazily. There was, of course, no way he would leave anyone who reminded him so of her alone to fight.
“I am more skilled than you,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “But it’s not like I’m looking down on you for it, anymore. There’s a lot to be said for enjoying your superiority, but a deflated ego would have saved me my eye. I’m not about to lose the other one to you, Marine!” He smiled down at her, and she returned his eager grin.
“Don’t smile at me like we’re friends, Pirate Hunter!” she replied, and charged back towards Monet, easily recovering from the stab Zoro had deflected and cutting a pillar of snow headed for him in turn. She nodded, once, confirming his unspoken desire to end what was essentially a training fight for the two of them.
“Ittoryu...” Zoro raised Shusui, briskly moving forward.
“Calling attacks is just like a pirate!” said Tashigi, leaping into the air with Haki covering her sword.
“Daishinkan.” With two one-sword slashes, one above and one below, they cut down Monet as easy as breathing and watched as the snowfall stopped. “Besides,” said Zoro, “that cook would kill me if I let you get injured on my watch.”
“Is that the only reason you helped?” Tashigi asked, joining him in running on to a different part of Caesar's laboratory. Zoro sheathed Shusui with a silent thanks to Ryuma, for owning the gi he now wore, and Perona, for giving him the garment as a reminder to always keep honor in mind. Thinking of Perona, Mihawk, Morgan, and Kuina, he smiled and shook his head.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”