Um, wow. Where to start? Well, I removed Part IV, for one thing, so everything from then on has been moved back a numeral. I hope most of you have checked to find out, and if not, I'll just post a notification after this to let everyone know. So, just so everyone gets it, this would have technically been part XII before I removed Part IV, which I decided was pointless and bizarre. Thank you all so much for waiting patiently and especially to those who noted me to ask me quite kindly whether Subtlety was still alive-it's probably thanks to you (and the end of my exams) that I've finally updated! Please, read. I didn't really like the last chapter, and this one is a bit shorter than usual, but understand that I fully intend to continue after this.

Chapter XI: Name

"Of all the possessions of this life fame is the noblest; when the body has sunk into the dust the great name still lives." -Johann Von Schiller

"Bat-Bat Fruit, Model Vampire."

Steel sang in the air; with every stroke, rushing air made the candles gutter and come treacherously close to going out. Boy lunged, reaching for it, desperate to manage a strike, but the man moved like a snake. This occurred to him as faintly ironic, considering—

"You said—you—wouldn't—use it!" he growled, spinning to block a blow from behind. Red eyes regarded him with faint respect from beyond their locked swords.

"And indeed I am not…I simply thought perhaps you might like to know—"

"Shut up!" There was something cruelly irksome about a man who found time to converse with his opponent in the middle of a swordfight. Boy entertained the thought of silencing that bored, sibilant voice forever, and was thoroughly heartened. As Curry would say, if had hadn't run off like a coward, Onward, with a will!

And he smiled.

Boy would never be able to say he enjoyed swordplay; not even when he had begun to improve past Curry's abilities had he ever thought of it as something to enjoy. But there was satisfaction in the complexity of the footwork, the artwork of a blade… It was no something he had set out to make beautiful, but simply using a sword was, by necessity-

-grazed his face—Boy dodged back, defensive-stupid, getting carried away, like some mad poet! He regained balance, watching everything, keeping his eyes on Drakula's movements, searching for the little tics and tells he'd come to see in other swordsmen.

…Nothing.

Nothing! Adrenaline seared in Boy's chest, and he struggled to keep the extra energy from affecting his style; overexcitement could cause jerkiness and loss of concentration. Still, he couldn't keep a slight tremor from reaching the muscles in his neck and shoulders-there seemed to be no gap in Drakula's style, but his movements were simplicity itself. He tested one angle at a time, a mixture of styles and techniques, a flash of steel, but the results were always the same.

A bafflingly invincible man. Boy brought the subtlety of Madame du Chateau back into his mind, and watched, almost disconnected from his movements, as the flourish of his movements shrank to a swift flicker—still no results.

"Ah, you can fence!" He seemed pleased, annoyingly so. Boy thrust straight at the man's heart, and immediately his hand buzzed with the shock of Drakula's parry. He'd been expecting it, and managed a sub-par counter of his own as Drakula brought his sword arcing down over Boy's shoulder. They both backed away for a moment, each still breathing lightly, eyes fixed on each other's faces. Drakula's face was creased with what looked like annoyance—Boy congratulated himself inwardly.

"I can 'fence'…and you can take this seriously," he said, drawing a small circle in the air with the tip of his nameless sword. "I did not come here on a whim, man! If you have some intention of killing me, at least spare me the agony of waiting!"

Drakula blinked once, his mouth going slightly slack, and then ducked sharply to one side as Boy's sword shot past one ear. "Very well-"

-Boy braced himself, opened his eyes wide, and—

-a web of steel danced in the air between them as Drakula went on the offensive—impressive, but Boy knew it was just another test and he would have none of it. He effortlessly conjured a defense that could nullify Boy's best skills, but that didn't fit with the relative mediocrity of his attacks. A disgrace. Boy had fought common criminals with more honesty in combat.

There was no time for talking now; he would just have to force Drakula into fighting earnestly…

Two weeks ago, when his finger was still healing—a man with eyes almost as sharp as his, on an island carpeted with bright fields of red and yellow flowers. The man was shorter than him, and Boy vaguely remembered dark, wavy hair and keen black eyes. And an attack so fearsome—

-Well, he won. That was all that mattered. But he remembered too the last words he heard from that swordsman, his speech thick with blood.

"Learning as you go…and adapting it." An astonished, bloody smile. "You're like a monster. I'll watch for your face on bounty posters."

He hadn't used the technique since then—the battleground had always been too crowded, the opponent too pathetic to bother with it. Now, though…

He had learned from Curry how to hide his motions, feint, and strike at the best opportunity. Boy himself could now easily recognize a beginner's telegraphing, and certainly conceal his own…but he had a feeling his usual tactics wouldn't be enough to hide the flamboyancy of the technique he wanted to try.

He shifted, testing his muscles, making sure he still had enough energy. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat; he was acutely aware of his contracting lungs, the taut tendons in his hands, the whisper of air as he moved his sword slowly into a neutral position. It was a fight or flight moment, but if Drakula had acquired any instinct whatsoever for Boy's nature, he would certainly know that flight was not an option.

Boy knew this too, and had known it since he first set foot on the island. It was not that he did not fear death, but that if his ambition was to die here, death was necessarily an outcome. He would not turn and run now.

Drakula was waiting, muscles loose, almost relaxed. Boy scowled, hating the man's lack of initiative, and then leaned subtly forward, watching for a reaction (there it was, a faint tightening of shoulder and thigh muscles). Left. Right. He tilted softly in either direction, playing a chess game twenty steps ahead of himself, trying to spot an opening.

There.

There?

He surged forward, feinted back, put all his weight into a blow that should have rent a gash in Drakula's gut—

-it hissed harmlessly through cold air, and Boy was left wide open, blade raised high in the air—

"Slow!" The word snapped out like a striking snake, but even as steel sank into Boy's side he brought his own sword down in a white arc, with all his cold resolve behind it. A push and a hoarse yell of effort, and Drakula flew back, a scarlet line opening from the corner of his jaw to his waist.

The sense of victory was sweet but brief—the wound was shallow, nothing like the heavy blows Boy had felt (two weeks ago, bright flowers, "flying strikes"). He cursed under his breath and dashed forward to follow up, aiming for his opponent's heart, but Drakula was already on his feet, something very like awe on his face.

Boy had a feeling it wouldn't last long.

Again, the fierce ring of steel, and their breath clouded the bright metal with white steam as they shook, at a standstill. Boy felt blood seeping down his waist, soaking his clothes. The heat and pain were almost welcome in the chill of the austere stone room, but he felt he could almost count the ounces leaving his veins. Permanent anemia.

"Young, but with such talent! Who is your teacher, child?"

Boy crushed the faint thrill of pride—condescension? Unacceptable. "The old man sleeping in your stables," he replied through gritted teeth, and threw off the deadlock with a great heave, back muscles stretching as he tried again to catch Drakula by surprise.

No such luck. Instead, a flicker of metal gave him barely enough warning to minimize damage to his left arm. Two wounds—no, don't think about it.

"The old drunkard?"

"Unbelievable, I know," said Boy softly, trying to conceal his uncertainties. What was that? What had he—

Ah.

He was finally taking the fight seriously. Boy realized suddenly that his hands were greasy on the hilt of his sword, sweating and freezing at once. Bad.

"You seem nervous," Drakula informed him, that faintly accented voice tinted now with amusement. Boy felt fire welling up within him once again at this—Don't laugh at me! What a childish motive…

He tried again, and was once again repelled by a rush of untraceable movement. And then Drakula attacked, really attacked, and everything vanished for a moment as Boy's reflexes took over.

Pain flared in his chest, shoulder, left leg, and only a fortuitous flail saved his right eye from untimely blindness. Boy retreated, uncoordinated and frustrated, shocked by Drakula's speed. Watch, watch, watch! There, he could see a bit of it—FOCUS! He blocked, danced, swept forward and added a diagonal slash to his first blood.

And then back again, wary and bleeding. He wasn't foolish enough to push his luck this time, and his body was already searing with pain and trickling with blood. He could see Drakula's nostrils flaring in the guttering light of the candles (when did they go out?). He didn't know much about vampire bats, and even less about the effects of a Bat-Bat Fruit on someone's body. Did a bat have a good sense of smell?

"You avoided almost two fifths of my strikes," said Drakula contemplatively, his white face nearly glowing in the darkness. "And that flying attack earlier…surely that was not a product of your drunken mentor's teachings?"

"Of course not." Boy swallowed, and realized he was out of breath. No, not good… "I fought a man who used those techniques."
"Just by watching…" Drakula shook his head, as though in wonderment. The gesture was one that might have been used to express appreciation at the tricks of an especially talented pet. Boy was not amused.

"But you know… You might have done better to name it first."

"I don't see what difference it makes!" That was enough talking for now. Boy didn't give Drakula time to finish his sentiment—the man was supposed to be a swordsman, not a conversationalist, honestly.

But Drakula seemed to be confident enough in his skills to keep talking even as he fought, which was maddening. "The name defines the move, you see—your footwork is superb!" Unamused, Boy lunged, missed, and almost lost a hand. "Naming one's technique a name holds one to using it, gives the action a finality. Also, the exhalation—"

"Shut up!" They had been fighting for maybe ten minutes now, and excruciating pain combined with bloodloss had combined to make Boy irritable and weary. He needed to finish this, and fast…

"I was merely offering advice," said Drakula coolly, arching sharp black eyebrows. "No need for overt hostility."

"Were you expecting gentility from the man who challenged you?"

Drakula shifted from foot to foot, "In my day, it was expected."

"Your day," said Boy, "is over."

"You assume much."
"I don't lie for the sake of lying. This will by my era, and there is no place for you—"

A sword blade sang through the air a hair's breadth from his ear, and Boy found his face inches from Drakula's, transfixed first by the blood-red of his eyes and then by the sword in his chest.

"I would not say such things if I were you."

Boy pulled away, stifling terror at the feeling of a punctured lung. Soon, he knew instinctively, his chest would fill with blood. But when Drakula gestured for him to come forward again, there was still only one choice.

The icy air was thick with the smell of blood. It clogged his clothes, hung from his chin, froze as it trickled down his left leg. They were small wounds for the most part, shallow but bleeding profusely. Blood his body would never recover. He felt small and pale and weak, and hated himself for it.

"I have a keen knowledge of the body's major arteries, boy."

"Don't call me that!" His voice clawed its way out of his throat; spitting blood, he forced his shaking limbs into an offensive stance. "As of now, until I defeat you, I HAVE NO NAME."

He was a fool. A nameless fool, and one willing to die for the goal of his life.

"I sensed your haki earlier," said a voice, cold and far away. "Where has it gone?"

The nameless young man didn't answer, dizzy and shaking. Through watering eyes, he glimpsed white-knuckled hands holding the hilt of a sword as though it was a lifeline. Who…

"Let me show you how it ought to be done."

And looking up, he thought he saw for a moment a towering black shadow, flickering erratically and swirling with every step Drakula took towards him. Fear coiled in his stomach, climbing up his spine. The sight was unearthly—hallucination—and his knees—get past it—went weak beneath him—FIGHT IT!

…No…

Everything went dark.

The boy, now nameless, thought, I am going to die.

And perhaps he would have—right there, on the stone floor, but then he heard the laughter. At first, it was only an echo, a whisper beyond the veils of oncoming unconsciousness, but as his delirious brain recognized the sound for what it was, he knew he could not fall here. It was not a conscious thought—he was beyond that. But in the darkness still enveloping his vision, he thought he heard his sword breathing…

"You thought I would die." He was still on his feet, Drakula standing less than a yard from him. He had been walking, but now he stopped, brows furrowing. This was unexpected.

"Give me more credit… I would tell you to at least let me die on my feet, but…" He looked up slowly, listening with almost meditative calm to the breath of all things, and wondered how he looked now—"You're like a monster..." "…I can be a demon too."

He had known it innately for a long time—even as a child-how he could put that sharp resolve behind his eyes to use. But this was on an entirely different level, and had he not been on the brink of death, he doubted he could have reached that level. He wondered if Drakula could now see that black shadow roiling above his shoulders, and grinned a fierce crimson smile at the thought.

All this happened in a moment, though it seemed to stretch on for an eternity, and then the fight began again. Part of him felt the pain, but to the rest of his brain, it was only a distant sensation, a detached kind of heat. Boy put the force of his presence, drive, and intimidation into every assault. His muscles wanted to tremble, but for now, willpower kept him steady.

Be cold, perfect…and they will never laugh at you again.

He spun, knocked aside Drakula's blade—moving in slow-motion—with a dazed twist of his wrist, and…struck.

It was like killing a wolf.

"I would never have imagined it."

"…Of course."
"You have my respect, b—" He trailed off, eyeing the teenager who had defeated him. "…Nameless one. But so long as you have chosen to discard your name, my last request—"

"Why should I fulfill any request of yours?"

Drakula laughed drily, the noise ending in a throaty, bubbling cough. He folded his hands over his bloodied chest, smiling grimly up at the murky ceiling of his dining hall. "I suppose you have no obligation. But should the inclination take you, I humbly request that you carry on my name."

A scowl. "Tch. Your name is ridiculous."

Drakula shot him a mildly offended look and moved to prop himself up on his elbows. The movement ended in a pained wince and a fresh flow of blood from the final wound; he lay back, apparently disgruntled by his weakness. "…Very well. It was a request, after all."

There was silence for a moment. The nameless young man felt he should have left then, disregarding Drakula's death and his last words, but something about the fearsome architecture of the castle and its owner's cold sophistication… He hadn't disliked the place.

"Very well."
Drakula started with surprise, craning his neck from his place on the floor to look at his former opponent's face. "You intend to—"

"But I'm going to change it. I don't wanted them thinking I'm you."

"Well, you have my permission to—" he paused to cough, red spurting over his already crusted chin. "—nnkghoff—omit…nnkh…omit…some of my middle names."
"Dracule," said the no-longer-nameless boy.

"I beg your pardon?"

"That will be my surname." He smiled, wan and faintly amused. "I've never had one before."

"It is…" Drakula grimaced, apparently lost for words. And then he shrugged, closing his eyes. "Perhaps…you were right. This may no longer be my world. Where will the boy with the hawk's eyes go…after this?"

He was running out of breath, close to death.

"Who knows? I've never had much regard for navigation. But I think when the time comes I will search for a sword I once heard of in a song."

"…Good."

And he was dead.

Sitting there in the silence of the castle-turned-crypt, the boy who wasn't Boy thought about names.

The boy with the hawk's eyes.

Curry was waiting for him outside when he left, and even deigned to catch his protégée before the boy's face hit the ground. Curry hauled one bleeding arm over his shoulders with a minimum of distaste and began to walk, gray eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Long…walk," said the kid draped over his shoulders.

"You deem me unworthy of such a journey?" Curry clouted his student over the head with one amiable fist, and spared the resulting spatter of blood on the snow a vaguely surprised glance. "Boy, if I strike you, a strange crimson liquid seems to leak from various orifices. Have you any explanation for this eventuation?"

"Not…Boy…"

"You don't say."

One baleful yellow eye turned up to glare at Curry from the shadow of its owner's brow. "Dracule…Mihawk…"

Curry considered this; the only sounds were the squeaking of snow under the old man's boots and perhaps the faintest dripping noise as Mihawk's veins released their contents onto the snow.

"…All things considered, I prefer 'Boy'."

Mihawk groaned and struggled to extricate himself from Curry's grasp. He failed and settled back into step, grumbling furiously.

Curry laughed.

The barber-surgeon in town poured alcohol down Mihawk's throat until he blacked out in a haze of intoxication, and when he woke up his lungs were no longer flooded with blood. Mihawk was amazed at his own luck, and said as much to Curry later.

They were at a bar, drinking as much as they could simply because the townspeople wouldn't stop buying bottles for them. The pain still burning dully in his limbs was lessened by lots of wine, and that coupled with the whiskey apparently used to cleanse his wounds probably meant about a tenth of his bodily fluids were now alcoholic.

Curry laughed at this, and raised his bottle high, shouting an indecipherable toast to something or other. Everyone cheered, so it was probably good. Dracule Mihawk sat back on his stool, resting his elbows on the bar, and yawned up at the ceiling. He was very, very tired. And he probably always would be.

There was no victorious exhilaration in his chest, no cold tingle of pride in his spine. There was pain, yes, and a deep-set sense of satisfaction, but beyond that…nothing. He sank back even further, thinking that for now, satisfaction and a good nap would have to be enough.

"…Boy! Boy!"

"For the… Old man, my name is not Boy. And I'm trying to sleep."

"Indeed not! This is a night of celebration, Boy! Arise and attend, for there are three gifts of mine you must retain from this night, and I would not have you abed for them!"

"'Abed?'" Mihawk growled, incredulous. "It's a bar stool, Curry."

"Trivialities. Attend!"

"Old man, my eyes. They're open. I'm watching."

"And your auditory functions?"

"Ears as well."

"As you say. Then I shall proceed."

And he leapt with all the agility of a goat onto the countertop, rocking back and forth on his heels and calling the rest of the room to attention as well. Mihawk rolled his eyes, not entirely certain he wanted to know what was up the geezer's sleeve this time.

"Ladies of culture and esteemed gentlemen!" Cries of approval from what was probably the roughest, most uncouth population in the entirety of North Blue. Mihawk snorted in spite of himself, letting his head loll back on his shoulders for an unrivaled view up Curry's formidable nose. "I would dare to propose yet another toast!"

Another cheer, this one much longer. Mihawk raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "Is that all? Because as gifts go, it is—"

"To my esteemed student, Dracule Mihawk—" (and the "esteemed student" frowned with surprise) "—who has done surpassingly well!"

There was only the briefest pause before the approving clamor returned, and Curry, apparently done, dropped down off of the bar and started toward the door, gesturing for Mihawk to follow him. Purely because his brain was occupied still struggling to register that Curry had actually paid him a compliment, Mihawk followed.

He didn't say anything. He had a feeling that if he mentioned it, Curry would just find a way to bluster out of it, and honestly it wasn't worth the argument. But this was unprecedented. Bizarre. Curry was usually sparing with compliments to begin with, but "well done" was usually the extent of his praise. "Surpassingly well done" was… Well, clearly the man was drunker than he appeared. And he had actually used the right name (probably for the first and last time).

So, three gifts. That would have been the first—or maybe the first two, since Curry was picky. Mihawk let one corner of his mouth crook upward in a wry smile. It said something about his teacher that calling his student by the right name and saying he had "done surpassingly well" was a gift.

He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he almost missed the turn Curry took into a shabby little store on the corner of a street. He backtracked hurriedly, scouring the storefront for a name—nothing. Interest piqued, he pushed his way through the door, the hinges of which whined mournfully at his touch.

Inside, Curry was pushing absentmindedly through stack after stack of…

"Hats?" said Mihawk, frowning. "You're here to look at-?"

"Allow me to purchase some headgear on your behalf," said Curry, gesturing jovially to the piles ranged around him. "As you can see, your options are pleasingly varied!"

Mihawk stared. Approval, fine. Using his proper name…dubious. But these things could only go so far. "Old man, what do you want?"

"I believe I have clearly stated my intentions; beggar me not with requests of repetition."

Mihawk scoffed. "You buying something for me. No, I do believe—"

"Boy. Select a hat."

He was deadly serious. And what a ludicrous thing to be serious about. Then again, a hat wouldn't mean much to most people. Only Curry would think of this as a real gift, an auspicious event. Then again, because it meant something to the old man, maybe it really did count.

"Fine," he said, shrugging, and went immediately to one corner of the shop, where something had caught his eye. A dull black hat was perched on a three-foot-tall stack. It was hardly as broad-brimmed as Curry's, its texture dull, and even the silk lining had barely any gloss. But tucked in the ribbon…

A red feather. He smiled faintly, dusting off the brim, and pulled it onto his head.

"That may or may not be the most aesthetically displeasing hat on which I have had the misfortune of laying eyes."

"This is it," said Mihawk. "It fits."

"Whoop-ti-doo," drawled Curry. "It is a fedora. It is a heinous and outrageous crime against fashion, so far as such a thing is possible."
Mihawk gave him a long, slow look, surveying Curry's own tattered brown hat, stained brown coat, and generally disheveled appearance. Then, wordlessly, he turned to walk to the owner's desk.

It was later. Curry, having expounded upon his general disapproval of Mihawk's behavior and taste in hats, had lapsed into a resentful silence, every second of which Mihawk treasured. However, all good things must come to an end, and as they neared the waterfront where their stolen boat was still moored, Curry apparently felt the need to open his mouth again.

"As for the third gift, Boy, we have now arrived at the place of its giving."

Mihawk looked around, arms folded over his chest. "Excellent. Good."
"And now we part."

A pause.

"…I beg your pardon?" He blinked several times. "No, actually, I don't. Pardon not necessary. Where am I going?"

"Absolutely nowhere," said Curry beatifically, and left it at that. It seemed nothing else need to be said. Unfortunately, Mihawk was still confused and annoyed; clarification was necessary.

"And the 'third gift' you mentioned…?"

"This is she," Curry informed him, striding purposefully towards the boat. "Fare thee well, Boy. Perhaps one fond day we shall meet again, and reminisce over the many times my fist met your very thick skull. However, 'till then—"

"Not that I'm especially aggrieved to see the last of you, but you happen to be leaving me without a mode of transportation or a teacher," Boy snapped, shuddering inwardly at the thought of staying on Over-forest Island any longer.

Another, longer moment of silence. In the distance, with excellent theatrical timing, a wolf howled.

"Boy," said Curry, and Mihawk took one step forward before realizing he had inadvertently answered to the name and retreating again, vexed.

"…What."

The old man spun, and the silvery ring of metal told Boy exactly what his intention was even before the saber that had nicked him so many times flashed towards his face—

-only to be smacked casually away—

Mihawk found himself in a fighting stance, knees crooked, one hand still gripping the scabbard at his left hip. The other was extended to his right, and his nameless sword gleamed in the moonlight. Curry's saber skittered over the cobblestones, somewhere in the shadows. They stood like that for a moment, Curry massaging his sword hand, Mihawk wide-eyed and wary. Then Curry turned, went to recover his sword, and, having re-sheathed it, went aboard the boat and cast off.

And that was how it happened; he had made his point.

Mihawk did not stay to watch his erstwhile teacher vanish into the night. He was not that kind of person. Instead, he put his new hat on his head and turned his back, raising one hand briefly in salute. Out in the blackness, a voice launched into song.

Mihawk drank a bit more, thinking things over, and then went to bed in the cleanest inn-house offered.

It was not very clean.

In the morning, he was given a new shirt for free, as savior of the village, and, since no one on the island seemed to possess the skills to build a real boat or even a raft, he went to the undertaker. Several of the coffins seemed seaworthy, but after a few tests, only one proved to suit his needs.

He departed in haste, with no great regard for direction but as many provisions as would allow the coffin to float. After a battle like that, floating on the open sea should have seemed a stupid way to risk his life, but it was also, strangely enough, less worrying. Also, he could sleep for as long as he liked with no chance of interruptions from rude old men.

But whenever he wasn'tsleeping, he did end up talking to himself more than was strictly normal.

Another Marine dispatch reached Over-forest Island a week later on official business. While the bright new red-haired private was off gathering information on the men who had disappeared recently, the captain learned of the fate of one, Drakula Ebons. Scouts were recalled; a serious meeting was convened, mainly concerning the legacy of said man (ten generations of classically-trained swordsmen), the number of zeroes on the end of his most recent bounty posters (a lot), and the name of the man who had defeated him.

After a while, they finished and the new private was summoned.

"Private…Bloomer. Bolmer. Belmer. B—"

"Close enough, sir." She waved his stumbling aside. "You'll get it sometime."

He frowned at her. "I need to contact HQ, Private."

A den-den-mushi was produced for the captain's use. And this is how news travels between Marines…

Fast.

He didn't really notice it at first—after all, if one spends enough time at sea, especially without a subscription to the news, one tends to lose track of current events. He did notice the sharp increase in the amount of people starting fights with him, most of which started with the puzzling sentiment that they were going to "take his head". He only really began to wonder about the meaning of this threat when one of the men he defeated fell to the ground groaning about "all that money".

A short and (mostly) friendly line of questioning led him to a wall of bounty posters in the local Marine office, where his own face glared back at him, front and center. Mihawk only remembered to look at the actual bounty after he had finished wondering in bewilderment how these people had gotten his picture.

But the bounty…

Well, the bounty explained why, thirty seconds after he entered the office, every Marine in the place got to their feet and jumped him. He liked to imagine they regretted that later.

It certainly explained more than it didn't. Mihawk, who was still getting used to his new name, was surprised by the pleasure he derived from seeing Dracule Mihawk printed boldly below his photo. And, yes, the money underneath that…

Part of him had been secretly hoping for more. But his rational mind had been expecting less. It was a good balance, and it would increase soon—he would make sure of that.

North Blue lost his interest quickly. Rumors said there were more Marines in West Blue, so West Blue was his next destination. As it turned out, however, this was easier said than done—North and West Blue were separated by the Grandline, which Mihawk was still somewhat loathe to enter again. Eventually, though, after several weeks of wandering, he discovered a man living near Reverse Mountain with an immense seagull. The rates were ridiculous, but threatening worked just as well, so in all honesty the worst memory of the whole ordeal was the ride itself.

There would be no more flying.

Ever.

West Blue proved to be a most profitable area indeed—in terms of experience, at least. The life of an outlaw proved to be somewhat lacking in payment, especially when one had absolutely no interest in taking money from terrified peasants. Of course, sometimes they felt the need to throw their valuables at him regardless, and he honestly didn't have the energy to refuse.

The black fedora served him well; in North and West Blue, it was his trademark, though the first thing everyone noticed was his eyes. In East and South Blue, he was a rumor, and for the moment he intended it to stay so. East Blue was, by all accounts, the most peaceful of the four seas. It was also, he deduced on one long, especially boring day, the place of his birth. Mihawk had no place with either peace or his birthplace—therefore, East Blue was last on his mental list of priorities.

And yet that was where he found himself a year and a half later, stowing away in his coffin in the hold of a merchant ship bound for Loguetown. The coffin was actually quite comfortable, especially with a blanket folded under his head and his sword stowed to one side, where he wouldn't end up lying on it. The strategy was remarkably plausible, as no one opens a coffin if they can help it.

Above him, footsteps thumped across the upper decks and back, resonating in the cavernous spaces around him. The ship swayed; waves slapped at the sides. In the darkness and warmth of his enclosed space, Mihawk breathed out heavily through his nose and wondered why exactly he felt the need to attend Gold Roger's execution.

Usually, if he had stowed away, leaving his illegal transport would be more problematic. This time, however, there was a clamor above-decks and a pensive moment of listening told him the only pulses on board belonged to him, two dogs, and numerous rats. The crew had slid all the bolts through the trapdoors, and Mihawk mentally commended them for their attentiveness before slicing messily through each in turn.

The sky was clear above, luminous with sunshine and marred only by the occasional perfectly white cloud scudding along. On the other hand… A brief glance to the north told him it wouldn't be long before all hell broke loose. Another day to go without the hat.

Mihawk adjusted the coffin over his shoulder and eyed the seaside shop fronts critically, looking for the best wall to lean it against. Once he had found one and arranged the coffin to his liking, he placed his hat carefully inside and made sure the lid was tightly closed.

The streets were empty, and he knew why.

It was happening.

Time to hurry.

He had thought perhaps the best way to find the event would be to follow the noise of the crowd, but in truth it was pure luck, and when he arrived, the massive, white-paved square was completely silent. Mihawk insinuated himself into the middle of the throng through subtle and not-so-subtle hints of haki, which, he had discovered, had many practical applications. Occasionally, though, someone behind him would start foaming at the mouth and collapse (Just keep walking, you had nothing to do with this…)

…And those incidents could be explained partially by the stifling heat. The sunny weather had seemed tolerable in the open air, but surrounded by what seemed to be literally hundreds of people, Mihawk had begun to sweat uncomfortably under his high collar.

"Where is he?"

Some idiot in the crowd—

"Bring out the King of the Pirates!"

"Where's Gold Roger?"

And soon they were all at it, jostling and yelling and sweating… Mihawk barely restrained the urge to knock everyone within five feet of him unconscious, and around the time some bold pickpocket made a grab for the knife around his neck, he was prepared to—

"THERE!"

The pickpocket withdrew—Mihawk spared a moment to be annoyed at his escape—and then all heads turned to see the Pirate King. Necks craned, hands raised, and hushed whispers spread in ripples away from the approaching pirate.

Even Mihawk's eyes had difficulty picking out glimpses through the wildly moving crowd, and then, as Gold Roger came within eyesight, everything seemed to calm down, somehow. Mihawk, taller even than grown men at age nineteen, could now easily see past the heads of the people standing in front of him.

Never had a man going to his death ever proceeded with more dignity or…cheerfulness. He could only see the Pirate King's face for a split second, but it was almost maddening. That broad, fierce white smile, the great pride with which Gold Roger carried himself... One felt instinctively that the man could not possibly comprehend the fate he faced. But there was the scaffold, and something in his eyes said—

I'm laughing—

And for that split second, Mihawk understood why Gold Roger was called the Pirate King. And then he lost the feeling, but the awe remained. Ordinarily, he would have issues with feeling such regard for some man he'd never met, but as it was Roger's last day on earth, he allowed the sense of respect growing within him to stay.

The silence had returned, the breathless air of waiting that had been present when Mihawk arrived. The combined pressure of everyone's focus and the sun's unforgiving eye had given the square all the closeness and heat of a sauna.

Somewhere in the distance, a baby began to cry and went silence, probably hushed by a nervous parent. Gold Roger mounted the scaffold, and Mihawk imagined what a view the man must have, surveying the population of Loguetown as though they had come to see his coronation rather than his execution. And then he sat, cross-legged, casual. The men standing on either side of him didn't seem to know what to make of this, both of them looking nervously to some unseen commander.

A Marine's voice barked out harsh, wordless orders; the executioners raised their blades. White light blazed as the steel caught the sun's light, leaving green trails of afterimage seared into Mihawk's vision. The tension in the air was thicker than blood.

"Hey, Pirate King!"

The crowd gasped en masse—even the executioners seemed to flinch at the yell. Heads turned frantically, searching for the source of the commotion. Gold Roger raised his head even as death wavered above him, grinning down at all of them.

"What about your treasure? Where's the One Piece?"

Roger straightened even further, the folds of his scarlet coat shifting around him, and even from the street, Mihawk could see him inhale deeply for a moment before his voiced exploded in the open spaces, bouncing off of buildings and etching its words into the memories of every listener.

"My treasure?" Bated breath—the world was watching, and Mihawk found himself near the center of it, standing at a universal crossroads with no control over- "If you want it, go search for it! I left it all in that place!"

-and on that last word, the order was given, the pirate king executed. But even as storm clouds roiled above and the Marines had their victory, the damage was done. And even as the rain poured down in sheets, the people kept cheering.

And it was the beginning of the Great Pirate Age.

Okay, before anyone asks, let's get it straight that the coffin is not meant to be the coffin-shaped boat we see him in later. It's temporary. Also, yes, I just gave him a fedora. It won't stick around either, even though I actually think they're awesome-Curry's opinions are not mine!

Speaking of which: I absolutely loved Curry, I have to say. I loved writing him and his interactions with Boy and his weirdness. Many of you have been very complimentary about him as an OC, which touched me, seriously. But he had to go, because we're entering canon now and Boy isn't Boy anymore. I don't want to get attached to an OC, because I've seen people who turn their OCs into big plot devices, and I don't want to put all Mihawk's talent on the old man's shoulders. And that's why.

REVIEW REPLIES!

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, faaaaar away, I posted the last chapter and you guys responded...enthusiastically. I now have over one hundred on this story, which boggles my mind because the chapters are so freakin' long I would almost certainly not have ever had the patience to read it myself. So give yourselves all a cheer and a pat on the back.

Gazer: And can I tell you how happy it makes me to see you've reviewed? I mean, I guess you probably don't even remember what you said. But here goes. Conjuring an image in someone's head without going overboard always makes me nervous-glad to have your approval! XD As you can see, I have kind of explained away Mihawk's paleness and usual laziness with this, though I'm guessing that canonically it's just the way he is, ha! Hope you enjoyed this chapter too, short as it was. Thanks so much!

As4mi: Aw, thank you-I love to make someone's day! As for the insults, well...I did wonder whether they were a bit out of the blue, but I'm glad you got a laugh out of them. And it would make me most joyous, should you draw Drakula. :D Und auf Deutsch: Hallo, du! Oder...Sie? Wie formal soll' ich im Internet sein? 'Tschuldigung, meine Deutsch ist oft schlecht... XD Ich hoffe, dass dieses Kapitel auch so lustig wie das letzte war!

Rom Nom Nom: Hope you did well on your test (I'm assuming it has come and gone), and maybe I can keep upping this story's vocabulary without Curry... Maybe. Anyway, Boy/Mihawk has definitely outgrown his teacher-that was indeed my intent. And though haki was introduced as just a vague concept in this chapter, I do intend to delve more deeply into the different colors as he continues to mature. As we'll see in the next chapter, he has hardly reached the peak of his evolution. ;)

TheDML: Well, here's a bit more for you...about, eh, half a year later? Or something. I haven't checked yet-I'm too afraid. And pervyness is only to be expected around Mihawk-I mean, he practically invites it, walking around in that shirt. It's got to be a crime somewhere to be that hot... But I digress. XD

Phalanx: Recently I ran across a string of debates with your name on them in the reviews of a story that's been bothering me for a while now. Just thought I'd mention that my respect for you has greatly increased, which is saying something. :D Anyway! We took care of the venison/veal debacle (thank you for making sure I didn't embarrass myself), and now I get to properly say thanks and all! Indeed, while I've been working hard to make the plot advance, Boy has for the most part ignored his prodigious improvement. XD So I had him finally get it in this chapter.

MissDilemma: Thanks for approving Curry, it means a lot! :) And moving on to your later reviews: apologies for the length and Curry's dialogue-trust me, I can sympathize. Sometimes I'll be up at three in the morning, writing one of his sentences...and when I look at what I just wrote, I'm like, "What does this even mean?" Um, but anyway, thanks for the thumbs-up on my spelling and whatnot-I give it my all, in true Shounen style! *heroic pose* Or something!

You should save up any and all impressive words you remember from your late-night Subtlety readings and unleash them on some special occasion. Yeah, that would be epic...

But it was too late-she had already named him after some random vampire guy. D: Well, if Oda every gives us his bounty poster, I guess we'll find out whether it's Dracule or Juracule, huh? And: you actually liked Part IV? Apologies. It did confuse some people, but I didn't stop to wonder whether it had a few fans. Thank you anyway-I'll make up for it somehow, because you've been so very kind to me. :D

SLER: Well, hello again! Long time no...um... Well, long time, anyway. Hopefully you clicked on this despite the whole "Part IV is missing" thing, and are now reading this reply. :D I kind of miss Boy myself, and having him screw up and act more like a kid sometimes, but from now on I'm going to try and develop his personality in such a way that I can keep the humor a bit of his younger self without losing sight of where I'm going...

Yes, it was the perfect opportunity to begin developing his macabre sense of fashion! I can now elaborate on that to my heart's content. :D Unfortunately, we can only assume he shaved off the goatee between that fight and his attendance at Roger's execution, because in Strong World 0, he is basically facial-hair-less. But anyway, there's the name for you! I didn't want him to totally steal Drakula's name, so I decided he would just have to think it was tacky and change it up a bit.

yumeniai: I guess it was a Zoan fruit, wasn't it? I totally forgot it had to be, because I didn't give Drakula a chance to transform-what a pity! I'll bet the Bat-Bat Fruit doesn't even exist in canon, but ssshhh, don't tell anyone. As for character similarities to Zoro... Urr, I have no excuse, but I didn't do it on purpose. Firibastel's bandanna would be more like a headband than the way Zoro has his wrapped, and a brighter, more obnoxious green. And I think dojo-defeating is just a thing some people do. Don't check my facts, I have no idea what I'm talking about! XD Thanks, dude (or dudette, depending).

cinnamon-shake: Thank yooo~uu! Does this count as "soon"? ...No? I thought not. Ah, well, I'm sure you have other things you do with your life, and if you didn't I would be kind of worried. So anyway. Fellow Terry Pratchett fan! :D Heya! Nice to have someone get my obscure references-I think that makes about three of my reviewers who've noticed them. I don't think there are any here, though-Rogi conveniently vanished because he bothered me, heheh...

All Nightmare Long: Hurray, my poetry has had an effect on someone! That's new and different... Also, Kaku. Baseball cap. Gotcha. ;D Thanks for taking the time to review!

Japanese Pun: Just wanted to say thanks very much and I love your username. :D

RhyssaFireheart: Aw, someone's reading my stuff during the lulls in their workday? I should probably tell you to do important things instead, but that actually just makes me weirdly happy! *laugh* Thanks a lot-believability was a big worry up until now, but things should get easier now that I'm into canon. I feel like I've graduated!

GeckoMoriaShadowLord: Hey, it's you again! Sorry about the reply wait-it's a totally awesome review and I've never been less bothered by the idea of being stalked. I don't really know what my "style" is, but I'm glad you like it, cos it always feels like slogging through mud while I'm writing. Stuff like this is what keeps me going when I feel like I'm never gonna update again, so I really appreciate it. Thanks so much!

SilverRainFalls: Thank you! Hey, you turned up relatively recently, so hopefully you didn't have time to wonder whether this fic was dead! That's good, I think... XD I don't know why I picked Mihawk...probably because he's such a mystery and also a bit of a weirdo. As for his eyesight, well... I was thinking at first it would be natural, because he's just that awesome, but later (after I've done a little more research into haki), I might bring that into it. If it's plausible, I'm all over it.

Thank you all for giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling and waiting so long for this stupid thing. :3 You guys are brilliant!