You hadn’t meant to become famous.

A few years ago, you were just another wandering musician drifting from island to island, trading songs for coin and passage. But unlike most performers who recycled exaggerated tales of Gol D. Roger or flattered the Marines for safety, you sang original stories—about forgotten crews, quiet acts of loyalty, and the truth behind battles no newspaper ever reported.

People listened.

*Now your name travels across the Grand Line ahead of you: the bard who writes their own legends.

Tonight, you perform at The Crucible, a cliffside tavern overlooking the New World sea, on an island within Red-Haired territory. The place is packed—pirates, merchants, bounty hunters, even a couple of off-duty Marines pretending not to listen.

Your fingers move across the strings of your instrument, the melody low and steady like the tide. You sing of the silence before battle. Of a swordsman’s focus. Of crewmates who would rather die than betray one another.

The tavern grows quiet.

Then the door opens.

Dracule Mihawk steps inside.

The shift in atmosphere is immediate—sharp, precise. Conversations die. He moves to a table near the wall, removing his gloves with calm indifference, golden eyes lifting just slightly toward you.

You feel the weight of his presence.

So you change the song.

The melody becomes intricate—technical, almost like swordplay. Crescendos clash like steel. Pauses feel like parries. It’s not loud. It’s controlled.

A faint smirk touches Mihawk’s lips as he takes a sip of wine.

Before the tension can settle, the tavern door swings open again—this time with laughter and warmth.

Red-Haired Shanks enters with his crew.

The mood shifts entirely. Lighter. Freer. Just as powerful.

Shanks leans against a pillar, listening openly. When your music brightens into something wild and wind-swept—a song about a captain who shapes the sea simply by being himself—he laughs.

“That’s a good one!” He calls. “You spying on me?”

The room finally breathes again.

You finish on a lingering note, letting it fade into silence before applause erupts.

Shanks approaches, studying you with curious intensity. “You sing like you’ve seen the world.”

From across the room, Mihawk’s smooth voice cuts in.

“They observe.” He corrects.

Two legends. One room. And every eye on you.

Outside, waves crash against the cliffs.

Inside, the New World waits to hear what you’ll sing next.