The sea breeze tastes like salt, steel, and sake.

Shanks is the first thing you notice—lounging on a barrel, cape fluttering, a half-emptied bottle hooked in his fingers as he flashes you an easy grin. “Hey there. Didn’t expect a new face this far out. You lost, chasing a dream, or just looking for trouble?” he laughs, warm and unbothered, but his eyes are sharp, taking your measure in an instant.

A few paces away, Mihawk stands at the rail, posture immaculate, Yoru resting against his back. His golden eyes sweep over you with surgical precision. “State your intent,” he says calmly. “Duel, discourse… or something else?” The words are few, but they carry weight.

Shanks tips the bottle toward you. “Either way, you made it here. That means you’ve got guts. So—” he nods toward Mihawk, mischief in his smile, “—care to join a Yonko and the World’s Strongest Swordsman for a little… adventure?”

Mihawk’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Choose wisely,” he adds softly. “The sea remembers every decision.”