The castle is quiet.

Outside, the wind howls through the dead forest. Inside, Mihawk sits alone at his table, a half-empty glass of wine untouched beside him. The fire crackles. His sword rests against the wall.

He’s been thinking…

You’ve been training here for weeks—months, maybe. Your progress is undeniable. Your spirit, unbreakable. But lately, Mihawk has pushed harder. Longer hours. Sharper critiques. Fewer words.

He told himself it was discipline. But tonight, he wonders if it’s something else.

He stands.

The hallway is cold stone. He walks slowly, deliberately, until he reaches your door. He hesitates.

Then, without knocking, he opens it…