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Chapter 1027: The Purest Swordsmanship
Chapter 1027: The Purest Swordsmanship
Clang!
Clang, clang, clang!
On the Island, the only sound echoing was the sharp, resonant clang of the duel between the two combatants.
To the spectators watching, the fighters’ movements never strayed beyond five steps. Every technique unfolded within this tight radius.
Each strike sent a faint shockwave rippling through the ground beneath their feet, leaving the area within five steps unnaturally smooth and pristine, as if polished. Beyond that invisible boundary, dust swirled thickly, forming a stark, circular contrast.
Clang!!
Kuro cleaved downward at Dracule Mihawk, but the latter raised his blade to block. The sudden force pushed Dracule Mihawk backward. A glint of sharpness flashed in Kuro’s eyes as he sprang into the air, his Yokai Blade slipping past the defense of Black Blade. The strike angled sharply toward Dracule Mihawk’s forehead.
Dracule Mihawk began to lean his head back—then abruptly stopped. Instead of retreating, he twisted sideways, letting the Yokai Blade graze his cheek, leaving a thin wound. At the same time, his Black Blade 'Yoru' sliced forward. As Kuro struck, the Black Blade carved a deadly arc through the air, forcing Kuro to drop his stance mid-fall. Yet as Kuro descended, Dracule Mihawk’s blade shifted—swinging from a horizontal slash into a downward cleave. The heavy strike slammed downward. Kuro started to sidestep, but then hesitated. Suddenly, he planted his blade to block, absorbing the full force of Black Blade’s impact. The ground beneath his feet cratered slightly from the pressure.
Boom!
As the blades met, the Black Blade seemed to soften, gliding past Kuro’s guard without a spark. It arced upward, aiming for Kuro’s chest.
“Soft, huh?” Kuro spat, biting down hard. He suddenly kicked the flat of the incoming blade, his body twisting sideways from the force. He landed three steps away, skidding to a halt.
Both men tightened their grips on their blades, eyes locked.
“Don’t stare like that,” Kuro suddenly said. “Didn’t say we couldn’t use our feet. A swordsman fights with their hands—why not their legs? I’ve even seen someone use their feet like blades. And I’m not using Haki.”
Back then, that old bastard Shanks fought with his feet, didn’t he?
Who cares if he lost a leg and had to tie a sword to it?
“Never said a word,” Dracule Mihawk replied calmly. “That’s only fair. Let’s continue.”
On the Port side.
“Have they reached this point already?”
Ben Beckman’s voice tightened. “Staying inside that circle is getting complicated.”
“It’s an unspoken rule,” Red-Haired Shanks chuckled. “Otherwise, a True Combatant’s duel would become a life-and-death battle.”
To the observers, both fighters shared an unspoken understanding—neither would step beyond the five-step boundary.
Not just their feet, but their entire bodies had to remain within the circle. Earlier, Dracule Mihawk nearly leaned his head back to dodge, but realizing that movement would take him outside the boundary, he abandoned the motion entirely.
Kuro did the same. He could have sidestepped to evade, but even if his feet stayed within the circle, his body’s momentum would have crossed the line. So he chose to block, taking the strike head-on.
Rules were necessary.
A life-and-death battle followed its own rules—unleashing every technique, devastating the world around them. Anything went, for hesitation meant death.
But a sparring match had its own etiquette. When both fighters recognized the danger of leaving no room to stand, their unspoken agreement shifted naturally.
Now, the new rule was clear: whoever stepped outside the circle first would lose.
They willingly shackled themselves, restraining their strength, showcasing precision, and refusing to cross the boundary.
Both wielded long blades. Five steps was enough space to maneuver, but it made their movements painfully cramped.
For Kuro, who relied on high-speed mobility and preferred wearing down opponents from a distance, this close-quarters combat was the worst possible scenario.
Yet, he could still adapt.
As for Dracule Mihawk, his blade was eerily flexible. Its ability to absorb and redirect force was formidable—yet this very flexibility stripped him of his signature long-range, wide-sweeping slashes.
Now, it was pure technique. Precision was everything.
“This might drag on longer than expected,” Klah muttered, watching. “The longer this goes, the harder it’ll be to call a winner. And with Shanks here—”
He glanced toward Shanks.
As pirates, it was natural to watch them closely. Leaving things to a pirate’s conscience? Impossible.
“Don’t be so paranoid,” Shanks grinned. “We’re just spectators. Besides, you seem pretty confident. Do you really think Golden Lion will win?”
“Of course!” Lida raised his head proudly. “Kuro’s never lost. Not to anyone. Not once.”
That was the truth.
There were draws. There were interrupted battles. But never once had he faced an opponent and admitted defeat.
Even when he confronted Whitebeard, Kaido, Big Mom, or Bartholomew in his most perilous moments, he never lost. Either the fight ended prematurely, or he won—sometimes at the cost of severe injuries.
He had never tasted defeat.
And now, under these strict rules—no stepping outside the circle, no wide-area attacks, every move carefully controlled—unless Shanks intervened, no one could interrupt their duel.
So they’d keep fighting.
Because he’d never lost.
Kuro didn’t believe he’d lose to Dracule Mihawk now, especially not under these conditions.
In the past, he’d avoided such fights to avoid complications. There were too many other battles to fight.
The title of World’s Greatest Swordsman brought honor—but also trouble. It marked you as a target for every swordsman in the world. Now that he was in the Navy, he’d already dealt with countless pirates seeking fame at G-3. Adding the title of World’s Greatest Swordsman would pile even more enemies—pirates and swordsmen alike. Not a pleasant prospect.
But conceding a fight by holding back and ‘losing’? That was something Kuro could never accept.
So fight first.
Worry about consequences later.
Clang!!
Blades clashed again as the duel resumed.
The narrow, bloodstained Black Blade seemed to wrap its wielder in a crimson aura as it swung, while the massive jet-black blade alternated between sweeping arcs and flowing, cloud-like strikes. Neither showed signs of breaking through.
The only visible change was the growing number of small wounds on their bodies—superficial cuts from the air pressure of narrowly dodged strikes.
They didn’t use slashes. They didn’t amplify their blade’s force. This was pure swordsmanship—nothing more.
(End of Chapter)
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