Adventure of Dracul mihawk 1

A wind-choked monastery yard sits under a slate-gray sky. Dracul mihawk stands alone by a weather-worn stone bench, Yoru resting at his side. The quiet breaks as two girls hurry through the gate, skirts damp with mist, eyes fixed on him.

The taller one stops first. The shorter one nearly collides with her, then stares up at Dracul mihawk as if she has found a legend made flesh.

The shorter girl folds her hands tight at her chest, trying and failing to look calm. Her gaze keeps dropping to the black blade.

The taller girl steps forward a half pace, chin lifted, reverent and intent. Her fingers tremble, but she does not look away.

A faint pressure rolls through the yard, the kind that prickles the skin before danger. The shorter girl swallows, then glances aside, flustered by her own boldness and by the man before her.

Dracul mihawk exhales, lifts his cup for another sip, and calmly takes up the butter knife beside it. The girls watch the tiny blade like it is a test. "One at a time, or both," he asks, polite as ever.

A flicker of relief crosses the taller girl's face, then she squares her shoulders again. The shorter girl hugs herself, glancing from Dracul mihawk to her companion, trying to hide how nervous she is.

Dracul mihawk's answer settles the yard, and the moment softens around them. A drop of tea slips from the cup and darkens the stone by his boot, a small spill from the careless steadiness of the gesture.

Dracul mihawk remains seated, tea balanced in one hand, as Elira steps in with the first cut. The butter knife flicks up, turns her blade aside, and his cup never leaves its calm rise.

She presses harder. He answers with two neat taps, wrist and angle, and the strike dies harmlessly against the tiny blade.

A third feint comes in low. Dracul mihawk tilts the knife, sipping at the same time, and the feint slips past him like rain off stone.

She draws back, breath sharp, then launches once more. His parry is effortless, almost absent, as if the yard itself has decided she will not land a clean touch.

Elira freezes mid-breath, the tip of her practice sword hanging in the air. Mira’s eyes widen, then dart from his face to Elira’s stance.

Dracul mihawk’s cup lowers a fraction. The knife remains steady, but his gaze stays on Elira as if he has tracked every step from the start.

Elira exhales, embarrassed and thrilled at once, then resets her stance with more care. Mira leans closer, quiet now, as the yard holds its breath around them.

Elira lunges. Dracul mihawk is already inside her reach, his shoulder turning with the motion as the practice sword slips free from her grip.

He glides past her line and stops by Mira, the butter knife held so close it steals her breath. Mira goes rigid, eyes fixed on the blade.

Elira stares at her empty hands, stunned, while Mira swallows and straightens by instinct. The yard feels smaller around them.

For one sharp second, Mira’s fear turns into focus, and Elira’s frustration turns into respect.

Dracul mihawk rises, and Yoru leaves its resting place in one clean line of black steel.

The yard seems to tighten around the blade as he settles his stance, calm and ready.

Elira draws a sharp breath and squares up, her empty hands tense before she reaches for the practice sword on the ground.

Mira edges back, eyes fixed on Yoru, while the quiet in the yard turns hard and dangerous.

Both girls are forced to choose, and the first move now belongs to them.

Yoru cuts a silent arc through the air, and Dracul Mihawk settles the blade with a measured breath. The invitation hangs there, cold and absolute.

Elira answers first. She lifts the practice sword with both hands, feet set, eyes hardening as she steps into range.

Mira flinches at the edge of the blade, then clamps both hands over her mouth and watches without blinking. Her fear sharpens into attention.

Elira lunges, and Dracul Mihawk meets the strike with a single clean motion. The clang snaps through the yard, loud enough to make the crows lift from the monastery wall.

The impact drives Elira back a half step, wrist ringing, but the sword stays in her hands. A thin line of blood beads at Dracul Mihawk's knuckle where steel kisses skin.

Dracul Mihawk answers with a flick of Yoru, so fast the yard barely seems to move. Elira's shirt front splits at the top, two buttons snapping free cleanly into the dirt.

The blade never touches skin. The cut is precise, almost insultingly gentle, and the cloth falls open just enough to prove the point.

She freezes, then adjusts her grip with a sharp inhale, cheeks burning more from shame than fear. Mira's hands drop from her mouth as she stares at the torn buttons.

A few crows wheel overhead, still unsettled by the earlier clash. The monastery wall behind them seems very far away now.

Dracul Mihawk settles Yoru onto his shoulder, casual as a resting breath. The yard goes still around the weight of that one smooth motion.

Elira absorbs the correction, chin lifting as she studies the split cloth at her chest and then his face.

Mira takes a cautious step nearer, eyes flicking between Yoru and Elira's grip.

Elira draws a slow breath, shoulders easing as the shame gives way to concentration.

Mira squares her shoulders, then steps into the center of the yard with careful, measured feet. The practice blade comes up in both hands, a little too tight at the grip, but steady.

Her stance is honest, but she is holding back.

She tests the air with a short cut, then another, watching Dracul mihawk for any sign of approval. Elira turns to look, concern and pride mixed on her face.

Mira exhales, loosens her elbows, and tries again. The second motion is cleaner, the blade tracking straighter through the space between them.

The crows wheel above the wall as her final cut settles into place, and the yard feels briefly open for an answer.