One Piece : Brotherhood Chapter 460

"Tch... They call themselves Supernova or whatever, but look at them... so defenseless."

The voice oozed contempt, spoken with a casualness that belied the weight of the threat behind it. Perched atop a jagged boulder, a tall, lanky figure stood with arms crossed, his silhouette striking under the tropical sun.

Even in daylight, his form cast a shadow longer than it should have—a grotesque blend of man and dragon. His body was sinewy and long, cloaked in scales of obsidian green that shimred with heat. Fla-like eyebrows flickered over eyes that glowed faintly gold, and long, serpentine whiskers twitched as he surveyed the scene below. From his forehead, a single massive antler arched backwards like a crown of warped ivory, cutting an imposing figure against the sky.

This was Saint Killingham, a God’s Knight—one of the most feared weapons of the World Governnt. His hybrid Zoan form was both majestic and monstrous, an apex predator among predators.

Beside him stood another god knight, less monstrous in form but no less chilling in aura. He wore a regal military uniform, impeccably clean despite the sea air—a dark, high-collared trench coat, pressed white gloves, a silver cravat tucked neatly beneath ornate epaulets. But the most terrifying feature was the massive, skeletal bone mask that obscured most of his face, giving him the appearance of death incarnate.

He spoke in a low, gravelled voice, as his glowing eyes peered out from the shadows of his mask.

"What do we do with the rest? The orders were clear—bring back the Supre Commander’s offspring. Nothing more."

Below them, sprawled across the beach under the shade of palms, Shanks and his crew seed oblivious—most of them trapped within their own dreams, others napping. But sothing was wrong. A stillness hung over them. Their faces bore contentnt, yet their bodies were stiff. Their weapons lay untouched. It wasn’t peace—it was illusion.

"They’re trapped in their dreams..." the masked knight muttered.

The dragon-man smirked, his fanged jaw pulling wide.

"It’s almost disappointing," he said with a scoff. "For all the tales of the Figarland bloodline, this one is so disappointing. This is how it ends? Caught in his own paradise. Hmph... I don’t even see what’s special about this one. That kid Shamrock—now he’s promising."

The words barely left his mouth before the other knight turned to him sharply.

"That’s Saint Shamrock," he corrected firmly, his tone carrying more edge than the wind. "He is no longer just a prospect. He bears the Divine Mark, chosen by Imu-sama themselves. Show so respect."

The dragon-man shrugged, utterly unconcerned.

"Tch. If it weren’t for the Supre Commander’s interest, I wouldn’t give the boy a second look. He’s no fun." He yawned lazily. "Anyway, can we just snatch the target and leave already?"

But suddenly, both knights paused. Their Observation Haki flared like a storm on the horizon.

A ripple in the air. A heartbeat in the silence.

Then— "Divine Departure!!!"

The voice didn’t co from a dream. It tore through reality like thunder. From below, where the pirates had been lazing in their illusory paradise, Shanks exploded forward like a cannon shot, Gryphon—his massive saber—roaring with power as it sliced upward.

A colossal arc of raw energy, crackling with Conqueror’s Haki, erupted from the blade, splitting the very air as it carved through the mountain, the boulder, and everything between.

The island shuddered.

Stone was cleaved like parchnt. The boulder where the knights had stood erupted into dust, and a chunk of the mountain itself groaned, fissured, and collapsed into the sea.

Shanks landed silently on the scorched rock, cloak fluttering in the wind, one eye locked on the enemy.

His crew, monts ago trapped in dreamlike stupor, were slowly stirring—eyes fluttering open, breath returning. The illusion had shattered.

Saint Killingham—the dragon-knight—reford midair, barely dodging the full brunt of the slash, his smirk finally wiped clean.

"He wasn’t asleep..." he murmured, more amused than shaken. "So he played along..."

The masked knight landed beside him, his bone helm now slightly cracked where debris had struck him.

"No. He was waiting," he corrected, "for the right mont to strike."

Shanks stood like a lone king before the sea, his aura surging like a storm yet to break.

"So... one among you can manipulate dreams," Shanks said coolly, his single sharp eye scanning the two figures that now stood revealed beneath the midday sun. "But who are you really? And why are you targeting and my crew?"

His tone, though calm, cut through the clearing like a drawn blade. Despite the haze of rum still lingering on his breath, Shanks had noticed the intrusion imdiately. A mystical Devil Fruit power, one that sought to gently lull its victims into a dream-wrapped prison. He’d pretended to fall under, playing drunk, biding his ti until the enemy stepped into the open.

Now they had.

Beside him, Beckmann had already readied his rifle, sharp eyes never leaving the two mysterious intruders. Behind them, Yasopp and Lucky Roux stood firm, but their breathing was shallow—their minds still reeling from the cloying grasp of the dream world. If not for Shanks’s overwhelming Conqueror’s Haki, the crew would have been lost, trapped inside illusions of paradise, none the wiser as their enemies struck.

Further back, Buggy cradled little Uta in his arms, his painted face unusually pale. The girl trembled, her eyes flickering with confusion and dread.

"Buggy, Roux—get the others to the ship," Shanks commanded, not turning. His voice brooked no argunt. "We’ll hold the line."

There was no room for protest. He could tell just from the air around these two n—they weren’t ordinary foes. For all he knew, they might be stronger than him. But none of that mattered. He would never let them take anyone without a fight.

Then ca the first move.

"Boom—!" A sharp explosion ripped through the clearing as Yasopp fired a Haki-infused explosive round, aiming for the more flamboyant of the two—the one with the draconic visage and fla-like eyebrows. Saint Killingham, in his hybrid Zoan form, didn’t even flinch. He casually batted the projectile away, the resulting shockwave scattering the sand in a circle around him.

He clicked his tongue, bored.

"So jumpy," Killingham muttered. "No wonder they call you pirates."

Yasopp was already lining up his next shot, eyes narrowed. Then the man in the bone-white mask stepped forward. His voice was asured, even polite, though there was a heavy undertone of authority behind every word.

"Figarland Shanks, this doesn’t need to turn into a bloodbath. We’ve got no interest in your crew—the clown, the child, your officers—they’re of no consequence to us."

"We only want you. Co quietly, and the rest will be spared."

The words hung in the air like a guillotine. Shanks’s gaze sharpened. He could feel the weight of the masked knight’s conviction. This wasn’t a bluff. Beckmann’s finger tensed on the trigger. Yasopp shifted his stance. Lucky Roux exhaled slowly, still silent but ready.

"You’re not pirates," Shanks said at last. "You don’t feel like bounty hunters either... So who the hell sent you? Are you part of the World Governnt...?"

The bone-masked knight hesitated—only briefly.

"We were dispatched by the Supre Commander," he said flatly. "This is his personal directive. Your presence has been... requested."

Even Shanks was taken aback for a mont. But his expression hardened.

"The Supre Commander," Beckmann echoed darkly. "So the whispers were true..."

The man in the mask continued, still unshaken. This was just a side mission. Their true assignnt lies with locating the Devil Fruits—those orders co from Imu-sama themselves. But the Supre Commander had given them additional orders. Figarland Shanks was to be brought in, alive, and unhard... if possible.

"We’d rather not waste more ti here," he added, glancing at the sky. "But we will if you make us."

The masked knight studied the red-haired pirate with careful interest. That earlier slash—"Divine Departure", cleaving through stone like silk—had told him everything he needed to know. Shanks wasn’t just strong—he might already rival or even surpass Saint Shamrock, their most promising prodigy. A cold thought tugged at him:

The Commander has sired three supre talents: Agana, Shamrock... and now, Shanks. Truly, a terrifying legacy.

Saint Killingham rolled his eyes but said no more. Shanks, anwhile, stood tall, wind catching his coat like a flag. His blade, Gryphon, humd softly with anticipation.

"You say you’re here on a family matter," he said. "But I’ve already got a family. They’re behind . And no one—no one—takes from them."

He stepped forward, sword raised, a flicker of red lightning dancing at his feet.

"So if you’re going to try... you better co at with everything you’ve got."

****

Little Kuina stirred, a dull ache throbbing through her limbs as consciousness returned to her like the slow tide. Her vision adjusted to the dim lantern-lit space of the cramped cabin—the wooden fra of the bunk groaning as she sat upright. She blinked, her brows furrowing as she took in her surroundings.

They were still aboard the small caravel, the sa vessel that had brought them to the island where that battle had taken place—the duel between her master and Zoro’s master.

As the mories trickled back in, her eyes widened, breath catching in her throat. That clash... the aura, the force, the sheer pressure that had erupted from miles away... and then nothing.

Sha pooled in her chest.

She had fainted. Not even at the battlefield itself, but rely from the residual waves of power that the two titans unleashed.

I didn’t even see who won...

The realization stung. She swung her small legs off the bed and stood, wobbling slightly as the ship rocked gently beneath her feet. The motion made her queasy, but determination burned away her discomfort.

With slow, careful steps, she made her way to the upper deck. The cool sea breeze kissed her face as she erged. Overhead, clouds drifted lazily across a sapphire sky. Below, waves shimred under the midday sun as the caravel made its steady journey toward Shimotsuki Village.

At the stern, her father, Koushirō, stood alongside her grandfather and Grandpa Sukiyaki, their voices hushed in discussion. She spotted Zoro at the bow—his moss-colored hair spiking in every direction as he sat cross-legged, glaring at the ocean like it had personally offended him.

Kuina’s gaze sharpened, a storm of thoughts racing through her mind.

He’s awake... did he see everything? Did he stay conscious longer than ? What if... he knows who won?

She clenched her fists at her sides, a fresh wave of frustration building. Koushirō noticed her imdiately. His stern face softened into a warm smile as he approached.

"Kuina... you should be resting," he said gently, crouching down to her level and brushing a lock of hair from her face. "We’ll be ho in a few hours. Your body went through a lot. Witnessing that kind of battle—it’s too much for soone your age."

She didn’t respond. Her eyes drifted toward Zoro again. Koushirō followed her gaze and chuckled knowingly.

"Don’t worry," he said, ruffling her hair, "even little Zoro fainted. He just woke up about an hour before you."

Relief swept over her face—followed imdiately by annoyance.

An hour? So he was up before ? Hmph.

Still, it eased the sting in her pride. At least she hadn’t been the only one overwheld.

But the real question burned hotter than ever.

"Father... where is my master?" she asked, her voice firm despite its softness. "Who won...?"

Koushirō’s smile faded slightly. He hesitated for a mont , folding his arms, a contemplative look shadowing his features.

"That... we don’t know," he admitted. "None of us are skilled enough to follow combat at that level. When the clash pushed beyond the original boundaries, your grandfather decided it was ti to retreat. We couldn’t stay. It was far too dangerous."

Kuina’s brows furrowed. She didn’t understand. Koushirō knelt beside her again, choosing his words carefully.

"At that level, it’s not about winning or losing. It’s about the strength of will, the resolve behind each blade. Your master—Rosinante—was pushing Mihawk to his limits. That much, we all saw. But... sotis there’s no final strike, no clear end. Just two giants testing each other until there’s nothing left to prove."

He smiled faintly, watching her try to process his words. There are no losers when warriors of that caliber cross swords... only understanding. But Kuina’s frown deepened.

"Hmph... I’ll just ask my master when he returns," she muttered, folding her arms and turning away. "I’m sure he beat up Zoro’s master to a pulp."

Koushirō let out a sigh, amused and exasperated in equal asure. For all he knew, though the swords might have long been sheathed between Mihawk and Rosinanate, the true battle was now alive in the hearts of the two little disciples—eager, prideful, and too young to understand what truly happened... but burning with the will to one day surpass their masters.

****

The wind howled across the ruins of the shattered island, its jagged cliffs gouged by swords and scarred by unnatural gashes of force. Debris swirled around the battlefield, dancing in the residual currents of raw Haki that still lingered in the air. Smoke curled from the fractured ground, and the sea surrounding the island boiled from the residual energy that bled from the titanic clash of wills.

Amidst the chaos, Mihawk stood, barely. Blood poured from a deep wound above his brow, streaming into one eye, obscuring half of his vision. His once regal black outfit was shredded, hanging off his fra in tatters. His bare chest rose and fell in ragged intervals.

Deep slashes covered his body, each a testant to a failed defense or a mont too slow. And yet, Yoru, the black blade, was still firmly gripped in his hand, its edge gleaming even through the blood that marred it.

"Damn it..." Mihawk hissed between clenched teeth, spitting blood to the side. His knees trembled, and the world tilted—but he would not fall. Not yet.

Opposite him, I stood tall—an immovable figure amidst the devastation. My posture was regal, exuding the composed authority of a supre master who had long surpassed mortal limits with both my blade and my will.

My white and gold trench coat, though torn in places and scorched at the edges, billowed gracefully in the wind like the standard of a god descending upon a battlefield. In my right hand, Shusui, the obsidian blade, pulsed with a quiet, ominous hum, as if singing a requiem for the clash that had nearly torn the world asunder.

My breathing was steady—asured and calm—like the rhythm of a being who had rged as one with the world, who had never once lost control. My chest rose and fell with purposeful precision, a stark contrast to the bloodied and battered figure that stood across from .

Though a few shallow cuts marked my arms and sides, only a single wound stood out—a deep, angry gash across my left shoulder, the aftermath of a direct exchange. But it was not a result of Mihawk overpowering .

No—I had pulled back at the last mont, my blade veering off its course deliberately. I had chosen not to drive it ho and end Mihawk’s journey, not to let my full strength fall upon a friend I respected deeply. It was not a mistake—it was rcy. That single wound was the price I paid for restraint.

More than anything, that mont crystallized the truth of our battle: I had never needed to go all out. I had not drawn upon my Devil Fruit even once. Our duel had been a sacred test of swordsmanship, a contest of will, spirit, and mastery. And in that domain, I had reigned supre.

That truth stung Mihawk more than any wound on his body. We had agreed: no interference, no Devil Fruits, no tricks. One swordsman against another. And Mihawk, the man who currently held the title of the strongest swordsman in the world, found himself hopelessly outmatched.

Every strike, every thrust, every feint—I could read him like a book. He was being dissected, broken down, not just physically but as a swordsman. We had fought for hours. Steel had clashed with steel. Haki had clashed with Haki. Entire islands had fallen. The skies had torn; even the seas themselves refused to reform. Yet I remained a fortress—unshaken, undaunted.

Worse still for Mihawk, I wasn’t fighting to kill. My strikes had carefully avoided Mihawk’s vitals. Each blow was one of restraint. A rcy. And that, Mihawk could not bear. His knuckles turned white around Yoru’s hilt.

"I am still not done," Mihawk muttered, more to himself than to . "I can still wield my blade."

He tapped into the last reserves of his will, digging deep beyond exhaustion, beyond pain. His Haki, which had nearly sputtered out, flared violently. Tendrils of crimson lightning cracked around him, and the ground split beneath his feet as raw force surged upward.

My body tensed with anticipation, narrowing my gaze. I recognized the signs. Mihawk was about to unleash sothing truly monstrous; he was trying to touch upon the threshold of the world’s flow. The air thickened. Storm clouds spiraled overhead as Mihawk summoned more Haki than any man should be capable of, his aura twisting into sothing primal. His blood, sweat, and fury coalesced into a single attack.

"ITTOU SHURA!!!"

With that roar, Mihawk vanished. No—he redefined motion. Space seed to warp as his figure streaked forward in a blur, the sheer force of his movent pulverizing the terrain beneath his feet. Behind him, six afterimages ford—each a phantom of a different stance, a different killing technique—as he beca one with the blade.

Crimson Haki flared from his back, forming the illusion of a three-headed Shura demon. Its mouths roared in unison as Mihawk closed the gap, aiming at my heart with a strike that sought to cleave not just flesh, but the world itself.

I inhaled, his own Haki flaring to match. I didn’t step back but decided to take it head-on. Instead, I planted my feet firmly, letting the tempest gather around . I raised Shusui above my head, gripping it with both hands. Gold and obsidian Haki spiraled around the blade like a maelstrom.

The spirit of the blade roared to life—a towering, shadowy manifestation of a Shinigami cloaked in golden fire, its skeletal hand gripping my own as if rging with .

"ITTORYU IAI: YAMIMATOI JIGENGIRI!!"

My blade ca down in a single, perfect arc. The mont our blades t, the world scread. A shockwave unlike any other erupted from the collision. The heavens tore open as crimson, black, and gold lightning shot upward, rending the clouds. The ocean itself recoiled from the island, waves parting in a massive ring. The earth cracked, the very crust beneath them splintering as the sheer spiritual weight of our clash forced the world itself to bend.

Ti seed to freeze. The three-headed Shura clashed with the towering Shinigami, both figures locking in eternal combat above their masters, roaring as their wills collided in the spiritual realm. It was no longer just swordsmanship—it was a war of conviction, will, and soul.

I took a step forward, my blade pushing through Mihawk’s with unrelenting montum. Mihawk’s knees buckled, but he roared, pushing back, the veins in his forehead bulging. Our blades sparked. Our Haki collided. The world held its breath.

And then—

CRACK!

A fracture split the sky itself, a line of pure obsidian that divided the horizon like a scar. The aftershock shattered the island beneath them. The final blow sent Mihawk flying, crashing through what remained of the nearby island, carving a trench through mountains of stone until his body finally slamd into a cliffside. A massive gash had ford, running all the way from his left shoulder to his navel, almost spilling his guts.

Silence followed.

I stood amidst the rubble, my chest rising slowly. Shusui humd quietly in my grip before I sheathed it in one smooth motion. My coat, now tattered, fluttered in the breeze. Thousands of ters away on the nearby island within a massive crater, Mihawk lay sprawled on his back, Yoru still gripped loosely in his hand. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His chest rose barely as blood spilled out of the gash.

And yet... he smiled. He smiled.

The pain was imnse. The defeat—absolute. But in that clash, in that divine collision of wills, he had seen it. The next level. He had glimpsed what it ant to truly stand at the peak.

I vanished from where I stood, reappearing next to Mihawk within the crater as I walked toward him slowly, each step echoing with calm reverence. When I reached Mihawk, I stopped and looked down, eyes full of quiet respect.

"You didn’t yield," I said softly while making sure that he wasn’t in any imdiate danger as he was already channeling his mastery life return to stabilize his body.

Mihawk chuckled weakly. "Would have... been rude."

I knelt and offered a hand. For a mont, Mihawk stared at it. Then he chuckled. With trembling fingers, he took it. I helped him to his feet. Mihawk swayed but stood, using Yoru like a cane.

"You knew you would lose," I added.

"That’s why... I had to fight," Mihawk replied. "I had to see... how far I still had to go."

I couldn’t help but grin. "And now you know."

Mihawk nodded. "I’ll surpass you. One day."

The two warriors shared a look. No more words were needed. We were rivals. Brothers in blade. And soday, we would cross swords again. Above us, the sky slowly started to clear, and sunlight stread through the wounds torn in the heavens.