wait.
For a One Piece fan, death wasn't exactly part of the plan. One moment, he had been immersed in the adventures of the Straw Hats, dreaming of swashbuckling escapades, grand treasures, and legendary duels. The next moment, he was gone—a flash of light, a sensation of falling, and then... nothing.
When awareness returned, it was accompanied by an overwhelming flood of sensations. The warmth of soft blankets, the chill of open air, and a strange weight pressing on his chest. His vision was a blur, but as the world around him slowly came into focus, he realized something was very wrong.
Why am I so small?
He tried to move, but his limbs felt alien, pudgy, and weak. When he tried to speak, all that came out was a shrill wail. Panic set in. He wasn't himself anymore. He wasn't... anything.
But then, through the haze of infant confusion, a figure loomed into view. A man, tall and sharp as a blade, with golden, hawk-like eyes that pierced straight into his soul. A wide-brimmed black hat sat atop his head, shadowing his angular face. The man exuded an aura of calm authority, each movement deliberate and precise.
No way. That's... Dracule Mihawk.
The man gazed down at him, his expression unreadable, his eyes scanning the tiny form as though dissecting him. He glanced briefly at the woman lying motionless on the ground nearby—a pale figure whose labored breaths had ceased only moments before.
Mihawk's jaw tightened, the only sign of emotion he allowed himself to show. With a single fluid motion, he bent down and lifted the infant in one hand, holding him as though assessing the weight of a sword.
"A boy," Mihawk murmured, his deep voice low and steady. He studied the baby's golden eyes, so strikingly similar to his own, before turning his gaze back to the lifeless woman.
"Dante," he finally said. "Your name is Dante."
And with that, he turned and walked away, the infant cradled in one arm, his black cape billowing in the wind.
The days that followed were surreal for Dante, whose once-adult mind now found itself trapped in the helpless body of a newborn. Mihawk was not a typical parent—not by any stretch of the imagination. The castle on Kuraigana Island was cold and unwelcoming, its stone walls echoing every creak and groan of the ancient structure. Mihawk, the world's greatest swordsman, was not exactly the doting father type.
Meals were functional. Care was efficient. There was no cooing, no lullabies, no warmth beyond the bare minimum required to keep Dante alive.
Not that Dante minded. After all, this was Dracule Mihawk, the man who had single-handedly sunk fleets and earned the title of "Greatest Swordsman in the World." Mihawk wasn't the kind to cradle a baby and whisper sweet nothings. He was a man of precision and power, and his parenting reflected that.
A Baby's World
For Dante, adjusting to his new life was a challenge. Being an infant came with all sorts of indignities—being fed from a bottle, the inability to communicate, and the endless cycle of naps he couldn't fight off no matter how hard he tried.
But there were moments when his surroundings reminded him just how extraordinary his new life was. The island itself was a hauntingly beautiful place, its sprawling jungle-like ruins populated by the Humandrills—large, intelligent apes that mimicked the swordsmanship of any who dared to face them. From his crib, Dante could hear the distant clang of steel as the Humandrills practiced their strange rituals in the wild.
And then there was Mihawk. The man's presence was overwhelming, even when he wasn't speaking. He moved with a grace that Dante had only seen in anime—a predator's elegance combined with the precision of a master craftsman.
Dante often found himself watching Mihawk as he trained in the castle courtyard, the legendary black blade Yoru slicing through the air with an ease that made Dante's heart race. He couldn't understand it yet, but the sight of Mihawk wielding that sword stirred something deep within him.
One day, Dante thought, gripping the edge of his crib. One day, I'll surpass him.
First Signs of Potential
By the time Dante turned one, Mihawk began testing him in subtle ways. It started with objects placed just out of reach, forcing Dante to crawl or stretch to get them. Mihawk watched these moments with a detached curiosity, as though evaluating the boy's potential even at such a young age.
One day, Mihawk placed a small wooden sword—clearly made for a child—on the floor near Dante's crib.
Dante stared at it, his tiny fingers twitching. He didn't need words to understand what this was.
"Go on," Mihawk said, his voice as calm as ever. "Pick it up."
Dante's first attempt was awkward. His body wasn't yet strong enough to lift the miniature blade properly, and he ended up falling over with it more than once. But Mihawk didn't intervene. He simply watched, sipping from a goblet of wine, as Dante struggled.
When Dante finally managed to hold the sword upright—albeit shakily—Mihawk gave a small nod of approval. "Good."
A New Kind of Training
As Dante grew older, Mihawk began to involve him in more structured exercises. At two years old, he was walking steadily, his wooden sword always within reach. Mihawk's lessons were simple but challenging.
"Balance," Mihawk said one morning, gesturing to a narrow beam of wood that stretched across a shallow pit in the courtyard. "A swordsman must have complete control over his body. Cross it."
Dante hesitated, looking at the beam, then back at Mihawk. You want me to walk across that thing?
But Mihawk's gaze brooked no argument.
The first attempt was a disaster. Dante wobbled halfway across before tumbling into the pit, landing unceremoniously on his backside. Mihawk didn't offer a hand to help him up.
"Again," Mihawk said simply.
And so, Dante tried again. And again. And again.
By the end of the day, he was able to cross the beam without falling—a small victory, but one that left him exhausted and aching. Mihawk, however, showed no sign of satisfaction.
"You'll need more than that if you want to survive," he said, his tone as sharp as Yoru itself.
Learning Through Observation
By the time Dante turned three, the training had become more intense. Mihawk's methods were unorthodox and often brutal. He never coddled, never praised—his guidance was limited to short, pointed commands that Dante had to decipher and execute.
But Dante didn't just rely on Mihawk's sparse instructions. He spent hours watching his father practice with Yoru. The way Mihawk moved was mesmerizing—each swing was precise, deliberate, and devastatingly powerful. Dante would mimic those movements with his wooden sword, trying to emulate the man who cast such a long shadow over his life.
One day, as Mihawk practiced a complex series of strikes, Dante watched with wide eyes, his wooden blade clutched tightly in his small hands. Mihawk finished with a flourish, his golden eyes flicking toward Dante.
"Imitate me," Mihawk said, his voice calm but commanding.
Dante hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. He adjusted his stance, trying to mimic Mihawk's posture. He raised his wooden sword and swung it through the air, attempting to replicate the sequence he had just seen.
It wasn't perfect—his movements were clumsy, his strikes lacked power—but there was something in the way he moved that caught Mihawk's attention.
"Better than I expected," Mihawk said, the closest thing to a compliment Dante had ever received.
For Dante, those words were fuel for his ambition.
The Humandrills
Kuraigana Island wasn't just home to Mihawk and Dante—it was also inhabited by the Humandrills, the sword-wielding apes who mimicked human behavior. For Dante, the Humandrills were both a curiosity and a challenge.
One day, as Mihawk sat on a stone ledge sipping wine, he called Dante over.
"You've watched them, haven't you?" Mihawk said, gesturing toward the jungle.
Dante nodded. The Humandrills were fascinating creatures, their movements eerily human, their skills with blades surprisingly advanced.
"Then it's time you face one."
Dante's heart skipped a beat. "What?"
Mihawk stood, his cape billowing in the wind. "A swordsman grows stronger through combat. You're ready for your first duel."
Dante wasn't so sure, but there was no arguing with Mihawk. Minutes later, he found himself standing in the middle of a jungle clearing, his wooden sword in hand. Across from him stood a Humandrill, its crude sword gleaming in the sunlight.
The ape snarled, its eyes locked onto Dante.
Dante tightened his grip on his sword, his mind racing. Okay, Dante. You've got this. Just stay calm and remember what you've practiced.
The Humandrill lunged, its blade slicing through the air. Dante barely managed to dodge, his small frame giving him an advantage in speed. He swung his wooden sword, aiming for the creature's legs, but the Humandrill jumped back with surprising agility.
The duel was short and brutal. Dante's strikes were fast but lacked power, and the Humandrill's attacks were relentless. Just when it seemed like Dante would be overwhelmed, Mihawk intervened, stepping into the clearing with Yoru in hand.
With a single swipe, Mihawk sent the Humandrill retreating into the jungle.
"You're not ready yet," Mihawk said, his tone cold. "But you will be."
The Weight of Legacy
As Dante grew older, he began to feel the weight of his father's legacy more acutely. Mihawk's name was known across the world—feared, respected, and whispered in awe. For Dante, it was both a source of pride and an enormous burden.
Every swing of his wooden sword, every stumble and fall, felt like a step toward—or away from—his ultimate goal.
Late one night, as Dante sat on the castle steps staring out at the moonlit sea, he couldn't help but feel the pressure.
How do you surpass someone like Dracule Mihawk?
He glanced at his hands, small and calloused from hours of practice. He tightened them into fists.
I don't know how, but I'll do it. I'll surpass you, old man. Just watch me.Testing the Edge
By the time Dante was four, his wooden sword was no longer enough. He had outgrown the clumsy piece of wood, its weight and balance inadequate for the techniques he was beginning to develop. He knew it, and so did Mihawk.
One morning, as Dante trained in the courtyard, Mihawk appeared with a new weapon in hand. It was a small but well-crafted blade, sized perfectly for a child but sharp enough to cause real harm if mishandled. The steel glinted in the sunlight, and Dante's heart raced at the sight of it.
"This will be your sword," Mihawk said, handing it to him. "But understand—this is no toy. If you lack discipline, it will cut you down just as easily as it will your enemies."
Dante took the sword, his hands trembling slightly. He felt the weight of it, the balance, the cold steel of the blade. It was perfect.
"Thank you," Dante said quietly, his golden eyes meeting Mihawk's.
Mihawk nodded, his expression unreadable. "Show me what you can do."
Dante didn't need to be told twice. He stepped into his stance, his feet planted firmly, his grip on the hilt steady. He swung the blade through the air, testing its weight and balance. The movements were smoother now, more refined, though still far from perfect.
Mihawk watched silently, his sharp gaze taking in every detail. When Dante finished, he spoke.
"Your stance is solid, but your strikes lack precision," Mihawk said. "A blade is an extension of your will. It must move as naturally as your own hand. Until it does, you're nothing more than a child playing at being a swordsman."
The words stung, but Dante took them to heart. He knew Mihawk's criticism wasn't meant to discourage him—it was a challenge, a push to improve.
From that day on, Dante's training intensified. He practiced tirelessly, his small blade cutting through the air with increasing speed and accuracy.
Rivalry with the Humandrills
By the time Dante turned five, the Humandrills had become his primary sparring partners. These creatures were no ordinary animals; their mimicry of human swordsmanship made them formidable opponents, even for someone as young as Dante.
Each duel was a test of his skill and determination. The Humandrills were relentless, their attacks fast and unpredictable. But Dante was faster. His movements grew sharper, his strikes more deliberate. He learned to read their patterns, to anticipate their moves.
One afternoon, as Dante faced off against a particularly skilled Humandrill, Mihawk watched from a distance. The creature lunged, its blade aimed at Dante's chest. Dante sidestepped, his own sword flashing as he delivered a precise strike to the creature's arm.
The Humandrill howled in pain, retreating into the jungle. Dante stood there, his chest heaving, his blade dripping with sweat and dirt.
Mihawk approached, his arms crossed. "You're improving," he said, his tone neutral. "But don't let it go to your head. You've yet to face a real swordsman."
Dante smirked, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'll get there," he said confidently.
A Glimpse of the Sea
Though Kuraigana Island was his home, Dante often found himself gazing out at the horizon, where the endless blue of the sea stretched beyond his vision. He had heard stories of the Grand Line, of the chaos and adventure that awaited those brave enough to sail its waters.
Mihawk rarely spoke of his own adventures, but when he did, Dante listened intently. He learned of great battles, legendary pirates, and the mysterious treasures hidden across the world.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Dante sat on the castle walls, his legs dangling over the edge. Mihawk joined him, a rare occurrence that caught Dante by surprise.
"Do you know what lies beyond that horizon?" Mihawk asked, his golden eyes fixed on the sea.
"Adventure," Dante replied without hesitation.
Mihawk smirked faintly. "And danger. The world is not kind to the weak, Dante. If you plan to leave this island one day, you must be prepared for what awaits you."
Dante nodded, his resolve unwavering. "I'll be ready."
The First Scar
At six years old, Dante experienced his first real injury in training. It happened during a duel with one of the Humandrills. The creature was faster and more aggressive than the others, its blade striking with precision.
Dante underestimated it, and for a brief moment, he let his guard down. The Humandrill's blade grazed his arm, leaving a shallow but painful cut.
He winced, clutching his arm as blood trickled down. Mihawk, who had been watching from a distance, approached.
"Pain is a good teacher," Mihawk said, his tone cold. "Remember it."
Dante gritted his teeth, nodding. He refused to cry, refused to show weakness. He stood up, his blade trembling in his hand, and faced the Humandrill again. This time, he didn't hold back.
The duel ended with Dante victorious, his blade pressed against the Humandrill's neck.