Chapter Sixty-Seven: Buffon vs. Mihawk

Baggio leapt nimbly, narrowly evading the slash. Yet the green arc did not lose momentum, shooting straight toward the mast behind him. Seeing this, Buffon flashed forward to block the mast, his fingers flickering as sixty-six suture needles shot out in rapid succession. In an instant, a massive black net unfurled before him.

The net caught Mihawk’s slash; though it wasn’t cut apart, it also failed to fully arrest the force of the blow. Unruffled, Buffon calmly cloaked his whole body in Armament Haki, his fighting spirit soaring to its peak. Spreading his arms, he hugged the net to his chest.

Immediately, the force of the slash plummeted, pushing Buffon back step by step until his back nearly touched the mast. Only then did the green arc finally dissipate into nothingness.

Steadying himself, Buffon exhaled a few words under his breath: “Goalkeeper’s Secret Art: Impregnable Fortress!”

Witnessing Buffon block Mihawk’s strike, Reiju—usually so composed—found herself unable to control her expression. She clapped a hand over her cherry lips to stifle a scream, but her estimation of Buffon’s strength soared to new heights.

“To withstand the world’s strongest swordsman’s attack head-on and emerge unscathed… Captain Buffon is a monster. If we add our Vinsmoke battle suits to the mix, then his power…”

She dared not imagine what might come next.

Mihawk had already sheathed his sword, his golden eyes fixed intently on Buffon. His face betrayed little, but inwardly he was astonished, and he now possessed a fundamental understanding of both Baggio and Buffon’s strength.

Especially Buffon—he knew all too well the might of his own strikes. Plenty had dodged them, but those who’d taken them head-on without a scratch were few indeed, worthy of being counted on one hand. And those were legendary men like Red-Haired Shanks. This obscure newcomer possessing such prowess was enough to stir an unfamiliar feeling in Mihawk’s heart.

“So, you’re Casti Buffon? Impressive. It seems Red-Haired’s arm hasn’t been disgraced in your hands,” Hawkeye remarked calmly.

Buffon nodded, then replied lightly, “Since you’ve damaged my ship, shouldn’t you offer some form of compensation?”

He spoke these provocative words not out of arrogance, but because he truly wished to cross swords with Hawkeye in earnest. As the world’s strongest swordsman and foremost of the Seven Warlords, Mihawk’s power was in a different league from the others. In Buffon’s expert view, Hawkeye’s strength was nearly on par with an Admiral.

Of all those present, Vivi was the most shocked by his words. Even as a princess, she would never dare joke with Mihawk in such a manner—not out of deference to status, but out of awe and respect for the world’s greatest swordsman.

But seeing Buffon’s utterly fearless demeanor, Vivi’s mind struggled to comprehend what level of strength was required for such confidence—how powerful must one be to speak so casually, even before Hawkeye Mihawk?

Hawkeye, too, was startled. Those who had spoken to him thus were either dead by his sword or worthy opponents and friends. He could not fathom where Buffon found the courage, but he hoped the man would prove to be a worthy rival.

“Compensation, you say? How about three slashes?” Mihawk replied. Without waiting for an answer, he raised his sword and struck—but this time, there wasn’t even a glimmer of blade light.

The crew wondered—was Mihawk holding back on purpose?

At this, Brook, himself a swordsman and now eighty-eight years old, spoke with rare gravity: “Don’t underestimate this strike. If Buffon can’t stop it, it could cleave the Juventus in two!”

Though Brook described the attack as devastating, no one aboard the Juventus panicked. Even Vivi, who’d only recently met Buffon, was confident that he could withstand it.

Buffon planted his left foot, swung his right high behind, and leaned forward until his body was parallel with the deck. After a brief moment of gathering energy, he launched a powerful kick!

A black, crescent-shaped slash curved through the air toward Mihawk’s invisible attack.

“Goalkeeper’s Secret Art: Long-Range Goal Kick—Curving Ball!” This was a technique Buffon had created himself, blending Navy Six Powers’ Tempest Kick with Armament Haki.

As his words faded, the black crescent slash exploded midair with a thunderous boom, blowing a large hole in the Juventus’s deck. Below, the six bound agents huddled together in terror. Mr. 3, looking up and seeing Mihawk at the edge of the hole, began to tremble, sweat pouring down his face.

“Hawkeye… Mi—Mihawk!” he gasped, only to turn and spot Buffon on the other side. His eyes grew wide, pupils contracting in fear.

In that moment, his terror was mixed with an odd glimmer of relief at having survived. Mr. 5, cowering with him, muttered in a trembling voice, “If he’d gone all out that day, we’d be—air. Nothing left.”

On deck, the rest of the crew were beyond words, unable to find adjectives to describe Buffon.

“Yohohoho! Looks like this time Buffon will have to fix that hole himself!” Brook joked, trying to ease the tension.

Hawkeye was even more shaken. He’d assumed Buffon could only defend—after all, his earlier impossible feat had been a display of defense. He had never expected Buffon to respond with such a forceful attack, and his estimation of the man’s strength rose yet again.

A rare approving smile touched Mihawk’s lips. “Remarkable,” he said.

Then, gripping his black sword with both hands, he bent slightly at the waist, the blade trailing behind his right side. Stepping lightly forward with his left foot, he vanished on the spot.

Buffon moved as well, shrouded in Armament Haki, right fist extended, left foot as the pivot, right foot pushing off—his whole body spinning like a drill, wreathed in a black whirlwind as he charged toward where Mihawk’s afterimage had been.

This was the Goalkeeper’s Secret Art: Spiral Punch, a move he’d once used against Brogy. The difference now was the addition of Armament Haki.

The black whirlwind collided with Mihawk’s afterimage at the center of the gaping hole. Instead of the expected scene of devastation, the two men simply exchanged positions in a blink.

Back to back, neither spoke; the whole ship was silent, only the sound of waves breaking against the hull echoing in everyone’s ears.

Mihawk turned and saw a sword cut in Buffon’s cloak. He nodded slightly, but as he focused his golden eyes, his astonishment grew—the slash had left no blood. His ship-cleaving blow had only torn Buffon’s cloak, failing even to break his defense.

Behind Mihawk, Vivi’s face froze in disbelief; she saw that Mihawk’s own black coat now had a large hole in it as well.

“I’ll remember your name, future great—Casti Buffon,” Mihawk said solemnly.

Buffon turned, replying evenly, “That’s only two slashes. One remains.”

At this, everyone on the ship—including Mihawk—was momentarily stunned. None had expected Buffon to be so exacting. He’d already earned Hawkeye’s praise; why not let it end here?

“Haha, don’t die too soon, Buffon. The seas will be more interesting with an opponent like you,” Mihawk thought to himself. He turned, leapt from the Juventus, and returned to his coffin boat.

“I’ll stake my swordsman’s honor on this final strike!” Mihawk declared. Gripping his black blade, he unleashed his mightiest slash at Buffon, standing by the rail. The force of the blow pushed his coffin boat away from the Juventus, vanishing from sight.

Where the slash passed over the sea, the water parted in a straight line, revealing the ocean floor’s continental shelf. Any sea life unfortunate enough to be in its path was sliced clean through.