Chapter Text
A sword. Becoming a swordsman—this has always been my dream, my passion, my ambition, the very reason I live. It’s such a simple goal, yet I never imagined how complicated it would be to achieve. I often thought it was just about strength, technique, and unwavering resolve. But as time passed, I came to realize that it involved far more than that—it involved vulnerability, it involved what I treasured, what I loved, and the things I never expected to value. It was not just about wielding the sword, but understanding its weight, its responsibility, and the deeper connection it could create.
People call me the Strongest Swordsman in the World, but the truth is, I never sought that title. To me, strength has always been just a means to an end—a tool, not the end itself. The title of “strongest” never held significance for me. What mattered was that my path as a swordsman remained true, that I could live according to my own terms and honor the sword in my way. As long as that was achievable, I was content. But, I suppose the world has its own ideas about what it means to be strong, and often, those ideas have little to do with what one truly seeks.
However, I never expected to meet someone—or rather, someone —who would unexpectedly weave themselves into my path in a way I never imagined. This person has become my treasure, my weakness, my anchor, and in some ways, the embodiment of everything I’ve sought in my way as a swordsman. This wasn’t a challenge I had foreseen. It wasn’t about swords or skill, but about something deeper—something that would test not just my strength but my heart.
It all started when I was a child, just 10 years old. I was practicing with wooden swords, immersed in my training, when a red-haired boy, no older than six, came up to me, eyes full of determination. Shanks. He challenged me to a duel. At the time, I thought, "He’s just a child. There’s no harm in humoring him." But to my surprise, he wasn’t bad. In fact, he was good—remarkably good for his age. There was something in the way he moved, in the way he held his sword with such earnestness. I could see it—if he grew stronger, if he matured, he could become my rival one day.
But that’s when I noticed someone else. Someone sitting quietly off to the side, watching me. A figure I hadn’t seen before, but someone who looked strikingly like Shanks. Yet, this person... was different. More delicate. More ethereal. He was like a softer, prettier version of Shanks. His features were slender, his frame smaller, almost fragile. There was a grace to him that Shanks didn’t have. He looked... like a dream made real. A vision of someone untouchable, beautiful in a way that words could barely capture. Shanks introduced him as Shamrock, his elder twin.
To my surprise, Shamrock was intersex. It made sense, in a way. His ethereal beauty, the delicate nature about him, everything fit. He was a mystery I hadn’t expected, and yet, he was intriguing in a way I couldn’t quite place.
I couldn’t help but watch him, captivated by the quiet elegance he exuded. But when he realized I was looking at him, he quickly hid behind a tree. Was he... shy? It was a curious reaction, one that intrigued me further.
As time passed, I learned more about Shamrock—his full name was Figarland Emrose Shamrock. I thought his name was as beautiful as he was. "Emrose" in particular stood out to me. It was soft, yet strong, just like him. It seemed to suit him in ways that words couldn’t explain. I found myself thinking about him more than I anticipated.
One day, I decided to call him "Rose." It felt natural, like the name was meant for him. When I addressed him, he blinked in surprise. "You call me...?" he asked, hesitant. I simply replied, "Can I call you Rose? It suits you."
He blushed, a soft pink spreading across his cheeks, and shyly responded, "Yes." There was something about the way he said it—so innocent, so open—that made my heart unexpectedly tighten. It was strange. I had never felt such a soft pull toward someone before.
At first, I didn’t understand why Shamrock seemed so shy around me. He’d blush every time I spoke to him, his eyes avoiding mine when I looked at him. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but then Shanks casually mentioned something to me—Shamrock had a crush on me. A crush? So that was it. That’s why he got so flustered.
Honestly, I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help feeling a little smug. The thought that someone like him, someone so delicate and ethereal, liked me, it stirred something inside me. But at the same time, I started feeling a sense of protectiveness toward him. There was something fragile about him, something I couldn’t quite place. It was as if his heart was as delicate as the rest of him, and I wanted to keep it safe.
Shamrock started following me around more, watching me practice swordsmanship with Shanks. He was always there, observing with those wide eyes of his. It became a part of my routine. I began to teach him the basics of swordsmanship—stances, movements, the flow of a blade. Every now and then, he’d ask questions, and I’d take the time to answer, though I could tell he wasn’t as invested in the technicalities as I was. He was just fascinated by the sword, the way it moved, the way it felt.
When he scraped his knee during one of his attempts at training, I couldn’t help but bandage it for him. When he was sick, I made him soup. I never expected to take on the role of caretaker, yet there I was, doing all these things without a second thought. Somehow, I was acting more like a caring older brother or mentor than a swordsman. And he... he seemed to appreciate it. But more than that, I noticed how his eyes would light up every time I did something he thought was “cool.” It was endearing in a way I hadn’t expected.
It became clear that, to Shamrock, everything I did seemed to hold some sort of charm. It was a little amusing. His puppy crush was cute in its own way. But there was something deeper there too—a connection that went beyond mere admiration. It was as if, in his eyes, I could do no wrong.
One day, unable to contain my curiosity, I asked him, “Why do you like me?” His response was soft, almost shy, “You look cool, even when you lose.”
I blinked, caught off guard. Was that a compliment? I wasn’t sure how to take it. "Does looking cooler matter more than winning or losing?" I asked.
He hesitated, then answered with a soft smile, “You’re already cool without doing anything. You’re even cooler when you spar with swords. But I think... you’re just cool, no matter what.”
And with that, he ran off, disappearing into the distance. I stood there for a moment, staring after him, amusement tugging at my lips. What he said, it lingered in my mind. Somehow, it touched something deep inside me. He liked me, no matter whether I won or lost, no matter if I was the strongest swordsman or not. He liked me for who I was.
It was then that I realized—it wasn’t about the sword. It was never just about the sword. It was about connection, about the people who stepped into your life and made you see the world in ways you never had before. And Shamrock, in his quiet, innocent way, had done just that. He had become my treasure, my weakness, my strength.
Shamrock never stopped having that puppy crush on me.
Not even now.
Time passed faster than I expected. One day we were just boys chasing dreams with wooden swords, and then suddenly, Shamrock and Shanks turned fifteen. And I was nineteen—still young, but already beginning to see the world in ways I hadn’t before.
Shamrock… he was always there. Always trailing behind me with soft footsteps, never demanding attention, yet always present. He was quiet, graceful—elegant in a way most people couldn’t even fake, let alone possess naturally. He resembled Shanks, of course—they’re twins, after all—but Shamrock was a softer, more delicate mirror. Where Shanks had fire, Shamrock had moonlight. More slender, more still. Ethereal. Like he didn’t quite belong in the same world the rest of us walked through.
And he always blushed around me. Always.
Since we were kids, his cheeks would flush the moment I so much as looked at him too long. A brush of our fingers, a stray compliment, a shared drink—he’d turn red, eyes darting away, but never quite able to hide how much he adored me. He never denied it. Never tried to pretend otherwise. Shamrock was honest in a way I couldn’t be, not even with myself.
At first, I thought it was harmless. A quiet little affection that would pass with time. Something sweet but small. He was just a kid, after all. A delicate thing chasing after the shadow of someone older, stronger, unreachable.
But then... something shifted.
I didn’t notice it at first. It was subtle—like the seasons changing. One day, he was still that soft-spoken boy with starry eyes and trembling hands. Then the next, I looked at him and something in my chest stirred.
He wasn’t a boy anymore.
His shoulders had straightened. His eyes had grown steadier, though they still sparkled whenever they met mine. His beauty had sharpened—still graceful, still blush-prone, but now there was a quiet confidence in him, something alluring. Something that made me pause.
I told myself it was nothing. I kept things as they were, as they had always been. I taught him sword forms, watched him move with increasing precision, answered his questions with a calm voice even when my thoughts were anything but.
But over the next two years—sixteen, then seventeen—I felt it more and more. A pull. A tension that quietly settled in my chest every time he was near. I watched him too long. My thoughts lingered where they shouldn’t. I caught myself wanting to say things I had no right to say.
Still, I did nothing. I kept my distance. I maintained control.
But when I was alone, I questioned myself. Again and again.
What is this?
Why does the thought of him follow me everywhere, like a haunting melody I can’t stop hearing? Why does the sound of his laughter feel like it wraps around something in me I didn’t know could feel warm?
Why does thinking about Shamrock feel... tender?
I’m not made for soft things. My path has always been sharp, singular, and steeped in solitude. Swords, strength, survival. That’s what I knew. That’s what I chose.
So why, of all things, was it Shamrock —blushing, bashful, beautiful Shamrock—who lingered in my mind?
Had I fallen for him? Was that what this was?
I tried to dismiss it. Rationalize it. Bury it. But none of it worked. The truth sat quietly in the corner of my heart, refusing to leave.
Eventually, I stopped fighting it.
I know what this is.
I want him. Not as some distant admirer or boy with a crush. I want him as a man. As someone precious. As someone I desire—gently, deeply, irrevocably.
I want to be the one who holds him when his elegance falters. The one who knows the weight beneath his quiet, the strength behind his softness.
But not yet.
He’s not fully grown. Not yet. And I will not stain something so pure by reaching too soon.
So I’ve made my decision.
Once Shamrock becomes an adult—when he’s ready, when the time is right—I’ll pursue him. With no more restraint. No more hesitation. No more lies.
Just the truth.
He is mine. He always was. I just needed time to realize it.
Growing up, it was always clear that Shamrock was different. Where others sought swords or adventure, he sought knowledge. He didn’t crave the roar of the battlefield or the rush of victory like his twin, Shanks. No—Shamrock found excitement in diplomacy, in the whispers behind palace walls, in reading between the lines of treaties and trade agreements. Politics fascinated him. Economics, too. Anything that touched the inner workings of kingdoms—he wanted to know it, dissect it, master it.
He spoke less than most, but he observed more. Always watching. Always listening.
It made sense when he told me, one day, that he wanted to become an information broker. A spy, perhaps—one who specialized in political intelligence. He said it with the same calm certainty he always carried, like he had already planned ten steps ahead, and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
He asked me what codename he should use. Something subtle, something that wouldn’t draw suspicion.
I looked at him and said, “Use your middle name—Emrose. It sounds elegant. Mysterious. Just like you.”
He blinked once in surprise, then smiled—soft, pink-cheeked, the way he always did when my words meant more to him than he wanted to show.
And so Emrose was born. Not as a mask, but as an extension of Shamrock’s quiet grace. At eighteen, he began moving through courtrooms and black markets alike, trading in secrets with poise most men twice his age lacked. While others played games, Shamrock learned how to end them before they began.
I was twenty-two then. Still close to him in age—but older, more experienced. I had carved out my place in the world, sword in hand. He was just starting to claim his in the shadows.
And yet, even as his world widened, our orbit stayed tight.
I told him once, “If I help with your tasks, you’ll help with mine in return.” He nodded without hesitation, trusting me completely. Not even a flicker of doubt.
It was strategic, yes. But it was also personal.
I didn’t want a long-distance relationship. I’ve never been a man ruled by sentiment, but I’m not immune to longing. Especially not for him. And with someone like Shamrock—who had looked at me with reverence since he was a child, who blushed every time our eyes met even now—I knew he would say yes to anything I asked. That kind of loyalty is dangerous when left one-sided.
I didn’t want blind devotion. I wanted presence. Proximity. I wanted to keep him close—not just in letters or passing visits, but in the rhythm of daily life. Missions. Movement. Work. I wanted him to depend on me as much as I depended on him.
Because the truth is... Shamrock had always been beautiful.
Even as a child, he had an ethereal quality—light on his feet, soft-spoken, his features fine and flawless. While Shanks had the same face, Shamrock carried it differently. More delicate. More composed. More breathtaking. He didn’t realize how often people stared. How many glances he drew. He was too focused on me—chasing me, mirroring me, longing for a scrap of my approval.
I pretended not to notice. I told myself it was harmless. But now that he’s grown—slender and graceful, still blushing when I’m near, but with a sharper edge beneath the silk—I see what others see. And I know they want him.
They already do.
But I’ve never been one to leave what I want unguarded.
So I stay beside him. Not to smother him, but to make my presence undeniable. I work with him. Walk with him. Share silences with him. I want him to look at me the way he always has—but more than that, I want to earn it now. Not as a boyhood crush, but as a man he chooses.
Because that love he carried since he was small? I won’t let it fade. I won’t let it be replaced. Not when I finally understand that I want it too.
I want him.
And I’ll make sure I never give him a reason to look away.
Between the ages of eighteen and twenty, Shamrock stepped fully into the world he had dreamed of since he was a child. And during that time—when I was twenty-two to twenty-four—we became each other’s shadow. I helped him with his work, and in return, he supported mine. What began as a simple exchange of favors grew into something far more complex, far more significant.
At first, it was strategic—at least, that’s what I told myself. A way to stay close without saying it outright. A way to keep him near without needing to name the ache in my chest every time he left for a mission or slipped into another identity.
But somewhere along the way… something shifted.
Our dynamic evolved. The lines that once clearly defined mentor and student began to blur. The subtle hierarchy that kept us separate started to dissolve, quietly and naturally, until one day I realized it was gone entirely.
Where once there had been a boy trailing behind me with stars in his eyes, there now stood a man who walked beside me—equal, confident, composed. Shamrock still blushed sometimes when we were alone, still wore his affection for me on his sleeve when it had room to breathe—but when we were working, he became someone else entirely.
Focused. Sharp. Strategic in a way that almost startled me.
He didn’t let his emotions interfere—not with the mission, not with the risk, not even with me. He was professional to the core, and watching him move through the world, I began to see all the pieces of him come together: the inquisitive child, the elegant teenager, the brilliant adult.
It was like watching a sunrise in slow motion—quiet and beautiful, until suddenly everything was flooded with light.
I saw how he handled diplomats twice his age, how he anticipated threats before they could form, how he turned whispers into leverage and secrets into power. His mind was a labyrinth, impossible to fully map, and yet I found myself wanting to get lost in it. In him.
He impressed me. Again and again.
And as I stood at his side—no longer above, no longer ahead—I began to realize that I wasn’t just proud of who he had become.
I was captivated by him.
Not the boy who once followed me with wide-eyed devotion, but the man who now stood on his own. A man who challenged me. Matched me. Made me want more than the solitary path I’d always accepted for myself.
It wasn’t just admiration. It wasn’t just history or convenience.
I was falling in love with Shamrock. Truly. Deeply. In a way that felt quieter than desire and more dangerous than affection. In a way that made me think—if I lost him now, I wouldn’t just be losing someone who loved me.
I’d be losing the person I’d come to love more than anyone else.
And that realization... it hit harder than I ever expected.
Because somewhere between strategy and sentiment, between whispered plans and quiet glances, I’d stopped trying to protect his heart—and started surrendering my own.
They officially started dating when Shamrock turned twenty and Mihawk was twenty-four.
It wasn’t marked by some grand event—no dramatic confession under the stars, no sweeping declarations. There was no moment where either of them suddenly realized, this is it . Instead, it happened slowly, steadily. Day by day. Moment by moment. A glance held too long. A hand lingering a second longer than it should. A quiet understanding that grew between them, so natural and inevitable that by the time they gave it a name, it had already been real for some time.
It was the softest transformation—like winter yielding to spring.
And as time passed, I found myself falling more and more in love with Shamrock. Not in the wild, feverish way that often marked young love, but in something deeper. Quieter. Anchored. A love that took root in his bones and refused to let go.
But with that love came something else—something darker.
Fear.
The deeper he fell, the more afraid he became. Not of Shamrock himself, nor of the life they were slowly weaving together—but of the unbearable thought of losing it. Of losing him . It was a thought that dug deep into my chest like a splinter he couldn’t remove.
There were nights when I found himself staring at the ceiling, remembering the past with a strange ache in his heart. Remembering Shamrock as a child—earnest, delicate, eyes bright with adoration. That love had always been so pure, so unshakable, worn openly like a badge of honor. And me, in my youth, had dismissed it as something fleeting. A phase. A crush.
But now? Now I saw it for what it had truly been: the beginning of something vast and enduring. And I couldn’t help but ask myself— Why didn’t I see it sooner?
Why didn’t I recognize it? Why didn’t I reach back?
There was guilt, quietly blooming. Not the kind born from wrongdoing, but from regret. He hadn’t been ready. Hadn’t understood. He had needed time—to grow, to change, to understand what love truly meant. And now that he had it, now that Shamrock was his, I felt a strange grief for all the time they’d lost. For all the moments that could’ve been.
Because now that he knew the weight of Shamrock’s love—how it wrapped around him with such tenderness, how it stayed constant through every storm—he couldn't bear the thought of letting it slip away.
And he knew himself far too well.
I had never needed anyone before. He was sharp edges and cold silences, a man built for solitude, a weapon honed by years of discipline. But Shamrock had unraveled that. Without ever meaning to, Shamrock had carved out a space in my life that no one else could ever fill.
He had ruined him—in the most beautiful, irreversible way.
Now, Shamrock was the reason I woke up and the last thought before he slept. He was my anchor. His peace. His undoing. He had become precious in a way that terrified himself. Not because Shamrock was fragile, but because his love was too rare, too pure, too irreplaceable.
I didn’t want to lose it. Couldn’t afford to.
He feared—irrationally, but sincerely—that if he wasn’t always near, always there , Shamrock’s love might falter. That maybe one day, Shamrock would look up and realize I wasn’t enough. That the years of longing had built an ideal he could never live up to.
So I stayed close.
Not to smother. Not to control.
But to remind Shamrock that his feelings weren’t one-sided anymore. That his love had found a home, a match, a forever.
He made the effort. Every day.
To be there. To make time. To intertwine his world with Shamrock’s—not just because he was afraid of losing him, but because, for the first time in his life, I had something he wanted to hold onto.
And he would never take that for granted.
I often thought to himself: The fear I carry… it’s not just about love. It’s something deeper. Something heavier. Something that feels like a lifetime sentence—quiet, invisible, and inescapable.
And maybe it was absurd to others—this constant unease, this low thrum of anxiety buried under layers of iron control. From the outside, he was the epitome of composure: cold steel, silent focus, unshakable will. But beneath all that, in the soft places he rarely let anyone see, there was a different truth.
For him, it made perfect sense. His worldview was forged in the way of the sword—sharp, exacting, and absolute. There was no room for carelessness. Debts were to be repaid in full. Favors returned with precision. Mistakes, no matter how small, were scars that lived forever in the steel. And love—if it was given to you freely—deserved something just as fierce in return. Not a halfhearted offering. Not silence. Not absence. But something whole.
And what haunted him most wasn't the idea of losing Shamrock's love now—but the slow, creeping regret that he hadn’t recognized it back then. That he hadn’t felt it back then. Back when Shamrock was still young and bright-eyed, all fragile heart and relentless devotion. He had watched it from a distance, mistaking it for mere admiration or harmless infatuation. He had seen the fire but hadn’t dared reach into it. And now, years later, he saw it for what it had been all along: real .
Real. Steady. Unwavering. And far too good for someone who hadn’t known how to return it.
He sometimes hated his younger self for that. For being blind. For being closed. For not realizing that Shamrock had already chosen him, long before I even knew what love could mean. And that failure—it wasn’t something he could simply apologize for and walk away. Not in his eyes. Not with his code.
To him, it demanded atonement. A lifetime’s worth.
That’s why he stayed close to Shamrock—always within arm’s reach. Not out of fear that Shamrock would leave, and not because he questioned the love now, but because he still hadn’t forgiven himself for the love he didn’t give then . Every glance, every word, every quiet act of care—each one was an offering. A piece of himself given in the hope that maybe, one day, it would be enough to make up for what he failed to see.
But beneath even that devotion, there was something more primal. A deeper fear that struck closer to the core.
I feared not being loved.
Not just in the way most people did—not a fear of loneliness or rejection—but a fear that the one love he had come to depend on, to build himself around, might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on tight enough. A fear that perhaps some silent flaw in him might someday cause Shamrock’s heart to drift. That even if Shamrock had loved him for years without faltering, something as simple as my past hesitation could one day unravel it all.
Because the truth was, I no longer knew who he was without Shamrock.
Somewhere along the way, Shamrock had become part of him. Not just his partner. Not just the person he loved. But a cornerstone of his being. An anchor. A presence that steadied his breath and kept his blade true. It was almost laughable to him, in a bitter sort of way, how something so soft had become so essential. And yet, it was undeniable.
To lose Shamrock’s love would be like losing his edge—like waking up and finding his sword hand numb, his instincts dulled. It would be losing the calm at the center of the storm. And for a swordsman, clarity was everything. Without it, you were just a man with a blade. Unbalanced. Vulnerable. Weak.
Because swordsmanship wasn’t just about skill or strength. It was about mind . Discipline . Balance . And Shamrock had become his balance. His equilibrium. His stillness before every strike.
His identity had fused with his. Their lives had braided together so tightly that to untangle them now would be to sever something vital. Something irreplaceable.
He didn’t just love Shamrock. He needed him—in a way that made his chest ache and his hand steady all at once.
And that’s what terrified him the most.
Because a sword can be reforged. A skill relearned. A wound endured.
But love, once lost, could become a fracture that never quite heals. Especially a love like this—one that had grown slowly, rooted deep, twining through every part of who I am was now. If it shattered, he wasn’t sure he would survive it.
Not as himself.
And so, he stayed. He showed up. He reached for Shamrock in a thousand small, silent ways. Not because he had to, but because there was no other way to live anymore. His loyalty wasn’t just about devotion—it was about preservation. Of Shamrock. Of their bond. Of himself.
It was a quiet vow, whispered only in the stillness of his heart.
Stay close. Be constant. Give back what was always given.
Not for redemption. Not for pride. But out of love.
A love that once went unanswered. A love that now defined his very soul.
A lifetime of atonement—for a single missed moment.
Because I knew: one crack in the steel can grow if left untended. And he would spend the rest of his life guarding that line, reinforcing it with everything he had—so that it would never break again.
He often thought—if others knew the truth, if they glimpsed even a sliver of what he carried in his chest—they would probably call him soft, or worse, foolish. For what kind of warrior, what kind of swordsman, dares to tie something as delicate, as breakable, as love… to the edge of a blade?
To most, that would be suicide. A fatal misstep. A crack in the steel of discipline.
But I didn’t see it that way.
If anything, he mused in his quiet moments, it’s bold. Bold that I’m still standing—and will always stand—while tethered to something as fragile, as precious, as love.
What others would cut away, he kept close. Not because he was reckless. Not because he was blind. But because love, to him, was not a chain. It was a vow. A vow he carried not with arrogance, but with reverence.
He feared it might one day shatter. That life, cruel as it often was, might strike in ways he could not block. That his strength might falter, his blade might slip, and what he cherished most might be lost. That he might not be enough—never strong enough to protect it, never good enough to keep it.
But he never feared making mistakes. He never feared the long, bitter road of atonement that came after them. He never feared the slow carving of guilt through time.
If love demanded that he walk barefoot over the jagged path of regret, if it asked him to rebuild every ruined piece with his own hands—even if it took his whole life—he would do it.
Without protest. Without hesitation.
He had always known what he wanted. And once I desired something, truly desired it, there was no force in the world that could keep him from reaching it. Not shame. Not pride. Not even the weight of his title.
People often say atonement has no deadline. That redemption is an endless, winding road. But I disagreed. There is a due date, he thought. It’s your death. That’s the final bell. That’s when your time runs out.
And until then, you have a duty to try.
For him, that was enough. As long as he drew breath, he would keep walking that path—toward repair, toward peace. Not peace with the world. Peace with himself.
Most swordsmen would laugh at such notions. They train to sever, to separate, to discipline the self into something cold and unfeeling. Tying love—something that lives, breathes, aches—to their sword? To them, that would be madness. Weakness. A fatal flaw.
Strength, to them, was isolation. Precision without empathy. Mastery without intimacy.
But he was not like most swordsmen.
He did the opposite.
He welcomed love into the core of his discipline. He didn’t hide it in the shadows of his heart. He let it shape him. He let it bleed into his grip, into his form, into every quiet strike and steady stance. He tied his greatest vulnerability to his sword and carried it into every battle.
And he still stood.
Still unbroken. Still sharp. Still enduring.
To him, that wasn’t weakness. That was proof. Proof that true strength isn’t about severing the soul—it’s about shouldering it, in all its imperfect weight, and still standing tall.
Most swordsmen feared that kind of strength. They feared what might happen if that love was lost, or worse—used against them. They feared the pain. The grief. The guilt that might never fade.
They feared the idea of lifelong atonement.
Because in their eyes, atonement was shameful. A wound that never closed. A reminder that they had failed.
They believed that to walk the path of atonement was to stray from greatness. That a man burdened by regret could never lift his sword with purity again.
But I didn’t see it that way.
To him, atonement wasn’t shame—it was sacred. It wasn’t about reclaiming pride or rescuing honor. It was about healing. About making things right. About becoming better than who he had been. About refining not just his swordsmanship—but his soul.
He knew what others didn’t: that greatness isn’t measured in untouched perfection, but in the courage to keep going with all your cracks exposed.
Most would look at a man paying for his mistakes for a lifetime and say, he’ll never be whole again. But I believed that wholeness was not a return to what once was. It was something forged anew. And that forging took time. Years. A lifetime, maybe.
And he had accepted that.
He didn’t need the comfort of closure. He didn’t need a neat ending. He just needed movement. Forward. Always forward.
That’s why he stayed close to Shamrock now. Not to chase the past—but to honor it. To tend to the quiet, painful wound of a love he had once overlooked. A love that had waited patiently through the years. A love that deserved more than silence.
And maybe others would scoff. Maybe they would say a man with guilt in his chest and love in his hands could never be the Greatest Swordsman in the World.
But I didn’t care.
In truth, he never believed that title belonged to him just yet. Not while his heart was still atoning. Not while his path remained unfinished.
No, to him, that title was not a crown to wear in life. It was a judgment passed only at the very end. When the last breath left his body. When the last step of his atonement was taken. When there was no more time left to fix what had been broken.
Only then —when death had claimed him, and no regret remained unaddressed— only then would he have the right to be called the greatest.
Because until that day comes, he will remain what he is now:
A man who fights not just with steel,
But with the full burden—and quiet, aching beauty—of love tied to its edge.
A man who holds his sword like a vow.
And swings it not for glory…
But for redemption.
When Shamrock was 24 and I am 28, Shamrock became accidentally pregnant—an unexpected miracle that neither of them had planned for, but one I welcomed without hesitation.
Shamrock, being intersex, had always been something rare and extraordinary in his eyes. Not because of what made him different, but because of how he carried it—with quiet strength, gentle pride, and a kind of softness that could disarm even the most hardened heart. But this? This moment—this tiny heartbeat forming quietly within Shamrock—made him even more so. Sacred, almost.
I had never been a man overwhelmed by emotion. He lived by precision, calculation, clarity of thought. And yet, that day, when Shamrock gave him the news, something unraveled inside him. He couldn’t quite name it—joy, awe, disbelief, maybe even fear—but it settled in his chest like warmth slowly spreading beneath the ribs. A quiet overwhelm. A storm that didn't rage, but hummed.
He had always loved Shamrock—steadily, fiercely, without the need for dramatic declarations. But now there was something more. Something new, delicate, and luminous. A second heartbeat to guard. One more soul to call his own.
One more treasure.
Not just Shamrock—but their child.
From that moment on, his sword felt heavier—not because he was weaker, but because it carried more. It wasn’t just an extension of his will anymore; it was an extension of his promise. A promise to protect, to endure, to survive.
And as for the title of Greatest Swordsman in the World … he rarely thought about it, and even when others praised him or warned him of nearing it, it barely stirred anything in him. But now, in the wake of such intimate change, it felt even more irrelevant than before.
He was content—more than content—with where he stood. With who he stood beside. With what was growing quietly in their lives like a morning bloom.
Shamrock, of course, couldn’t resist teasing him about it.
“If you don’t start slowing down,” Shamrock had said one evening, resting a hand on his belly with a playful arch of his brow, “you’ll end up claiming that title before the baby is even born.”
Mihawk only scoffed, eyes narrowing with faint amusement.
So annoying, he thought. The title wasn’t a crown—it was a curse. A beacon that called out to every fool with a blade and ego too large to carry. That title meant endless duels, useless confrontations, and empty ambition. It meant less time with Shamrock. Less quiet. Less peace.
Frankly, it sounded exhausting.
Right now, he figured the only person left worth sparring with was Shanks. Everyone else was just noise—empty steel clanging against empty purpose.
And speaking of noise…
Mihawk couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the memory. Shanks had utterly lost his mind the moment he found out he was going to be an uncle.
It was almost pathetic, really. Shamrock and Shanks were twins—born thirty minutes apart, with Shamrock being the elder—but somehow Shanks acted like this news was a personal apocalypse. The color drained from his face, his jaw slackened like he’d just seen a ghost.
“You knocked up Sham?!” Shanks had blurted, aghast, as if I had kicked open the gates of some sacred temple and spat on the altar.
He hadn’t even dignified it with a response. Just stared at him, cold and unimpressed, the way he might regard a fly buzzing too close to his wine.
He couldn’t decide what was more ridiculous: Shanks’ horrified tone or the fact that he kept calling it “getting knocked up.”
Shanks had always been dramatic, but this was a new height.
He paced the room like a caged beast, muttering under his breath, flailing his arms, like someone had told him he was pregnant. Shamrock, for his part, had only raised an eyebrow, clearly used to this level of chaos from his twin.
It amused Mihawk more than he’d admit. Shanks, for all his bluster, wasn’t angry. He was just overwhelmed. Emotional. Protective in that loud, messy, big-hearted way that only Shanks could be.
It was hard to take seriously. But it was also strangely endearing.
I didn’t have many people in his life. Not ones he trusted. Not ones who mattered. But Shanks—despite being loud and idiotic and absolutely infuriating—was someone who stood among the few. A brother-in-law. A sparring partner. One of the rare few who could keep up with my blade and live to laugh about it afterward.
And now, apparently, he was going to be an uncle.
“Get a grip,” Mihawk had finally muttered after a long silence, watching Shanks practically tear his hair out. “You’re not the one giving birth.”
But Shanks only groaned louder. “This is serious! I have to start training! What if the kid ends up stronger than me? What if they ask questions? What if I drop them?!”
I turned away, lips twitching at the corners.
Shanks being Shanks, he thought.