Although Zoro's swordsmanship was razor-sharp and deadly to the untrained eye, Gojo could clearly spot flaw after flaw in every step and strike—tiny openings in his stance, overextension in his swings, unnecessary movements that wasted energy.
If Gojo ever crossed swords seriously with him, he was confident he could subdue Zoro in just a handful of moves using nothing but basic technique.
But noticing a weakness was one thing; fixing it was another.
Gojo had no intention of coaching him.
He wasn't a Straw Hat mentor, and he didn't plan to become one.
Telling them about Haki had been a whim—nothing more than a passing decision. He had run into the "protagonist group," so why not drop a hint, earn a bit of goodwill, and leave it at that?
A small favour now would pay off nicely later.
But babysitting them, moulding them into elite warriors?
That wasn't his problem.
Gojo had his own journey, his own ambitions, and he wasn't about to play guardian angel to anyone.
He leaned back further, enjoying the chaos outside like someone watching a stage play—until the peace shattered.
With a deafening crash, his door splintered inward, exploding into wood shards. A handful of bounty hunters burst through the wreckage, weapons raised and eyes full of murderous intent.
Gojo let out a sigh, almost disappointed.
"Really?" he said flatly. "Why fight me? Go after that three-sword guy outside instead. You might actually walk away alive."
His tone sharpened like a knife's edge.
"But if you choose to fight me…" he tilted his head, a smile tugging beneath the blindfold,
"that's a hundred percent guarantee you're going to die."
As soon as Gojo finished speaking, one of the intruders—a bald brute with an axe—snarled,
"Shut your crap, you bastard!"
He charged straight at Gojo with reckless fury.
Gojo's cheerful expression dropped instantly.
"Tch. You trash really don't have manners."
In the blink of an eye, Gojo vanished from where he stood and reappeared behind the attacker.
A heartbeat later, the bald man's head tumbled cleanly to the floor, rolling once before coming to a stop, while his body remained standing for a moment before collapsing.
Gojo exhaled lightly and moved his arm almost lazily, sword flashing only a handful of times.
By the time the blade clicked back into its sheath, the remaining handful of bounty hunters—four, five, Gojo didn't bother counting—had already fallen to the ground, lifeless as blood began pooling beneath them.
"If you're all that eager to die," Gojo said coldly, "I'll be happy to oblige."
Without wasting another second indoors, he sprinted toward the window, vaulted through it, and twisted midair—landing perfectly with a smooth flip that kicked up a small cloud of dust.
A few women watching from the sidelines froze, eyes sparkling and cheeks heating up.
"Wow…"
Hearts practically floated out of them as they swooned at the sight.
Gojo, of course, didn't spare them a glance.
He slipped back into motion, weaving effortlessly through the crowd of armed bounty hunters like a shadow.
The women might have been dazzled by him—but the men, absolutely not.
Seeing the women fawning over Gojo only made the bounty hunters glare harder, their jealousy burning hotter than any blade they carried.
And to them, Gojo was not a savior.
He was a thorn—no, a spike—driven deep into their pride.
Gojo slipped like mist between the charging bounty hunters, blade glimmering in smooth arcs.
One hunter fell—then another—and with every motion, his sword shone brighter, a cool sky-blue glow rippling along the length of the steel.
Under the moonlight, it almost looked unreal.
This was the first time Gojo had used his supreme-grade sword into a real battle at night.
He had trained with the blade countless nights before, but this was the first time he used it to kill beneath an open sky—its metal glowing sky blue in the moonlight.
Every swing sliced through the air with effortless grace, and to the stunned onlookers, the massacre resembled a dance more than a battle—beautiful, fluid, and utterly terrifying.
Mr. 8 grit his teeth in fury as more of his men dropped like wheat before a scythe.
"Die, you bastard!" he roared.
In a heartbeat, his trademark six massive curls whipped upward, and hidden barrels inside them fired in a furious barrage.
Gunshots cracked through the night as dozens of bullets streaked straight toward Gojo.
But the result was the same as before.
Every bullet froze just inches from Gojo's body—suspended midair as if time itself rejected them—then tinkled uselessly to the ground.
Mr. 8—Igaram—stared in disbelief.
He had assumed Gojo was individually sensing and stopping each bullet with some precise Devil Fruit ability.
His hidden guns were designed to fire nearly simultaneously, giving no time for manual reactions.
There should have been gaps, openings Gojo couldn't cover.
But there were none.
Which meant only one thing—
Gojo wasn't blocking the bullets one by one.
There was some invisible force—something like a field or barrier—completely surrounding him, rejecting every object that dared to approach.
Igaram's jaw clenched tight.
Whatever this power was, it was far beyond anything he had prepared for.
Igaram cursed under his breath.
"Dammit…"
He immediately began backing away.
He knew full well Gojo wouldn't let an attack go unanswered—not with that temper and not with that power.
But retreating meant nothing when the opponent moved faster than sound.
In a flash, Gojo appeared directly in front of him, sword already mid-swing.
The gleaming sky-blue blade carved through the air toward Igaram's neck, ready to separate head from shoulders.
And then—
"STOP! PLEASE STOP!"
A desperate voice rang out.
Gojo halted—barely.
The blade's edge brushed Igaram's skin, slicing a thin, clean line across his neck.
A single bead of blood surfaced, and the displaced wind from the swing whipped Igaram's curled hair loose and wild.
Gojo slowly turned his head toward the source of the cry.
A young woman stood frozen in place, eyes wide and hands trembling.
Miss Wednesday.
Gojo tilted his head slightly, voice calm but edged like steel.
"You better have a good reason for stopping me from killing this man," he said.
"Of course, I'm not obliged to listen to you—but if you're stepping in now…"
A sharp grin tugged at his lips.
"It means you've got a deal to offer. Am I right?"
----
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