Reborn as Mihawk's son-one piece

By the time Ezra turned seven, the ruins of Kuraigana Island were no longer just remnants of a forgotten past. To him, they were a vast playground, a training ground, and a forge where his budding talents were tempered. His father's relentless training sessions had grown more demanding, and his mother's lessons had become increasingly intricate. Yet, amidst the challenges, Ezra felt a sense of exhilaration. Each day brought new opportunities to grow stronger—to carve out his identity in this world.

It was a crisp morning when Mihawk summoned Ezra to a clearing surrounded by the towering Shikkearu trees. The dew on the grass glistened under the soft light of dawn, and the air was alive with the distant hum of cicadas. Mihawk stood in the center, his arms crossed, Yoru resting against a nearby rock. His golden eyes held their usual intensity, but there was an unspoken weight in his gaze today.

"Today marks a new phase in your training," Mihawk said, his deep voice cutting through the stillness. He gestured to a rack of wooden swords lined up neatly beside him. "Choose one."

Ezra's heart raced as he approached the rack. The wooden swords varied in size and weight, each crafted with care. His fingers hovered over them before settling on a sleek, medium-sized blade. It felt balanced, natural in his grasp.

"Good choice," Mihawk said with a faint nod. "From this day forward, your training will not merely be about technique. It will be about understanding the essence of the blade—its weight, its purpose, its soul."

Ezra's golden eyes met his father's, and he nodded resolutely. He tightened his grip on the wooden sword, feeling its grain under his fingers.

"First, show me your form," Mihawk commanded.

Ezra stepped into position, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He raised the sword, mimicking the stances Mihawk had drilled into him over the years. His movements were fluid but deliberate, a testament to his growing confidence. Mihawk observed in silence, his piercing gaze analyzing every shift of Ezra's body.

After several minutes, Mihawk raised a hand to halt him. "Your form is improving. But you rely too much on repetition. A true swordsman must adapt, must anticipate."

Mihawk suddenly moved, faster than Ezra could follow. In an instant, he was behind him, his presence as imposing as a shadow.

"Defend," Mihawk commanded, swinging a wooden sword toward Ezra's side.

Ezra reacted on instinct, spinning to block the strike. The clash of wood against wood echoed through the clearing. Mihawk didn't relent, pressing forward with a series of swift, calculated strikes. Ezra scrambled to keep up, his heart pounding as he parried each blow. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he refused to falter.

"Good," Mihawk said, his strikes slowing. "But not good enough." With a sudden twist, he disarmed Ezra, sending the wooden sword flying from his hands.

Ezra fell to his knees, panting heavily. His chest burned with exertion, but his golden eyes blazed with determination.

"Stand," Mihawk ordered, his tone firm but not unkind. "Defeat is a teacher. Learn from it."

Ezra pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling but steady. He retrieved his wooden sword and faced Mihawk once more. This time, he adjusted his stance, remembering the way his father had moved—fluid, unpredictable.

The sparring resumed, and though Mihawk's strikes were relentless, Ezra began to adapt. He anticipated the feints, countered the faster blows, and even managed to land a few strikes of his own. By the time Mihawk called for a halt, Ezra's body was covered in bruises, but his spirit was unbroken.

Mihawk studied him for a moment before nodding. "You learn quickly. That will serve you well."

Selena appeared at the edge of the clearing, her violet eyes twinkling with pride. She carried a basket of fruits and bread, her presence a welcome balm to Ezra's exhaustion.

"You're pushing him hard, Mihawk," Selena said as she approached. "He's still a child."

"The world will not wait for him to grow up," Mihawk replied. "It is better he learns that now."

Selena sighed but smiled, handing Ezra a piece of fruit. "Don't forget to rest, my little falcon. Even the strongest swordsman needs time to recover."

Ezra took the fruit gratefully, the sweet taste a stark contrast to the bitterness of his earlier defeat. As he sat beside his mother, he couldn't help but glance at Mihawk. His father's stoic demeanor might have intimidated others, but to Ezra, it was a source of inspiration.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ezra sat alone by the edge of the island's cliffs. The ocean stretched endlessly before him, its waves shimmering under the moonlight. He held the wooden sword in his lap, his fingers tracing its surface.

"I'll become stronger," he whispered to himself. "Strong enough to protect what matters."

Unbeknownst to him, Mihawk watched from a distance, his golden eyes glinting in the darkness. He said nothing, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Ezra's journey was only just beginning, but Mihawk had no doubt that his son would one day surpass even his expectations.

Over the next few years, Ezra's training intensified. Mihawk introduced him to real blades, their weight and sharpness a stark reminder of the stakes involved. Selena, ever the nurturing force, balanced the harshness of his training with lessons in strategy, history, and navigation. She often quizzed him on the maps she'd drawn, challenging him to plot routes and identify potential dangers.

Ezra thrived under their combined guidance. By the age of ten, he could hold his own against Mihawk in sparring matches, though he had yet to win. His reflexes were sharper, his movements more refined. But what set him apart was his innate adaptability—a trait that Mihawk himself had begun to admire.

One fateful day, Mihawk presented Ezra with a gift. It was a sword, smaller than Yoru but crafted with the same meticulous care. Its blade gleamed in the sunlight, its hilt wrapped in fine leather.

"This is yours," Mihawk said, handing the weapon to Ezra. "A blade is more than a tool. It is an extension of yourself. Treat it as such."

Ezra took the sword with reverence, his golden eyes wide with awe. He felt its weight, its balance, and a sense of connection he couldn't quite explain.

"Thank you, Father," he said, bowing deeply.

Mihawk placed a hand on his shoulder. "Your journey is your own, Ezra. This blade will guide you, but it is your will that will define your path."

As Ezra held the sword, he felt a surge of determination. The world beyond Kuraigana Island was vast and filled with challenges, but he was ready to face them. With his parents' guidance and his own resolve, he would carve out his destiny—one strike at a time.