The first thing Zoro noticed was that nothing hurt anymore.
The second one was that he was dead. Fuck it.
He had known for sometime--about twenty-five years--that things would end that way. He was actually quite surprised it had taken this long, but one couldn't hold on to the title of World's Strongest Swordsman forever. It was bound to attract attention, the kind of attention which came with sharp swords and strong challenges. Mostly. Some of the challenges were not too strong, barely enough to merit the nap time wasted on them.
He wasn't unhappy about the result; he had certainly outlived that prick Mihawk and held on to the title for longer.
There were things he was going to miss: his dojo, the visits from his friends and screwing the Cook into the first available surface--but there was nothing he could about it now, he just needed to wait, his nakama would be arriving sooner or later to the afterlife and they could go hunt down the Devil together.
Another big adventure.
One which would start sooner than he thought if that bloody Cook didn't stay put. What the fuck was the moron doing challenging--no, not challenging, attacking--the Recently-Crowned-Strongest Swordsman? The Cook wasn't a swordsman, he didn't need the title.
It was nothing short of suicide, the bastard wasn't as young anymore and the other guy had two swords and knew how to use them.
He didn't know how to counter those kicks, apparently. Zoro blinked with unsubstantial eyelids, his also unsubstantial eyebrows trying to crawl up his mostly unsubstan--fuck it! Enough with the ghost crap--his brows crawling up his forehead.
He winced when one desperation-fuelled kick connected with the swordsman middle, sending him sprawling on to the ground. Zoro might have lost but he had dealt enough damage and suffered enough of those mule kicks to know the result of that fight wasn't clear.
The swordsman seemed to have reached the same conclusion. Poor bastard. Another kick, this one aimed at the jaw drove home the unfairness of life. Zoro felt bad for the guy when he heard the nasty noise of a neck snapping: it figures, reach a life goal only to have it ripped to shreds by a middle aged cook in the next five minutes. Pathetic.
Zoro was still laughing when realization hit him.
That meant Sanji was now The World's Strongest Swordsman, and he wasn't even one.
He was glad he was dead.
The bastard Cook would never let him live it down.