Elbaph, New World
"Harald… I am not sure you should do this. No matter what words they speak, they are still outsiders. You cannot truly trust them. And you know well enough the brothers' reputation."
Jarul's voice echoed through the vast stone hall, deep and weathered, like the rumble of mountains shifting. His great hands were folded across his chest, his ancient eyes fixed on the king with quiet urgency. He was perhaps the only living giant who dared address King Harald by name, and Harald allowed it—because Jarul was older than kings, older than dynasties. He had walked the world for nearly four centuries and carried with him the wisdom of ages.
King Harald, broad-shouldered and crowned with braids of silver and gold covering his scars, stood at the foot of the massive stone throne of Aurust's castle. Light from the great firepits licked across the carved walls, casting shadows as large as mountains. The throne itself, sculpted from a single colossal slab of rock, loomed behind him, a relic of a bygone age.
Few knew the truth—that behind it lay a hidden chamber, sealed for centuries, where the giant race's most treasured secrets were kept. Among them rested the devil fruit that Jarul feared to show.
Harald turned to his old companion, his expression stern but not unkind. "I gave them my word. And I do not think he is truly interested in the fruit. He said he came here seeking knowledge, not power—and I believe him. A man like Donquixote Rosinante… I do not think he would resort to lies."
Jarul's jaw tightened. His instincts screamed caution, yet he knew Harald well enough to sense the king's decision was already made. Still, he pressed once more, his voice carrying the weight of centuries: "You are taking a reckless risk, Harald. Tell me why. Why are you so adamant about showing that man what should remain hidden?"
For a long moment, Harald was silent. The flames crackled, and the winds from the high windows whispered through the chamber like distant ghosts. Then Harald's gaze drifted to the throne, as though he were seeing beyond the stone and firelight—into futures unseen.
"Would you believe me," he said slowly, "if I told you that my gut tells me the young man from the Donquixote family might be the one spoken of in our prophecy? The one destined to stand at the precipice of change… the herald of an era of promise and true freedom."
Jarul's eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing. The prophecy—ancient words etched into the collective memory of their people—had long been debated and doubted. That Harald now tied it to a fragile, mortal human shocked even him.
But Harald was not finished. His voice lowered, heavy with something Jarul had rarely heard from his king: resignation. "Do not ask me how or why, old friend. But my heart knows it. When I look at him, I see not the man he is now, but the shadow of what he will become. I see a tide turning, a storm building. And though I may not live to see it with my own eyes, I know he will carry the world to that brink."
Jarul's eyes widened slightly. "Not live to see it…? Harald…"
The king's shoulders sagged, the weight of unspoken truths pressing upon him. He could feel it in his bones—the creeping shadow of his own demise. Whether it was a year away or only months, his end approached.
Giants were long-lived, their lives stretching across centuries like mountains standing against the winds of time. Harald himself had not yet seen even a hundred winters—a youth by giant standards. Yet age was not the only force that claimed their kind. Giants fell to war, to blade, to fire, to fate itself. And in the marrow of his bones, in the quiet thrum of his heart, Harald knew his time was drawing near.
He carried this truth in silence, never uttering it aloud. He would not burden his people with the shadow of their king's end. To them, he was strength unshaken, the unyielding wall that held back the storm. But within, the certainty gnawed at him like an old wound that refused to heal.
At last, he turned his gaze to Jarul, the weight of it heavy as the crown upon his brow. His voice was low, resonant, tinged with the echo of inevitability.
"The gates of Valhalla are calling me, old friend," Harald said, each word like the toll of a distant war drum. "And before I cross that threshold, I would see one thing done. I would build a bridge—something greater than myself—that our people may lean upon when I am no longer there to bear their weight."
Jarul, perceptive as ever, saw the flicker in Harald's eyes. "So that is why…" he murmured. He didn't understand why Harald said what he said, but he didn't want to pry on this particular topic.
Harald nodded, his jaw tightening. "If my time is short, then I must prepare for what comes after. If Rosinante truly is the one who will shape the next era, then we cannot turn him away. To deny him is to deny the world its chance for change."
The throne room grew heavy with silence, the air almost trembling with the weight of prophecy and mortality. Jarul's great fists clenched at his sides, torn between loyalty and dread. "You are gambling with our legacy, Harald," he said at last, voice low.
Harald's lips curved into a grim smile. "All kings gamble, Jarul. Some gamble with armies, others with crowns. I gamble with trust. And my instinct has never failed me."
But as he turned his gaze once more toward the throne, toward the hidden chamber where the fruit lay in eternal darkness, a shadow crossed his face. It was not fear—Harald was too proud for that—but something colder. Acceptance. The acceptance of a man who already felt death's hand brushing against his shoulder.
Rosinante.
A fragile human with a gentle smile, a man carrying the blood of a Celestial Dragon family. And yet, Harald's heart whispered that this man would one day stand at the center of history, caught between darkness and dawn. That he would ignite an era with the strength of his arms alone.
And so, despite Jarul's warnings, Harald knew what he must do. He would show Rosinante the fruit. He would place trust in a stranger. Because perhaps, in doing so, he would help plant the seed of a new age—an age he himself would never live to see.
The vast silence of the throne room lingered, broken only by the whisper of wind slipping through the high, vaulted windows. The weight of Harald's words still hung in the air when the heavy doors at the far end creaked open. A massive figure stepped inside—a giant clad in burnished armor, his beard crusted with frost, his eyes sharp with discipline. He fell to one knee, lowering his head before his king.
"My liege," the guard's voice boomed, echoing against the carved stone pillars, "your guest has arrived."
For a long moment, Harald said nothing. His gaze drifted from the kneeling guard to Jarul, the oldest among them, the only one allowed to stand at his side without bowing. Jarul's face was hard as granite, his eyes narrowed beneath the heavy ridges of his brow. He studied Harald in silence before turning to the guard.
"Let him in," Jarul commanded, his voice like the grinding of glaciers. "But hear me well—seal the castle. Close every gate, bar every hall, and set a guard at each tower. No one enters, no one leaves, until the king says otherwise."
The armored giant hesitated, his eyes flickering between the warrior elder and his king, uncertain if the order should be obeyed. Jarul's authority was vast, but he was not the crown. It was Harald who ended the silence. The king lifted his great hand, its weight as steady and certain as the mountains themselves.
"You heard the Elder," Harald said, his voice carrying a finality that brooked no question. "The walls of this castle will be iron and stone until I declare them open again. Carry out his command."
At once, the guard struck his chest with a closed fist, the clang of steel ringing through the hall. "By your will, my king." Rising to his feet, he turned and strode out, the echo of his footsteps fading into the labyrinthine halls of the palace. Already, the sound of horns could be heard outside, the signal for the gates to be sealed and the fortress made fast.
Jarul exhaled slowly, his expression unchanging, though there was something deeper in his eyes—an unspoken acknowledgment that what was about to transpire must remain hidden from the world. Secrets such as this could shift the course of history, and neither Harald nor Jarul would allow prying eyes to interfere.
The throne room settled once more into stillness, though now it thrummed with anticipation, the air thick as if the stone walls themselves were holding their breath. And then, the doors opened again.
Harald's chest still heaved faintly from the wound I had reopened, but slowly—deliberately—he mastered himself. His vast shoulders settled, the fury in his eyes dimming into something colder, heavier. A king's composure returned to him, though the shadows of his shame lingered in silence behind his gaze.
"Well," I said softly, a mocking lilt in my tone as I stepped forward, boots clicking against the stone. "That's in the past, isn't it? No use dragging old ghosts into the firelight. So I suppose there's no point in talking about the matter any further… is there, King Harald?"
The flames in the central pit crackled as I walked past, my figure dwarfed by its glow. The heat washed against me as I approached the massive stone steps that climbed toward the throne. But before I could ascend, steel sang.
Shhhk—!
Jarul's colossal blade screeched against its sheath as he drew it, the edge gleaming like a crescent of silver moonlight. In one fluid motion, the ancient warrior lowered it before me, obstructing my path with a wall of sharpened death.
"Where do you think you are going, young man…?" Jarul's voice was sharp as shattered ice, but beneath it hummed a low note of caution. A warrior's instinct told him what his eyes already saw—that the man before him, small as he was, bore the weight of a monster.
I tilted my head, unfazed, my lips curving into a chuckle. "Isn't that where the secret chamber lies? Behind that stone throne of yours?"
The words fell into the chamber like a thunderclap. Both Harald and Jarul froze. Their colossal frames stiffened, their expressions locked in disbelief. Even among giants, only a select few had ever known the truth—that a chamber lay hidden within the heart of the throne itself. It was knowledge preserved through bloodlines and vows, whispered only in sacred trust. For a stranger to speak it aloud was unthinkable.
And yet, I had.
I stepped lightly against the edge of Jarul's sword and with a casual motion pushed the massive blade aside. For an instant, the ancient steel quivered in my wake.
"So," I asked smoothly, turning my gaze to Harald, "are we going in?"
For a heartbeat, silence lingered. Then Harald's grim features softened into a faint nod. He turned toward Jarul and gestured for the old warrior to join us.
But Jarul shook his head. His heavy footsteps echoed as he turned, planting the tip of his massive sword into the stone with a resonant clang. Then, with his back to the throne, he crossed his arms over the hilt and stood tall—a sentinel against all who would trespass.
He had been entrusted with knowledge, yes. But the fruit itself—the legacy hidden within—was bound to the royal bloodline alone. That was the line he would never cross. To guard was his oath, not to partake.
Harald's eyes lingered on him for a moment, then he gave a small nod of respect. Turning back, the king strode to the throne. His fingers, thick as branches of oak, sought out the hidden crevice at its base. From his belt, he drew forth an iron key—ancient, heavy, its surface etched with runes that glowed faintly in the firelight.
The sound of metal sliding into stone echoed through the chamber.
Click.
The throne groaned, a deep rumble reverberating beneath the floor. Mechanisms dormant for centuries stirred to life, their hidden gears and levers shifting with eerie precision. The craftsmanship of the ancients was flawless; no rust marred their secrets, no dust dulled their purpose.
Harald placed his enormous hands against the throne's side, veins bulging across his forearms as he braced himself. Even for him—a king among giants—the throne demanded every ounce of his colossal strength. The stone, carved from a single block that weighed as much as mountains, resisted his might with stubborn defiance.
His teeth clenched. His muscles strained. The throne began to shift—slowly, heavily. And then, I stepped forward.
"Let me."
Harald turned, his brow furrowing. But before he could object, I moved to the base of the throne. My hands, small against its vast surface, pressed against the cold stone. The firelight caught the lines of my form, casting long shadows across the wall.
I exhaled once. And then I pushed.
The earth itself seemed to tremble. Stone groaned like thunder. The massive throne, a weight even giants strained against, shifted under my palms as though it were nothing more than driftwood. Dust cascaded from the ceiling as the impossible unfolded before their eyes.
Harald's gaze widened. Even Jarul, who stood with his back turned, felt the vibration and turned his head, his ancient eyes narrowing in disbelief. In that moment, Harald understood. It was no wonder that Loki had been defeated. No wonder that this man, so small in stature, carried with him a weight of legend.
The throne slid aside with a final, echoing crash, revealing the dark passage yawning beyond.
And as silence reclaimed the hall, all that remained was the sound of my calm, steady breath.
King Harald reached to the wall and took down the ancient torch that had hung untouched for centuries. The flint struck, its flame hissed as it met the cold air, casting long, wavering shadows across the rough stone. With a solemn gesture, he beckoned me to follow.
We stepped into the corridor—dark, silent, untouched by time. The air was thick, unmoving, carrying the weight of centuries in its stillness. Even Harald, king of giants, moved with a rare caution, his massive steps echoing like distant drums. Though he knew of the secret chamber, this was the first time he had set foot within it. And he felt it, too—the weight of history pressing down upon us, the unseen eyes of generations past watching from the shadows.
The torchlight licked across walls carved with impossible precision, the stone polished and fitted with such mastery it seemed less like the work of chisels and more like the sculpting of gods. This was no ordinary passage. It was a vault built within the very heart of the mountain that held Aurust Castle upon its back. Every inch spoke of a craftsmanship meant to outlast empires.
At last, the corridor widened into a vast cavernous chamber. The firelight spilled outward—and I stopped in my tracks.
My breath caught, even Harald's eyes widened. Before us stretched a treasure hoard unlike anything I had ever seen, a sight to humble even kings. It was no mere heap of gold and silver, though there was enough here to drown nations in wealth. No—this was a hall of war spoils, the accumulated trophies of giants who had raided, conquered, and stood unchallenged for millennia.
Mountains of coins and gemstones gleamed in the fire's glow. Ancient tomes, their bindings cracked but still humming faintly with hidden knowledge, were stacked in careful rows. Relics—strange devices of glass and steel, fragments of lost monuments, shattered crowns—littered the chamber like bones of forgotten ages. Some, I suspected, carried the breath of the Ancient Kingdom itself.
But it was the weapons that drew me.
An arsenal lined the walls—swords, spears, axes, shields, each one radiating its own story, its own spirit. They were no ordinary armaments. My observation haki washed over them, and I felt it immediately. Power. Hunger. Malevolence.
One presence in particular screamed into my mind, like a beast rattling against its chains.
A cursed blade.
Its aura tore at me the moment my senses brushed against it, its malicious will clawing for my spirit, desperate for release. The darkness it exuded was suffocating, a tide of bloodlust that threatened to consume everything it touched. It lunged at me, raw and unrestrained.
And then—
Shusui roared.
The black blade at my side trembled in its scabbard, a soundless thunder reverberating through the chamber. Its spirit erupted outward in a tide of overwhelming haki, meeting the cursed blade's hunger head-on.
The vault shook. Dust rained down from the ceiling as two wills clashed in the unseen realm of steel and spirit. The cursed blade screamed, its malice lashing wildly, striking like a thousand claws. But Shusui stood unbending, its voice a deep, resonant growl that cut through the chaos. With ruthless precision, it crushed the other's defiance, pressing its dominance down like a mountain smothering a flame.
The cursed blade shuddered. Its hunger faltered. In the silence of spirit, it knelt.
I exhaled slowly, my lips curving. "That's one powerful cursed blade, King Harald…" My voice carried both amusement and respect.
Harald's massive brow furrowed, his torchlight catching the awe in his eyes. Even he had not known such weapons lay hidden in his ancestors' vault. And this was but one—an arsenal of blades with spirits still snarling in silence, each one a relic of warriors who had fallen before the might of giants.
"The giants of old," I continued, stepping forward, my gaze drawn inexorably toward the pile of weapons where the cursed meitō rested, "must have been truly fearsome if they could best men strong enough to wield such weapons. To bring them back as trophies, as if they were nothing more than spoils of war… Don't you agree, King Harald?"
The torchlight flickered across his face, and I saw it. For a heartbeat, even Harald's ancient blood stirred. The fire of his forefathers, the legacy of an age when giants strode across the world as gods, rumbled within him. The vault itself seemed to whisper to him—to remember, to awaken, to claim what had been their birthright.
And I walked on, my steps echoing as I drew closer to the cursed blade. Shusui's aura hummed at my side, not in warning, but in anticipation.
Just as I drew near the rack where the human-sized weapons lay piled in chaotic heaps—the cursed blade's aura still whispering temptations from within—Harald's voice cut through the air.
"Rosinante… there!"
His tone was low, reverent, almost trembling. I followed his gaze. At first, I had missed it, just as he had. My attention had been swallowed by the weapons' sinister chorus, their dark hunger calling like sirens. But then I saw it.
Amidst the towering altars built for giants—monolithic slabs of stone carved to house relics too vast for mortal hands—there was one… smaller. Human-sized. It was arranged deliberately at the very heart of the chamber, its modest proportions cloaked by the grandeur around it. Yet once noticed, it drew the eye as if the entire vault had been constructed to point toward it.
Upon it sat a single chest. Ornate. Ancient. And alive. The moment my gaze fell upon it, my Voice of All Things resonated violently. The world itself seemed to lean toward that altar. The whispers of history that danced across the weapons, the tomes, the treasures—all of them fell silent, dimmed to nothing before the brilliance of the chest. Each artifact became no more than dust motes before the sun.
I felt it immediately: something inside already knew of our presence. The chest, or rather what it held, was aware. Watching. Waiting.
Harald's massive form shifted unconsciously, drawn like a moth to flame. For a king who had seen battle, blood, and centuries of history, the sight of him now—his face softened, his stride hesitant—was a revelation. He stopped before the altar, towering over it, yet seeming so small in that moment. His hand did not reach forward. Instead, his eyes grew distant, and tears—tears he himself did not notice—slipped down his weathered cheeks.
Something ancient stirred within his blood. Something tied not to him alone, but to the very soul of the giant race.
I moved to his side, then stepped forward until I stood before the altar. The chest pulsed in my haki like a heart, patient and inevitable. Yet still I paused. My hand hovered inches from the latch. Slowly, I turned my head back to King Harald.
His massive shoulders shook as if caught between reverence and grief. But when my eyes met his, he gave a single, heavy nod. Permission. No—more than that. A plea. He wanted to see it too.
Click.
The latch yielded with a whisper, the chest opening as though it had been waiting for centuries—waiting to be born upon this world once more.
Nestled inside was a devil fruit unlike any other. Its surface rippled with impossible geometry, curling shapes etched with patterns that seemed to shift like starlight when the torchlight touched them. The vault trembled with its silent authority, the weight of destiny itself condensed into a single form.
And yet… it did not resist me. No malevolence lashed out, no struggle for escape. Instead, I felt its awareness. The fruit recognized me instantly, not as an enemy or a rival, but as something akin to kin. It acknowledged me. Accepted me. And in that very acceptance, I understood—this power was not mine to claim.
A low chuckle slipped from my lips as I closed the chest gently.
"So you've been waiting… waiting for him to come back and claim you once more, but you don't have to wait long now; you will find him soon."
The air shifted as I stepped back, the fruit's quiet pulse still radiating through the chamber, a beacon of untold change yet to come.
I needed no such gift. I already carried the will of a god, and with it, a burden no other fruit could compare to. This treasure was meant for another—someone whose moment had yet to arrive.
King Harald's massive frame loomed over me, his expression torn between awe and sorrow. For him, the fruit was the culmination of centuries of sacrifice, the sacred legacy of his people. For me, it was a glimpse into the tide of destiny itself.
And though neither of us spoke it aloud, both of us knew: this fruit would one day set the world aflame.