Elbaph, New World
The sky over Elbaph was painted with hues of molten gold and crimson as the sun began its slow descent beyond the horizon. The sea shimmered with reflected fire, waves lapping gently against the massive wooden pylons of the pier.
There, towering over the ocean, the Leviathan—our ship, our fortress, our pride—rested at anchor, her hold already brimming with priceless tomes and scrolls, knowledge gathered from every corner of the giant's libraries.
King Harald stood at the edge of the pier, his immense frame bathed in the dying light of the day. His presence was as imposing as the mountains behind him, yet there was a softness in his gaze—a king sending off guests, allies, and perhaps friends.
"Have you gotten everything you came for…?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder, steady and solemn, carrying the weight of both duty and concern.
I glanced at the dozens of wagons being unloaded, each filled with carefully packed books, records, and tomes referencing the Gallelia tribe—knowledge I had sought so desperately. Crewmen moved with precision, guiding the giants' workers as the last of the precious cargo was stowed aboard.
"Well," I said, adjusting the feathered brim of my coat as I gestured toward the mountain of crates, "I did manage to secure a copy of every document with even a passing mention of the Gallelia tribe. So yes, I'd say that's about what I came here for."
I offered Harald a faint smile, though my mind was already turning toward the journey ahead.
Not far behind, an emotional scene unfolded. Dora—strong-willed, stubborn, and endlessly spirited—was crumbling under the weight of parting. She sobbed uncontrollably, her face red and wet with tears as she clung to her mother, Ida. Dora had to kneel down to meet her at eye level. Ida's hands rested firmly on Dora's shoulders, her expression a mix of sternness and tenderness.
"Listen to me carefully," Ida said, her tone commanding yet laced with affection. "You're leaving the home that raised you. Out there, the world won't treat you kindly, Dora. Promise me you'll eat properly. No skipping meals, no surviving on junk food just because you like them."
"I-I will…" Dora stammered between hiccupped sobs, her voice muffled against Ida's chest.
"And don't you dare cause trouble for others," Ida continued, tightening her grip as if to press the lesson directly into Dora's heart. "I know your temper. I know how reckless you can be. You must learn restraint. Trouble has a way of multiplying in the outside world."
"But I—"
"No excuses." Ida's eyes narrowed, her voice sharper now. "Respect those you travel with. Lean on them when you must. And call home. Every week, without fail. Do you understand? I expect a letter, even if it's only a few lines once a month. If you neglect this, I'll march across the seas to Dressrosa myself and drag you back here."
That threat, though exaggerated, broke through Dora's sorrow for just a heartbeat. She let out a choked laugh, tears streaming down her cheeks, before burying her face once more in Ida's embrace. The older giantess brushed the girl's hair back and sighed, whispering so softly I almost didn't hear it.
"Grow strong, child. Stronger than any giant ever was. But never forget who you are, or where you came from. Elbaph will always be your home."
The farewell was raw, tender, and heavy with love. Watching them, I realized this wasn't just a goodbye—it was a passing of torches, a motherly figure entrusting her ward to a future she could neither shape nor protect.
When at last Dora pulled away, her eyes were red, her cheeks wet, but her spirit unbroken. Hanging from her hips were the twin giant axes that Harald had personally bestowed upon her—relics from the vaults of Elbaph, weapons once wielded by ancestors who had carved their legends into history. They seemed a bit oversized even for her, yet she wore them with pride, their weight a constant reminder of the responsibility she carried.
Harald's gaze shifted from Dora back to me. "And Rosinante, thank you," he said, his tone sincere and solemn. "Thank you for opening your families trade routes to the giants. This will help us establish better relations with the other nations. It means more than you know."
I inclined my head. "It is a mutually beneficial path, Your Majesty. The Donquixote family gains much in forging ties with Elbaph."
For a moment, Harald hesitated, his great hands tightening around the hilt of his axe before he spoke again.
"Rosinante… if possible, I ask you not to disclose anything regarding the devil fruit we discussed. It is a matter of great importance to us giants."
I met his gaze without flinching. "Rest assured, King Harald. Not a soul will hear of it from me. But you must be cautious. You are as aware as I am—the World Government has already set its eyes on Elbaph. A crisis is coming, whether you welcome it or not. How you weather that storm will depend entirely on the stance you take against them."
Harald said nothing. The silence between us was thick with unspoken truths. He understood. Perhaps better than anyone. His death, I knew, was fated to come soon, as history itself had already whispered.
My eyes drifted toward the tavern nearby. Loki stood there, shoulders slumped, watching us with an expression I could only describe as hollow. The duel he had lost still weighed on him. For a giant raised to believe strength was absolute, defeat was a bitter poison. The reality of his limitations had struck hard.
"He has the potential to become the greatest giant to ever walk Elbaph," I murmured aloud, almost to myself. "Perhaps even rivaling the heroes of legend. But only if he learns humility. Without it, he will crumble under trials he cannot yet comprehend."
Harald heard me. The flicker of pride in his eyes was tempered by worry. He knew Loki's reckless nature, perhaps better than anyone. The boy reminded him of himself—wild, untamed, eager to test his strength against the world. But there was more at play.
"Keep him close, King Harald," I cautioned, lowering my voice. "From what I know, the World Government has a particular interest in Loki. They may have already approached him. Perhaps as a candidate for their so-called God's Knights… I am sure, unlike most, you know the truth of what they are and who they serve. They would mold him into a weapon, strip away his will, and wield his strength against the world."
The giant king stiffened, jaw tightening. He understood the danger, though he said nothing. Instead, he gestured to one of his men.
A giant soldier stepped forward carrying what looked, to him, like a regular-sized crate. To me, it towered taller than my own frame. With care, he set it down before me.
"Consider this a token of friendship," Harald said.
Even before the lid was lifted, my Observation Haki told me what lay within. A sinister aura pulsed from inside—a cursed meitō, its presence like a whisper of malice, the same blade that was within their sacred vault.
Alongside it were artifacts of immense value: trinkets from the Ancient Kingdom, eternal logposes pointing to islands long lost to legend, nautical charts penned by the greatest sailors of Elbaph—maps of currents and safe routes through the New World's treacherous seas. No coin could ever measure their worth.
I arched a brow. "You emptied your vaults? Gave away treasures most nations would kill for?"
I gestured at the crate. "Do you realize with this, you could buy the friendship of a dozen kingdoms? Those charts alone could change the balance of power. They're a gold mine for any who possess them."
Harald's laughter boomed across the pier, hearty and unshaken. "Barahahaha! You overestimate the value of these things, Rosinante. Weapons, trinkets, treasures—they pale before what truly matters. A bond forged in trust and mutual respect is worth more than any chart, any blade, any coin. That is the way of Elbaph."
He placed a massive hand over his chest, eyes gleaming with conviction. "The vault's wealth was hoarded for centuries, gathering dust in darkness. It belongs not to kings, but to the people of Elbaph. Better that it be used for their prosperity than rot in some cold tomb. And as for those weapons, many were made for humans, not giants. We have little use for them. But you—perhaps you can put them to better purpose."
The conviction in his words was unshakable, his laughter echoing like rolling thunder across the sea.
In that moment, I understood why the giants followed him so loyally. Not for his strength alone, but for the weight of his heart, the clarity of his ideals. He was a king not of gold, but of honor.
And yet, I also knew the storm looming on the horizon would not care for honor.
"So," I asked quietly, my gaze drifting toward the gangplank where Dora was frantically waving to her giant kin, "were you able to find anything about the matter I asked you to look into, King Harald?"
The girl was already aboard the Leviathan, hauling tiny crates for her own size as if they weighed nothing, making the crew wonder why they had put in so much effort, laughing with the crew as though the weight of farewell had never touched her. But beneath her playfulness, my instincts told me there was more—a story far older and far darker than even she realized.
Harald's face darkened. The lines of age and burden carved into his massive features deepened, his eyes narrowing as though the subject pained him.
"I have searched," he said at last, his voice low and heavy like stones grinding in the depths of the earth. "For years, since the day she appeared at Ida's doorstep. A babe, wrapped in cloth not of Elbaph, left in the dead of night. No name. No message. Only a horn—small then, but unmistakable. The horn of our ancient bloodline."
He paused, his gaze turning to the horizon as though afraid the sea itself might carry away his words. "You know what that means. Blood tied to the first giants… those who stood even before Elbaph's founding. The kind whose names are etched not in books, but in stone and song. And yet… no one knows who brought her. No one has stepped forward to claim her. It is as if she were delivered by the wind itself."
I tilted my head, watching Dora on the deck. She was laughing as she tried to teach two of my men a traditional giant's work song, her voice booming and off-key, her gestures so animated she nearly toppled a stack of tomes. She had already thrown the crew into a half-chaotic, half-joyful state of confusion.
"Well," I murmured, "if we cannot uncover her true family, then so be it. She does not seem troubled by it, and she now has a new family where her past doesn't truly matter."
I meant the words, but they rang hollow in my own ears. My Observation Haki whispered otherwise. There was something dormant in her aura—something vast, coiled, and waiting.
Dora called Loki and Hajrudin her "brothers," and they treated her as kin. But Harald had admitted the truth: she was not of his blood, nor of their line. And yet those horns—curved and proud, sharper than any child's should have been—spoke volumes. They were a mark not even Harald could deny.
My thoughts darkened. If Dora's lineage traced back to the ancient giants, then her existence alone was dangerous. In this world, lineage was both blessing and curse. Blood was a key, and keys had a way of unlocking doors best left shut.
"She plays the fool," I said softly, almost to myself. "But that laughter… it's her shield. Perhaps even from herself. Deep down, she must know she is different. Abandonment doesn't leave a heart untouched, even if the wound is hidden."
Harald's frown deepened. He looked at me then, his great eyes shadowed with something between sorrow and wariness. "You speak truths I would rather not admit. She is beloved here, Rosinante. To us, she is one of Elbaph's daughters. But you are right—the blood in her veins is not ordinary. I fear… when the world learns of it, she will be hunted. As treasure. As weapon."
I exhaled slowly, my eyes never leaving Dora as she swung one of the smaller crewmen over her shoulder like a tiny grape, laughing at his protests. Her joy was infectious, but I could not shake the thought that it was borrowed light—light shining to cover a shadow that lingered behind her.
"The world government would take her if they knew," I muttered. "They have long sought relics of the old bloodlines. She would be twisted into a pawn for their schemes, forced to bear a burden she does not understand. And the pirates… they would come in droves, chasing the power of her heritage like moths to a flame."
The Leviathan's sails creaked above us as the wind caught them. The ship was nearly ready to depart. Dora's laughter rang out once more, and for a moment the heaviness of our words felt almost profane against her carefree joy.
Harald's massive hand gripped the haft of his axe. His voice rumbled low, meant only for me. "If you take her, Rosinante… then protect her. Not only from the world, but from herself. She is strong, yes—but her heart is still a child's. And the blood she carries… it is the kind that can either build or destroy kingdoms."
I nodded, the weight of his words settling deep within me. My gaze lingered on Dora—this girl who carried horns older than nations, a mystery cloaked in laughter and chaos.
"Then let's pray," I said quietly, "that when the truth of her blood comes calling, she will be ready to face it."
The sea breeze carried my words away, mingling with Dora's laughter and the creak of the Leviathan's hull. Somewhere beyond the horizon, fate was already moving its pieces. And Dora—whether she knew it or not—was destined to be at the heart of the storm.
As the last rays of the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the Leviathan's sails unfurled, catching the evening wind. The time to depart had come.
The giants of Elbaph raised their arms in salute, voices rising in a thunderous chorus of farewell that shook the heavens themselves. Dora wiped her tears, gripping her axes with newfound resolve. Ida stood tall, silent but proud. Loki remained in the shadows, his gaze burning with an inner fire yet to be shaped. And Harald—Harald watched us with eyes that seemed to look beyond the present, into a future only he could sense.
"Farewell, Rosinante," he said. "May the bonds we forged here endure longer than the seas themselves."
And with that, we sailed from Elbaph, carrying not only treasure and knowledge, but the weight of promises, warnings, and the fragile hope of a friendship that might one day alter the course of history.
****
The underground cavern stretched wider than any cathedral, its ceiling lost in shadow. Faint, flickering lanterns cast eerie light across the chamber, illuminating veins of black stone that seemed to pulse faintly like some slumbering beast. And in the heart of it all, a titan stood.
The colossal corpse of Oars, the ancient demon giant, loomed within the cavern. Once a rotting husk left battered and broken after Moria's disastrous clash with Kaido, it had now been reborn. Flesh fused seamlessly with steel, sinew reinforced by jagged alloys, bones reinforced with rivets and bolts. His massive ribcage glinted with an inner sheen of metal plating. Tubes and conduits ran like veins, whispering steam, giving the illusion that the monster still drew breath.
It was a grotesque vision of life after death—a half-giant, half-cyborg abomination.
Before this monstrosity stood a man whose very presence was at once flamboyant and unsettling. Dr. Hogback, clad in a pristine white double-breasted suit over an indigo shirt, adjusted the dark blond feathered cape draped around his shoulders.
His hair curled into a neat swirl at his brow. Gold and silver bangles clinked on his wrists, each hand glittering with oversized rings: pearls, rubies, and emeralds, all catching the cavern's torchlight like tiny fires. He looked more like a preening noble than a surgeon.
But it was his eyes—sharp, calculating, alive with obsession—that betrayed the truth of the man.
"What do you think…?" Hogback asked, his lips curling into a theatrical smile as he extended a hand toward Oars' massive, resurrected frame. "Isn't he… marvelous?" His voice trembled with the rapture of a man who believed he had created a masterpiece.
From the shadows, a familiar laugh slithered forward, low and mocking.
"Kishishishi… Truly, Hogback, you've outdone yourself."
The figure that emerged was grotesque in contrast to the flamboyant surgeon. Gecko Moria. His wide, jagged mouth stretched into a grin that seemed to split his face, his body slouched and warped, casting a long, monstrous silhouette against the cavern wall. Once humiliated and left for dead after Kaido shattered his ambitions in the New World, Moria had returned, and here he stood—before a stronger, reforged Oars, whose hollow eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
"You truly are the greatest surgeon," Moria drawled, his voice thick with mockery and awe in equal measure. His sharp teeth gleamed as he stepped forward, his gaze locked on the reborn giant. "Look at him… rebuilt, reborn. My Oars, my ancient weapon of terror—restored to me. Kishishishishi!"
Hogback chuckled and puffed out his chest, smoothing the feathered cape at his shoulders as though to absorb every ounce of praise. "But of course. It was no small feat, mind you. The damage from your… unfortunate battle left the body close to collapse. Entire muscle groups rotted away, tendons severed, bones fractured." His tone shifted, swelling with pride.
"But I, Dr. Hogback, am not so easily defeated. With my scalpel and genius, I made the impossible real. Flesh and steel, married as one! A corpse stronger than before, perhaps stronger than even in life!"
The cavern filled with his laughter, high-pitched and grating. His jeweled fingers sparkled as he gestured flamboyantly at Oars, as if presenting a new work of art at a royal gallery.
Moria's eyes narrowed. His massive frame shook with another laugh—louder this time, more unhinged. "Kishishishishishi! You're wasted in obscurity, Hogback. Why bury your brilliance in this tiny island when you could reshape the world itself?"
His grin widened, shark-like. "Why don't you join me, Doctor? With your miraculous surgeries and
my Shadow-Shadow Fruit, the monsters we could command… the nightmares we could unleash… it would only be a matter of time before the world bows to us!"
The words echoed through the cavern, dark and hungry.
For a moment, Hogback faltered. His jeweled fingers tapped nervously against his bangle. His eyes darted to Moria, then back to Oars, as though measuring the offer against his own desires. He swallowed, then forced a laugh, raising one hand to cover his blushing face.
"Oh, Mr. Moria… you flatter me too much. Truly, you do." His voice wavered, teetering between flattery and fear. "But you see, I only took on this project for two reasons: first, to prove to the world that I am the greatest doctor alive. None rival me. None could dream of achieving what I've achieved here." His chest swelled with pride once more.
"And second…" He giggled suddenly, almost childishly, his face flushing as he clasped his hands together. "…because of the extravagant sum you offered me. Really, how could I refuse? Money is a fine motivator, after all. That, and…" His eyes softened, his lips curling into a dreamy smile. "…my sweet Cindry-chan. I still plan to win her heart, to live a beautiful life at her side. Surely you understand, yes? I couldn't possibly commit myself to the life of a pirate!"
The cavern fell silent save for the soft hiss of steam from Oars' reconstructed body.
Moria's grin froze. Slowly, his lips curled back, and a flicker of something cold and cruel passed through his eyes. His monstrous face twisted for an instant into something terrifying, his jagged teeth bared, his shadow writhing as if alive.
The sudden weight of his killing intent pressed down on the cavern.
But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. Moria threw his head back and erupted into laughter, his voice echoing like a chorus of demons. "Kishishishishishi! Of course! Of course, Hogback. A man must chase his dreams, eh? And yours are as twisted as any nightmare I could conjure. Hah! You've done marvelous work. Truly marvelous."
His tone was rich with mockery, but Hogback—lost in his lovestruck daydream of Cindry—did not notice. Yet within Moria's eyes, the cruelty had not faded.
You fool, he thought, behind that manic grin. You think yourself free because of money? Because of a woman? You think you have a choice?
In Moria's mind, the pieces were already moving. He had learned much since Kaido had crushed him. Strength alone was not enough. Loyalty bought with coin could vanish in the wind. Affection, delusion, pride—all such fragile things. But shadows… shadows could not betray. Shadows could not dream of freedom.
He watched Hogback laugh, twirl, and gush about his "sweet Cindry-chan," and inside Moria's heart hardened. He would take Hogback's brilliance for himself, one way or another. If he could not bind the surgeon with coin, he would bind him with chains—whether of fear, or shadow.
Hogback's genius was too precious to let slip away. With him, Moria could breathe new life into his shattered ambition. Together they would raise an army of corpses—no, an army of nightmares—that would shake the seas. And if Hogback resisted? Then he would join Oars, not as surgeon, but as subject.
Moria's grin widened, his jagged teeth gleaming in the dim lantern light. His laughter rolled through the cavern once more, but this time it carried a weight, a promise of cruelty yet to come.
"Kishishishi… enjoy your dreams, Hogback," he murmured under his breath, unheard by the surgeon. "For soon, they'll belong to me."
The cavern seemed to shudder at his words, the towering corpse of Oars looming behind him like a harbinger of the nightmares to come.