Disclaimer: I don't own One Piece.
If I did, I'd be legally obligated to brag that I own peak.
All rights belong to Eiichiro Oda — I'm just a humble sinner writing mythic fanfiction in his shadow.
Support the official release. Always.
This story may contain:
Mild existential crises.
Unexpected mythological breakdowns.
Bikes faster than your GPA recovery speed.
Flutes played with more emotion than your last breakup.
And one suspiciously silent protagonist who absolutely, definitely, is not smiling.
All emotional damage is self-inflicted. All enlightenment is optional.
Side effects include spontaneous philosophy, violent brotherly love, and sudden cravings for justice.
You've been warned.
Enter at your own karma.
...
The cold of Impel Down's Level 6 was not the sharp cold of winter, or the biting wind that stung your eyes on a mountain peak. It was a heavy, unyielding silence—a cold so profound it seeped through the bones, a reminder that nothing truly lived here, not even hope.
Except, apparently, one sleeping Admiral.
Krishna slipped into the corridor as if he had never left. Magellan, perched stiffly atop an ice block conjured by Admiral Aokiji himself, startled so violently he nearly toppled off his chilly seat.
The Warden clutched his gut, pale even for a man who digested poison. "You— How…? I didn't sense—"
Krishna only offered a polite, quiet nod. He seemed to have simply blinked into existence.
On the floor nearby, Kuzan lay sprawled with his coat bundled under his head, snoring softly, mouth open just enough to look undignified. Arms wrapped around himself, knees drawn up, he resembled an oversized child determined to resist the tyranny of waking up.
Krishna regarded him. Medha, manifesting as a spectral chibi on his shoulder, peered down with a mischievous grin.
"Well, he looks cozy. I vote we let him sleep until he gets frostbite on his nose," Medha quipped, swinging her little legs.
Sheshika, her serpentine form draped lightly across Krishna's other shoulder, sighed. "Some mortals sleep to escape pain. Admirals… apparently nap to avoid paperwork."
Krishna crouched, picking up a stray stick. He poked the Admiral gently on the shoulder. "Admiral-san. Admiral-san. Wake up. There are legends to freeze."
Kuzan grumbled, rolled over, and mumbled, "Five more minutes… Ice pillows are perfect today…"
Krishna poked again, this time with a little more intent. "If you sleep any longer, Magellan might start charging rent."
Medha snickered. "Try singing the Buster Call anthem, that's bound to wake him."
Krishna considered singing it. He leaned in, his face set in deadpan, "Admiral-san, Admiral Akainu just started boiling the ice rink."
A twitch. A flinch. Kuzan's brow furrowed. Still, he did not stir.
Krishna poked again, and again, finally settling on an almost singsong chant, "Admiral-san… Admiral-san… Wake up… Wake up…"
Even Magellan, at first mortified at the scene, found himself biting back laughter. The idea of an Admiral, one of the world's most feared men, reduced to the stubborn child refusing to wake up—was, he realized, hilarious.
Krishna, expression never changing, continued, "If you don't wake up, Grandpa Garp said he'll come down here and play catch. With you as the cannonball."
Kuzan shot upright, bleary-eyed, hair askew, and looked around wildly. "Where's Garp?!"
Medha howled, falling off Krishna's shoulder and floating nearby, clutching her sides.
Sheshika offered a low, rumbling laugh. "Works every time."
Kuzan blinked, trying to gather his dignity with visible effort. "You… That's not funny, intern."
Krishna blinked back. "You looked comfortable. I didn't want to disturb your nap. Magellan said he's never seen someone look so peaceful in hell."
Magellan, red-faced, tried to look stern, but failed. "Admiral, I must confess, you looked quite content. Almost… happy."
Kuzan grumbled, dusting frost off his sleeves. "It's cold here. I like cold. It's… restful." He glared at Krishna. "Next time, just let me sleep. I was having a dream about… nothing. My favorite kind."
Krishna cocked his head. "Sleeping in hell is a new milestone. I'll remember that."
Medha, wiping her eyes, nodded sagely. "Krishna, you've mastered many arts, but annoying an Admiral into wakefulness might be your greatest feat."
Kuzan sighed, already resigned. "You're lucky you're the intern, kid. Anyone else pokes me awake, they're getting encased in ice."
Krishna smiled—just enough to reveal a hint of mischief. It was a small, crooked thing, but somehow it reminded Kuzan of Garp right before the "training" lessons. He shuddered, an ancient trauma reawakened.
"Fine, fine, I'm up," Kuzan grumbled. "Let's get on with it before you decide to test your arm."
Magellan, regaining composure, straightened his cap. "Well, now that we're all awake, shall we proceed?"
Krishna rose to his full height, dusting imaginary specks from his uniform. The white cloth, pristine even in hell, was marked only by the single black feather at the collar—a subtle statement, a badge that seemed to drink in the natural light.
The three set out, the ice creaking beneath their feet. Meghākṣī's feather hummed with quiet strength, a distant connection from the warship above—a pulse of presence that was not quite comfort, not quite warning.
As they walked, the air shifted from humor to something heavier. The laughter faded, replaced by the tense quiet that came before a storm.
But for that moment, Krishna allowed himself a rare feeling—a flicker of camaraderie, absurd as it was, with two men who, in their own ways, had shaped the world's fears.
"Ready?" Kuzan muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"As ever," Krishna replied.
Magellan eyed the two warily, the weight of legend and absurdity colliding in his mind. "Just try not to break anything," he managed, hoping—futilely—that today would be a day like any other.
But as the gates to Level 6 loomed, even he felt it: the sense that nothing in hell would ever be "ordinary" again.
...
The doors to Level 6 did not creak or groan. They parted with a slow, soundless weight, as if the silence inside them was a pressure—a vacuum drawing all light and hope inward.
Cold air rolled out, not biting like the wind of the upper world, but heavy, wet, as if the sea itself had risen in protest. Here, at the bottom of the world's prison, light bent differently. The torches along the entry corridor gave only dull, gold circles, failing to reach the cell bars even a dozen paces away.
Krishna stepped forward. The threshold felt more myth than metal. Even Magellan, seasoned warden of a thousand agonies, paused. Behind them, the clack of the door sealed off the last hint of life above.
There was no screaming here. No clang of chains, no tortured wailing. The air itself was too thick for anything so honest as agony. It was filled with something older, colder—hatred, layered like sediment at the bottom of a dying ocean.
Level 6—The Eternal Hell
A single boot scuffed the stone. Echoes raced down the corridor, disturbing nothing. From the darkness, a whisper—low, venomous.
"New blood… or just more ghosts?"
A dozen eyes shone from the blackness. Some faces pressed to bars, shadows half-carved in the faint light. Some voices spat curses, others only muttered, but none sounded surprised. They had seen too much. The idea of a visitor was less shocking than the prospect of hope.
Magellan's tone was grave, almost respectful. "Welcome to Level 6—The Eternal Hell. This place isn't supposed to exist, you know. Officially, it's a myth—a ghost story for unruly pirates. Only the worst come here. Or the ones too dangerous for the world to remember."
A man with a jagged scar along his mouth pressed his face to the bars, grinning with all his remaining teeth. "Come to stare, boy? Want to see monsters in cages?"
Krishna met his gaze. "I came to see if the stories were true."
The man spat with venom in his eyes. "Stories are for the living."
Medha's voice brushed his ear, amused but edged with real caution. "Now these… these are real monsters, not just the usual riffraff. The world tries to make villains of the desperate. Here, they just let the true ones stew."
Sheshika's presence tightened protectively around his shoulder. "Even hell has its own hierarchy. Do not mistake survival for innocence, Krishna. Some of these souls have nothing left but their venom."
Krishna's Observation Haki extended—naturally, reflexively. It was less a skill now, more a way of being. The emotional currents were so dense he could taste them: burning rage, ancient resentment, and—most sharply of all—crushing, fossilized loneliness.
There was no hope left here. Only power, gnawing at itself, refusing to die.
They passed a cell where two men, their bodies ruined and scarred, played a silent game of dice with stones. Neither looked up. Further on, a woman whose hair had grown wild paced her cell with a predator's patience. Her eyes flickered once to Krishna, recognized something, then slid away.
A hush fell as the trio advanced, broken only by Magellan's steady footsteps. No one here screamed for freedom—they hissed, whispered, or cursed.
Magellan broke the silence. "None of this is on any map. No blueprints. We move them in the dead of night, erase the records." he paused. "Golden Lion Shiki was the only one who ever escaped—and he left both his legs behind to do it. Fifteen years ago. Since then, only rumors reach the surface."
He stopped at a cell, peered in, and shook his head. "These are the ones who can't be allowed to die. The world's monsters—kingpins, destroyers, the ones who laugh at executioners."
Krishna let his hand rest at his side, feeling the pulse of Meghākṣī's feather—a silent reminder that the world outside was still watching.
A prisoner with sunken eyes grinned up from his pallet. "a new marine, huh? You look soft. Don't blink, boy. We eat softer things than you for breakfast."
Krishna held his gaze, unfazed. "I've seen what the sea can do to men. And what men do to the sea. I'm not here to judge. Only to remember."
Magellan looked at him sideways, a strange respect in his eyes. "Not all marines know how to look at the darkness without flinching."
A hiss from another cell. "You'll flinch soon enough."
Krishna almost smiled, and titled his head slightly. "I doubt it."
Medha's voice piped up, a whisper inside his mind. "Feels like a zoo for monsters who think they were gods."
Sheshika, more somber, whispered, "Every cell a universe of regret. Some prisons are built from the inside out."
They passed another cell—iron bars bitten through and repaired, marks from a hundred desperate escapes. Magellan gestured. "That one tried to chew his way to freedom. Starved himself, then tried again. Some will die before they break. Others never break—they just wait."
A woman's voice, rich with poison, called from the shadows, "Hey, intern—did they tell you what happens to kind hearts down here?"
Krishna paused. "They become stones. Or stories."
She laughed, hollow as a grave. "You'll learn."
Sheshika's coils tightened. "Your empathy is a gift, Krishna. But do not spend it foolishly here. This place is honest in its evil—there is less hypocrisy, but the venom is real."
Krishna drew in a breath. The air was thick, brackish—he could feel his own will sharpening in the cold. For once, he did not need to hide himself. Here, hatred wore no masks. It was, in its own way, refreshing.
Kuzan spoke at last, voice as lazy as a falling feather. "Not much hope down here, huh? Even the ice won't last forever. Nothing does."
Krishna nodded. "Maybe that's the only mercy this place has."
They continued deeper, the silence growing more absolute. Krishna could feel the eyes on him—some weighing, some dismissing, a few marking him as a potential challenger, but most simply too hollow for anything as hot as rivalry.
Medha mused, "There's an honesty to this place. No lies about rehabilitation, no talk of reform. Just the truth of the cage."
Magellan stopped before a heavy door. "This one leads to the solitary blocks. Only the truly uncontrollable go there. But we don't need to visit—unless you'd like a peek at what's beyond hatred."
Krishna shook his head. "I've seen enough."
As they turned, a voice followed them, thin and cracked but carrying a terrible, chilling certainty. "You'll come back. They always come back. Hell remembers its visitors."
Magellan looked back, for once unable to mask his unease. "They're wrong about one thing, intern. No one comes back here the same."
Krishna's eyes lingered on the cell doors, the names and numbers already half-erased by time and intent.
He let the world's hatred pour over him, let it sharpen the edges of his will. For the first time since entering Impel Down, Krishna allowed himself to relax—not into comfort, but into the certainty that there were no masks left here. No virtue to pretend at. Only truth, however bitter.
"Ready to go?" Kuzan asked, his tone unreadable.
Krishna turned, his gaze meeting every eye still fixed on him. "Let's finish what we started."
...
The passage deepened—darker, colder, echoing with a tension that wasn't just dread, but anticipation. Down here, the world's monsters were not content to fade into legend. They waited, hungry for the next page in their story, even if it would never be written.
Magellan's lantern cast fractured gold along the walls, revealing a row of cells both vast and heavily fortified. Not one prisoner here looked starved or broken. If anything, the darkness seemed to strengthen them, as if the world above had merely exiled its nightmares, not destroyed them.
The first of the true legends to come into view was chained to the very stone, a throne of iron set behind three sets of bars.
Avalo Pizarro—the Corrupt King.
He was massive, draped in rags that might once have been royal finery, long black mane framing a face both imperious and dead-eyed. His glare alone could have stopped most men at the threshold, a veteran marine, leading a patrol at a distance, actually swayed on his feet and had to clutch the wall.
Pizarro's voice rolled from the dark like gravel on wet stone. "So, another parade. And here I thought the world had finally forgotten us."
Magellan did not flinch, though his tone was clipped. "We're here for a security pass. Admiral's orders."
Pizarro's chains rattled as he shifted, a slow, deliberate movement. His eyes fixed on Krishna, studying, judging. "And who's this? You look softer than most, kid. They letting children run the world now?"
Krishna met the gaze—unblinking, steady. "I am an intern of the marines."
A slow, rotten smile spread across Pizarro's face. "Intern, eh? In my kingdom, you'd be a page. In this hell, maybe a new monster."
Kuzan's hand never left his coat, but his posture was easy, lazy—almost bored. "Yeah, he's a real terror. Try not to wake up, King."
Pizarro's gaze lingered on Krishna, trying to weigh threat against mystery. But there was something about the boy, the way the air bent around him. After a moment, the Corrupt King's bravado faded, replaced by the blank indifference of one who understood hierarchy.
Krishna simply nodded, unruffled, and they moved on.
...
The next cell stank of liquor, the stench thick and raw even through the metal.
Vasco Shot—Heavy Drinker, pirate gone grotesque, his body swollen, his grin too wide for a human skull. He lounged, chained to the ground, a permanent leer on his face.
He started singing as they approached, a slurred, off-key shanty about drowning marines in rum. "Oi! Admiral, warden, and… ha! What's this? The little chick come to visit the slaughterhouse?"
Magellan's nose wrinkled at the reek. "You're not worth a report, Shot."
Vasco Shot cackled, rolling his shoulders, pulling against his chains just to hear them groan. "Don't look so glum, kid. Stick around and I'll let you taste a real man's drink."
Krishna's expression didn't shift, though his eyes narrowed slightly at the casual violence in Shot's aura. It wasn't just drunkenness—there was something deeper, more ancient, the hunger of a man who found joy only in destruction.
Kuzan flicked his finger, ice snaking along the bars. "Drink up, Vasco. Your party's over."
Shot just grinned, teeth stained red and gold, but fell silent as the chill crept in. For a heartbeat, his eyes met Krishna's, and in them was recognition—a predator sizing up another.
But the predator blinked first.
Medha's voice, dry as ever, ran through Krishna's mind. "It's like a villain beauty pageant, but the prizes are life sentences."
Sheshika's gentle wisdom countered, her voice soft, "The world hides its worst children down here. Some wear their scars outside, some only inside."
...
The third cell was less a prison than a cavern.
Sanjuan Wolf—The Colossal Battleship.
He was so large the cell's walls bowed outward, the chains as thick as trees. He lay curled up, snoring softly, a mountain trying to pretend it was merely a hill.
As the group passed, Wolf's eyes opened—huge, childlike, but tinged with the faint gleam of a giant's cunning. His voice shook dust from the ceiling. "Are you here to let me out? Or just to look?"
Magellan replied, not without sympathy. "No one's leaving, Wolf. You know that."
Wolf's chains clinked as he shifted, the sound like distant thunder. "I'm hungry."
Kuzan shrugged. "Ice doesn't taste like much. Sorry, big guy."
Wolf watched Krishna, curiosity brightening his gaze. "You're small. But you feel... big."
Krishna, feeling the weight of that gaze, answered honestly. "So do you."
The two regarded each other, two extremes of scale meeting in a brief moment of mutual recognition. Then Wolf yawned, lay back down, and the room darkened again.
...
The last of the "calamities" sat upright on a neat pile of rags, the only one who did not look chained by the world.
Catarina Devon—the Crescent Moon Hunter.
Her eyes followed the group, half-lidded, the smile on her lips unsettling, like a knife sheathed in velvet.
She spoke first, her voice musical, sly. "So, is this the new marine pet? Or is he the warden's prize?"
Magellan ignored the bait. "Devon. You'll stay put."
Devon cocked her head, examining Krishna with an intensity that bordered on hunger.
"Not a pet. Not a child, either. More like… an answer to a question no one dares to ask."
Krishna met her gaze, neither challenging nor conceding. "I'm only here to watch."
Devon's smile widened, all secrets and daggers. "Careful. Eyes can lose themselves in darkness."
Kuzan, ever casual, added a touch of cold to the bars, the frost crawling across the steel. "No shapeshifting tonight, Devon."
She laughed, not at all afraid. "Not tonight. But soon enough, the world will want to see you change, too, little intern."
Krishna did not respond, but the faint shimmer of Meghākṣī's feather against his collar—its pulse of ancient approval—reminded him that eyes were watching, everywhere.
...
The group paused, the silence thick as stone. Around them, the rogues of history fell quiet, watching Krishna as much as they watched the admirals. For all their myth and malice, there was something about the boy in the blue-trimmed white—something that made even legends feel the weight of a new legend forming.
Medha whispered, almost reverent now, "The world built this place to contain monsters. But who contains the world?"
Sheshika answered softly, her voice as gentle as ever, "No one, little one. Not forever. Some storms are only delayed."
Kuzan glanced at Krishna, half a smile in his eyes. "Ready for the next roll call?"
Krishna nodded, steady, as the group moved deeper, shadows drawing close behind them. The air thrummed with old power and new prophecy—a warning to the world above:
The monsters weren't the only things locked away in the dark.
...
The corridor narrowed. The air, frigid and stale, felt charged with secrets—a tension neither ice nor stone could dissolve. In this farthest reach of Level 6, the gloom deepened, pierced only by the flicker of Magellan's lantern and the trailing blue shimmer left by Kuzan's footsteps.
A faint, metallic echo—like a sword being drawn and sheathed in the dark—was the only warning.
From the shadows stepped a tall man in a black coat, wide-brimmed hat tilted low, a smoldering cigarette perched between thin lips. He moved with the calm confidence of someone who never questioned his own lethality.
Shiryu.
Once Head Jailer, now prisoner—a man with a reputation colder than the stones beneath his feet.
He paused, gaze sweeping over Magellan, then Kuzan, then—slowly—Krishna. The atmosphere shifted, as if a knife had sliced through the invisible fog. Even Magellan, who'd seen Shiryu's violence firsthand, kept his distance.
Magellan's voice was stiff, measured. "Shiryu. This is a routine check."
Shiryu didn't respond at first. Instead, he took a drag from his cigarette, something he got after bullying a partolling marine near his cell, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke that twisted and vanished into the cold. His gaze lingered on Krishna, narrowing with suspicion.
"So that's the new intern, huh? Looks softer than the others. Doesn't even have the eyes for this place." His voice was even, but the undertone was pure steel.
Kuzan shrugged, unfazed. "He gets by. Better than most."
Shiryu ignored Kuzan, focusing now on Krishna. The air between them felt denser, as if both were weighing something intangible.
Shiryu's fingers brushed the hilt of an imaginary sword, a habit as natural as breathing. He didn't draw—he didn't need to. The intent alone shimmered in the space, an unspoken challenge.
Krishna stood motionless, his expression calm but unreadable. The single black feather at his collar barely moved, yet its presence seemed to darken the hall around him.
Something flickered in Shiryu's eyes. He focused, invoking the "Breath of All Things"—the legendary swordsman's sense that could read intent, movement, even the subtle shift of will through steel and air.
But this time, what he "saw" was not clarity, but haze. Krishna's presence shimmered and warped—sometimes there, sometimes not, a paradox of being both shadow and storm.
Shiryu's frown deepened. He reached further, mentally tracing the outlines of danger, but instead of edges, he found fog—an unnatural masking, the kind that made even seasoned killers uneasy.
"You're not hiding, are you?" Shiryu's voice was quieter now, almost respectful. "But you're not showing either. What are you?"
Krishna didn't move, didn't blink. He spoke, his voice low, each word weighted. "Sometimes the world needs a storm more than a sword."
For a brief instant, the corridor felt timeless—no sound but the distant dripping of water, no motion but the slow curl of cigarette smoke.
Shiryu's hand tightened on nothing, instinct and pride flaring.
It was over before it began.
Without warning, Krishna's eyes flashed gold and crimson—a silent invocation of Sovereign's Will. The pressure was surgical, not explosive, but a single, perfectly aimed current of force, channeled like a scalpel rather than a hammer.
Shiryu's breath caught. He staggered—one foot back, then both knees buckled, his hand clawing for support on the stone wall. The cigarette fell and hissed out against the frost. For a split second, the seasoned killer looked young, lost, as the world bent beneath a power he could neither see nor cut.
He slumped to the ground, unconscious before his mind could register what had happened.
A hush fell. Magellan exhaled, only realizing then that he'd been holding his breath.
Kuzan tilted his head, approving. "Efficient. Saves us the trouble."
He stepped forward, hand outstretched. With a touch, frost bloomed over Shiryu's body—chains and all—sealing the man in a crystal shell of ice, leaving only his breath fogging the surface for a heartbeat before even that faded.
Magellan's gaze was wary now, more so than before. "He was dangerous, you know. One of the sharpest swords in the world."
Krishna inclined his head, voice still calm. "Sharp blades fall silent in the face of will."
From the collar, Meghākṣī's feather pulsed—a soft, radiant black—its emotion rippling through Krishna's soul: pride, vigilance, and a quiet sense of warning.
Medha's tone was playful in his mind, but also slightly impressed. "Clean work. Almost makes the rest of the tour look sloppy."
Sheshika, gentle as always, followed. "It's mercy, too. Violence is easy. Silence is the harder road."
The three—Krishna, Kuzan, Magellan—stood over the defeated legend. The corridor seemed colder, emptier, the air cleared of old menace. Even the other prisoners, emboldened before, now went utterly silent. For all the monsters here, none had stood so little chance against a force so subtle and overwhelming.
Kuzan cast one last look at Shiryu, then at Krishna, his tone like that of a mentor. "You keep making this look easy, kid."
Krishna managed the faintest of smiles. "It's only easy when you don't want it."
Kuzan's eyes softened, as if he heard more than words. "Maybe that's what scares them."
Magellan gestured onward, voice a little rougher now. "Let's finish this."
The group moved deeper into Level 6, their path now clearer, the darkness less menacing—though not less heavy. Every step was a reminder that, in the world's deepest prisons, the boundaries between monster, warden, and myth were never quite clear.
And behind them, the shadow of a blade—once feared, now frozen in silence—served as both warning and tribute.
...
The corridor seemed to narrow the farther they went, the cold pressing in, the sense of isolation mounting. The air in Level 6 was different now—emptier, quieter, as if the dungeon itself anticipated the final, forbidden cells.
Magellan led them on, boots echoing on stone. Ahead, the walls shifted from plain iron to layers of embedded seastone, each slab covered in intricate World Government seals and ancient Marine script. The warning was clear: this was not for the careless.
At the end of the row, a monstrous figure waited.
Byrnndi World— The Destroyer of the World.
He was immobilized by a sculpture of ice so thick it distorted his features, with dozens of seastone shackles bolted into the very rock. Chains snaked around him like the roots of some cold, ancient tree. Only his eyes—hollow, bloodshot, endlessly furious—remained visible, glaring through the blue frost.
Magellan slowed, as if the air itself had gotten heavier.
"Here lies the man who thought he could bring down the world," Magellan said, half in awe, half in warning. "Once, he was said to be unstoppable. But all legends end somewhere."
Kuzan didn't waste words. He approached the frozen titan with professional detachment, hand raised. Ice shimmered in fractal patterns as Kuzan reinforced the cell, cold blooming outward in deeper, denser blue. The walls themselves seemed to freeze, groaning under the pressure.
Krishna watched the whole process with silent intensity. To most, Byrnndi World looked defeated, a relic of a nightmare era now resigned to legend. But Krishna saw something else—a paradox. Here was a man so dangerous the World Government had buried him in both myth and ice, yet stripped of movement, voice, and even dignity.
Medha's voice chimed in Krishna's mind, carrying a note of genuine curiosity.
"Gotta admit, the Moa Moa no Mi is a wild one. Double, triple, multiply—he could scale anything. If the guy ever learned creativity, he'd have been unstoppable."
Krishna's thoughts turned over the idea, considering not the terror but the limitation.
"He multiplied his strength, but never his wisdom. That's why he's here. Raw power, no balance. All expansion, no shape."
Sheshika's tone was softer, her presence circling Krishna's thoughts with gentle gravity. "He could never hold what he tried to conquer. All those battles, and yet—"
Medha snickered. "He lost to math. You'd think a 'destroyer of the world' would at least keep a ledger."
Kuzan's work was quick, his palm spreading frost that hissed against the seastone. Even through the cold, Byrnndi World's eyes blazed. He strained against his bindings, a silent scream radiating from every muscle and vein. But there was no sound—only the muffled, endless grinding of hatred.
Magellan watched the process with a mix of pride and unease. "We keep him like this because he's not like the others. Not just a brute—he nearly toppled an era. But down here, everyone becomes a warning."
Krishna's gaze stayed locked with World's. For a heartbeat, the two were alone: the condemned and the witness.
World's lips moved under the frost, barely perceptible, forming a single word—"weak"—directed at Krishna, or the world, or himself. Krishna did not flinch.
"He's wrong," Medha said, quietly. "Strength is knowing how to lose."
Kuzan straightened, stepping back to inspect the reinforced ice. "There. That'll hold him through another apocalypse."
Magellan nodded, exhaling. "I doubt he'll ever see sunlight again. Some monsters, you just… can't risk it."
Medha snorted. "Or maybe the world just needs new stories. This guy's a rerun."
Krishna remained silent, watching the ancient hatred flicker and fade, battered by years of isolation. He knew the type—monsters of history, trapped not by chains but by their inability to change.
Sheshika's wisdom hovered at the edge of his awareness, soothing and cold. "Mercy isn't always letting them go. Sometimes, it's letting them rest."
For a moment, the aura in the hall shifted. Even the other prisoners seemed smaller, their threats and posturing echoing weakly in the cold.
Krishna bent down, one knee lightly touching the stone, his gaze still locked on Byrnndi World.
"You tried to multiply yourself until the world cracked. But you never learned to divide your burden," Krishna murmured—not for the prisoner, but for himself, for the record of fate. The words hung in the icy air, softer than a breath, sharper than regret, but still carrying the cold, hard truth.
World's eyes widened, the chains trembling for a moment—but no reply came. All that remained was the soundless promise of defeat.
Magellan motioned them forward, visibly relieved to leave the monster behind. "Come. There's more yet. Each one of these… a story the world wanted to forget."
Kuzan's hands were cold blue, the tips of his fingers still steaming as he brushed frost from his coat. "I always wondered—when legends become warnings, do they ever regret it?"
Krishna didn't answer. But Meghākṣī's feather warmed against his throat, a pulse of bittersweet feeling—empathy, yes, but also the steel of resolve.
Medha, voice sly, broke the mood. "Let's go, before someone here gets ideas. I'd hate to see you trying out the Moa Moa no Mi. World's ego is big enough."
Krishna managed a faint smirk, the first sign of humor in the depths of hell.
Magellan, with a final wary glance at the frozen prisoner, gestured for them to continue.
As they left, the corridor seemed to brighten—just slightly. Whatever else the Destroyer had been, he was now a shadow in the deep, his threat reduced to memory and caution.
Kuzan led them deeper into the labyrinth, steps echoing in the cold. "Next up. Something even the legends are afraid of."
Sheshika whispered in Krishna's soul, "All things end. Even monsters in ice."
They passed out of Byrnndi World's shadow, carrying the weight of history—and the promise that some legacies would never rise again.
...
The corridor narrowed again, the architecture subtly shifting. Gone were the grotesque chains and monstrous proportions, instead, the walls here were silent, adorned only with faded tapestries and flickering torches that cast elongated shadows. The hush was profound, not the heavy silence of dread, but something cultivated—like a cathedral or a crypt.
A cell door, unlike the others, stood at the end. It was reinforced, yes, but also… elegant, its ironwork twisted into patterns that suggested nobility, not brutality. A plaque, polished by unseen hands, read only: "Redfield."
Magellan's steps slowed. Even Kuzan, usually unflappable, moved with a subtle caution.
The cell was dark within, but as the group drew near, a figure stepped into the light with the measured grace of a dancer taking the stage.
Patrick Redfield—The Red Count.
His hair was snow-white, falling in a silken curtain to his shoulders. His eyes were crimson, clear as polished rubies, and there was a strange youthfulness to his features—a kind of undying elegance that made his age impossible to guess.
He wore his prison uniform as if it were a dinner jacket, somehow immaculate, collar sharp, every button aligned. His posture was perfect. There was no rage, no brokenness, only a chilling composure, the self-assurance of a predator who has never known fear.
Redfield's eyes flickered from Kuzan to Magellan, pausing only a moment before settling—inevitably, unerringly—on Krishna.
"Well. I see the world grows ever more interesting," Redfield said, voice silk over steel. "Admiral Kuzan, Warden Magellan… and someone I do not recognize. Yet."
Kuzan's gaze was cold as ever. "No need for introductions, Redfield. We're here for routine maintenance. You know how it goes."
Redfield offered a shallow bow, as if humoring an old friend at a ball. "Of course. One must keep up appearances, even in hell."
Magellan, uneasy, kept his distance. "No trouble today, Count."
Redfield gave the warden a look that could have been amusement, or something deeper. "I have never caused trouble here. Only offered the civility your guests so rarely display."
He turned his attention fully to Krishna, as if there was nothing else in the world. For a moment, the air grew dense, a silent calculation unfolding behind those crimson eyes.
Krishna stood still, neither defensive nor aggressive. Meghākṣī's feather at his throat vibrated gently—curiosity, tinged with alertness. Medha, inside, was hushed, watching.
Redfield took in Krishna's uniform, the black feather, the weight of his presence. His smile deepened, not friendly, but… appreciative.
"I sense something in you," Redfield said, his words unhurried, almost savoring the syllables. "Not merely power. Uniqueness. Rarity. Tell me—what name do they call you, child?"
Krishna met his gaze without blinking. "Krishna. Marineford's first intern."
Redfield's laughter was low, musical. "A name that carries storms behind it. And a title that does you no justice, I think."
Kuzan was already forming ice between his fingers. "Enough talk."
Redfield raised a pale hand in graceful surrender. "By all means. I have no desire to disrupt your schedule."
He stepped backward into his cell's center, folding his arms behind him, regal and utterly at ease. The cold was rising now, white mist curling along the ground.
Redfield looked to Krishna one last time, eyes narrowing with interest. "I wonder… do you ever feel caged, Krishna? Or is the world your invitation?"
Krishna did not answer. The silence, as ever, was his best response.
Kuzan's hand closed, and frost bloomed across the cell—denser, deeper than before. Redfield allowed it, standing perfectly still as ice climbed his legs, his chest, his shoulders. He did not shiver. Did not blink.
Even as the cold encased him, Redfield's eyes never left Krishna.
"You are the first to intrigue me in years," he said, voice muffled now, a whisper through the chill. "Perhaps, one day, we will finish this conversation—when the world is less… constrained."
The ice sealed, the cell turning blue as a glacier. Magellan wiped sweat from his brow, relief and anxiety battling for dominance.
Kuzan checked the readings on the cell's monitoring panel, his movements professional, but Krishna saw his gaze linger on Redfield—something like respect, or wariness, or both.
Medha's voice drifted, soft and calculating. "That one's dangerous, Krishna. Not for the power—though he has plenty. But for the mind. He's like a chessboard in human form."
Sheshika wound tighter around Krishna's shoulders, the faintest tremor of protectiveness in her spiritual touch. "Be careful. Such men do not seek freedom. They seek opportunity."
Magellan finally found his words, addressing Krishna. "You feel it, don't you? He's not like the others. No hate, no madness. Just… patience. The kind that waits centuries for the world to tilt."
Krishna nodded, thoughtful. "He's a hunter who knows when not to move."
Kuzan closed the cell with a final thud of the locking bar. "And when he moves, the world notices. Let's not give him a reason today."
They started down the corridor again, the cold trailing after them, more shadow than temperature. Redfield's eyes, crimson and watchful, lingered in the back of Krishna's mind.
Medha, trying to lighten the mood, piped up again. "Well, that was creepy. Ten out of ten for class, though. If he ever gets out, he could give Mihawk a run for his money in the mysterious loner department."
Krishna let a thin, wry smile touch his lips. The mood shifted—not lighter, but sharper, more alert. Even in the depths of Impel Down, there were dangers that couldn't be frozen, only delayed.
Magellan hurried ahead, eager to escape the reach of the Red Count's legend.
"You've seen the worst of Level 6 now," he said. "Almost. There's one more cell. The one even I hate to check."
Kuzan's face grew serious. "Bullet."
Krishna's posture straightened. Meghākṣī's feather seemed to darken, as if bracing for a storm.
Medha's tone was solemn, almost reverent. "Here it comes. The real test."
Sheshika whispered a prayer—half warning, half blessing.
The trio pressed on, deeper into the chill and into legend, the weight of every cell behind them and the promise of a coming clash ahead.
...
The corridor ahead was colder, not from the frost, but from an anticipation that seemed to grip the very air. The walls thickened, layered with ice so blue it looked black, each step echoing as if the underworld itself was listening. Magellan slowed, then stopped, pointing to the final reinforced cell—a vault of steel, seastone, and justice's desperation.
Kuzan's tone dropped, so low only Krishna and Magellan could hear. "Brace yourself."
Even Sheshika, usually the voice of poise, was silent now. Meghākṣī's feather pulsed at Krishna's throat—an anxious, almost electric heartbeat. Medha's thoughts danced like thunder, her internal voice taut. "All build-up, no jokes."
Behind that final door was a presence—impossible to ignore, impossible to measure. Not just power, but weight. Like a tidal surge pressing on the chest. Krishna could feel it even before the first lock disengaged.
Inside, shackles the width of trees, layers of seastone, and at the center—a figure crouched, enormous and yet not hulking, a shape built of fury and discipline.
Douglas Bullet. The Demon Heir. The "successor" who refused to bow.
He looked nothing like a prisoner. His muscles were corded, every inch carved by relentless training, even in these tomb-like confines. Scars—old, deep—webbed his skin, and his eyes were a storm: deep purple, rimmed in red. Alive. Defiant. Unbroken.
Bullet's head snapped up as the door groaned open. A crackle in the air. A ripple in the world's skin. The first wave hit: pure Conqueror's Haki, The Color of the Supreme King. It was not subtle. It was not an invitation. It was a declaration, so intense the stone itself began to vibrate, torches guttering as air grew heavy.
Everywhere, prisoners froze, then howled. Chants began—raw, guttural, primal.
"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"
Even the ones who had taunted Krishna in whispers, even those "calamities" and monsters, now stared wide-eyed at the cell, at the collision of two fates that should never have crossed.
Magellan staggered, clutching the wall for support. His face was clammy, pupils blown wide. He muttered, half in awe, half in fear, "This… This is why we keep him here. The world cannot handle someone like him."
Kuzan's arms tensed, frost smoking off his fingers. For the first time, he looked not just ready, but on edge.
Douglas Bullet didn't speak. He simply stood, the chains groaning as he flexed against them. The air thickened with his intent—a king who had conquered not with words or charisma, but with an iron will that never broke, not even when the world tried to destroy him.
Krishna's own aura began to build—not as a response, but as a tide rising, inevitable, silent at first. It was not the king's conqueror spirit, not merely willpower.
It was Sovereign's Will: The Birthright of Storms.
The Pressure of Dharma.
The Burden of Every Vow He'd Ever Made.
Red and gold lightning flickered in Krishna's eyes. The ground under his feet began to web with cracks, fine as hair, as if the stone itself recognized something greater.
Medha whispered, awestruck, "This is it. King versus Sovereign. You could write legends just about the echoes."
Sheshika's presence was warm, firm. "Do not overpower, Krishna. Guide. Bend. Show what it means to rule without needing to win."
The tension in the room was excruciating. Bullet lunged as far as the chains would allow, muscles bulging, aura exploding outward—pure dominance, Conqueror's Haki like a hurricane's eye. A few lesser prisoners slumped, eyes rolling up, foam on their lips.
Krishna did not flinch. He simply stood, a silent axis, and let his own will expand. It was not a storm, not a fire. It was gravity itself—a weight that pressed, not to crush, but to claim. The axis of the floor shifted, it felt as if all power in the room now orbited the intern in white, feather black at his collar.
Bullet screamed—a sound torn from something primordial, the cry of a beast who has never been chained, never been second. His Haki flared one last time, burning so brightly it left afterimages across the vision of every soul present.
Krishna met his eyes, unblinking. His Sovereign's Will surged—not to destroy, not to shame, but to command. It seized Bullet's conquering will and bent it—not like breaking a weapon, but like forging steel. All that rage, that refusal to kneel, was gathered, harnessed, and subdued.
For a moment, it was pure war. The air itself vibrated. Chains rattled. Stone creaked. Even the ice on the walls began to hiss and crack.
And then, with a sound like a mountain splitting, Bullet fell to his knees. Not unconscious—never that. But utterly spent, breath heaving, head bowed. His will had not been broken, but it had been eclipsed, contained by something vaster than conquest.
Something Eternal.
Something Inevitable.
A silence followed. Not relief—awe. Prisoners watched, dumbstruck. Even the most defiant fell back, pressing against the far sides of their cells, as if hoping to vanish into the stone.
Kuzan's eyes were wide, his voice low and steady. "I've never seen him bow before. Not since his defeat at the hands of the Pirate King."
Krishna said nothing. The gold-red light faded from his gaze, leaving only black, fathomless calm.
Medha's voice, a hush now, flowed into his mind, "Even legends bow to kings. But Sovereigns… they rewrite the throne."
Sheshika's embrace was silent approval, the quiet dignity of one who had watched gods rise and fall and knew the difference.
Kuzan stepped forward, his movements gentle for once. He exhaled, ice swirling from his breath, and raised a hand. In a flash, Bullet was encased—layer after layer of reinforced, Haki-laced frost, his form preserved in a posture of reluctant kneeling. It was not humiliation. It was testament.
Magellan finally breathed again. His voice shook. "No one will believe this. Not unless they saw it."
Krishna turned, casting a look over the legends now subdued. Some glared with fury. Others, like Redfield, only watched, calculating. But all understood—something had changed. The balance of power, the stories whispered in darkness, had a new chapter. A chapter that did not belong to pirates or kings, but to something older, something the world had not yet named.
Kuzan caught Krishna's eye. For a heartbeat, there was a flash of camaraderie—respect earned in a crucible that only they could understand.
"You didn't have to win," Kuzan said quietly, "but you did more than that. You reminded us all what real power is. Not force. Not fear. Authority."
Krishna only nodded. He understood. So did every soul who watched.
The floor was quiet. Even the air seemed gentler now, the malice sapped from it, replaced with a hush that was almost reverence.
Medha broke the silence with a quip, her voice soft but proud. "You always did like making an entrance, Krishna. Now you've made an exit no one will forget."
Krishna glanced at the frozen titan before him—Douglas Bullet, the Demon Heir, now a monument to the limits of kings.
He let himself breathe, a quiet exhale, then turned back toward the corridor. The Sovereign's work was never done.
...
The echoes of battle—if it could be called that—lingered long after the lightning faded from Krishna's eyes. The air was thick, not just with the cold of Kuzan's frost, but with something older: a silence that wasn't just absence, but aftermath. Chains still rattled from the pressure of sovereign and king, dust drifted down from the cracks in ancient stone, and somewhere above, water dripped in slow, hypnotic patterns, as if the whole of Impel Down was recalibrating its heart.
Krishna stood at the center of it all, the lone point of absolute calm in a place that, for centuries, had only known fear and violence. The last of the prisoners—those whose names once sent shudders through the world—were now monuments. Avalo Pizarro, Vasco Shot, Sanjuan Wolf, Catarina Devon, Shiryu, Byrnndi World, Patrick Redfield, Douglas Bullet—each now frozen in a tableau of myth and defeat. Each still radiated menace, but the bite was gone. Ice had turned monsters into memories.
Kuzan let out a breath he'd been holding for too long, hands buried deep in his coat. "Not bad for a first day, intern."
Magellan leaned against the wall, sweat drying slowly on his brow, his usual confidence stripped to exhaustion. For a moment, he didn't look like the terror of Impel Down, but simply a man who had glimpsed something far beyond his pay grade. He glanced at Krishna, unable to hide the awe. "I'll have to update the records. No one is going to believe it. The day the monsters went silent."
Krishna said nothing, just brushed an invisible speck from the black feather at his collar. His mind was quieter than usual—not empty, but settled, as if even the storms inside him were taking a moment to rest. He looked over the now-frozen form of Bullet, the demon's head bowed, encased in an artistry of ice. Not humiliation. Not even mercy. Just the honest truth: some storms could not be outlasted.
Medha's voice twinkled in his mind, playful and proud. "You know, if you ever want to change careers, I'm sure they'd let you redecorate the whole prison. Maybe carve a statue or two."
Sheshika, more somber, curled her presence around his heart. "Power is not what you use. It's what you spare. Today, you spared them their worst. You reminded them—reminded us—what restraint truly is."
Meghākṣī's feather warmed against Krishna's throat, a silent benediction from afar. He could feel her watching, not as a pet, but as a witness—a divine mirror reflecting the road ahead. There was pride, yes, but also a lingering sadness. Every victory carried a shadow.
The three of them—Krishna, Aokiji, Magellan—moved together through the corridors, gathering what little order remained in a place built on chaos. Doors were checked, locks reinforced, prisoners tallied. Magellan scrawled notes in his battered logbook, glancing every so often at Krishna, as if to make sure he was still there and not just a fever dream left by the Sovereign's Will.
Kuzan kept his hands in his pockets, lazy as ever, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "You know," he muttered to Krishna, "the legends about this place? They're all about who got locked up, who tried to escape. After today, it's going to be about who walked these halls and made them quiet."
Krishna gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "I just did what was necessary."
Kuzan shook his head, a smirk breaking through the cold. "That's the thing, kid. Most people never know where 'necessary' ends and ambition begins. You do."
Magellan finally caught his breath and straightened, turning to the other two. "I'll need statements. For the records. And—" he hesitated, looking Krishna up and down—"maybe a signature. Or something. For the archives. Not that I expect you to come back, but… if you ever do, I want everyone to know what to expect."
Krishna nodded, scrawling his name in the margin of Magellan's book—plain, steady handwriting, unadorned but resolute. "If I return, let's hope it's not as a prisoner."
Magellan forced a laugh, but the humor was brittle. "If you ever did, I'd leave the keys on the desk and go on vacation."
They passed the frozen calamities in silence.
Avalo Pizarro, once the king of corruption, now encased with only his glare left to haunt the dark.
Vasco Shot, smile twisted and hands forever reaching for a drink he'd never taste again.
Sanjuan Wolf, too big for any cell, now stilled by the cold, the sound of his voice echoing only in memory.
Catarina Devon, her sly beauty locked in a moment of surprise, as if even she hadn't expected the end to come so suddenly.
Shiryu, the unseen blade, trapped mid-thought, his swordsman's senses unable to parse the weight that finally bested him.
Byrnndi World, all his apocalyptic ambition entombed, his story closed not by violence, but by a refusal to indulge his legend.
Patrick Redfield, the crimson gentleman, was the only one who watched Krishna go—eyes shining with curiosity rather than resentment, his immortal composure undisturbed even by defeat. He would remember, and Krishna sensed that Redfield was the sort who turned defeat into study, who treated eternity as another puzzle to be solved.
And Douglas Bullet, the last to kneel. Even frozen, the pulse of his spirit lingered, a warning and a testament. Krishna stopped for a moment before his cell, the corridor empty but for echoes.
Kuzan placed a hand on Krishna's shoulder—solid, reassuring, more like a comrade than an admiral. "You did good, kid."
Krishna shook his head. "No. We did what we had to. That's all."
Magellan, trailing behind, finally spoke the words so softly that no one else would say aloud, or hear. "He could destroy us all, if he chose."
Krishna heard him, but didn't answer, didn't turn. He didn't need to. The truth of it was written in the silence, in the frost, in the hush that followed legends now turned to monuments. The power to destroy and the choice not to. That was what would be remembered. Not the clash, not the spectacle, but the restraint.
The climb back up through Impel Down was quieter. The prisoners still conscious stared at Krishna and his companions with a mixture of dread, awe, and—for the first time—hope that maybe, just maybe, someone had come who wasn't just another monster.
Medha, now back to her teasing self, piped up as they passed the upper floors. "I give the decor a five out of ten. Needs more sunlight, fewer existential crises."
Sheshika, more reserved, whispered only to Krishna, "You carry storms, but you left peace behind. Remember this feeling. It is yours to return to."
At the gates, the staff of Impel Down parted for their procession. Some bowed, some simply gawked. News would spread. The day the Sovereign came and left the devils trembling.
Outside, the sea air was sharp and cold, a cleansing shock after the tomb-like silence of Level 6. Krishna breathed deeply, letting the salt and chill wash away the echoes of stone and legend. Kuzan stretched, already looking for a spot to nap on deck. Magellan remained at the entrance, a small figure against the monstrous gates.
Krishna looked back once—at the prison, at the myths now frozen in place, at the path he'd walked not as a conqueror, but as a shadow. Not a warden, not a jailer, but a legend unwilling to claim the title.
Meghākṣī's feather pulsed at his collar, a reminder that even here, beneath the weight of the world's nightmares, there was something gentle watching, waiting, willing him forward.
The sun was rising. A new legend was leaving footprints on the world.
He did not look back again.
...
Omake—Pep Talks Ice Cream: Level 6 Broadcast
The mission was done. The frozen legends were already becoming urban myth. The gates of Impel Down's lowest level had shut behind them, and now, for the first time since descending into hell, Krishna found himself… at a cafeteria table, staring at a mountain of ice cream.
The mess was cold and echoing, deep beneath the ocean, with only the soft hum of Den Den Mushi speakers and the clatter of spoons for company. Across from him, Admiral Aokiji looked genuinely happy—a rare state that seemed to require exactly three things: solitude, frigid air, and unlimited dessert.
"Try the sea-salt caramel," Kuzan said, pushing a bowl toward Krishna with the authority of a warlord. "Tastes like frozen waves and childhood trauma."
Krishna, who had never really eaten ice cream before joining the Marines, eyed the pastel swirl. "You have… unusual definitions of flavor."
Kuzan grinned. "That's because you've never had Magellan's 'Death By Chocolate.' It's actually fatal. Don't eat anything in a purple bowl."
Krishna considered this, then selected a clean, blue-rimmed bowl and sampled the sea-salt caramel. It was, for a moment, the strangest thing he'd ever tasted. Sweet, cold, faintly bitter. It reminded him of snow in the forest—and for some reason, a punch from Garp.
He said, "Not bad. Kind of numbing, actually."
"Best way to end a day full of demons," Kuzan sighed, leaning back and propping his feet on a bench. "We should do this after every world-shaking event. Less paperwork, more dessert."
Krishna nodded, solemn as a monk before a shrine of sundaes.
Somewhere between "Volcanic Berry Crunch" and "Zen Master Vanilla," a small, holographic Medha flickered into existence, projected from the rim of Krishna's bowl. She wore a chef's hat three sizes too big and a grin that promised nothing but mischief.
"Gentlemen, may I interest you in tonight's special entertainment?" Medha's voice echoed, echoing off the tile like an AI game show host.
Kuzan raised an eyebrow. "If this is another lecture about calorie counts, I'm mutinying."
Medha bowed, her hat falling over her eyes. "No, no, Admiral-san! It's something much better. I present: Level 6 Pep Talk Club—exclusive broadcast, just for you two. Don't worry, it's a closed circuit. Magellan will never know."
Krishna blinked. "You hacked the projector again, didn't you."
"Correction," Medha purred, "I liberated the broadcast system for educational purposes. Please enjoy." She snapped her fingers, and the Den Den Mushi projector on the wall whirred to life.
The screen flickered. On it, a dim, icy panorama appeared: rows of the world's worst criminals, all encased in ice, their faces squished in various undignified ways. The only movement was from Bullet, who—miraculously—seemed to be giving a full motivational seminar to the frozen masses, his breath fogging the air like a minor dragon.
Level 6: Villain Pep Talk Club
Bullet, in full "Demon Heir" glory, paced back and forth in his block of ice, somehow radiating energy through sheer force of will. He stopped, chest out, and bellowed, "Listen up, losers! This isn't the end! Just because we're frozen now doesn't mean we can't plot—"
Avalo Pizarro, whose face was mashed sideways in the next cell, mumbled, "Plot what, genius? I can't even scratch my nose."
Sanjuan Wolf's muffled voice boomed from the far end, "Does anyone have snacks? I want pudding."
Catarina Devon, encased in ice but managing to look superior, said, "You're all weak. I could escape any time, but I'm just waiting for the full moon."
Vasco Shot, whose mouth was frozen mid-chug, attempted to make a toast and only managed a rattling sound.
Redfield, who looked like a crimson-haired vampire caught mid-opera, was reclining in his ice with perfect grace. "If you children are done, perhaps we might contemplate the existential horror of our situation instead."
"Existential horror?" Bullet snapped. "This is a motivational session! Red, you can brood later."
Redfield sighed. "It's always motivation with you musclebound types."
Pizarro tried to raise a fist and succeeded in making a squeaking sound against the ice. "Can't feel my legs. Or my kingdom."
Wolf wailed, "Still hungry…"
Catarina Devon's eyes glinted. "I bet Kurohane has snacks."
"Who?" Pizarro demanded.
Devon sniffed. "The intern. The only one who could walk in here and make Bullet nervous."
...
Back in the mess hall, Krishna blinked. "Are they… gossiping about me?"
Kuzan grinned. "Welcome to the club. Every rookie gets a nickname. Some just stick harder than others."
Medha supplied, "Bullet's working through his feelings. Processing defeat. Classic stage three."
...
On-screen, Bullet was undeterred. "Let me tell you all something! You can freeze a body, but you can't freeze ambition. Remember what it means to be a king! To rule! To—"
Pizarro muttered, "To lose to a sixteen-year-old kid with bird feathers?"
Bullet ignored him. "One day, the ice will crack. One day, we'll break free, and then—"
Redfield drawled, "We'll do what, exactly? Attempt another world conquest and get turned into abstract art by the new generation?"
Devon grinned. "I plan to turn into a talking banana and sneak out that way."
Vasco Shot finally managed to rattle his bottle against the ice, giving Bullet a hearty "Cheers!"
...
Kuzan licked a spoonful of "Frost Admiral Mint" and said, "You know, if the World Government watched this, they'd cut our funding."
Krishna replied, "Or give us medals for creative prisoner therapy."
Medha winked. "Wait for it—Bullet's closing statement is a classic."
...
On-screen, Bullet drew himself up, veins bulging. "All of you! We may be frozen. We may be mocked. But a true king never kneels! Unless he's forced by a Sovereign. Then you just stay down and pretend you like the floor."
Pizarro grumbled, "Floor's warmer than this ice."
Wolf moaned, "I want to go back to sleep…"
Redfield polished his imaginary monocle. "I must say, Bullet, you make defeat sound almost… dignified."
Devon snickered. "Almost."
Vasco Shot let out a hiccup so powerful the ice trembled. "Winners… never… freeze!"
Bullet glared at the group, pride dented but undiminished. "I don't care what you say. Next time, we'll win. Next time, i will defeat that kid. Next time—"
Devon interrupted, "Next time, Kurohane's going to turn you all into garden ornaments."
...
Kuzan smirked. "Maybe we should recruit her."
Medha added, "Can you imagine the paperwork for turning legendary criminals into lawn décor?"
Krishna, solemn as ever, ate a spoonful of "Celestial Mango." "I would choose a different color scheme."
Kuzan put a hand to his forehead. "And that's how you know you're a marine, kid. Style over substance."
Medha, narrating with dramatic flair, "And thus, Level 6's brightest minds spent eternity discussing escape plans, culinary regrets, and decorative landscaping."
On-screen, Redfield began a soliloquy about "the dignity of defeat," while Pizarro mumbled, "At least I don't have to pay taxes here," and Bullet tried to rouse the others for a motivational chant.
"Who are we?" Bullet roared.
A chorus of "Frozen!" echoed, weak but spirited.
"Who will we be?"
"Still frozen!"
Devon piped up, "But fabulous!"
...
The screen flickered and faded. Medha appeared, bowing in her chef's hat.
"Thank you for attending Level 6 Pep Talk Club," she intoned. "Complimentary trauma included with every viewing."
Kuzan let out a slow, satisfied breath. "That was almost better than the ice cream."
Krishna looked at his spoon. "I'm not sure if I feel better, but I'm definitely… something."
Medha beamed. "That's victory enough for me. Good night, gentlemen. Try not to dream of motivational villains."
She vanished in a pixelated sparkle.
Kuzan raised his bowl. "To surviving another day. And to never letting Magellan pick dessert."
Krishna clinked spoons with him, solemn as ever. "To ice cream. And to staying unfrozen."
...
Outside, the prison echoed with silence.
But somewhere, deep in Level 6, the world's most infamous criminals were still arguing about the best flavor.
And the legend of Kurohane only grew.
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
What a descent. The coldest, darkest depths of Impel Down, and yet somehow the strangest warmth emerged between monsters and marines. This chapter was all about facing the abyss and realizing that sometimes, the most terrifying thing you can bring into hell… is a little compassion and a straight face. Krishna's legend grew colder, sharper, and just a little more human.
And then—there's the omake. Level 6 Pep Talk Club. If you've ever wondered how the world's worst villains kill time, now you know: motivational speeches, ice cream debates, and a broadcast hack worthy of Medha's mischief. Honestly, I wrote that with a grin on my face the whole time. If Bullet's pep talks and frozen snack wars don't haunt your dreams, you're built different.
Next chapter? We're surfacing for air—but don't expect it to get any lighter. New orders, new enemies, and the shadow of the world government grows longer. The war for the soul of justice is only just beginning.
Until the next descent—
—Author out.