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 world was slow to wake, but Krishna had been awake for hours. High above Marineford and the sea, where the Red Line clawed skyward like the spine of the world, he sat in a cave so small and well-hidden it barely qualified as a room. Here, cold stone pressed against his back and knees, and the air carried only the chill of altitude and the distant brine of the ocean below. It was the kind of solitude you could only reach by giving up everything—by climbing where no one else could follow, or by flying, or by willing the world to forget you for a few precious hours.
From this vantage, Krishna could see forever: the distant lights of the world's greatest fortress fading in the night's last darkness, the faint blue bruise of the horizon as the sun prepared to climb. It was a place for secrets—his own, and those the world hid even from itself.
He had come here not for escape, exactly, but for release. Down in Marineford, every corner now seemed haunted by eager faces. Marines called him "senpai" with almost religious devotion, while younger recruits trailed after him, hoping for a handshake, a lesson, or simply to share the same air. It had started as a joke—an intern, just another body in the ranks—but after the vice admiral battle, after the rumors and the whispers, something had shifted. Officers deferred to him. Veterans sought his counsel. Even admirals, some of the most stubborn beings on the Grand Line, treated him with an odd, respectful distance, as though unsure whether to claim him as one of their own or to fear him as something else entirely.
Krishna found it suffocating. Not because of pride, or even embarrassment, but because he was not yet sure he deserved it. He knew too well the weight of other people's expectations. He had seen how the world loved to crown heroes—and how quickly it fed them to the wolves.
So he'd slipped away before dawn, scaling the Red Line's unforgiving face as easily as walking. Not a single soul in Marineford, not even the sharpest eyes among the admirals, could have tracked him. He'd left no trace behind, save perhaps for the lingering confusion of those who woke to find their "senpai" missing, and the amused tolerance of the three who truly knew him.
Now, in the hush, Krishna let the silence fill him. The only sounds were the restless wind, the distant sigh of the sea, and the heartbeat-deep breathing of his companions.
Sheshika, his oldest friend, lay curled on a ledge just to his right, her scales a muted mosaic in the grey dawn. She watched over him with a patience older than words, her gaze neither questioning nor anxious, simply present. Megakshi perched at the mouth of the cave, a shadow outlined in black and blue, wings half-furled. Her eyes never strayed from the world outside, but Krishna knew she felt his mood—his tension, his uncertainty. And Medha, invisible to all but Krishna and Sheshika, hovered in the background of his thoughts, always alert, always analyzing.
There was comfort in their presence—a comfort born of knowing they would neither ask nor demand. In this moment, Krishna could simply be.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep, drawing the cold air into his lungs. He let his mind drift—backwards, to the beginning.
...
Flashback – Childhood, Awakening Divinity
It was a memory that did not age. He was perhaps six, perhaps seven—the details were blurred, but the feeling was sharp. He remembered a morning much like this, alone on a hillside in Foosha Village, the grass still wet with dew and the sun not yet warm. He had been still—so still that the world seemed to forget him. In that quiet, he'd felt something inside him open, not with a bang or a revelation, but like a flower unfolding. It was not a second heart, or a new core, or any fantastical transformation. It was simply a new presence in his soul—a weightless, luminous thing that filled him with warmth and purpose.
That was the first time he had felt the divine within himself—not as a voice, or a vision, but as an acceptance. It was not a gift bestowed with fanfare, but a recognition: his soul had always carried something more, a light that had only slumbered until he was ready.
Since that day, the divinity had grown, not with violence but with patience. Each year, each hardship, each act of compassion or cruelty, had become a thread in a tapestry that could never be finished. Krishna had learned that there was no end to this growth. The divine did not peak; it simply became richer, deeper, more entwined with who he was.
End Of Flashback
He opened his eyes to the cave's dimness. The Red Line outside was still cloaked in shadow, but gold was threading the eastern sky.
He let his awareness sink deeper. Now, at sixteen, he could feel something new happening—a kind of convergence, a slow and accelerating approach to a unity he'd never imagined.
His Divine Soul—the part of him that had awakened in childhood, the reservoir of god-given possibility—was moving ever closer to perfect resonance with his Martial God Body, the foundation he himself had crafted through will, discipline, and training. The process was neither mystical nor mechanical. It was simply the evolution of a person who had been asked, again and again, to become more than he'd thought possible.
It felt, he thought, both perfectly natural and strangely alien. Like remembering a song you'd heard in a dream, or recognizing your own reflection in a stranger's face.
There was a grounding comfort in the process, but also a kind of quiet terror. To be more himself than ever, but also more than he could easily understand—what did that mean? Was it a blessing, or a burden? Was he rising toward something transcendent, or falling into a myth that would swallow him whole?
He did not know. But he could feel the answer drawing nearer with every breath, every trial.
He let his thoughts wander. In the last week, he'd taken time to study the Red Line itself, running analyses with Medha's help—scanning the rock, mapping the layers, theorizing about its formation.
Was it volcanic, born from the slow agony of the world's shifting plates? Was it an ancient superstructure, a relic of civilizations lost to memory, a wall built by gods or titans? Its composition was a puzzle: stone and coral, fossil and something else—an alien resonance, as if the very bones of the planet were holding their breath.
He ran scenarios—what would happen if the Red Line cracked? The answer was always chaos. The seas would rise, swallowing whole continents. The currents would change, and the weather would become madness. Every foundation, every nation, every life that depended on the world's stability would be thrown into ruin.
Even the greatest foundations, Krishna reflected, eventually erode. The Red Line might look eternal, but its fate was written in the slow grind of time.
He wondered what would happen when it finally broke. Would the world rebuild, or would it drown?
...
Dawn crested the far horizon. Krishna stood, feeling the cave's chill through his bones. Sheshika uncoiled with a ripple of scales, and Megakshi hopped forward, wings stretching in the pale light. For a moment, they stood together at the mouth of the cave—three figures framed against the endless sky.
Then, without ceremony, Krishna stepped off the edge.
The wind caught him at once, freezing and wild. He let himself fall, arms loose, body relaxed, eyes wide open. He did not fight gravity; he surrendered to it, letting the world remind him how small and light he really was.
Sheshika glided after him, her body cutting through the air like a blade of living jade. Megakshi followed, a comet of black and blue, shrieking with the joy of free flight. Even Medha's digital voice, faint but amused, whispered in Krishna's mind, urging him to let go, to trust the fall.
The ground rushed up, the wind screaming. At the very last instant, Krishna twisted—tucking, rolling, landing in a perfect kneel. His impact was almost silent, a mere whisper against the earth. He breathed once, feeling the shock of landing echo up through his bones, and then he vanished—reappearing in the dim stillness of his Marineford room.
No one saw. No one would ever know. For Krishna, the impossible had become simply natural.
He closed his eyes, letting the residue of the wind and stone linger in his lungs. In the silence, he felt stronger, more centered, ready for whatever the day would bring.
But the sense of unity—of soul and body, of power and purpose—remained with him, a promise yet to be fulfilled.
The storm was coming. And for the first time in a long while, Krishna felt ready to face it.
...
FlashBack – The Day Before With Vegapunk
"What do you say, Doctor?" Krishna asked, voice low but unwavering.
"Shall we build a storm together?"
For a moment, time seemed to stop.
Vegapunk didn't answer. He just stared, caught between awe and terror, between the thrill of invention and the burden of legacy. For all his genius, he'd never seen blueprints like these. For all his years, he'd never been invited to build a myth.
Outside, the dawn brightened—the first true sunbeam catching on the names scrawled in ink.
Tārakā. Vāhana One. Vāhana Ark.
The world's next storm was already rising.
And in the electric hush of that office, a legend was being born—not out of invincibility, but out of a courage that was, at its core, heartbreakingly human.
...
The air in Vegapunk's sprawling laboratory office crackled with a blend of ozone, burnt coffee, and something more elusive: possibility. Here, under the industrial glow of arc-lights, stacks of blueprints and glass screens jostled for space on every surface, each promising to rewrite some law of science or reality. The night was deep and silent outside, but within these walls, time was measured not in hours, but in breakthroughs.
Krishna sat opposite Vegapunk at the main table, a sea of notes, diagrams, and even napkin-scrawled formulas separating them. The space was alive with the restless hum of invention. Overhead, mechanical arms twisted and adjusted the ceiling lamps, spotlighting whatever schematic Vegapunk happened to be squinting at. The scientist's shadow flickered in staccato lines across the room, making the whole place feel like a theater of the mind.
Medha hovered just over Krishna's right shoulder. Her avatar—slightly larger than his head, all exaggerated chibi features and puffy cheeks—was the visual definition of sulk. Arms crossed, she floated with the put-upon air of someone whose favorite sibling had just gone and made a new best friend. Every few minutes, she would flit down to Krishna's ear and "whisper" complaints he could feel more than hear, her voice a digital static only he and Sheshika could detect.
"You said this was our project, storm-brain," Medha pouted, her chibi-face exaggerated into a full squint of annoyance.
"He's good, but not that good. Are you going to give away all our secrets?"
Krishna, suppressing a smile, reached up and lightly tapped Medha on her forehead, offering a silent apology. "Collaboration, Medha. Besides, he's the only one on this planet who might actually understand half of what we're talking about."
Across the table, Vegapunk muttered to himself as he unrolled another blueprint. "Compression folding—yes, but what about material integrity at the fold-edges? You'd need a counter-force to prevent fracturing…" He peered over his glasses at Krishna, who had already started sketching out a counter-formula on the nearest empty page.
Krishna, for his part, felt the unfamiliar high of belonging—not as an outlier, a prodigy, or a weapon, but as a builder among builders. This was what he'd longed for as a boy: not fame or even victory, but creation. Not to break the world, but to make it new.
Medha's role was equal parts muse and mischief. When Krishna rattled off a concept too advanced for even Vegapunk to follow at first, Medha would flick her digital finger through a virtual hologram, calling up an explanatory animation only Krishna could see. If Vegapunk praised an idea, Medha's jealousy spiked, she'd float down and bonk Krishna's head with her tiny hands, producing zero pain but maximum effect.
"You're welcome, genius," Medha would grumble, cheeks puffed in an electronic pout. Krishna would wink, careful not to let Vegapunk catch the private joke.
When the conversation turned to more fantastical upgrades—vehicles that could phase through matter, engines fueled by ambient life-force, defensive shields that responded to willpower as much as physics—Vegapunk's eyes widened with a kind of fevered awe. "I see," he murmured, fingers trembling with excitement as he annotated Krishna's diagrams, "you're not limited by conventional logic at all… Your creative boundary is… not even a boundary."
Krishna smiled—sheepish, proud, and slightly apologetic. "You have to be, when you don't know what the limit is."
Medha, arms still crossed, gave an emphatic huff. "Some of us like boundaries," she quipped to Krishna privately. "It's where I keep my favorite protocols."
...
Every so often, Krishna would reference an idea that came directly from Medha's vast internal archive—an algorithm for lossless compression, a quantum-safe encryption for the vehicle's inventory system, or a self-repair mechanism inspired by nanomachine swarms. When Vegapunk praised the elegance and creativity of these solutions, Krishna, hoping to soothe Medha's sulking, would give her credit. "Honestly, the spark came from my assistant."
This only made Medha more theatrical in her jealousy. She would flutter down, plant herself on Krishna's head, and flail her little arms in pantomime outrage by beating his head and pulling on his hair, earning a suppressed laugh from Krishna and a puzzled glance from Vegapunk.
"I'm being replaced by an apple head grandpa in a lab coat," Medha whined, voice thick with faux-tragedy.
Krishna kept his voice even, patting her head, "You're irreplaceable, Medha. Besides, you get to keep all the cool upgrades for yourself first."
"Hmmph," Medha pouted, but the hint of a smile flickered on her glowing face. For all her jealousy, she was enjoying the game.
...
The brainstorming between Krishna, Medha, and Vegapunk moved from theory to practical miracles at a pace that would've seemed unthinkable to any outside observer.
As the inventions took shape, Krishna insisted the vehicles be disguised as everyday items when shrunk—no superfluous features or suspicious locks, just the kind of nondescript object a Marine might toss in a duffel bag or tuck under an arm. It was his first demand, which was simple in concept but dizzying in execution:
"No matter the object's weight, it should be something I can carry in my arms—briefcase, satchel, tool bag, you name it. Forget about the weight. Just the form."
Vegapunk, at first, raised an eyebrow at the request—carrying a warbike or a supercar as if it were luggage? But Krishna's tone was so casual, so certain, that the scientist didn't press for explanation. He chalked it up to youth, muscle, and whatever monstrous "training" the Marines whispered about in breakrooms.
...
What neither Vegapunk nor anyone else in the world could know was that, just as Krishna's Divine Soul and Martial God Body inched toward unity, Medha herself was evolving.
In a private channel only Krishna, and — with her peculiar extrasensory sense, Sheshika—could perceive, Medha's digital form gleamed, flickering with strange golden code.
"Inventory Protocol unlocked," she announced, her voice filled with playful triumph.
"From now on, anything you can physically carry—even just for a moment—can be stashed in a subspace archive. The penalty is minimal: you'll only feel 3 to 5% of the item's original weight, no matter how heavy. As your soul's resonance grows, so will the system's capacity."
Krishna tested it immediately—lifting a heavy toolbox, feeling it "vanish" from his hands with a shimmer, reappearing with only the faintest tug of weight on his body. To anyone else, it was an invisible trick.
To Vegapunk, it was merely Krishna's "efficiency," another mystery among many.
While Medha quietly ran background calculations, Krishna and Vegapunk raced to prototype. The focus:
Tārakā (Divine Warbike)
Vāhana One (Supercar)
Each was refitted for:
Phased armor: Hardened on impact, adapting to force.
Stealth fields: Visual and electromagnetic masking.
Onboard AI support: Vegapunk believed this was his own subroutine; in reality, Medha's digital presence would remain the vehicle's secret soul.
...
For secure comms, Krishna proposed a blend of Den Den Mushi encryption with Medha's digital cloaking. Vegapunk, delighted by the challenge, added a suite of protocols that "scrambled" any attempted snooping—even a CP0 agent would be left with nothing but static.
No one but Krishna—or, with explicit permission, Vegapunk—could ever retrieve or operate these marvels.
The process was frenetic, equal parts invention and improvisation. They worked through the night:
Drawing up schematics on every surface.
Debating circuit layouts and field strengths.
Building and breaking down mock-ups at breakneck speed.
Medha, though unseen by Vegapunk, kept up a running commentary for Krishna's benefit—sometimes offering wry criticism, sometimes pouting, especially when Krishna credited her for a clever idea in front of Vegapunk, prompting her to "kick" his head in digital exasperation. Her jealousy was more theatrical than angry, but her longing for Krishna's undivided attention was clear.
"I could have built this with just you, you know!" she grumbled.
"He's a genius, but he's not my genius," Medha would sulk in his mental HUD, including a black cloud hanging over her head, prompting Krishna to comfort and soothe her.
...
It wasn't just the vehicles they were building. The team also tackled Krishna's other inventions:
Atmospheric Moisture Capture: Building a device that pulls water from even the driest air.
Portable Desalinator: Compact, field-ready, with solar or haki-powered modules.
Nano-Med-Kit: Inspired by Medha's design, with rapid, non-invasive wound closure.
Crop Generators and Encrypted Den Den Mushi: All were blueprinted, tested, and iterated with impossible efficiency.
Krishna never explained Medha to Vegapunk, never revealed the true source of his ideas, nor the miracle of the "inventory." To the world's greatest scientist, Krishna was simply the most resourceful, visionary intern he'd ever encountered.
...
The hours flew by in a blur. At times, the conversation grew so technical that even Krishna had to pause, asking Medha to run a simulation or double-check an equation. At other moments, the room fell into a comfortable silence, each mind working, hands moving, the world outside forgotten.
For Krishna, this was a rare and precious thing—a space where he was not a symbol, not a prodigy, not the "future of justice," but simply a builder. A boy who wanted, for once, to help the world heal rather than tear it apart. Vegapunk, too, seemed rejuvenated, his old eyes gleaming with the energy of someone a third his age.
Medha kept grumbling, but the longer the session went, the more her pout softened into pride. She was part of something greater, even if she'd never admit it out loud.
As midnight crept toward dawn, Krishna and Vegapunk packed away the blueprints, exchanging a rare handshake of equals. Vegapunk insisted they meet again soon—there was much more to invent, to dream, to build.
Medha, still sulking, hovered on Krishna's shoulder as they left the lab. But in the digital night, she allowed herself a small, private smile. For all her pouting, she was content—because Krishna was happy, and, deep down, she knew that no genius—no matter how great—could ever take her place by his side.
For Krishna, sleep came easily that night—his last thoughts not of violence or vengeance, but of circuits, engines, and hope.
End Of Flashback
The morning sun hung low, painting the Marineford training grounds in long shadows and shimmering gold. Krishna moved with quiet grace through the field, his presence drawing only the faintest glances. He had, by careful practice, diminished his aura—no throngs of fans, no swarms of hopeful recruits. Today, even the bravest fangirl seemed content to train from a distance. Sheshika had curled herself discreetly around his arm, pretending to nap. Megakshi, almost invisible against the backdrop of an ancient, storm-bent tree, preened a single obsidian feather. Medha, as always, flickered unseen in the periphery, her voice an occasional digital whisper in Krishna's mind.
Krishna finished a set of controlled push-ups, palms pressed into the scarred earth, when the sound of someone crunching into a rice cracker echoed across the field. It was a sound he'd come to associate with a very specific, very stubborn kind of chaos.
"Yo, brat," came Garp's gravelly voice, casual as ever.
Krishna stood, dusted off his knees, and greeted the old man with a nod. "You're up early. I thought you'd be—"
Garp grinned, crumbs in his beard. "—sleeping through the sunrise? Not when Sengoku's got that look in his eye. And especially not when you're about to get thrown to the wolves."
Krishna blinked, reading the subtext. Garp wasn't just here to banter.
Garp lowered his rice cracker, the smile fading just enough to reveal the lines of an old, indomitable fighter who'd seen the world change a hundred times over. "Sengoku wants you. Now. Important debrief. I can't go—orders. Got another mission."
For a moment, Krishna saw the grandfather, not the Hero of the Marines. There was something in Garp's eyes—a glimmer of concern, of weight. Krishna matched his gaze, then nodded once.
"Understood."
Garp clapped him on the shoulder, harder than strictly necessary, and grinned. "Go easy on those old fools, eh? And don't let Sengoku bore you to death." He winked, then, as if the seriousness had never happened, turned on his heel and wandered off, waving his half-eaten cracker at a passing seagull.
Krishna watched him go, feeling the subtle current of tension left in the old man's wake. Sheshika stirred, pressing her head into Krishna's palm, sensing the shift. "Don't worry," Krishna murmured, "this won't take long."
But even he wasn't certain.
...
The halls of Marineford headquarters were unnaturally quiet. It was a silence born not of peace, but of anticipation—a city holding its breath before a typhoon.
Krishna's footsteps were soft, measured. The guards at Fleet Admiral's door straightened as he approached, eyes flicking to the black feather clipped discreetly to his lapel. No one spoke, no one challenged. The door opened on silent hinges, and Krishna entered, pulse steady, mask in place.
Inside, the room was heavy with authority and old wounds.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku stood behind his desk, a mountain of paperwork untouched at his elbow. The Fleet Admiral's white coat was immaculate, but the lines on his face had deepened—an unspoken exhaustion carved by years of war and compromise.
Great Staff Officer Tsuru sat to one side, back straight, hands folded atop a sheaf of files. Her gaze was cool, penetrating—the eyes of someone who had weighed countless lives and still carried the sums.
Marine Instructor and former Admiral "Black Arm" Zephyr stood by the window, arms crossed, his scars prominent on his flesh from the light of the sun, a silent testament to battles lost and survived.
Krishna nodded to each in turn. "You called for me, sir?"
Sengoku's voice was rougher than usual, gravel beneath a glacier. "Sit."
Krishna took the offered chair, careful to keep his posture open, unthreatening. Sheshika curled herself unobtrusively at his feet, Megakshi took her usual place on the curtain rod, feathers nearly invisible.
A moment of silence stretched—long enough for the clock on the wall to tick three times.
Tsuru broke it. "You haven't been deployed since Impel Down. That was Sengoku's decision," she said, nodding at the Fleet Admiral. "But the world doesn't wait for permission."
Sengoku's jaw flexed. "This isn't my call," he admitted, bitterness souring his tone. "World Government wants you on the next major mission. 'Test the prodigy,' they say. 'Show the world what the Marines can do.,'" he said, shaking his head in disapproval.
Zephyr snorted, still watching the horizon. "It's not a test. It's a spectacle."
Krishna kept his face neutral. "What's the assignment?"
Tsuru slid a dossier across the table. Krishna opened it, scanning quickly—the details emerged, sharp and urgent.
Mission: Infiltrate and secure a secret SMILE factory. The location: an unmarked island deep in the New World, Kaido's Jolly Roger flying high.
Kaido—King of the Beasts. Even in the file's dry language, the word seemed to burn. the so-called "World's Strongest Creature." A Pirate Emperor with a reputation for madness and destruction. One of his All-Stars—Jack the Drought—was also referenced: indomitable, relentless, a disaster given flesh.
Krishna's fingers lingered on the word SMILE. Artificial Devil Fruits—objects of twisted ambition and agony. Weapons made to shatter the world's balance.
Sengoku's voice was iron. "Your objective is to retrieve as many intact SMILE fruits as possible. Secure every scrap of research, every bit of data. Do not destroy unless there's no other option. If you can, bring back scientists—alive."
Tsuru's gaze sharpened. "This is a mission into a den of monsters. Kaido will not take kindly to interference. Jack is a disaster in human form. We cannot guarantee backup—other admirals are tied up with Big Mom, Red Hair, and the revolutionaries."
Zephyr finally turned from the window, his face set in granite. "You'll be with my team. Ain, Binz, Shuzo, Mako, and my own team of marines, handpicked."
Krishna nodded, absorbing it all. "Why me?"
Sengoku's reply was quiet, but hard as stone. "Because you're the symbol. You're the proof. If the world sees you take on Kaido's forces and walk away, the Marines' legend grows. If you fall—" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Tsuru's voice turned sharp with distaste, "This is as much politics as it is tactics."
Krishna closed the file. "When do we leave?"
Zephyr glanced at Sengoku, then back to Krishna. "Now. Gather your things. We brief on the ship."
A final, electric pause. Krishna rose, meeting each gaze in turn. "I'll bring everyone back," he promised, not as bravado but as a vow. "And I'll bring back the truth."
...
Flashback—Sengoku and the Five Elders
The memory comes unbidden, sharp as the chill that creeps through Marineford's war rooms just before dawn.
Sengoku's office is lit by a single lamp, its glow barely illuminating the mountain of paperwork stacked with Marine precision across his desk. Maps of the New World, dossiers stamped Classified, the ever-present Den Den Mushi—all arranged, all waiting. The fortress outside is silent, but within these walls, power never truly sleeps.
A Den Den Mushi—small, aged, and coiled like an angry fist—crackles to life, its shell mottled with the sigil of the Gorōsei. Sengoku's posture tightens. The Five Elders do not call for updates. They call to command.
The snail's eyes swivel, then narrow with a weight that presses against Sengoku's chest. The voice that emerges is unmistakable—iron, old, and cold as winter's first wind.
"Sengoku," intones Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, the Gorōsei whose shadow falls across both the World Government's science and its military. "Report."
Sengoku resists the urge to sigh, keeping his reply crisp, "No significant movement in the New World sectors, sir. Surveillance on Dressrosa and the surrounding territories continues. Kaido's operations remain fluid, but—"
"Enough," Saturn cuts him off, his tone clipped, every syllable an exercise in power. "We're not here to catalog pirate migrations. The intelligence you relayed on the SMILE production has been verified. Our sources confirm its location—coordinates to be relayed by cipher."
Sengoku's brows knit. He's already pieced together what's coming, but formality is armor. "Sir, I'll prepare Vice Admirals for a strike. If you require an Admiral's presence—"
"You're missing the point," Saturn interrupts, impatience heavy in his words. "This isn't about destruction. This is about acquisition. You are to secure as many of the artificial devil fruits as possible—intact, unspoiled, with all data and research logs. If even one goes missing, it will be your head on the block."
Sengoku's jaw tightens. "Respectfully, sir, Kaido does not take kindly to interference. If we act too aggressively, it could spark—"
"Enough with your concerns. This is not a request, Sengoku. This is an order."
A pause. Sengoku feels the weight of the order settle on his shoulders—the kind of order that cannot be refused, the kind that reshapes careers and breaks men. But Saturn is not finished.
"And one more thing. Deploy the prodigy. The intern—the boy Kurohane. The world must see that the Marines do not cower behind legends of the past. Let them witness what the New Era of Justice looks like. If he falls short, so be it. But if he succeeds, let that success be broadcast across every ocean."
The silence that follows is frigid. Sengoku feels a muscle twitch at the corner of his eye. "You wish to use him as a—"
"As a message," Saturn finishes for him. "To Pirates, to Yonko, to every Revolutionary watching. Let them see the future. And Sengoku… do not disappoint us. We want results, not rationalizations. If you fail, there will be no second chances."
The line goes dead. The Den Den Mushi's eyes close, its shell shuddering with residual tension, and Sengoku is left alone in the gloom. The weight of command—of old men waging wars from behind their curtains—presses down until he can barely breathe.
He sits, staring at the paperwork, at the map, at nothing at all. His fist curls, tight as a vice, then crashes down on the oak desk with a sound like thunder.
"Damn them," he mutters, anger and resignation in equal measure. "Damn their politics, their spectacle. As if lives were just pieces on a board…"
The lamp flickers, casting shadows across his face—lines deepened by years, by compromise, by knowing the cost of orders that cannot be refused.
After a long moment, Sengoku straightens his jacket, smoothing the wrinkles from his composure. The order stands. The prodigy will be deployed. The world will watch. And Sengoku, for all his power, can only prepare—and pray—that this storm does not sweep them all away.
End Of Flashback
Krishna stepped out into the morning, the dossier heavy in his hand. The air felt different now—sharper, heavier, as if a storm were about to break. He could feel Sheshika's scales tighten, Megakshi's wings ruffle. Even Medha's usual stream of dry remarks was absent, replaced by a loaded, digital hush.
He moved with purpose through the corridors, every step an unspoken answer to the world's challenge. This was more than a test. It was a turning point—one that would etch itself into the future of not only the Marines, but the world itself.
The mission awaited. And Krishna, for the first time in a long while, felt the electric chill of anticipation… and the flicker of something dangerously close to hope.
...
The air around the southern docks of Marineford was crisp and briny, tinged with the salt and anticipation that always accompanied a Marine deployment. But today's gathering felt different—less like a military operation, more like the calm before a cosmic storm. Krishna walked at the edge of the bustling pier, the sunlight slanting off his black uniform. His stride was measured, his mind still half elsewhere, echoes of his solitary morning in the Red Line cave threading through every thought.
Ahead, the warship gleamed—sleek, reinforced, newly provisioned for the long journey ahead. Zephyr was already there, standing ramrod straight with arms crossed and a half-smile hidden beneath his weathered features. Around him, his handpicked team assembled in quiet readiness: Ain, her blue hair catching the wind as she checked the embarkation list; Binz, tall and steady, arms folded behind his back; Shuzo, all sharp edges and sidelong glances; and Mako, the youngest, fidgeting with excitement and nerves.
Sheshika coiled loosely around Krishna's shoulders, tongue flicking as she surveyed the assembled marines with a quiet queen's composure. Megakshi glided down, landing on Krishna's outstretched arm for a moment—her feathers gleaming midnight blue, eyes sharp as obsidian.
Ain, with her characteristic poise, approached first. Her eyes, a clear blue, softened as she saw the two creatures. "Good morning, Sheshika," she greeted gently, reaching a careful hand to stroke the serpent's scales. Sheshika accepted the gesture with regal indifference.
Megakshi, less certain, tilted her head as Ain extended a hand—then, deciding the marine was worthy, allowed herself to be petted, feathers fluffing up in contentment. The brief moment of vulnerability made Krishna's lips twitch with an unspoken smile.
Binz strolled up, laughing quietly. "You know, sometimes I wonder if these two aren't the real commanders," he joked, nodding to the peacock and snake. "You just tag along for the snacks, Krishna."
Krishna, letting the banter flow past him, replied with a gentle, "They do keep me in line." There was warmth there, but a distance as well—his mind still shadowed by the memory of that morning's meditation.
Shuzo arrived last, gaze sharp as ever, giving Krishna only the briefest of nods. Mako, meanwhile, hovered at the edge, his hero-worship still obvious in every awkward movement.
Ain leaned in, curiosity and concern mixing in her voice. "Do you know what this mission is about?" she asked, her tone low enough to avoid the others overhearing.
Krishna met her eyes, an easy smile softening his features. "Zephyr-sensei will explain everything. Let's wait for the briefing together," he replied, not unkindly but with a finality that made clear he was not ready to bear the weight of secrets just yet.
Ain nodded, sensing his boundaries. Still, she offered another soft stroke to Megakshi, who strutted with pride, feathers ruffling. Sheshika gave a slow, approving blink.
Within minutes, Zephyr called the team to order. His voice was gravel and thunder, brooking no delay. "All right, listen up! Final checks, loadout inspection in ten minutes. Krishna, with me."
The others scattered to their tasks, leaving Krishna and his two companions alone with Zephyr for a moment. The older man studied him with a veteran's eyes, reading the tension beneath the calm. "You ready, intern?" he asked quietly, the challenge implicit.
Krishna's response was a silent, steady nod.
...
The voyage began with Marine precision—a flurry of orders, sails unfurled, engines rumbling to life. The warship pulled away from the docks and sliced through the cobalt waters, heading north and east, toward the base of the Red Line.
As the cliffs of Mariejois loomed into view—ancient, unyielding, crowned by the infamous Holy Land—an unspoken heaviness settled over the deck. Marines who'd never made this journey before stared in awe or dread; veterans kept their eyes fixed forward, faces grim.
Krishna stood at the prow, the wind buffeting his hair, his face unreadable. Sheshika curled quietly around his shoulders, Megakshi perched on the railing, her feathers bristling against the rising tension.
He reached out with his Observation Haki— not for threats, but for feeling. The emotions drifting up from Mariejois were like oil on water: thick, polluted, barely suppressed. He felt terror—deep, animal terror—radiating from somewhere below, a thousand souls shackled in shadow. There was pain, hollow and unending. He picked up flashes of rage, the silent yearning for freedom, the numbing acceptance of despair. So much like Queen Otohime's ability, the echoes were impossible to ignore.
His hands, hidden in the sleeves of his uniform, clenched tight. Fingernails bit deep into his palms until blood welled, but he was careful—no one saw. He forced his face to stay impassive, a mask built through years of discipline and necessity.
Ain drifted to his side, her presence gentle but steady. She glanced at him, saw the white-knuckled fists, the rigid set of his jaw. "Are you okay?" she asked, voice barely above the whisper of the wind.
Krishna inhaled slowly, exhaled. "I'm fine," he replied, managing a soft smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Sheshika's tongue flicked over his wrist, a silent, grounding comfort. Megakshi watched, her own gaze sharper, as if she could see through every layer of Krishna's composure.
Zephyr, watching from the quarterdeck, said nothing. But his gaze was sharp, his understanding complete. He had seen men broken by this place—by the knowledge of what hid behind those gleaming walls and manicured gardens. He had nearly broken himself, once.
As the group approaches the Marine Port, the atmosphere sharpens with both efficiency and unspoken anxiety.
The Marine Port, located at the base of the colossal Red Line, is a fortified vertical harbor—bustling with Navy engineers, guards, and the constant movement of supply lifts and elevator platforms. Krishna notes the sheer scale: massive, armored lifts large enough to transport a battleship, running on a mix of ancient pulleys, modern hydraulics, and even Den Den Mushi-powered engines.
Zephyr leads the team aboard one of these gigantic lifts. As the platform rumbles upward, Krishna's gaze lingers on the Red Line's impossible height—a blood-red cliff veined with black, as if the world itself had scarred over some ancient wound. The ascent takes nearly half an hour, with the platform enclosed in reinforced glass to keep out the biting winds and prying eyes of Mariejois above.
The Red Line's surface comes into view: polished white stone, ornate walkways, and the cold silhouette of Mariejois' holy gates looming in the distance. Security grows tighter. Celestial Dragon patrols are visible on sky-bridges far overhead, flanked by their masked guards and enslaved attendants.
Even here, the Marines are unwelcome—a necessary evil. Krishna notes the tension in every guard's stance, the sidelong looks thrown at Zephyr and himself, and the unspoken rule: don't speak unless spoken to, and don't look too long at the "gods."
The group marched through the massive, echoing corridors of the port. Gilded statues and pristine marble gave way, step by step, to the unmistakable stink of fear and old blood. Krishna's Observation Haki filtered the world to a tapestry of suffering—he saw the hunched backs of laborers, the silent, shuffling feet of the enslaved. He felt their eyes, wide and empty, staring out from behind iron masks.
After a brief inspection at a secondary checkpoint, where Zephyr's authority, Krishna's status, and the mission's priority smoothed their passage, the group boards another descending lift—this one shuttling them to the New World side. Krishna notices the mechanism: the lifts drop straight down through a sealed tunnel, bypassing Mariejois' interior, emerging at the Marine Port on the New World side—a testament to the World Government's iron control and paranoia.
The whole process takes nearly an hour, but to Krishna, it feels much longer. As the lift descends, his Observation Haki senses fear and exhaustion from the port workers, and the psychic residue of despair from those above. Only when they emerge to the roar of New World winds and the open sea does Krishna finally unclench his fists.
He walked on. Shoulders straight, fists now relaxed at his sides—he would not give the world the satisfaction of seeing him bleed.
At the edge of the port, as their ship prepared to descend into the waters of the New World, Krishna paused. He closed his eyes, letting the salt air fill his lungs. Only then did he unclench his fists, wiping the blood from his palms with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. No one saw.
Ain, watching from the gangway, caught the smallest motion—the tiniest tremor of relief in Krishna's stance. She didn't press. Sometimes, silence was the kindest answer.
Once aboard the ship again, the group cast off quickly. Zephyr issued a gruff order, "Move! Don't look back." The vessel slipped out of the Red Line's shadow and into the blazing, unpredictable blue of the New World.
No Celestial Dragon stopped them. No marines dared ask questions. But the marks of that place—the horror, the anger, the tightly controlled grief—clung to them like sea salt on skin.
Krishna's mind was quiet, but not calm. He stared back at the cliffs, expression unreadable.
He knew—every mission from now on would be a test, not just of his strength, but of his ability to keep that strength from destroying him.
Sheshika coiled tighter around his neck, Megakshi pressed close, their silent support enough for now.
In the distance, thunder rolled over the waves—a fitting herald, Krishna thought, for the storm to come.
...
The world beyond Paradise was a place of legends and shipwrecks, a wilderness too wild for mapmakers, too cruel for the cautious. Here, the sea itself seemed to convulse with secret tides and monstrous dreams—a realm where even the sky forgot the laws of peace. Lightning sketched nervous patterns in the clouds, the wind tore at the sails, and the sunlight itself seemed filtered through a lens of ancient, unending war.
Krishna stood at the prow, letting the salt wind sting his face. Below him, the warship's hull groaned, braced against a current that changed direction without warning. The sea was a patchwork of color: violent indigo where storms brewed, sickly green where kelp-choked shallows threatened, silver-white where the waves broke themselves to pieces.
A distant ship—a black flag, skull-and-crossbones winking in the storm—rose on a swell, then vanished, swallowed whole. Another followed, and another, each a silent reminder that in the New World, even the horizon was a liar. Islands appeared and vanished in the mist. Rocks split the water like the teeth of some colossal beast.
It was beautiful, in a way that had nothing to do with safety.
...
He had grown used to attention—the bright-eyed awe of recruits, the respectful distance of officers, the irrepressible tide of fanboys and fangirls whispering "senpai" in the corridors. But out here, with the world reduced to wind, steel, and hunger, those voices fell away. Even the most persistent admirers learned to give him space.
He stood alone for hours—sometimes at the very tip of the bow, staring into a storm until the rain soaked through his uniform and the cold set his teeth on edge; sometimes at the highest lookout, legs dangling above a screaming void. He ate quietly, alone. When he slept, it was in the deepest corner of his quarters, where the walls seemed to breathe with the pulse of the ocean.
His companions—Sheshika, Megakshi, and Medha—kept their own watchful silence. Sheshika would coil around his arm, lending a pulse of warmth to the cold. Megakshi perched near the window, her shadow flickering across the bulkheads, silent and unblinking. Medha, ever the observer, flitted in and out of Krishna's awareness, offering the occasional dry remark or simply projecting an image of a flickering candle, steady and patient, in the back of his mind.
Sometimes, late at night, the four of them would sit together in Krishna's room—no words, just the rhythm of the ship, the storm, and their breathing. There was comfort in it: the knowledge that even when the world was howling chaos, he was not entirely alone.
...
Every ship at sea forms its own society, its own fleeting nation of trust and necessity. The mission group was no different: Zephyr led with quiet authority, Ain organized training and drills, Binz saw to morale and logistics, and Mako—Mako was everywhere at once, earnest, blundering, determined to make himself useful.
On the first day, Mako tried to bring Krishna into the group's breakfast—a boisterous affair, full of tall tales and bad jokes. "Senpai! You gotta try Binz's seaweed soup—he puts actual citrus in it, it'll make you invincible!" Krishna smiled, thanked him, and promised he'd join next time.
He didn't.
Ain caught him later on the upper deck, her hands full of papers and her eyes bright. "You always train alone," she remarked, half-accusation, half-invitation. "The crew would like to see more of you."
Krishna offered his usual half-smile, all warmth and no commitment. "I prefer to watch the weather, for now."
She shrugged, neither offended nor surprised. "Just don't vanish entirely, alright? The team worries." She handed him a sheet—training schedules, mess assignments, all in neat, blocky handwriting—and left him to his solitude.
Binz was the next to try—bringing him a cup of strong tea, brewed the old way, with a touch of ginger and salt. "For the nerves," Binz said, placing it beside him as Krishna watched a flock of seabirds wheel and dive through the spray. "And for the cold. Try not to turn into a statue out here."
Krishna nodded, sipped the tea, but his eyes never left the horizon.
Mako, undeterred, kept showing up—asking for advice on Shigan, again, demonstrating his latest clumsy attempt at Geppo, even trying (and failing) to mimic the "Tārakā Gati—Stellar Motion" he'd seen Krishna use. Krishna corrected him gently, once or twice, then slipped away, as if the wind itself had carried him off.
It wasn't that Krishna disliked them. He didn't. If anything, he felt a warmth for them he found hard to express—like the faint, aching nostalgia for a home you know you've already left behind. But right now, the weight in his chest was too heavy for easy words. The New World wasn't just geography—it was a state of being. And in its storms, even the brightest company could become a kind of noise.
...
In the silence of his cabin, Krishna would sometimes sit with his legs folded, Sheshika draped across his lap, Megakshi pressed close at his side. Medha would project scenes—sometimes a memory, sometimes a calculation, sometimes just a soothing pulse of color and light. These were the moments he cherished most: when the world outside was reduced to heartbeat, breath, and the faint, silver drift of his own thoughts.
He thought of the mission ahead—the SMILE factory, the flag of Kaido, the dangers that waited. He thought of the World Government's expectations, of Sengoku's reluctant orders, of Zephyr's stern warnings. He thought of mercy and rage, of the fine line he walked every time he held back the storm inside him.
Every so often, a sudden gust would rattle the warship, sending everyone scrambling for handholds. The crew moved with practiced urgency—ropes secured, sails trimmed, damage checked, and reported. Krishna watched, unobtrusive but vigilant. It reminded him of the days in Foosha, before the world had demanded so much of him, before he'd learned to wear the mask of a prodigy.
There was a kind of freedom in the chaos. Out here, there were no crowds to impress, no authorities to appease—just the truth of wind, water, and steel.
...
The farther they sailed, the stranger the world became. Islands that appeared and vanished in a single night. Storms that obeyed no pattern, defying even Medha's calculations. Sea Kings, larger than the ship itself, glimpsed only as shadows beneath the surface. Unnatural fogs, sudden rains of color, even the occasional flash of something luminous—devil fruit phenomena or pirate weaponry—streaking the horizon.
Pirate crews watched from afar, some flying the flags of notorious names. Kaido's mark was everywhere—a reminder that the world's strongest creature ruled these waters by right of fear alone.
The New World was not Paradise. Here, the old certainties of Marineford—the routines, the codes, the safety of numbers—meant little. Out here, power and will were the only real laws. The ship sailed on, a fragile hope in a world that seemed determined to test every conviction, every limit, every bond.
Yet for all the chaos, for all his distance, Krishna found a kind of kinship with his companions. Sheshika and Megakshi, by his side always. Medha, hovering in the periphery, sometimes cheeky, sometimes wise, always loyal.
They asked little of him, understanding instinctively the burden he carried. Sometimes, when the wind howled and the world seemed to shrink to the size of a single breath, Krishna would feel a tiny pulse—a nudge from Sheshika, a quiet thought from Medha, a reassuring weight from Megakshi.
It was enough.
He knew he could not avoid the others forever. He knew that at some point, Ain would corner him with her kindness, that Mako would demand another lesson, that Zephyr would call him back to the world with the authority of a true teacher.
But for now, he let himself drift—a solitary figure in the storm, holding the chaos at bay not with power or prophecy, but with the simple, stubborn will to keep going, keep watching, keep hoping.
...
Every storm must break, eventually. As the ship cut deeper into the New World, as the skies darkened and the wind picked up, Krishna felt the tension rising—not just in the sea, but in himself. The mission ahead would test him, not only as a weapon, but as a man.
Would he hold to mercy, or yield to vengeance?
Would he lead, or simply endure?
Would he become the storm, or weather it?
For now, there were no answers—only the rhythm of the waves, the touch of loyal companions, and the knowledge that soon, the New World would demand all that he was, and all that he was still becoming.
He stood at the prow, the wind in his hair, the world before him wild and unknown.
And for the first time in a long while, Krishna allowed himself a small, private smile—not of certainty, but of acceptance.
...
The New World was never gentle, but today it seemed to seethe.
Dawn came late and uncertain, as if the sun itself feared what lay ahead. In the pale, sickly light, the Marine warship cut through heaving swells—her armored hull shuddering with every strike of the waves, a trembling reflected in the hearts of even her most seasoned crew.
The wind whipped salt and cold across the deck, carrying rumors of violence, death, and—above all—Kaido's legend. The king of beasts did not rule by fear alone; his very presence was said to distort the world's order, and his flag—looming high on the distant cliffs—felt less like a warning and more like a curse etched into the horizon.
On the deck, Marines stood at their posts in tight, silent groups. Armor was checked and rechecked, rifles gleamed in trembling hands, and all eyes were fixed on that craggy, fortified island where shadows pooled like blood. The faint, guttural roar of distant engines and the low hum of unseen weapons added a metallic edge to the morning.
Krishna stood at the bow—alone in the spray, wind plastering his hair back, uniform tight and immaculate despite the chaos around him. He neither flinched nor postured, but simply stared ahead, eyes narrow with focus. Sheshika coiled loosely around his neck, head resting against his collarbone, while Megakshi perched just behind, wings folded, black eyes scanning the horizon with the same intensity.
Ain, Binz, Shuzo, and the rest of Zephyr's personal team manned their stations, all tense but disciplined. Even Zephyr himself, "Black Arm" returned to his old battlefield persona, stood by the rail, surveying his troops with a gaze both steely and protective. Orders came crisp and quiet—no wasted words. Only the fanboy, Mako, seemed unable to fully hide his nerves; his gaze flickered again and again to Krishna, searching for courage in the way the intern faced the storm.
It was a tableau—every player locked in the moment before battle, every breath thick with dread and anticipation.
...
The island rose abruptly from the roiling sea—black cliffs, jagged as broken teeth, crowned by fortifications that bristled with artillery and barbed wire. Spotlights cut through the morning haze, sweeping back and forth with predatory patience. Above all, the dragon-skull flag snapped in the gale: Kaido's personal mark, so infamous that even veteran Vice Admirals whispered curses under their breath at the sight.
Somewhere beneath those cliffs, in hidden caverns and concrete bunkers, a SMILE factory churned out artificial Devil Fruits, fed by the suffering and ambition of a pirate empire. Somewhere below, Jack the Drought—Kaido's most relentless All-Star—waited, a living calamity known for leaving wastelands in his wake.
A series of alarms sounded, distant at first, then echoing louder as the warship breached the outer perimeter. Sirens wailed—shrill, discordant, the signal for both defenders and attackers to prepare.
On the deck, Zephyr straightened, his presence suddenly immense. "Stations!" he barked. "Eyes sharp! No heroics—follow orders and cover your team!"
Ain and Binz nodded, moving with efficient grace; Shuzo glared into the wind, every muscle coiled. Mako, fists clenched white-knuckle around his rifle, swallowed hard but refused to break eye contact with Krishna.
...
Krishna closed his eyes for a heartbeat, feeling the storm—inside and out.
It was not just anticipation, not the old heady rush of battle or the stubborn drive to prove himself. Deeper, beneath the flesh and uniform, a more profound resonance stirred. His Divine Soul—never a separate core, but the essential truth of his being—felt alive, restless, as if some hidden pulse within was syncing to the rhythm of his Martial God Body. They hovered at the edge of true unity, a harmony that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
He sensed, more keenly than ever, the power waiting in his limbs—not just raw strength or speed, but the potential for meaning, for rightness. It was as if the air itself crackled with anticipation, as if the world were pausing to see what he would choose.
For all the years of forging himself into a living weapon, today, Krishna realized: this mission would test more than his techniques. It would test the dharma he'd chosen—compassion, restraint, and the responsibility of overwhelming power. Could he hold to his ideals with Kaido's shadow looming, with the world watching for a new "monster" in Marine uniform?
He opened his eyes as the island loomed, steeling himself for the answer.
...
Every Marine felt it. Zephyr's orders were met with swift, silent action. Hatches slammed shut, gun emplacements swiveled forward, Den Den Mushi lines flickered with final status checks. Even the hardiest veterans muttered prayers under their breath.
"Steady!" Zephyr's voice cut through the gathering panic like a cleaver. "This isn't a suicide mission. We go in smart, we come out together. Anyone gets left behind, it won't be by my order!"
Ain, standing by Krishna, handed him a fresh set of comms. "You ready?" she asked, eyes steady. "We might be the first wave."
Krishna nodded, voice low. "Ready. Stay close to Zephyr-sensei if things get chaotic."
Binz and Shuzo, each in their element, checked gear and shared a quick, wordless nod. Even Mako—breath shallow, face pale—managed to steady himself, repeating a silent mantra as if to anchor his courage.
...
The sky above was choked with low, racing clouds, the kind that made it impossible to tell if it was dawn or dusk. Spray leapt high over the warship's prow, painting the deck in a shimmering, shifting mosaic of sea and sky.
Krishna inhaled—deep, centering, feeling the icy bite of the air in his lungs. Around him, Medha whispered quiet calculations in his mind, Sheshika's weight pressed comfortingly against his neck, and Megakshi's silent presence—so often dismissed by outsiders as mere bird—felt like a watchful omen.
A squadron of pirates' patrol boats peeled off from the far side of the island, their engines snarling as they formed up for interception. Cannon muzzles glinted along the cliffs.
Yet for all the outer noise, Krishna felt an impossible calm. It was not the absence of fear, but the acceptance of it—the knowledge that true dharma was never won in comfort, but in the heart of the storm.
...
This is it, Krishna thought. Not just a test of strength, but of everything I believe. Vengeance, mercy, power, restraint… This storm will shape more than my legend. It will decide what kind of justice this world sees from me.
He could feel his Divine Soul and Martial God Body drawing nearer to synchronization, as if the coming battle would be the crucible needed to finally align body and soul—not in brute force, but in purpose.
A memory flickered: his earliest lesson, sitting cross-legged in the dust as a child, hearing Sheshika say—"Power is not what you hold, Krishna, but what you bear."
Now, with a world watching, he would bear it all.
...
Alarms blared. The pirates' first shots raked the water, geysers erupting just short of the warship's prow.
Zephyr's voice, calm but implacable, echoed over the din. "Positions! Prepare for boarding! Ain—on me! Krishna, with me at the front. Mako—hold the line, no matter what."
Krishna squared his shoulders. The wind whipped his hair, his coat flared like a banner, and the sense of unity—of storm within and without—became absolute.
He stepped forward, silent and unbowed, as the storm finally broke.
And as the first defenders rushed the shore, the chapter ended—not with a shout, but with a breath, the kind of pause that comes before a myth is written in blood and hope alike.
The storm was coming. But so was he.
...
Omake: Wings, Wits, and Reports
The dawn was a hush of gold and slate blue above the Red Line cave, but inside the shadowed alcove, it was the perfect hour for idleness.
Krishna sat still as a stone, lost in his own silent meditation. Sheshika, coiled in a soft spiral, kept one eye on the horizon and the other on her partner. Megakshi, on the other hand, had grown bored. Boredom—an emotion unknown to most storm crows, but painfully familiar to her, especially on mornings when Krishna refused to do anything even remotely dramatic.
With a grumpy rustle, Megakshi adjusted her glossy feathers, cast a look at the meditating "storm god" (who did not seem at all interested in performing miracles at the moment), and decided to rest her head. "Just for a moment," she thought. "The sun is barely up. Surely nothing important will happen..."
Megakshi drifted, and the cave blurred away. The world seemed to grow bright, colors blooming vivid, every sound echoing with a heroic note. Suddenly, she was no longer a simple, occasionally moody companion bird—she was the heroine.
The wind rushed, cool and powerful. She stood at the very edge of the Red Line—not a cave this time, but a grand marble platform, banners streaming behind her. Far below, all of Marineford had gathered, the white coats of admirals and the blue sashes of new recruits dotting the landscape like wildflowers. The air buzzed with anticipation.
A voice, magnified by a hundred Den Den Mushi, called out:
"Today, Marineford salutes our bravest! All hail—MEGAKSHI-SENPAI!"
Thousands of marines, even the vice admirals and the always-stoic Garp, lined up along the shore. They craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the star. Even Sheshika, perched on a royal cushion, was forced to look on in awe. Medha, usually the queen of snark, was reduced to holding a giant golden sign: "#1 HERO".
Megakshi drew in a deep, theatrical breath, fluffed her wings (which now shimmered with a supernatural glow—her dream, her rules), and took the leap.
She dove off the Red Line in slow motion, every feather illuminated, a black comet outlined in light. Below, the crowd erupted:
"MEGAKSHI-SENPAI! MEGAKSHI-SENPAI!"
A few fainted from the sheer glory. Someone released confetti. Tsuru, ever the strategist, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Garp actually caught a rice cracker mid-air in shock.
Megakshi soared, diving with the effortless confidence of a goddess. The wind split before her, parting the clouds; sunlight crowned her head like a halo.
For one glorious moment, all eyes belonged to her—not Krishna, not Sheshika, not any human at all.
She glided to a gentle landing, talons barely touching the marble. A line of admirals bowed in respect. Even Akainu grumbled, "Hmph, impressive... for a bird."
Megakshi bowed, dignified and regal. Her fans threw flowers. She waved a wing modestly—maybe she would sign autographs later, if they were lucky.
And just as she was about to give her first "heroic interview," the dream shuddered.
A very un-heroic squawk burst from her beak. The world twisted, the marble faded. She jerked awake to the real cave, feathers askew.
Sheshika—very much not bowing—looked at her with a knowing gaze, barely suppressing her amusement.
"Rough landing?" Sheshika's eyes glimmered with mirth.
Megakshi, flustered, tried to compose herself, shaking out her wings and shooting a glare at the snake. She would deny the dream if anyone asked. But the pride in her chest was real, and for just a moment, the morning felt warmer.
Somewhere in his meditation, Krishna's lips twitched. Maybe it was the sun, or maybe he'd caught the echo of a storm crow's impossible ambition.
...
Far below the Red Line, back in the organized chaos of Krishna's room, Medha was in the throes of her own private drama. Krishna's absence was, to her, both a logistical nightmare and a personal affront. After all, she was meant to be the strategic center of the operation—a role impossible to perform when her "user" kept disappearing into caves, caves which even her omnipresent nano-swarm couldn't fully reach.
So, she did what any responsible AI companion would do.
She got petty. Professionally.
Her holographic body flickered to life above Krishna's desk: a palm-sized avatar with a head almost comically large, twin buns bobbing with every exaggerated movement. Beside her, a digital clipboard spun in midair, overflowing with charts, schedules, and the ever-important "Fanclub Panic Index."
She began her "official" productivity report with all the gravitas of a world summit.
"Report: Absence Log, Krishna Kurohane—Red Line Solitude," Medha intoned, her tone mock-formal.
"Minutes meditated: 107.
Seconds wasted: Zero.
Number of heartbeats slowed to sub-40 bpm: 3,285.
Fanclub heart attacks caused: 16 (projected, unconfirmed).
Marine officer search parties mobilized: 3.
Broken Den Den Mushi (from panicked fangirl calls): 5.
Instances of Garp reporting Krishna 'abducted by a giant bird': 2."
She paused, stamping a holographic "APPROVED" in blinding gold across the report. With a swipe of her hand, the letters exploded into confetti—just because she could.
Medha tapped her chin, glancing at the additional footnotes:
"Sheshika remained calm throughout. Possible co-conspirator."
"Megakshi suspected of deliberate showboating. Recommend further surveillance."
"Krishna's emotional stability: 97% baseline (but subject prone to dramatic sky-leaping)."
"Lunch skipped: Unacceptable. Submit food requisition immediately."
She added a small addendum:
"Note: Recommend Krishna spend less time in 'inspirational solitude' and more time in rooms with stable Wi-Fi. Some of us have updates to run."
From the corner of the desk, she heard faint snoring—Garp had apparently barged in, demanded a "progress update," and promptly fallen asleep. Medha logged it under "Expected Marine Behavior: Category G."
Finishing the report, she summoned a digital quill, signed it "Medha, Chief Productivity Officer," and then, with a showy bow, minimized herself onto Krishna's private device.
The fan club's panic was peaking. Down the hall, a small stampede could be heard: "He's not at breakfast!" "Check the roof!" "What if he's—oh no, did a sea king eat him?!"
Medha rolled her virtual eyes, updated the "Incidents Caused by Krishna's Absence" chart, and sighed in binary.
As Krishna finally reappeared in his room—quiet, calm, not a hair out of place—Medha projected herself above his shoulder. "Your daily output is within optimal parameters," she declared, arms crossed, chin lifted haughtily.
He didn't say a word, just grinned and nodded. Medha tried to pout harder. But as Krishna moved toward the window, looking out at the golden morning, she found herself smiling too.
She stamped the final report: "Storm Resumed. All Systems Go."
Outside, the fanclub—having recovered from their collective swoon—began plotting Krishna's next "spontaneous" meet-and-greet. But for now, inside that small, sunlit room, all was (relatively) peaceful.
...
Author's Note
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
Thanks for sticking with me! I know this chapter's vibe was quieter—no punchline cliffhangers, no big boss fights—just Krishna alone with his storm, and a world that feels ready to break. Sometimes, the loudest battles are the ones nobody sees.
Don't worry: the real storm's coming. The next arc will be pure chaos—science, myth, and a test that even Krishna might not be ready for. As always, I'm taking my time to make sure every moment lands. If you've got theories, questions, or just want to rant about Krishna's "hermit" phase, drop them below!
Uploads will stay a bit slower as my own "college and exam arc" continues. Appreciate every read, every comment, every wild theory. You all keep me writing.
Until the next sunrise—
—Author out.