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.
...
[A/N:
Yes, I know. I disappeared. Vanished like Sabo in canon and didn't upload for like 5 days, or is 6 days? Some of you probably assumed I was deep in the mountains meditating on narrative structure. Others might've imagined I was consumed by the Void. Or just straight up quit like many others, but HERE I AM!
But really, it was none of them.
It was midterms.
And for the first time in what I can only describe as a cosmic anomaly, I actually studied. Like full-on, highlighter-wielding, note-taking, YouTube-short-watching academic mode. I organized my desk. I color-coded my topics. I created flashcards. I rewrote lecture notes in fonts so small even the Byakugan wouldn't catch them. I became the very thing I feared. And even wrote a few cheating materials{chits}, but we don't talk about that.
Honestly, it was terrifying.
I didn't know I had it in me. My laptop wept in the corner, ignored. My lore docs whispered betrayal. And Krishna? That divine bastard? He stood in my dreams, arms crossed, whispering "So this is your dharma now?"
Anyway—exams over. Mental stability: unknown. Story momentum: resumed.
Let's begin.]
...
The world before dawn did not breathe in hours—it exhaled in moments. The kind of silence that stretched deeper than sound, where even the trees bowed in shadow, and time did not tick forward so much as wait, patient, at the edge of the boy standing barefoot on the riverstone rise.
Krishna did not move.
Not yet.
His eyes were half-lidded, not out of tiredness, but because he did not need the full clarity of sight to see. His bare feet touched the dew-slick stone. Cold. Unforgiving. Real. The wind crept like a whisper over his skin, tugging faintly at the thin black sash bound at his waist, the only thing that shifted.
The forest behind Foosha slept. The village beyond it slept. But the mountain boy turned storm-bringer stood alone in the growing hush between night and sun, where gods might hold their breath before creating again.
He exhaled once. Just once. Then began.
...
Anantadeha Mārga — The Path of the Infinite Body.
He raised his left hand first—not in salute, not in aggression—but palm open, fingers curled slightly inward, as if cradling something not yet born. His right hand moved behind his back, fingers forming the mudrā of the nāga—serpent restraint—anchoring the divine flow. With a breath, his posture lowered, knees bent, weight centering in the belly.
Then, motion.
One step forward. A shift in his center of gravity, like watching a mountain remember how to walk. His body did not strike. It unfolded. The first kata of Anantadeha did not seek to overwhelm—but to encompass.
Spine curled, then straightened in a single unbroken arc. Shoulder blades aligned to his breath. As he twisted left, arms moving in circular orbits, energy surged—not Haki, not muscle, but a silent ripple from sacrum to skull. A full-body invocation, not a technique. Not even a martial art. A divine geometry.
He moved again. Right foot behind, heel lifted, arms slicing outward—not to cut but to measure air. Every motion symmetrical, every pause the inverse of movement. Breath led. Body followed. His hands traced spirals in the air, not random, but mapped upon an unseen grid—lines that mirrored constellations, lines that priests once carved into temple floors before awakening stone.
The kata unfolded over minutes. Minutes into a sequence that bore the name of a forgotten celestial posture—Chaturnāga.
And through it, Krishna's breath never faltered.
...
Kāya Kalpa Sūtra — Scripture of the Eternal Body Refinement
As the final rotation of Anantadeha stilled him—hands cupped at his solar plexus, body aligned north—he did not rest. Instead, he lowered himself to the earth. First his knees, then palms, then forehead touched the stone.
Then—silence.
Not of inactivity, but of inward redirection. Kāya Kalpa was not a thing seen. It was felt. Deep, and beneath.
His breath slowed. Then shallowed. Then disappeared.
He did not blink.
Beneath the skin, the divine nanoweb within his flesh began a silent operation. Muscle fibers restructured at the cellular edge. Tissues mapped their own damage and reversed it. Bone marrow sang in quiet pulses as density refined, ligament elasticity optimized. Not growth. Refinement.
Inside his skull, neural myelin expanded fractionally. Digestive enzymes recalibrated. Lymphatic circulation purged waste. He rewrote his body with no tools but breath, posture, and stillness. The silence turned inward, deeper than meditation—he had become the alchemist and the crucible.
Steam whispered from his shoulders.
Then his eyes opened. Black, but not flat. Depthless, but alive.
...
Padanyāsa Vidhi — Discipline of the Sacred Steps
He rose.
And with a shift of weight, stepped forward.
Not large steps. Not even particularly fast. But deliberate. The Path of Sacred Steps was not sprint or combat—it was mapping dharma onto ground. Every placement of the foot was a question answered.
He walked a pattern only he could see. Triangular at first, then an arc. Then a spiral out. Then reversed.
His toes aligned with ley-line tension only he felt. Heel presses mapped not distance but integrity. In each step, he shifted not just physical balance, but intentional mass. Padanyāsa trained not only how to move—but why.
He stepped once, pausing mid-stride.
A moment passed.
Then he whispered, under breath, as one might recite scripture:
"Right step for clarity.
Left for mercy.
Heel for beginning.
Ball for follow-through.
Weight for truth."
Then stepped again.
Each footfall followed breath. And each breath followed the world. The leaves moved faintly above his head. A frog stirred near the edge of the river. Insect wings passed, whispering.
The stone beneath did not shake.
But it remembered him.
...
Hridaya Tantra — The Doctrine of the Heart
He exhaled slowly—and let it begin.
Armament came first.
From somewhere between skin and soul, the Haki rose—not in a burst, not with heat, but as a layer of conviction. It spread up his forearms like oil-thin ink. Black. Not shiny. Matte. Dense as forgiveness and twice as silent.
He struck once—palm into the air—and the force cracked across the trees without wind.
Observation next.
He closed his eyes.
And without seeing, reached.
The world lit up—not with light, but with presence. He felt the owl blinking in the far fig tree. The squirrel freezing mid-climb. The tension in the root-systems beneath his feet. He felt the hearts of things, fluttering, breathing, still.
He extended it farther.
Dadan's cabin—Ace snoring. Luffy dreaming of meat.
Makino was awake. Making tea. She'd forgotten to light the left burner.
His eyes opened.
Then—Conqueror's.
It did not explode outward.
It pulsed once. Like a wave brushing the shore.
And every bird for miles took flight at once.
He did not breathe heavy. He simply lowered his hands.
The trees bowed inward. Grass trembled.
But it passed. It always passed.
...
Asi Kriyā — Divine Sword Ritual (Unawakened)
He stood alone, arms folded behind his back.
This was the one he could not yet walk.
The divine sword path—Asi Kriyā—waited. Locked. Not because of lack. But because of something deeper: a promise he hadn't made. A line he hadn't crossed.
He closed his eyes.
And saw the weapon—not yet forged. Not yet called. Waiting in the void.
Still.
He didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
But as his breath steadied, something in the air thinned—as if metal was listening.
...
When he finished, the sun had not yet risen.
But the sky had turned gray-blue.
And behind him, on a moss-draped rock, Sheshika coiled quietly, watching. Medha hovered near her, silent for once.
They did not speak.
Because there was nothing to say.
The boy had walked five paths.
And left no sound behind.
...
The clearing behind Dadan's hideout had no name.
But to three boys who once carved their initials into the gnarled belly of the mango tree at its center, it was holy ground. Not because of shrines. Not because of prayer. But because it was the one place where fists and laughter and grief could all be the same language—and be understood without needing to explain.
Today, that language would be spoken fluently.
Ace stood first, already shirtless, cracking his knuckles with that crooked smirk he wore whenever he was about to pick a fight with someone he respected.
"You're stretching again, old man?" he called out toward Krishna, who was standing still at the edge of the clearing, eyes half-lidded from finishing his morning circuit. "You take longer to start moving than Dadan takes to wake up."
Krishna didn't reply. He merely shifted his stance slightly, rolling one shoulder, the barest motion of acknowledgment.
Luffy dropped from a branch overhead like a falling coconut, landing on his feet with a bounce and a grin so wide it could split the sky. "Let's beat the god outta him today, Ace."
"You say that every time," Ace said, glancing at him.
"One day I'll mean it."
They both charged.
No signal, no warning. Just the blur of two brothers hurling themselves toward a boy already stepping aside.
...
They started light.
No Haki yet. Just fists, legs, muscle memory. Rokushiki footwork slid beneath their strikes, Soru turning the clearing into a dance of shadows and impact thuds. Luffy's punches snapped the air like slingshots; Ace's elbows drove in like battering rams. Krishna deflected without dominance—redirecting momentum, not extinguishing it.
"You're too stiff today, Krishna," Luffy shouted between breaths. "What, did the wind hurt your feelings?"
"Maybe he's conserving energy for a new sermon," Ace added, feinting a low sweep and rolling into a high knee strike.
Krishna caught it with his palm and flicked Ace sideways—not hard, just enough to flip him through the air into a tree trunk.
"Ow," Ace muttered, upside-down.
"I said sermon, not jutsu scroll, dammit!" Luffy barked, leaping forward with a barrage of punches, wild and fluid.
Krishna moved like mist. Not evading—guiding. Every blow landed where he chose. Not where Luffy wanted.
Then: a ripple.
Ace stood up and wiped dust from his mouth. "Alright. Warm-up's over."
...
Observation.
It bloomed like a windless storm.
All three froze for half a breath—then moved.
Luffy vanished into Soru, his Observation Haki stretching like rubber itself—fluid, wide-sensing, emotional.
Ace's narrowed, precise and analytic—hunting patterns, calculating weaknesses mid-motion.
Krishna's? Stillness.
He didn't chase presence. He received it.
Every heartbeat around him played like music. The birds. The trees. His brothers' shifting intentions. He didn't sense them like targets. He felt them like lines in a song he already knew by heart.
They struck together this time—Ace from the front, Luffy from above.
Krishna caught both wrists in a single turning step, pivoted, and sent them skidding in opposite directions like flung pebbles.
"Okay!" Luffy shouted, breathless. "Okay okay okay—let's hit harder!"
...
Armament.
Ace's forearms turned jet black. So did his knuckles. Luffy's legs followed suit—dense as coiled anchors.
They didn't hesitate.
They hurled themselves in again, and this time, each blow cracked like a gunshot. Trees trembled. The air warped. The grass beneath their feet seared and scattered.
Krishna responded in kind—but his Armament didn't spread like armor.
It glinted, barely visible, as if coating only the parts that needed reinforcement. A single fingertip. The edge of his shoulder. His knee, just before it met Ace's elbow.
Controlled. Focused. Not a display. A language.
Ace gritted his teeth. "He's covering only what we target. That's cheating."
"That's genius," Luffy huffed.
They came in again. Feinted, twisted, synchronized their rhythms like two hearts beating together in battle. And Krishna?
He met them in kind.
For five minutes, no one spoke. Just impact. Just breath. Just three brothers becoming silence through motion.
Until—
Ace stumbled back, panting. Luffy followed, sweat streaking his brow.
Krishna hadn't even broken a sweat.
"Time for the fun part," Ace said, straightening.
"Final round," Luffy grinned. "Bring the thunder."
...
Conqueror's.
No scream. No roar.
Just pressure.
Luffy activated his first.
It came like a sudden thud in the chest—raw, hopeful, wild.
Ace followed—sharp, disciplined, aimed like a blade.
Krishna?
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't shift his stance.
He simply breathed.
And everything else bent.
The trees didn't shake. The clouds didn't split. The animals didn't flee.
Because Krishna's Haki—his true Will—did not leave the clearing.
It expanded just far enough to envelop Luffy and Ace completely.
Contained. Absolute.
It didn't crush.
It stilled.
Luffy was the first to drop to one knee, eyes wide, grinning through the sweat. "Okay. That's not fair."
Then he laughed. Tipped backward. "I'm out. My brain's steaming."
Ace didn't move.
He stood his ground, teeth clenched, arms trembling.
He pushed harder. Let his Haki rise.
The ground cracked beneath his feet. His aura flared in spikes.
But Krishna's stayed steady.
And in one long breath, his aura washed over Ace like a tide.
Not to drown him.
To prove to him.
Ace grunted—then let go. He exhaled, sweat dripping from his chin, and let his shoulders sag.
"Damn."
Then he laughed. A full, belly-deep laugh.
Luffy, still sprawled in the grass, joined in.
Krishna said nothing.
He just sat down beside them.
The silence returned—but this time, it was warm.
...
"You remember that time you tried to challenge that mountain goat?" Luffy asked, panting.
"It charged me because you painted its horns red."
"I was making it festive!"
"It broke my ribs."
Krishna blinked slowly. "That was a poor strategy."
"You think?" Ace chuckled. "He walked around with goat prints on his back for a week."
"I healed."
"Yeah, well, your shirt didn't."
They laughed again. No titles. No gods. Just three idiots in the dirt.
...
Ace leaned back on his elbows, still catching his breath.
"You're still miles ahead," he said. "And this time... I don't mind."
He glanced over. "You're something else, Krishna."
Krishna looked at him. "So are you."
Luffy snorted. "I'm gonna beat both of you."
"Sure," Ace smirked. "In your dreams."
"I own my dreams. And in those, I punch you both into orbit."
They kept laughing. It echoed off the trees.
Not like warriors. Not like kings.
But like brothers who knew that between storms, there were always moments like this.
Moments that didn't need to be remembered.
Because they were never forgotten.
...
The ground was still vibrating from the aftershocks of the brotherly warzone.
Scorched grass, cracked tree roots, and one unfortunate boulder now split clean down the middle bore silent testimony to Observation, Armament, and Conqueror's Haki unleashed and contained with surgical restraint.
In the middle of the chaos sat Krishna, legs folded neatly beneath him, eyes closed. His breath was steady. But a single vein twitched on his temple.
Mostly because Sheshika had coiled herself around his shoulders like a living scarf and was currently using her tail to flick imaginary dust off his cheek with the slow, smug rhythm of someone who'd just watched a circus and now had critiques.
"Two monkeys," she hissed, curling more snugly around his neck. "One with fire for brains, the other with rubber for sense."
She flicked her tongue once, scanning the clearing. "You, Krishna, are the lone stalk of rice in a field of weeds."
Krishna didn't respond.
Luffy was lying face-down nearby, snoring loudly with one leg twitching every few seconds like a dreaming puppy.
Ace, flat on his back, was lazily spinning a twig between his fingers and humming a completely off-key rendition of something that might once have been a pirate song but now sounded like a goat in distress.
Sheshika gave a long, theatrical sigh.
"You know," she drawled, "I've seen snakes swallow entire pigs. But this? This is worse indigestion."
"Do you want to eat them?" Krishna murmured without opening his eyes.
She made a show of considering it.
"Too chewy."
...
A pair of boots crunched softly onto the edge of the clearing.
Garp had been watching the entire time from the ridge above — arms crossed, face unreadable. Now, he stepped forward, his presence like an anchor dropped gently into a calm sea.
He didn't speak at first.
Just looked at the three of them: his two grandsons strewn about like laundry, and the third sitting still as stone with a snake for a scarf.
He grunted.
"Looks like I missed the fun."
Luffy immediately sprang up. "GRANDPA!"
And launched.
Garp sidestepped casually, caught Luffy mid-air by the face, and shoved him into the dirt with a lazy palm.
"Still predictable."
"Still mean!" Luffy whined, spitting grass.
Ace rolled onto his side, groaning. "Grandpa, it's too early for trauma."
"Early?" Garp said, cracking his knuckles. "It's training o'clock, brat."
And just like that—
Chaos.
...
Luffy launched again.
Ace joined, tackling Garp from behind.
Garp cackled like a man decades younger and spun, grabbing both boys and hurling them in opposite directions like cabbages.
Luffy bounced off a tree and screamed, "YOU THREW ME SIDEWAYS!"
Ace hit the dirt and shouted, "YOU GAVE ME GRAVEL BURNS ON MY EGO!"
"You earned them," Garp said, laughing heartily.
And then, of course—
They lunged again.
Krishna opened one eye.
"You're next, Krishna!" Luffy shouted mid-air, already launching toward his brother.
"I am not—"
Too late.
Luffy and Ace collided with Krishna like joyful missiles. Sheshika yelped and launched herself into a nearby tree to avoid becoming collateral.
Krishna hit the dirt with a grunt, Luffy hanging off his neck and Ace headlocking his waist.
Garp approached slowly, grinning like a lion.
"C'mon, boy. You ain't too sacred for a good old-fashioned family rumble."
"I decline," Krishna said flatly, attempting to peel Luffy off with the grace of a man removing chewing gum from his robe.
Luffy made a sound between a cackle and a battle cry.
"I accept your acceptance!"
"That's not—"
Garp stomped the ground next to Krishna. "Hurry up and fight back before they cry!"
Krishna exhaled.
Then, slowly, gently, his arm moved.
And flicked Luffy into the air like a cork.
Luffy shouted joyfully. "I BELIEVE I CAN FLY—"
Thunk.
Ace tried to grapple his legs. Krishna twisted, flipped him over, and pinned him with one knee on his back and a hand on his head like he was smoothing out a wrinkled pillow.
"Cheating!" Ace yelled from the dirt.
"Discipline," Krishna corrected.
"Show-off."
"True."
...
They kept brawling like idiots.
Krishna didn't dominate. He flowed.
Garp even got in a couple of swats at his head, which Krishna blocked with a calm parry and a raised eyebrow.
Sheshika, watching from the branch, groaned. "Gods reduced to playground squabbles. What a world."
Medha hovered beside her, semi-visible, arms folded in fond exasperation.
But her eyes never left Krishna.
He was smiling.
Not a full grin. Not a theatrical beam.
Just a small, quiet curve at the corner of his mouth.
Medha tilted her head, eyes soft. "He's smiling."
"Only when they're annoying," Sheshika muttered.
"No," Medha said gently. "Because he remembers."
Sheshika didn't answer.
Because she knew.
Krishna hadn't smiled like this in days.
Maybe weeks.
It wasn't a loud joy. It was quieter. Like a memory you could still touch without breaking.
...
Eventually, the chaos winded down.
Luffy lay half-buried in a bush. Ace sprawled across Garp's back like a worn-out coat. Garp was snoring with his mouth open and one boot still twitching.
Krishna stood beside them all, dusting off his shoulder.
Sheshika slithered back around his neck.
Medha hovered a few inches above the grass, her form almost shimmering from the morning sun bleeding through the canopy.
She looked at Krishna with a crooked smile.
"You were smiling."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"Temporary facial relaxation is not a smile."
Medha snorted. "Sure, warrior of denial."
Sheshika chuckled quietly.
But neither pressed it further.
Because even if he wouldn't admit it—he had smiled.
And for now, that was enough.
...
The world was soft here.
Beyond the brawling brothers and Garp's loud snoring, beyond the clearing where even trees bore the echoes of battle, there was a smaller place — quieter, framed in leaves and light. A slope of grass led gently to a knotted old tree where the roots curled like ancient fingers and the shadows moved slower than time.
Krishna lay on his back, head resting in Makino's lap.
Her hands, as always, were warm. Not because of any great energy or magic — simply because they always had been. One rested lightly in his hair, combing back strands that had fallen loose from his earlier spar. The other sat in her lap, holding nothing, as if remembering.
Sheshika, full of fish and war, lay curled in a half-moon around Krishna's waist — her body rising and falling with his breath, eyes slit lazily, tongue flicking now and then to taste the afternoon sun.
No one spoke for a while.
Even Medha didn't hover — she watched from afar, a distant glimmer behind the breeze, letting them have this.
Krishna had one arm folded across his chest, the other resting on Sheshika's coils. His eyes were open — not with thought, but with presence. Just watching the light move through the leaves above.
Makino's voice came first.
Soft. Smiling.
"You know, when you were smaller, you'd sit under this tree and hum for hours."
"I don't hum," Krishna said, eyes unmoving.
"You did. Especially when you didn't want anyone to talk to you."
"I was practicing resonance."
Makino chuckled. "You were sulking."
Sheshika made a low sound — somewhere between a purr and a scoff.
"He still sulks. He just does it with sword poses now."
Krishna's eyebrow twitched.
"I don't sulk. I reflect."
Makino smiled, adjusting his hair gently.
"You reflect with the same face you make when someone eats the last sweet bun."
Krishna didn't reply.
Which, of course, was permission to continue.
Makino leaned forward slightly, her chin almost resting on his forehead. Her voice lowered — just a touch of mischief behind the memory.
"So... are you going to tell me what happened with Uta?"
Krishna blinked. Once.
Sheshika lifted her head slightly, interested.
"Oho. Is this the songstress? The one with the voice like honey and a punch like a wildcat?"
Makino laughed, the sound light as a breeze.
"I remember that one concert she tried to do in the barn. You nearly punched a hole through the wall when she said your name in the middle of her song."
"I did not."
"You did," both women said in unison.
Krishna sighed.
"She sings with conviction."
Makino grinned. "She sings your name like it's a riddle. Half love, half mystery."
"I think she just likes confusing people."
"Mmhm."
Sheshika tightened her curl slightly, just enough to poke his ribs. "Then why do you still have her flute?"
Krishna didn't answer.
Makino's smile softened, her hand moving to the side of his head, brushing a lock behind his ear.
"You keep it wrapped. Clean. Not even a scratch after all these years."
"It's an instrument."
"It's a memory."
Krishna turned his eyes slightly, finally meeting hers.
Makino's gaze didn't waver.
"She gave it to you the night before she left. I was there. She said, 'Keep it safe, so I don't forget your sound.'"
He was quiet.
Sheshika's tongue flicked once. "Ten years."
Makino whispered, "Ten years."
The tree sighed with the wind.
Krishna closed his eyes again.
His voice, when it came, was very quiet.
"She deserved to leave. To sing for more than just broken places."
Makino nodded.
"She did. And you? You still play that flute when no one's around. You think we don't hear. But we do."
A pause.
Then a grin.
"Especially when you try to play that ridiculous lullaby she made up. You're off-key every time."
Krishna exhaled sharply through his nose. "It's a complex tonal progression."
"It's a children's rhyme."
"Written in reverse harmonic scale—"
Makino laughed again, cutting him off. "Krishna, you're the only person I know who could make a love song sound like a battle plan."
He didn't argue.
Didn't need to.
Sheshika settled again, head resting now on his stomach, eyes half-lidded.
"You never answered her," Makino said gently, almost to herself.
Krishna said nothing.
"Do you regret that?" she asked.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was honest.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then—
"I regret not knowing what I felt. Then."
Makino looked down at him. Her fingers traced a soft path along his temple.
"You were young."
"I'm still young."
"You're older than most gods."
Another silence.
Then a smile curved her lips again, thinner this time. A little tighter.
"But you're still that boy under the tree. With the flute you can't play. And the silence you carry like armor."
Krishna shifted slightly, pressing his cheek more into her lap — not a retreat, just… presence.
Makino's hand trembled once.
She stilled it.
"You smile less now," she whispered. "Even when Luffy acts like a clown. Even when Ace yells about training. Even when Garp forgets how chairs work."
Krishna didn't move.
"I used to see you smile just watching the sunset," she said. "Now… even when you're happy, it's like your face forgets how."
Sheshika didn't speak.
Neither did Krishna.
Makino reached into her apron, pulled something out.
A tiny cloth bundle.
She unfolded it.
Inside — a flute.
Still smooth. Still spotless. The red silk ribbon Uta had tied around its base still intact, no fray, no dust.
She didn't say anything.
Just placed it gently on Krishna's chest.
Let it sit there, above his heart.
"I know you have your reasons," she said finally. "For the silence. For the weight you carry."
Her voice was very soft now.
"I just hope, one day, when this story ends — or begins again — you'll let yourself be happy."
Krishna opened his eyes.
Just a little.
His hand rose slowly and curled around the flute.
Not tightly. Not possessively.
Just held it.
Like memory.
Like promise.
Makino's eyes shimmered.
But she didn't cry.
Instead, she smiled again.
And said the oldest line she'd ever spoken to him.
The first words he'd ever heard in Foosha, whispered through a cracked doorway, years ago, when he was still a shadow and a secret:
"You're safe here, Krishna. Just for now."
He didn't nod.
Didn't speak.
But the flute stayed in his hand.
And for Makino — that was more than enough.
...
The sun had begun its slow descent westward, and with it came a deepening hush. Even the breeze seemed more thoughtful now, moving through the trees with deliberation, caressing each leaf as if it carried a secret. It had been hours since the brotherly chaos, since the raucous laughter mixed with dust and shouts. Now, only sand and sea remained.
Krishna had walked away on his own accord, leaving behind the crumbling mango tree, the footprints of his laughter, the residual heat of a rare genuine smile. He had needed space. A quiet corner to untangle the patterns inside him, to breathe in solitude before the world reclaimed its demand.
He sat cross-legged on the edge of the waterline where sand met salt, fingers grazing its damp softness. The granite cliffs that cradled Foosha Island loomed behind him, mute witnesses to time's passing. Beyond, the ocean stretched like a vast promise, gentle waves rolling in measured sighs, each retreat a prayer, each advance a question answered.
Here, he stripped not armor or weapon, but mask.
Sheshika coiled around his midsection—her scales flush against his linen tunic, a serpentine press of warmth and presence. She made no sound, no demand, just silent solidarity. He could feel her breath, slow, easy, a lullaby of scales and muscle. Her presence grounded him. In her coils he found reflection: coiled power waiting, not threat, not stifling—but poised.
A short distance behind, Medha's shimmering silhouette hovered. Even in semi-invisibility, her aura pulsed—a quiet hum edged with fondness. She drifted in a swirl of soft light, her translucent form pulsing with pride. She watched, wordless, storing this moment: the afterglow of laughter slowly fading, and the edges of his humanity reasserting themselves like a flower reclaiming shape at dusk.
Krishna's fingers trailed down to a small cloth-wrapped bundle lying against his thigh. He fingered the fabric, remembering the weight of the flute it concealed. Not now, not today. Not yet. His gaze returned to the infinite.
He did not contemplate. He felt.
Each wave folded and unfolded like pages of an unread book. Each spatter of foam whispered stories. Each breeze teased name-less memories from distant seas. He was neither here nor there, but both. Between who he was behind closed doors—and who the world believed he'd become.
That was when the boots crunched.
Not heavy, not loud. Just present.
He didn't look. He allowed himself not to look immediately.
Not because he didn't trust the sound. Because he did.
Because he knew what it would bring.
He turned his head slowly, his spine rotating without pivoting the rest of him. And there — stepping onto the sand — was Garp.
The old man's silhouette was angled against the backlight of the afternoon sun, face lined with tide-and-time shadows. Like a mountain ceding a valley, he lowered himself until he sat, legs folded, arms resting easily atop his knees. His eyes lingered for a heartbeat on Krishna's face.
They said nothing.
Because sometimes, silence was sharper than a scream.
They both listened to the sea. Garp's breaths came slow, measured—each rough inhalation an echo of battles lost and won. Krishna's breathing gently harmonized, undulating in synchronicity with each rise and fall of the tide.
After a long pause, Garp asked—his voice carrying the worn weight of a man who had seen storms and buried sons:
"You still vengeance, boy?"
It rang across the waves. No accusation. Just a straightforward query, like a hammer waiting quietly to strike stone.
Krishna didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he closed his eyes. Let the breeze move through him. Let the sarcasm, the fatigue, the pain settle like silt in water.
Then he opened them again.
Garp watched, searching.
Saw the quiet rising in Krishna's gaze.
The same fire he had witnessed lodged deep in the boy's soul the day he declared, with firm voice and revelation burning in his throat:
"I am vengeance."
But this time it burned differently.
Not a wildfire. Not raging. But tempered.
Not an anger that sought ruin. But a fire smelted through purpose.
Krishna's voice came low—carried on the wind, softened by dusk.
"Yes."
Garp's eyes narrowed. He let the single word sit between them, heavy yet pliant.
"You sure it ain't just anger?"
Krishna looked at him again.
"I know what justice demands now."
The older man was silent for a long time.
Then he nodded.
"Good."
They sat together on the beach as the world darkened, speaking only what silence could not hide. The waves murmured, a soft, constant refrain. Sand sifted around their ankles. A gull shrieked far overhead.
They spoke without language.
With presence.
With acknowledgment.
Garp reached over and tapped the stone beside Krishna, inviting silence, or conversation.
Krishna tilted his head fractionally, a gesture learned again, under the weight of shared meaning.
They remained that way until the gull's call drifted away, the sky bruised by dusk.
Then, without preamble, Garp turned toward him and said:
"When you walk this path—remember it's more than vengeance."
He sighed, long, creaking with years.
"It's hope. It's memory. It's what keeps the storm from breaking."
A final wave broke at their feet.
Krishna closed his eyes.
"I know."
Another silence settled over them.
Not empty. Not absent.
The world was shifting—but here, between a boy and the grandfather who'd tried to anchor him, the world had paused.
And for one moment, everything said more than words could.
...
The night had grown heavier, the kind of quiet that didn't just linger—it settled, like dew across the skin, threading its fingers through every fabric fold, every memory still left out to dry. The sea hummed faintly now, its voice neither wind nor water, but something deeper—a lullaby wrapped in long-forgotten thunder.
Inside the small hut nestled on the southeastern cliff of Foosha, where the breeze always seemed to know Krishna's breath better than the world knew his name, he moved in silence.
Each motion was precise.
Deliberate.
Not hurried.
His pack sat open on the low cot, a canvas wrap of burn-resistant cloth and flexible dark fibers he'd woven himself under Medha's subtle guidance. The hut smelled of quiet incense, sandalwood and salt, half-finished tea, and time that refused to die.
Krishna folded each item with methodical grace. A reinforced travel shirt dyed midnight gray. Lightweight utility gauntlets. A compact storm-hardened rice cooker. Extra ink and brush from the child who had once asked him if gods needed to sign things too.
And in a long, narrow wooden box—polished so smooth even the shadows bowed when they passed—he laid the hand-written parchment the four boys had pressed blood to. ASKL.
Ace.
Sabo.
Krishna.
Luffy.
Four thumbprints. Four hearts. Four promises too sacred to outgrow.
He didn't look at it long.
Some things weren't meant to be stared at. They were meant to live inside the chest, like old fire kept behind a ribcage. He wrapped it carefully in oil-treated paper and slid it into the deepest pocket of his pack.
The next object was... heavier.
Not in weight. In consequence.
He unwrapped the coarse paper slowly, revealing two crumpled drawings. One, made in earnest—a child's depiction of him standing tall, golden aura rising like sunlight. Too much hair. No neck. But the eyes... wide and kind.
The second, torn from a Cipher Pol analyst's case file—he had lifted it months ago, unseen.
This one showed no face. Only a silhouette of black fire, hunched but rising, with those haunting eyes: lidless, glowing, inhuman.
The linework wasn't childish. It was terrified.
He held both papers in the same hand. Didn't look away. Just studied them in tandem, absorbing them both like scripture.
The child's dream.
The world's fear.
Both believed he was something more than human.
He folded them together—neither discarded, neither denied—and tucked them into a side compartment of his pack.
Not for memory.
For reminder.
Behind him, a voice purred like liquid wisdom, soft and knowing.
"They fear the shape of silence more than the sound of war."
Medha.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"I know," Krishna replied. "But I can't change what they see."
A low rustle near his ribs—like leaves brushing bone—signaled Sheshika's movement. She curled tighter around his midsection, scales warm and calm. She'd eaten earlier and now simply watched, her slit-pupiled eyes faintly lidded, content to watch him sort what little he carried of his life.
Medha drifted closer, translucent and luminous, her radiance casting no light on the room—only inside him.
"You're not leaving tonight," she said.
"No," Krishna agreed. "But I want everything ready when the time comes."
A pause.
Then his voice softened.
"I don't want to say goodbye. Not again."
Neither woman responded. They didn't need to.
Outside, the air pulsed with something else entirely.
"—NO! I told you meatballs are round, you idiot!"
"THEY AREN'T! You can punch tofu into meatballs, you stretchy dumbass!"
"You are a disgrace to cuisine!"
Krishna stepped outside, his shadow lengthening across the porch just as Luffy and Ace erupted into a pile of limbs, shouting and flailing like drunken monkeys high on sea-salt.
From the other side of the training yard, Garp barreled in like an artillery shell, yelling at both of them.
"You fools! No grandson of mine gets defeated by tofu!"
He leapt into the fray with zero hesitation, dragging both into headlocks so violently that the dust leapt up as if cheering. The ground shook as Ace tried to ignite his elbows, and Luffy flung a boot into the sky while laughing like an idiot.
Makino's voice sliced through the evening like a divine edict.
"ACE!"
Dadan's voice joined seconds later.
"LUFFY!"
Makino stood with a frying ladle, gleaming like a holy artifact. Her hair swayed with motherly doom. Dadan had both fists raised—shark teeth bared. Both women looked ready to personally reenact the Buster Call.
Garp froze.
Then tried to blame Luffy.
Too late.
The ladle flew.
It bounced off Garp's head.
Krishna watched this with a still face.
Then—
Then his lips curled.
Not a grin. Not quite.
But something gentler.
Real.
He stepped back against the porch post, leaning, arms folded. His body looked relaxed. His eyes… didn't.
Sheshika observed the chaos with something like serpentine curiosity.
Medha hovered behind him, catching the faintest lift in his mouth.
"You're smiling again," she said softly, teasing, just like she did before.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm breathing."
"Through your smile."
He didn't argue further.
Because she was right.
Because he hadn't smiled like this—genuinely, quietly, fully—since before the war in the Eastern Gorge. Since before the fires had consumed that mountain outpost. Since before those bodies.
She held the moment like an ember, afraid of letting it die too soon.
Sheshika, meanwhile, coiled higher and rested her head against Krishna's shoulder, content, ancient, amused.
The argument had devolved into a full chase scene now—Ace ducking into the woods, Luffy bouncing off tree trunks like a feral tennis ball, Garp roaring threats of detention, and both Makino and Dadan yelling with synchronized maternal fury.
The stars began to prick the sky, constellations peeking out like curious eyes.
And Krishna, still leaning against the wooden pillar, reached down and retrieved it.
The flute.
Slim, smooth, carved of ancient wood kissed with myth. Its grains still gleamed with delicate oils. Untouched by time.
Uta's gift.
He hadn't played it in years. Had cleaned it, yes. Rewound the leather ties. Preserved its core.
But he hadn't let his breath enter it since the funeral fires had gone out.
Tonight... he lifted it.
Let the mouthpiece meet his lips.
And played.
It wasn't a song of mourning.
It wasn't even sad.
It was... remembering.
Melody like gentle rain on stone. Like the inside of a warm room. Like a childhood you don't fully recall, but miss anyway.
Luffy's ears perked mid-argument.
Ace stopped just before launching a rock at Garp's back.
Even Garp's hand froze, halfway to grabbing a tree trunk to use as a bat.
The sound danced. Soft, low, vast.
And just like that—the world paused again.
In that melody was the smell of Makino's tea.
The weight of Sabo's absence.
The distant echo of Uta's laughter before she was taken from sound itself.
The warmth of meat pies cooling on windowsills.
The ache of nights where he'd laid in that same hut, hands bloody from battle, pretending not to cry.
He played until the last note faded.
The wind caught it.
Carried it somewhere beyond the sea.
Beyond this village.
Beyond the storm that was coming.
He lowered the flute slowly. Slipped it back into the wrap.
Didn't say a word.
Medha didn't speak either.
But when he looked at her, her form shimmered brighter than before.
Not with power.
But with pride.
Sheshika nuzzled into his neck, and he let her stay there.
Because tomorrow or the next, he would leave.
And whatever came...
He would carry all of this with him.
Not as burden.
Not as rage.
But as memory.
And perhaps, as Dharma. As something chosen—not commanded. Something neither divine nor mortal, but real.
He didn't know if the sea would make room for him.
But he would carve his own echo into it.
Weightless or not.
He would walk.
And not look back.
...
OMAKE: "Dare and Dare"
(Set during downtime at Foosha Village)
The dusk rolled in soft and lazy, golden light pooling through the windows of Dadan's hideout. Plates clattered, someone had just lost a bet over arm-wrestling (again), and the room smelled like burnt curry and chaos.
Makino sat in the corner with her arms crossed, wearing the kind of smile that meant trouble. "Alright," she said, sliding a small box to the center of the circle. "We're playing Dare and Dare."
Luffy clapped like a seal on sugar. "No truth? That's the best part!"
Makino's grin sharpened. "That's because some of you lie. Especially about girls."
Ace snorted. "Like hell we do."
Krishna said nothing, already suspicious.
The rules were simple: pick a paper, do the dare. Refuse, and you get pelted by Sheshika, who was coiled like a judgmental goddess nearby, tongue flicking with anticipation.
The first few dares were light.
Ace had to do the worm dance. He groaned through it like a dying walrus.
Luffy had to eat a raw chili and didn't even flinch.
Garp was dared to arm wrestle Dadan with one pinky—he lost and pretended he meant to.
Then came the moment.
Makino passed the box around again, humming softly.
Luffy picked a paper. Read it. Blinked.
"'All the boys must dress up like girls. Full commitment. Including grandpa.'"
A beat of silence.
Ace blinked. Krishna looked at Makino. She sipped her tea, unbothered.
"That wasn't in there before," Ace muttered.
Makino smiled. "It is now."
...
Phase One: Luffy
He burst out of the room wearing a frilly pink dress two sizes too small, pigtailed wig flopping, makeup absolutely everywhere.
"I'm PRINCESS MEATMEAT," he declared, twirling, "and I demand twelve roast pigs and a crown!"
Dadan wheezed into a beer bottle. Sheshika hissed out what could only be a giggle.
Ace facepalmed. "You look like a circus clown got punched into a bakery."
Luffy stuck out his tongue. "Jealous!"
...
Phase Two: Ace
He stomped out next, furious and fuming, wearing a red cheongsam that fit suspiciously well.
Makino clasped her hands. "Oh my God. Cutiepie!"
"NO, I'M NOT!" Ace roared, cheeks blazing, tripping over the heels as he tried to stand like a man in a dress.
Luffy rolled on the floor, shrieking. "LOOK AT YOUR EYELASHES!"
Ace bared his teeth. "Makino this was YOUR idea—!"
Makino wiped a tear of laughter. "Absolutely. Worth it."
...
Phase Three: Garp
He emerged last before Krishna, and it was... tragic.
The dress was too small, pink and frilly, his mustache poking through a glittery veil, and the heels were squeaking.
He stood, arms crossed, unamused.
Luffy died a second time. "GRANDPA LOOKS LIKE A BALLOON WENT TO A PROM."
Garp grunted. "I used to punch pirates into the ocean. Now look at me."
Sheshika slithered in a loop of glee. "Dharma comes for us all."
...
Phase Four: Krishna
And then.
The door opened.
Krishna stepped in.
Not stomped. Not twirled.
Stepped.
He wore a draped navy blue sari, gold-trimmed and fluid like the sea at dusk. Hair loosely tied back. Bangles at the wrist. Eyes outlined with a precision that would shame most artists.
And worst of all?
He looked... ethereal.
Not pretty. Not cute.
Otherworldly.
Everyone froze.
Luffy tilted his head. "Wait… Krishna… are you actually a girl?"
Krishna's jaw twitched. A muscle beneath his eye pulsed.
"No."
Ace clutched his stomach, laughing like a man possessed. "OH MY GOD YOU LOOK LIKE A DEITY'S FAVORITE DAUGHTER—!"
Medha glitched beside him, sputtering and wheezing, "I—AHAHAHAHA—his aesthetic field is—it's—what is happening—AHAHA—"
Garp coughed from his seat. "I hate how good that looks. No man should have that much bone symmetry."
Makino and Dadan fluttered around him like proud aunties.
"You look divine," Makino said, fussing over the pleats.
"This is unfair to womanhood," Dadan added. "You're setting a dangerous precedent."
Krishna stood still, entire soul vibrating with restrained shame.
"I hate all of you," he said flatly.
Luffy, still in his pink tutu, reached up and poked Krishna's bangle. "So sparkly."
Krishna sighed. The sound of a man whose soul had briefly left his body and touched the moon in protest.
"I will end you," he said to Makino, who only winked.
"I dare you to try."
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
This chapter wasn't loud. It didn't explode. It breathed.
After everything Krishna has walked through—light, storm, silence, and battle—this was his stillness. Not peace. Not rest. Just stillness. A held breath before the tide changes.
What made this chapter heavy wasn't conflict. It was the absence of it. And in that absence, we saw what matters most: family, foolishness, flame-wreathed laughter. Small rituals. Flutes kept pristine. Conversations too soft to echo beyond the room.
He hasn't left Foosha yet. But he's already drifting.
The silence inside him isn't empty anymore. It's full of memory. Of brothers sparring, of a lap offered without question, of old jokes and almost-tears. And at the edge of that silence, something begins to shift. Not a storm yet—but the shape of one.
Thank you for waiting. Thank you for reading.
Chapter 26 — "Blueprints and Bonds" — begins the next rhythm.
Until we take that step,
—Author out.
...