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 sun had not yet risen, and still, the air in Krishna's sanctum buzzed with a divine precision.
Down beneath Foosha's hills, hidden beneath the soft hum of early crickets and the rhythmic whispers of the sea, lay the hollowed cove Krishna had claimed for himself—earth-carved, moss-draped, sacred in its simplicity. It was here the world could not see him. It was here the world could not fear him.
And it was here, finally, that he gave himself permission to dream.
He walked barefoot across smooth, polished stone—etched with delicate engravings of yantras and code-glyphs only Medha could decipher fully—until he reached the innermost chamber, where no prayers had been uttered, no vows spoken, no legacy forced into his hand.
Just silence. And light.
A golden panel bloomed open beneath his palmprint, revealing a design terminal grown into the floor like a lotus of metal and light. Medha's hologram shimmered into being above it, her projection unusually silent, eyes glowing a gentle white-blue instead of her usual sarcastic amber.
"Initializing Project Vāhana," she announced softly, as if waking a sleeping god.
Krishna's jaw flexed. His fingers twitched with anticipation. And for the first time in a long while—he grinned.
...
The design interface unfurled like a divine scroll—layer by layer, node by node. Not just code, but language. Not just machinery, but poetry made tangible.
Krishna moved like a dancer, though no one watched. His fingertips flicked across symbols, diagrams, logic-threads. First, the bike.
Its frame emerged in stages: two wheels that seemed too thin to hold the power it promised, but underneath—a core reactor slotted with divine pulse-stabilizers, Medha-forged, shaped through his own breath.
The Royal Enfield GT Twin 650 formed the foundation of the silhouette: elegant, lean, timeless. But from there, Krishna's hand added brutalism. A long, sleek tail like the Harley Davidson Night Rod, a spine reinforced with bat-like armor panels, drawn from the silhouette of old vigilante films he used to watch during lazy Earth nights with cheap snacks and long exams he never studied for. The front—razor sharp, like a hyperbike built not just to glide, but to dominate air itself.
"Power output?" Medha asked.
"Double the velocity of an Earth-based F-35 jet, peak resistance endurance. Handle curve up to 90 degrees," Krishna replied.
Medha made a low whistle. "You're building a monster, not a ride."
Krishna didn't look up. "It's a ride to the monsters."
...
The bike dissolved into the next design. A car now. One he'd dreamed of before Dharma, before divinity.
The hood stretched out sleek and gleaming like an old Aston Martin DB5, the vintage silhouette kissed by the low, angular aggression of a McLaren P1, the sinister elegance of a Bugatti La Voiture Noire, and the impossible curvework of a Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut. But the engine? No mortal pistons.
It ran on a pulse-core derived from his internal divine furnace—converted through Medha's memory banks into stabilized quantum thrusters. It wasn't just transportation. It was a throne on wheels.
"Color?" Medha prompted.
Krishna paused. Then chose, "Obsidian black. With veined gold underneath. Not painted. Threaded through the metal."
Medha hummed. "You're making it harder to stay invisible."
"I was never invisible," Krishna murmured. "Just ignored."
...
And finally, the ship.
He stood still for a long while before beginning it. This was not a personal indulgence. This was intent, writ in metal and myth.
He conjured the frame first. A blend of stealth bomber geometry and ancient dravidian sea-carving design—sharp, arrow-like, but curved at its underbelly for smooth skimming across any surface. Its sail was optional—deployable only for disguise. Most of its thrust came from gravimetric stabilizers built using Medha's archive of dimensional pulse reactions. Its prow was reinforced, heavy, but silent.
"Engine capacity?" Medha asked, already knowing the answer.
"Indefinite," Krishna whispered. "It should never rely on the sky."
He built it like one builds a prayer—not to be heard, but to be carried.
...
He stepped back when all three hovered before him—bike, car, ship. Rotating. Glowing. Reflections of desire, purpose, and utility.
And for a brief moment—he wasn't the boy with myth pressed into his skin. He wasn't a god clothed in dharma.
He was just a fifteen-year-old kid who, once upon a time, dreamed of going fast.
He chuckled, a rare sound. "I used to argue about this."
"With who?" Medha asked.
He didn't answer yet. Just stared.
Silence.
Then, "My old dormmates. One liked the old-school cafe racers. Another worshipped Lamborghinis like they were divine scriptures."
"Was he wrong?" Medha smirked.
"I still don't know." Krishna's voice was soft. "But I remember sitting on the balcony while they argued. I didn't say much. Just listened. It was stupid. Beautifully stupid. We were... human. Then."
Sheshika stirred near his feet, coiling upward to rest gently over his shoulder like a warm sash. She said nothing. But the pressure of her presence was grounding, motherly, eternal.
Medha floated above his right side, watching his profile.
Krishna didn't look at either of them.
He just whispered: "Sometimes I think that part of me died when I came here."
"You're wrong," Medha said quietly. "That part of you built this."
The three machines pulsed in rhythm—like a heartbeat returned.
And Krishna, silent, did something he hadn't done in a very long time.
He closed his eyes.
And let himself feel proud.
...
The sound of keystrokes echoed in the sanctum like the slow beat of a war drum carved from obsidian and code.
Krishna hovered over the design console, breath slowed, spine perfectly straight. His fingers moved in steady, exacting patterns, adjusting every micron of curve on the bike's frame. Each stroke was a tribute. Not to style—but to symmetry, balance, and the untold romance between man and machine.
"You're being obsessive," Medha said dryly, materializing beside him like a spectral sister tired of watching her brother polish the same sword ten thousand times.
"I'm being precise," Krishna corrected, narrowing his eyes at the grip angle of the handlebar.
"You're recalibrating the leather texture again. You could skin a wyvern and still find it lacking."
"Don't tempt me."
A rustle coiled around his ankles—Sheshika, lazily circling like a cat that had long since given up on divine posture. She curled up comfortably beneath the console, head resting on her tail, eyes half-lidded with amusement.
"You two sound like an old couple," she muttered.
"We are a new problem," Medha shot back, hands on her hips.
Krishna ignored them both.
For once, he was... giddy. Or as giddy as someone forged of restraint and purpose could allow himself to be.
This wasn't divine crafting. This was pure indulgence. Joyful geometry. Sleek sin made chrome.
The bike's updated engine casing began to take form—tight, refined, high-swept like a hawk's talon. It roared, even in silence.
As he worked, a strange ripple passed over his face.
Not pain. Not anger.
A memory.
...
A dorm room. Cold pizza. One cracked window letting in rain.
And three idiots arguing like their lungs paid rent.
"Royal Enfield's the only real bike left," Abhi barked, waving a spoon like a scepter. "It's got soul! Grit! It sounds like thunder when you rev it."
"Soul?" Arun snorted, feet up on the edge of Krishna's bed. "You mean rattling metal and unreliable brakes. Give me a Kawasaki any day—smooth, precise, deadly."
"Both of you are dumb," Nithin said with the smugness of someone who once failed his driving test twice. "The Harley Night Rod makes you feel like a god. That sound? It's not an engine. It's a war cry."
Krishna had sat by the window, textbook closed, a faint smirk tugging his lips.
"Well?" Arun demanded, turning to him. "You're the monk. What's your choice?"
Krishna had tilted his head, fingers tracing the rain-slick window. "One that doesn't kill me when I take a corner."
They'd thrown pillows at him. He hadn't dodged. He'd laughed.
...
"Why are you smiling?" Medha asked, narrowing her eyes.
"I'm not."
"You're literally grinning at a tailpipe. What is wrong with you? Are you not feeling well?"
"I built this with my hands," he said simply.
"You designed it with divine thought-threads, not—oh whatever, pretend you're humble."
Sheshika chuckled. "Let him be, Medha. He's glowing. Like a child who just named his first sword."
"It is his first sword," Medha said, flicking her hologram toward the bike's schematics. "Just with two wheels and a death wish."
Krishna stepped back, finally satisfied with the final model. It floated midair—gleaming obsidian and auric veins, its engine thrumming quietly like a purring beast that dreamed of thunder.
"Now the car," he murmured.
"Oh finally," Medha said, twirling. "Bring on the mid-life crisis chariot."
"Quiet."
He began the build not with the engine—but the curve of the door.
He remembered the lines of the Aston Martin DB5, dignified and timeless. But it wasn't enough. The nose had to be lower. Sharper. A whisper of McLaren P1 flared through the side design—elegance with latent wrath.
Then came the raw brutality of La Voiture Noire at the rear—black-on-black layering like a shadow that refused to dissipate.
Power? The core reactor would make space-faring vessels jealous.
It wasn't a car.
It was a symphony written in speed.
"Krishna," Medha said slowly, peering at the acceleration stats. "You just designed something that could hit Mach 5 if you looked at it angrily."
"Good," Krishna said, deadpan. "It will move with purpose."
Sheshika snorted. "He just wants it to outrun Ace when he's being annoying."
Medha giggled. "And Luffy when he's being adorable. Oh, can we add a horn that plays something dramatic? Maybe like... a flute note that shatters glass?"
"No."
"Fine, but I'm sneaking it in when you sleep."
"I don't sleep."
"Even better."
...
As the final system sealed into the engine, Krishna's breath slowed.
Another memory.
Hushed. Warm.
He and Nithin had stayed up one night watching supercar compilations on an ancient tablet. They'd debated hypercars like priests arguing scriptures.
Nithin leaned back on his elbows, eyes glazed with admiration as the screen played yet another supercar highlight reel. "The Jesko," he murmured, awe softening the edge of his usual sarcasm, "that looks like something an angel would drive to battle."
Krishna, seated cross-legged beside the window, arched an eyebrow without looking up. "I don't think angels drive."
Nithin chuckled, tossing a chip into his mouth. "Then you should. Just descend from the sky in that thing and end the semester."
Krishna's mouth tugged into a rare, quiet smirk. "It'd need wings."
"It has wings. Also, shut up and pass the chips, you bastard."
...
He blinked.
The ship now.
His hands slowed—not from uncertainty, but reverence.
This wasn't memory. This was declaration.
He designed the prow like a blade. No embellishment. Just sleek silver and matte black, running down its edge like a stealth bomber had a holy vision.
The body? Armored but not bulky. Smooth edges. Hidden compartments. The back folded with anti-gravity fins and grav-thrusters derived from Medha's archive—reactive, silent, and capable of ignoring storms entirely.
Wind? Not needed.
Ocean? Optional.
The ship sailed because he willed it.
No sails. No rudder.
Just intention.
...
Medha stood quietly beside him as the blueprints solidified, her light a little dimmer than usual. Not sad. Just still.
"You didn't build weapons," she said at last.
"No," he said. "I built will."
Sheshika raised her head from her coils. "You built pieces of yourself."
Krishna stepped back as the three rotated before him—a bike, a car, a ship.
And for a brief, unguarded second—
He looked like a boy again.
A boy who once watched a supercar video at 2AM with exhausted, glowing eyes.
A boy who once said nothing and listened to friends argue about mufflers and mileage.
A boy who had dreamed.
And had finally built it.
Not to conquer.
But because he could.
...
The workshop Krishna had borrowed from Foosha's northern dockyard wasn't meant for dreams—it was meant for nets and sails, caulking and barrels. But Krishna had transformed it. At least for now.
Papers rustled like leaves scattered by a storm. Blueprints, hand-drawn, lined the long wooden table—each one an obsession of curvature and power. The edges were curled from hours of handling, corners marked with tiny notations in Krishna's steady hand. He moved like a sculptor in meditation, cross-legged on the floor, a pencil twirling between his fingers, half-chewed and wholly consumed.
The morning sun broke in through half-shuttered windows, casting gold across the schematics. In them danced the silhouettes of impossible machines—two-wheeled beasts forged from dreams, a low-slung phantom of a car, and a sleek, angular bird of steel.
Krishna traced the curve of a panel on his latest refinement of the bike. The chassis followed the aggressive poise of a Harley Night Rod but wore the stripped elegance of the Royal Enfield GT Twin. He was adding vents now—just small ones—beneath the false tank, optimizing for heat bleed-off at high speeds. He didn't need to. Medha's internal simulations had already calculated them unnecessary.
But that wasn't the point.
The paper. The pencil. The curve of graphite under finger.
This was his.
"Focusing too hard again," Sheshika noted lazily from her perch, looped in her tight, content coils atop the beam above him. Her tongue flicked once, catching his scent. "You smell like fire and graphite."
Medha, hovering near the ceiling in her softly glowing wisp form, snorted. "You say that like he doesn't always smell like a one-man apocalypse."
"He's extra today," Sheshika said with a hiss-like chuckle. "Like a child sharpening sticks for a war no one declared."
They both paused at once.
Something was coming.
A thud. Then another. Then an explosion of dust as the door slammed open.
"KRISHNAAA!"
The yell was warbled by velocity. Luffy entered the workshop like a cannonball of limbs and urgency, hitting the dusty floor shoulder-first, rolling like a barrel, and crashing to a halt at Krishna's heel. A beat later, Ace stomped in behind him, panting from the run, sweat matting his forehead.
"What are you two—" Krishna began, but Luffy had already rolled over and popped to his feet.
"What is all this?!" Luffy blurted, pointing wildly at the papers with the intensity of someone accusing a friend of hiding meat. "You makin'... some kinda... METAL BEAST?!"
Ace squinted. "Wait... these are bikes?"
He leaned over the table, picking up a sheet with exaggerated delicacy. His eyes scanned the rough rendering—Krishna's meticulous hand had labeled every joint, every suspension detail. There were side notes about engine thrust equivalence to modern jet engines and heat dissipation arrays that made no sense to anyone who hadn't spent ten years in a lab. But Ace just frowned.
"This just looks like a cooler version of a normal cycle," he muttered. "Two wheels. Long body. Fancy squiggles."
"That 'fancy squiggle' has more horsepower than an entire battleship," Krishna murmured.
Luffy's eyes widened. "It bites ships?!"
Krishna blinked slowly. "No."
"Can it be trained?"
"No."
"Can I ride it while it bites other ships?"
"No."
"CAN I NAME IT BITEY?!"
Krishna closed his eyes. "No."
Luffy turned to Ace, devastated. "He's become meaner."
Ace whistled low, now holding the car schematic. "Okay... this one's kinda dope. Kinda reminds me of that one Sabre model we from the newspaper from Logue Town. But cooler. Like, way cooler."
Krishna said nothing. He was trying to retrieve the papers without causing a riot.
But then—Luffy's gasp cracked the silence.
He had found the ship.
"Ooooooooh." His mouth hung open, reverent. "Is that a flying boat? No. A SKY GHOST?!"
Krishna turned from the desk. "It's a stealth ship. No sails. Self-sustaining power core. Radar-evading hull.", he explained, even though he knows not a single word will enter their brains.
Ace raised a brow. "How the hell are you building all this?"
"I'm not," Krishna said simply. "Not yet."
Luffy was now clutching the paper like it was treasure, dancing around the workshop. "I wanna name it! Name it Sharky! No—Floaty SkyGhost!"
Krishna reached over and plucked the sheet from his hands with mechanical ease.
Luffy pouted, puffing out his cheeks. "Krishnaaaa, come oooon. These are so cool! Make one for me! Just one! A small bitey one!"
"No."
"PLEEEEASE."
"No."
Ace elbowed Luffy aside. "Let me try." He cleared his throat, put on his best smolder, leaned against the table. "Dear brother... dearest, most amazing brother... wouldn't you agree that a man of my radiant charisma deserves a flame-painted ride?"
Krishna stared at him.
"No."
Ace snapped his fingers. "Damn."
"Okay, Plan B!" Luffy leapt onto the table with terrifying speed and struck a pose, one leg high like a ballet dancer. "I am... THE RIDER OF DESTINY!"
He paused. Nothing happened.
Ace sighed. "Plan C, then?"
"Plan C," Luffy agreed.
They both suddenly dropped to their knees before Krishna, faces pressed together, hands clasped like prayer monks.
"Oh Krishna, Divine Mechanic of Coolness," Luffy intoned.
"Mighty Fabricator of Furious Metal," Ace continued, barely holding in his laughter.
"Bestow upon your humble, idiot brothers a single glimpse of machine-based bliss," Luffy said, shaking with dramatic tears.
"We will not crash it—"
Luffy coughed.
"Okay, we might crash it," Ace corrected. "But we'll crash it with STYLE."
"Absolutely not," Krishna said.
They both dropped flat on the ground, groaning in unison. "Whaaaaat?!"
"Designing one machine takes hours of calibration," Krishna said, moving back toward the main desk. "Tuning them for your ridiculous combat styles will take even longer. Luffy, you stretch like rubber. Ace, you explode."
"So build one that stretches and explodes!" Luffy said, bouncing upright.
"Yeah!" Ace added. "Combine rubber and explosions! Make it... bouncyboomy!"
"That's not a real word," Krishna said.
"It is now," Luffy grinned.
Krishna sighed, long and slow. "You're both idiots."
"But we're your idiots!" Ace offered.
He didn't say it with pity or weakness. He said it with the same grin they'd all worn that first night under the stars, sharing sake and stories. The same grin they had when they'd carved their names into that tree, swearing brotherhood to the end.
Krishna looked at the two of them—Luffy's toothy, indestructible grin, and Ace's smirk, equal parts fire and loyalty.
A pause.
Medha's voice, dry and spectral, hovered over his shoulder. "You're going to give in."
"I am not," he said.
"Your pencil is already reaching for a blank sheet," she said.
Sheshika slithered down from the beam and coiled lazily beside Krishna's ankles. "He's already thinking of the frame weight-to-impact ratio. He's doomed."
"I am not—" Krishna began.
"Fine," Luffy groaned as he collapsed to the floor, limbs sprawled out like a defeated sea king. "Let the world mourn Monkey D. Luffy, who died without ever riding a metal beast with fangs."
Ace dropped to one knee beside him with theatrical solemnity, raising a hand dramatically to his forehead. "And tell Uta... that Krishna drew her name before he drew us a bike."
Krishna didn't even look up. "She's not mine."
"Not yet," Ace grinned, eyes twinkling with wickedness. "But you do still keep that flute she gave you, right? Pristine condition? Ten years and counting?"
Krishna's jaw tightened ever so slightly. His pencil paused. Hovered.
Luffy perked up immediately. "OHHHHH, right! Uta! She used to sing in the tavern when Shanks came by! She gave Krishna her flute! Makino said he keeps it cleaner than his blades!"
Krishna exhaled through his nose. "You two have a death wish."
Ace leaned in close, smirking like a devil. "C'mon, Mr. Stoic. Just admit it—every time you look at that flute, you hear her humming, don't you?"
"No," Krishna replied flatly.
Luffy nodded sagely. "That means yes."
"Luffy," Krishna warned.
Luffy cupped his mouth. "Krishna's got a cruuuuuuush—"
"Luffy."
"Big ol' loooove crush—"
"Ace, remove him."
"No way," Ace grinned. "I'm invested."
Krishna set the pencil down.
There was a moment of silence.
Ace backed up slightly. "Wait, wait, we were just messing—"
The pencil moved again.
Lines formed. Curves shaped. A frame emerged, sleek and deadly.
Luffy gasped. "It's working!"
Ace grinned, victorious. "Ladies and gentlemen—we got him."
Krishna didn't look up. His voice was quiet.
"I'm not drawing it for you."
"Sure you aren't," Ace said, already peeking over his shoulder.
"I'm drawing it so you don't kill my designs," Krishna finished, each word landing with the finality of a temple bell. The pencil's movements were crisp, precise, almost annoyed—but the lines coming into life on the paper were nothing short of beautiful.
Luffy, lying sideways now with his chin balanced on his fists, blinked rapidly. "It's got two wheels, right? So it's a cycle?"
"It's a superbike," Krishna muttered.
Ace nodded like a man deciphering the script of the gods. "So like a cycle. But angry."
Krishna didn't respond. The frame he was sketching was more angular than his own—smaller, but with enough grit to survive whatever Luffy and Ace were about to throw at it. He angled the seat back for balance, thickened the tires just enough to counteract their idiocy, and added reinforced suspensions with the ghost of a sigh.
"You're adjusting for our dumbasses, aren't you?" Ace asked with a grin.
"I'm adjusting for the inevitability of you two launching yourselves off cliffs," Krishna said evenly. "Or trying to race sea kings."
"Ooooooh," Luffy cooed, eyes gleaming. "Can they fly?"
"No."
"Can they float?"
"No."
"Can they transform into a robot—?"
"No, Luffy."
Ace leaned in again, whispering conspiratorially, "Does it hum like Uta's songs when it runs?"
Krishna paused for the barest fraction of a second—just long enough for Ace to howl with laughter and Luffy to collapse again in gleeful victory.
"You are insufferable," Krishna said, expression unreadable but ears unmistakably tinged with pink.
"We're your brothers," Ace grinned. "It's our job."
Luffy was already sprawled across the floor, limbs spread wide like a chalk outline. "My job is to fly a metal beast into the sun!"
Krishna handed Ace a schematic before Luffy could get any more ideas. "If you die, I'm blaming the paper."
Ace accepted it with mock reverence, holding it high like it was a holy scroll.
Luffy crawled over to Krishna's side like a salamander in heat. "Do me do me do me!"
"You don't deserve paper."
"But I'm cuter than Ace!"
"I will end you both."
Ace clutched his chest theatrically. "Ah! The divine wrath of the Laundry Lord descends!"
Luffy rolled across the floor dramatically like a ragdoll tossed by fate. "I regret nothing!"
Krishna didn't look up. His pencil continued its path with surgical precision. Still, the corners of his mouth betrayed him. Just barely. A twitch. A sliver of a smile that Medha, flickering quietly within the light of his pupils, caught immediately.
From her perch coiled along a warm sunbeam across the rafters, Sheshika watched with eyes half-lidded, amused. The serpent tilted her head as the chaos brewed.
Medha's voice buzzed softly in Krishna's thoughts, pitched just shy of a whisper. "You do realize they've won, right? You're drawing it. You're literally designing death cycles for two small human disasters."
"I am designing something that can survive those disasters," Krishna replied inwardly, suppressing another smile. "There's a difference."
"Mhm. And that difference is about three centimeters of reinforced ego plating," Medha teased.
"Sheshika, your daughter is malfunctioning," Krishna said mentally.
Sheshika flicked her tongue lazily. "She is your burden. I'm merely here for the show."
...
By the time he finished, the schematics were stretched across half the floor.
Ace's had jagged lines, an elongated fuel tank, and a rear tire that could eat lesser machines alive. Sleek chrome swirled through it, a reflection of Ace's brash energy—built to tear through forests and leave trails of fire in its wake. Krishna had added subtle modifications: heat resistance coatings, impact buffering shells, and an adaptive balance core that would self-adjust based on reckless riding patterns. (He didn't tell Ace that part.)
Luffy's was a different breed entirely.
Rounder. More expressive. A front-end shaped almost like a grin. Compact yet wild. The wheel rims curved like waves, the handlebars adjustable for every ridiculous stretch Luffy might try. Krishna had fortified it with stabilizers that could recalibrate mid-air, because with Luffy, there would inevitably be air time. Accidental or not.
"What's this thing here?" Luffy asked, pointing to a small cube embedded in the side.
"A kill switch," Krishna said.
"Ooooh! What does it kill?"
"You."
Luffy gasped, deeply betrayed. "Why would you design that?!"
Krishna looked at him deadpan. "Because you asked if you could ride it into the sun."
Luffy grinned. "Oh yeah."
Ace had already rolled his schematic into a tight scroll and stuffed it into his shirt like sacred treasure. "I'm naming mine Flameburst. You can't steal the name, Luffy."
"I wasn't gonna!" Luffy shouted, puffing up. "I'm naming mine... Bubble Doom."
"...What?"
"Bubble Doom."
"Why?"
"Because when I zoom past, all the fish will see is doom... and bubbles!"
Ace threw his head back and laughed, nearly falling over.
Krishna stared at Luffy like he had stared at a rotting sea king once. "You're not allowed to name anything again."
"But I already named it! It has an identity!"
"No. That's trauma with wheels."
"Bubble Doom lives on!"
"Gods help us."
...
The door creaked. Dadan stepped halfway into the room before freezing at the sight of papers everywhere, two semi-feral boys holding schematics like sacred scrolls, and Krishna massaging his temples as if warding off a headache summoned by divine irony.
"...What did I walk into?"
Krishna sighed. "An infestation."
Luffy beamed. "I'm a design now!"
Dadan stared at the bikes, her mouth opening and closing. "Are those... demon carriages?"
Krishna rose smoothly, gathering the scattered tools and sheets. "They're too complex to explain. Just tell them not to die."
"No promises!" both boys chorused.
Dadan pointed at Krishna's face, squinting. "You've got that 'I just lost a part of my soul' look. You okay, kid?"
"No."
She snorted and walked off. "Dinner in ten. Don't bring your demon-carriage nonsense to the table."
...
Later that evening, Krishna stood near the worktable again, double-checking measurements. His fingers hovered above the schematics, not touching them—just feeling the ghost of their future, the vibration of movement yet to be born.
Medha, visible only to him and Sheshika, hovered at his shoulder with a mockingly reverent expression. "You gave them your art."
"I gave them templates," Krishna corrected.
"With stabilizers tuned to their body weight. And rear-axis dampers to compensate for over-leap velocity. And custom exhaust structures shaped like—"
"Enough."
"Just saying. That's love, o divine mechanic."
Sheshika let out a contented sigh. "They will destroy them within a week."
"I know," Krishna said softly. "That's why I wrote down spares."
...
But it was when the bikes—still only paper ghosts—left his hands, handed over like folded wings into waiting palms, that Krishna felt it.
A strange emptiness. Not regret. Not sadness.
Just the feeling of giving something beautiful away. Of watching someone run off with a piece of you—not knowing they held it.
And of not wanting it back.
Ace was already strutting like a knight returning from conquest. "Krishna made me a beast. A roaring, metal, flaming beast."
Luffy ran in circles yelling, "Bubble Doom! Bubble Doom! Bubble Doom!"
Krishna blinked after them, then leaned against the table, rubbing his eyes.
"You okay?" Medha asked, quieter now.
"I think I just gave motorcycles to emotional toddlers," he muttered.
"Yep. And you looked like you were handing over sacred relics."
"I spent hours on those curves."
"We noticed. That's why Ace called you weird for staring at them like a romantic ballad."
"He called me what?"
Sheshika curled around his waist gently. "He said you looked like a man parting with his bride."
"I will throw both their bikes into the sea."
"You won't."
Krishna grumbled. "I'm not weird."
"We didn't say you were. But you just kissed the blueprint."
"I did not—"
"You did," Medha and Sheshika said in eerie harmony.
Krishna stared at the paper in his hand.
Then folded it. Carefully. Tenderly.
And whispered, "Stay alive."
...
The workshop had quieted.
A breeze wandered in through the high open windows, fluttering through blueprints, whispering against paper like a curious child. The schematics Krishna had worked so carefully on were now sealed into scrolls of steel and graphite ink, but the smell of oil and intent still lingered in the air.
Outside, Ace and Luffy's arguments could be heard echoing across the yard.
"I told you mine has better exhaust symmetry!"
"Bubble Doom has no symmetry! It's chaos incarnate!"
"Exactly, it can't be predicted—"
Krishna stepped out onto the porch and leaned against the worn wooden railing, holding two small, folded packets—copies of their final designs. He watched them bicker with the sheer blind energy of boys who hadn't yet known loss like he had. There was something refreshing about it. Infuriating. Beautiful.
Sheshika uncoiled from his shoulders, her scales catching the dusk light in shifting opalescent hues. She slithered silently down his arm, curling onto the railing beside him.
From inside the forest, the branches rustled. Another presence approached.
Garp emerged, hands tucked into his long coat's pockets. His boots thudded softly across the dirt path, leaving little puffs of dust in his wake. He paused only once, squinting at the scene of Ace and Luffy now wrestling in a flurry of arms, paper, and ego.
He didn't say a word.
Not at first.
Just stood beside Krishna, the two generations of myth watching their family squabble like puppies in warpaint.
After a long moment, Garp muttered, "They're going to break those damn things in less than a week."
Krishna nodded. "Three days, if they race."
Garp made a sound that might've been a chuckle or a cough. "You built 'em anyway."
"They begged for them."
"They always do."
Another silence.
Garp's eyes didn't leave the two boys as they began arguing over who could balance their schematic on their head longer. A challenge doomed from the start.
"You leaving soon?" he asked finally.
Krishna didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked down at his hands—faint oil stains in the creases of his fingers. His knuckles still bore the faintest bruises from training with Ace and Luffy earlier that week. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind.
"Yes," Krishna said quietly.
Garp grunted. "About time. World's waiting. And watching."
"I know."
Another beat of silence passed. Then Krishna turned toward him, expression as calm as ever, but with a glint in his eye Garp recognized too well.
"I want you to take me to the Grand Line," Krishna said.
Garp's eyebrows shot up.
"To the Grand Line?"
"Yes."
"What do I look like, a taxi?"
Krishna didn't flinch. "Yes."
A full second passed.
Then Garp let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a bark of laughter. "Boy, I'm a Vice-Admiral. I'm not a courier for CP's Most Wanted."
Krishna folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not CP's Most Wanted."
Garp raised an eyebrow. "You really think that? They've been watching you for years. You've set off more alerts than a rampaging Sea King. You are their Most Wanted in all of Four Blues."
Krishna stared straight at him, unblinking.
And then—without warning—he tilted his head slightly, dropped his shoulders, and widened his eyes just the tiniest bit.
The infamous puppy eyes.
Rare. Terrifyingly effective.
Even Sheshika recoiled in awe. "He brought out the artillery," she murmured.
Garp stiffened. "Don't you do that. Don't—no. No. You don't get to look at me like that."
Krishna didn't say a word.
Just… blinked. Slowly. Innocently.
Garp growled. "Dammit, I raised you better than this."
"You did," Krishna said. "And now I'm asking nicely."
The older man groaned and dragged a hand down his face.
"You know, I thought Ace had perfected the guilt-trip look. But you—! You were born to emotionally blackmail old men."
Krishna shrugged. "It's a gift."
Garp sighed deeply, muttered something about 'brats raised by demons,' and then nodded. "Fine. One trip. That's it."
Krishna bowed slightly. "Much appreciated, Grandpa."
"Yeah, yeah—save your divine charm. You're paying for the rum."
"I don't drink."
Garp gave him a look. "Who said it was for you?"
...
As the sun dipped lower and painted the yard in a wash of amber, Krishna walked with Garp toward the back garden, where the taller trees wrapped in soft green hummed with cicadas.
"Also," Krishna said, tone as neutral as ever, "I want to meet Vegapunk."
Garp stopped mid-step.
Krishna continued walking.
Garp caught up in a beat. "You want what now?"
"Vegapunk," Krishna repeated. "The real one. Not the copies."
Garp blinked. "That's classified information."
"I know."
"Why?"
"I wish to increase the average quality of life of humanity."
"Do not give me that line."
Krishna shrugged. "It worked on Ace."
"No it didn't! He just stopped listening."
Krishna tilted his head, calculating. "Then let me rephrase. I have something Vegapunk may want. And I'm willing to share."
Garp looked at him suspiciously. "You're always willing to share. That's what makes you dangerous."
"Then this should scare you."
The old man sighed.
"You know what? Fine. But under one condition."
Krishna paused. "Yes?"
"You're going to Marineford with me."
"I assumed as much."
"As an intern."
Krishna blinked. "A what?"
"Intern. Trainee. Coffee fetcher. Whatever title pisses off Sengoku the most."
Krishna raised a slow eyebrow. "So this is revenge."
"Damn right it is."
Krishna nodded once. "Accepted."
...
By the time the stars rose overhead and the cicadas quieted into the long, slow hum of night, the workshop lights were dim. But Krishna stayed in the garden.
Refining.
He sat beneath one of the thick-boughed trees, a low table in front of him, blueprints neatly unfurled. A small, steady pen moved across the edges of each design—refinements, annotations, pressure simulations written not in code, but in elegant, divine script. These weren't just vehicles. They were philosophies. Extensions of will.
And he would not let them be imperfect.
From above, Medha hovered gently, her light dim, her voice soft.
"You're overthinking it."
"I always do," Krishna replied without looking up.
"They'll crash them."
"I know."
"But they'll ride them first."
Krishna's pen slowed. "Yes."
From the dark edges of the woods, the soft rustle of leaves hinted at another presence.
Feathers.
A low, musical cry echoed through the forest—a peacock's call. Rich. Resonant.
Meghākṣī emerged slowly from the shadows, regal and untouched. Her plumage shimmered like starlight stitched into silk. She stepped quietly toward Krishna and lowered her head.
He reached out and ran his fingers through the feathers along her crest.
"You're still watching?" he murmured.
She didn't answer. But her eyes—those storm-lit eyes—spoke enough.
She always watched.
From above, from afar, from silence.
And she always would.
...
The night wasn't loud. But it wasn't silent either.
It breathed.
The wind danced through the canopies with a gentle, sonorous hush. Foosha's distant waves sighed like they'd lived a thousand years longer than the ones who walked its shores. A cricket chirped near Krishna's bag, then silenced itself as if ashamed for interrupting.
Krishna sat alone at the edge of the bluff.
Beneath him, the sea was a polished sheet of black and silver. Stars flickered on its surface like shy truths. The moon carved its path wide across the waves, as if trying to show him a way forward.
He didn't move.
He simply breathed. Felt the salt in the air. The heaviness of the moment. The clarity of stillness.
By his side, Sheshika coiled gently in a loose spiral, her tail flicking lazily every few moments. Her head rested on his thigh, eyes closed but still watchful. Medha hovered silently nearby, her glow pulsing faintly — like the slowed heartbeat of some gentle machine.
Meghākṣī stood just behind them all, proud and quiet, her iridescent plumage catching starlight and casting fractal reflections on the earth. She hadn't spoken, hadn't stirred, but her presence was as full as the night sky. Regal. Soothing.
Krishna reached into his satchel, fingers brushing through the meticulously packed contents. Not gear. Not weapons. Just... things.
A paper. Folded once, twice, then carefully creased into a tight rectangle.
A child's drawing.
He opened it, holding it gently by the edges.
The first image was of him — drawn with vivid, trembling strokes. Hair wild, eyes burning, cloak billowing like a dragon's spine. In the picture, he looked like a god.
And beneath that paper, tucked so precisely it could only have been deliberate, was another.
Another child's drawing. But this time, the drawing showed him as something else entirely.
A shadow. No face. Just eyes — gold, hollow. The aura was scribbled black, thick lines etched in such violence the crayon had nearly torn through. Pure pressure.
Monster.
He stared at both pictures for a long time.
Then folded them together — as if one couldn't exist without the other.
"Am I god," he murmured, "or demon?"
Neither Medha nor Sheshika answered.
Not yet.
He set the paper aside, then pulled something else from the bag. A smaller pouch, sealed by red thread. Dadan's handiwork. Inside, he found—
Snacks, of course.
Some dried jerky. A half-melted candy bar. And a small, folded parchment.
He opened it.
It read, in Ace's erratic, all-caps handwriting:
"IF YOU EVER FIGHT A CELESTIAL DRAGON, YELL A COOL LINE FIRST. EXAMPLE: 'TIME TO EARN YOUR BAD KARMA.'"
Underneath, in slightly neater penmanship, Luffy had added:
"OR JUST KICK 'EM. THAT'S WHAT I'D DO."
He smiled.
It was small. Faint. But it was there.
"Caught you," Medha said softly, hovering closer. "That's a smile."
"I'm not smiling."
"You're literally doing it right now."
Sheshika cracked an eye. "He's lying. It's cute."
Krishna looked away, refusing to acknowledge them.
He reached into the bag one last time and pulled out something older, worn around the edges — a single scroll of cloth, faded with age.
The ASKL brotherhood contract.
Four names. Four blood drops.
Ace. Sabo. Krishna. Luffy.
He ran a thumb across the name "Sabo." It hadn't faded. It never would.
"Some promises," he murmured, "aren't made to be remembered. Only kept."
He folded it again, pressed it flat, and slipped it back into his satchel.
...
From beyond the edge of the cliff, laughter erupted.
He turned.
Down in the field below, Luffy was chasing Ace with a wooden spoon. Ace was holding what appeared to be Luffy's last meat bun hostage, threatening to eat it just to "teach him patience."
Krishna watched them.
And then Garp joined — stomping into the scene like a meteor, demanding justice for the misuse of spoons in combat.
Within seconds, all three were wrestling.
Dadan stormed in, screaming, hair frazzled and fists already flying.
Makino followed moments later, trying to defuse the chaos, but her gentle words were ignored — until she finally snapped, went full shark-teeth, and bellowed, "YOU STUPID, SUGAR-STARVED, FIRE-STARTING IDIOTS!"
Even the stars flinched.
The three boys paused. Luffy with the spoon halfway down his throat. Ace holding a sausage like a sword. Garp mid-laugh, looking like a child caught with his hand in the candy jar.
Makino exhaled sharply. "Honestly."
Dadan grabbed Ace by the collar. "You promised no fire in the garden!"
Ace pointed at Luffy. "He started it!"
Luffy pointed at his stomach. "My hunger started it!"
Krishna sat back, watching all of it unfold like a stage play he'd seen a hundred times and never once tired of.
Sheshika coiled tighter around his waist, content.
Meghākṣī moved closer, settling beside him, her feathers rustling like whispered secrets.
For a long moment, he let himself drift.
Not away. Not out.
But in.
Into himself.
...
He was no longer on the bluff.
He was in memory. In fragments of worlds half-dreamt, half-lived.
Flashes of old lectures, laughter from another lifetime — dorm rooms littered with books and wrappers, boys arguing over horsepower and handling, who would win in a race between a Bugatti and a fighter jet.
The way Nithin once said, "The Jesko looks like something an angel would drive to battle," and how he replied, "I don't think angels drive."
The smell of petrol and the taste of instant coffee.
He had once been mortal.
Wholly.
Now he wasn't sure anymore.
But pieces remained. Not just the memories. The ideals.
From one past life, he remembered watching a man climb endlessly, not for power, but for freedom — the absolute selfhood that no god or law could own.
From another, he remembered an archer who wept as he strung his bow — torn between war and dharma, grief and duty, still choosing the path that would save others, not himself.
And from yet another... the god who wore no crown, who smiled with silence, who guided without pride, who taught through surrender and fire and paradox. Who said, "You are not this body. Not this sorrow. You are eternal."
Krishna inhaled.
He understood now.
He was becoming all of them. None of them.
He was becoming himself.
Not because of power.
But because he chose restraint.
Because he bore weight and never asked for applause.
Because he could have ruled. And didn't.
Because he could destroy. And chose to mend.
...
The wind whispered across the cliff again.
He lifted the flute from his side.
The same one Uta had given him, ten years ago.
He had never played it in front of others. Not since that day.
But now... he raised it to his lips.
And let it sing.
The sound was soft. Lyrical. A melody made not of grandeur or performance, but memory. A lullaby only silence would understand. It rose with the wind, wound around the stars, and kissed the sea like an old friend.
Below, even the chaos paused.
Makino turned. Garp froze. Ace and Luffy looked up, mouths open, expressions soft.
And Meghākṣī closed her eyes, feathers ruffling in the hush, like she too had waited years to hear this again.
Sheshika curled tighter.
Medha whispered, not to Krishna, but to herself, "He still carries her."
...
When the final note faded, Krishna didn't move.
He stared toward the horizon. Beyond the sea. Beyond the sky.
His voice, when it came, was barely louder than breath.
"I don't belong here."
Medha hovered closer. "You don't."
"But I must walk through it."
"You must."
And he would.
Tomorrow, the world would change again.
But tonight, the stars were enough.
...
Omake: "The Divine Bike's Fall"
The air inside Krishna's sanctum was different today.
It wasn't divine.
It was… boyish.
Which, in some ways, was far more dangerous.
For the first time in weeks, Krishna wasn't drawing schematics. He wasn't meditating on the eternal dance of dharma, nor reciting Vedic algorithms into Medha's archive. He wasn't even brooding by moonlight while flute melodies soaked into the sea.
He was doing something far more sacred.
He was building.
Hands steady, breath even, eyes sharper than any blade. The pieces clicked together not just with logic but with emotion. Screws and struts whispered back stories to him as they settled into place. The exhaust curve kissed by chrome. The engine—not merely housing combustion, but humming with restrained violence.
A bike.
A divine one.
Sleek. Black as a raven feather dipped in midnight. Its frame borrowed muscle from the Harley Davidson Night Rod, its flair from the Royal Enfield GT 650, and its menace from something that had no name, only reverence. It was the kind of machine that should've had its own shrine. A monument. Possibly a national anthem.
Krishna looked at it the way sculptors looked at gods.
Medha hovered behind his shoulder, gaze drawn to the gleam of the exhaust pipe. "You built a religion."
Sheshika curled around one of the polished steel legs, tongue flicking thoughtfully. "It is… impressive."
Krishna didn't respond. He was too busy staring, too lost in the curve of the fuel tank, the silent promise of the throttle. He knelt beside the front fork and ran a thumb across the golden seal etched into the metal.
"She will be called Tārakā," he whispered. "Starfire."
...
And then—because peace is a fragile thing—they arrived.
"WHOA!" Luffy's voice cannonballed into the sanctum like a spiritual curse. "IT'S REAL!"
"You actually built it?!" Ace's awe followed, thundering right on cue.
Krishna froze mid-polish.
Turned.
"Do not touch it."
Which, naturally, translated to: Touch it immediately and with all your limbs.
Before Krishna could so much as inhale, Luffy was straddling the seat like a cowboy born of nightmares—"Oooh it's so soft!"—while Ace poked the fuel gauge like it was a living, breathing animal.
"Remove yourselves. Or I swear—"
Ace grinned. "You touched greatness. So naturally, we must test it."
Krishna's hands folded behind his back, calm but deadly. "You're not qualified to breathe in its direction."
Luffy nodded solemnly. "Which means we should test it. For safety."
Krishna stepped forward slowly, eyes sharp.
"It doesn't even have a kickstand installed."
Luffy grinned with divine confidence. "That's because it doesn't need one! It balances on glory!"
The engine ignited.
A roar erupted. A snarl ripped from the machine's throat. Forest birds screamed and fled. Clouds panicked. Somewhere on another island, a priest dropped his incense and whispered, "The gods have come."
And then they were off.
Two idiots. One divine beast.
Racing toward destiny—or disaster. Probably both.
...
The first thirty seconds were pure cinematic glory.
Ace's scream: "IT HAS NARAYANA-LEVEL NOS!"
Luffy's laughter: "I THINK WE BROKE TIME!"
Tārakā tore through the landscape. Trees bent in awe. Monkeys fled. A mountain contemplated self-destruction just to avoid being in its path.
Krishna sprinted after them. His sandals never touched the ground—he glided like war incarnate. But even his body, forged in silence and divinity, couldn't match a warbike built to insult fighter jets.
...
The second thirty seconds were divine tragedy.
Ace shouted, "What's that red button?!"
"I DUNNO BUT PUSH IT!"
They pushed it.
Tārakā howled.
Wheels lifted.
The bike flew.
Over a ridge. Across a gorge. Through the air like a metal comet flung from the sun's own hand.
Krishna screamed internally.
Tārakā vanished from sight.
...
There was silence.
Then a sound.
And then—KRNNNNNCCCHHTT.
...
He arrived moments later.
Stood at the cliff's edge.
And saw it.
Below, in a pit carved by pure idiocy, lay her remains.
Tārakā.
Once divine. Now… scrap.
The front wheel dangled by wires. The frame was twisted like a modern art tragedy. Her golden emblem lay shattered beside a rock. Oil wept from her core like she knew what had happened.
Ace groaned from inside a bush. "TOTALLY worth it."
Luffy was stuck upside down in a tree. "We went to heaven and came back!"
Krishna stood on the cliff's edge.
Expressionless.
Silent.
Eyes sunk into shadow.
The kind of silence that made Medha stop her usual teasing. The kind of stillness that made Sheshika uncoil and rest her head near his foot, eyes narrowed.
"This… will not end well," the serpent said.
Finally, Krishna descended.
Step by step.
Down the cliffside.
Each pace slow. Heavy.
Each one echoing like the beat of a war drum.
He crouched beside the wreckage. Ran fingers across the shattered headlamp. Picked up what was left of the nameplate.
Whispered, almost reverently, "You flew too close to the sun…"
Medha hovered nearby, eyes flickering.
"They are alive, if that helps."
"It does not."
"You can always rebuild—"
"Rebuilding is not resurrection."
She paused. "It had… a good run?"
Krishna said nothing.
Then…
He stood.
Turned.
And slowly approached Ace.
Who wisely began crawling backward.
"Now… Krishna… buddy… bro… protector of dharma…"
Krishna cracked his knuckles.
Luffy, still upside down, "Can I have five seconds to run?"
"No."
...
Later, as the smoldering aftermath of chaos settled and the divine bike lay in pieces—
Luffy and Ace were twitching on the ground, looking like they'd been personally slapped by the Vedas themselves.
Ace wheezed from a bush, clutching his side. "You broke my dignity, man."
Luffy, hanging by one leg from a tree branch, looked up at the sky with glazed eyes. "I see the shape of god in my bruises..."
Krishna stood above them, shirt unwrinkled, eyes tranquil.
And then Garp arrived.
"Oh no."
"Grandpa!" Ace croaked.
"Help!" Luffy wheezed.
Garp blinked.
Then turned to Krishna. "Kid, what did they do?"
"They murdered a goddess made of chrome."
"Ah. You built the bike?"
"Yes."
Garp looked at the bodies. "And you beat them?"
"Yes."
Beat.
"Could you do it again?"
Krishna's eyes glowed.
Garp grinned and restrained him mid-strike.
"Alright, alright, that's enough. You'll break their spines, not their egos."
Krishna glared. "One more hit."
"Nope."
"Half a hit."
"Nope."
"I haven't even used elbows yet."
"NOPE."
Medha giggled softly.
Sheshika sighed. "Idiots. All of them."
...
By nightfall, Krishna sat beside the wreckage. A quiet vigil.
He placed the nameplate beside him.
And said nothing.
Only stared.
Because sometimes, grief wasn't for people.
Sometimes, it was for machines that dreamed.
...and died dreaming.
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
We're back, baby. After surviving the demonic rites known as mid-semester exams — which, for the first time in a year, I actually studied for (someone alert the elders, a miracle hath occurred) — I return with burnt-out neurons, forgotten passwords, and just enough emotional stability to write this chapter without snapping a pencil in half.
This one was a different kind of flame.
Chapter 26 kicks off with our boy Krishna doing what all of us dreamed of at some point: sketching supercars and bikes that would make angels sell their halos for a test ride. He's not forging weapons of war here — he's designing desire. And for once, he's giddy. And I mean giddy giddy. Kid-on-Christmas, engineer-who-just-discovered-vibranium kind of giddy. And I loved writing that part more than I should admit.
Luffy and Ace hijacked the middle of the chapter like the chaos demons they are, and the humor wrote itself. You'll see what I mean. Also, Krishna being a tsundere for his bike designs might be one of the purest forms of masculine affection I've ever put into text. Don't me.
And yes — Meghākṣī returns. Watching the stars. Watching him. The divine and the mortal in harmony. Just how I like it.
Now for the important part.
Tell me. Right now.
Which one wins: Royal Enfield GT Twin 650 or Harley Davidson Night Rod?
And what's the superior god-tier supercar: McLaren P1? Lamborghini Aventador? Koenigsegg Jesko? Or are you one of those Bugatti worshippers?
Hit the comments. I wanna know what you'd design for yourself in this world. A divine bike? A stealth ship? A flying chariot with a toaster in it? Go nuts.
Until the next drift across Dharma's edge—
—Author out.