Disclaimer:I don't ownOne 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 final month arrived like mist on the ocean—a presence so gentle, it was easy to mistake for peace.
But Krishna knew better.
He stood at the edge of the clearing each morning, toes brushing dew-laced grass, as the rising sun carved his shadow into something long, still, and unyielding. Behind him, Ace and Luffy stumbled from the trees like twin storms: one crackling with impatient fire, the other bubbling with chaotic glee.
But this month, even they had changed.
They didn't rush the morning anymore.
They watched him first. Learned from silence before learning from sound.
Krishna had always known that strength was not taught.
It was remembered.
...
The clearing had been their crucible for weeks now. Each corner bore a memory—where Ace first landed a clean hit with Armament, where Luffy first dodged without thinking, where both of them collapsed in laughter after realizing they'd sparred through lunch and eaten a squirrel's emergency cache.
But now it was more than a field.
It was a temple of unspoken growth.
And Krishna, though silent, was its high priest.
...
"Observation isn't seeing," he told them one morning as Ace flared his Haki too early and startled a deer into fleeing.
"It's remembering," he continued. "Every twitch, breath, glance—mark it. And then forget it. Your soul will remember."
By the end of the week, Ace could sense Luffy's elastic feints before they stretched. Luffy, in return, stopped dodging after feeling a punch coming. He began dodging as Krishna did—before the punch existed.
Krishna, meanwhile, had long since transcended the dome of physical awareness.
His Observation Haki blanketed the entire Dawn Island, and then some.
He could feel the tides curling between neighboring shores. Hear the thoughts unfinished in sleeping children. Sense the guilt of birds who left nests too soon.
Like the old Queen Otohime, his Haki didn't pierce—it embraced.
It offered understanding.
And that was why it was terrifying.
...
He didn't teach Armament with war cries or shattered trees.
He taught it by having them strike water.
"If the stream accepts your strike," he said one evening, "then it is real."
Ace, whose fury once flared like wildfire, now forged that fire into something tempered. His fists no longer lashed out—they commanded. Luffy, whose fists once flew wild and gummy, began coating them in quiet force, like thunder before the storm.
Krishna watched without praise. But every now and then, Medha's whisper brushed his ear.
"You taught them how to choose their strength."
And that, he thought, mattered more than strength itself.
...
But it was in Conqueror's Haki where their growth was truly tested.
They stood in the middle of the clearing, eyes locked. The air held its breath.
Krishna released a pulse.
Not a scream. Not a declaration.
A whisper of truth, vibrating through the world like an ancient note struck once and never forgotten.
Luffy's knees shook. Ace gritted his teeth.
But they didn't collapse.
Because Krishna didn't seek to dominate.
He sought to temper.
The world called it Haoshoku—Conqueror's Haki.
But Krishna had stepped beyond.
He called it Sovereign's Will.
Not just pressure.
Not just fear.
It was a shaping force. A lens.
Those caught in it didn't feel overpowered.
They saw.
For a moment, they saw the world as Krishna did—and it changed them.
This was his Hridaya Tantra — Doctrine of the Heart. His Haki Mastery.
...
He never used it unless necessary.
But when Ace's will trembled with doubt, Krishna stood close, released it subtly, and watched as Ace steadied.
When Luffy questioned whether kindness and strength could coexist, Krishna let his will unfurl like wind through a flute.
And Luffy smiled.
Not because he understood.
But because he felt that someone did.
...
Krishna, meanwhile, was not still.
Even in teaching, he grew.
Not upward.
Inward.
Each morning before they arrived, he stepped barefoot through the grass in a kata older than memory.
Anantadeha Mārga — The Path of the Infinite Body.
He struck with elbows that whispered sutras. Kicked with knees that echoed bells. Every inch of his body moved like it remembered lifetimes of combat and stillness.
Weapons? He needed none.
He was his own armory.
His fists did not shout—they recited.
His blocks were not defense—they were hymns of redirection.
His body, tempered by Kāya Kalpa Sūtra—The Scripture of Eternal Body Refinement—moved without waste.
He didn't breathe to survive.
He breathed to align.
Each heartbeat refined his bones.
Each stretch restructured muscle.
His nanomachines, guided by divine algorithms from Medha's archive, cleansed toxins, reshaped tissue, calmed nerves. He didn't rest.
Because when He moved, the world noticed.
Padanyāsa Vidhi — Discipline of the Sacred Steps — was not teleportation.
It was purpose.
When he stepped, the air stilled. Animals paused. The mood shifted. Trees leaned.
...
But it was the Rokushiki where he became legend.
Every technique mastered.
Every technique reborn.
Soru became Tārakā Gati — Stellar Motion. He moved like starlight bending through space—not predicted, not followed. Just present.
Geppo became Vyomagaṅgā — Heaven-Step Stream. He flowed through air like water, turned corners mid-jump, glided on wind's hesitation.
Tekkai? Now Vajrāṅga Kāya — Diamond-Body Principle. Flexible. Responsive. Not stiff. A mirror to force.
Shigan evolved into Aṅguli Astra — Finger Weapon of Will. He pressed pressure points that healed instead of harmed. Wrote mantras in air. Pierced not skin, but doubt.
Rankyaku? Now Padma Chidra — Lotus-Cleave. His kicks carved lotus-shaped arcs that didn't just cut matter—they severed illusions.
Kami-e was Trikaḷa Līlā — Three-Times Play. He dodged not by reaction—but by memory. Past, present, potential merged. He seemed like a ghost the wind couldn't catch.
Semei Kikan, too, had evolved beyond life control.
He called it Jīvana Mūla Sūtra — Scripture of the Living Root.
He could shut down unnecessary systems mid-fight.
Partition organs for focus.
Store emotion in muscle memory.
Let trauma pass through him without leaving rot.
He wasn't just living.
He was remembering how to live as he fought.
...
They didn't understand the depth of it.
Not yet.
But they felt it.
Each time Krishna stood still, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Not in fear.
In reverence.
He had become something no longer mortal, and yet, more human than anyone they knew.
He didn't chase strength.
He waited for alignment.
He was not the strongest man in the world.
He was the one who refused to become stronger unless it mattered.
And yet—each time they sparred—
He smiled.
Not because they reached him.
But because they were reaching themselves.
And that, above all else, was why he stayed.
For one more month.
...
Dadan was not, by any metric, a sentimental woman.
She'd punched pirates in the throat for calling her "Ma'am," threatened the mayor of Goa with a shovel, and once smoked a pipe shaped like a shark because it "felt cool."
But tonight, as she stirred the pot of stew over a low fire, she couldn't stop staring at the side hut.
Krishna hadn't returned yet.
That alone wasn't unusual. He was always the last one back—probably walking under the stars, whispering to his snake, or doing that freaky silent thinking thing that made the hair on her arm stand up.
But tonight wasn't about patterns.
Tonight felt like the last time.
She hated last times.
...
Makino had left a little while ago, eyes still red, pretending they weren't. Luffy and Ace were inside pretending to sleep. They were terrible liars—Krishna was worse.
She sat with her legs crossed, pipe dangling, watching the steam twist into the sky like a bad omen.
And then—he came walking up the path.
Tall. Quiet. Still barefoot like some damned monk.
Sheshika slithered beside him, perfectly curled around his torso like she belonged there.
Dadan narrowed her eyes.
"Oi. Took your sweet time."
Krishna tilted his head.
"Needed the sky," he said.
"Did the sky ask for permission?"
"No. I offered."
Dadan snorted.
Still weird as hell.
She reached behind her and lobbed a small cloth bag at him.
It hit his chest with a soft fwump.
"Don't open it till you're out at sea."
Krishna caught it, confused, then nodded. "Understood."
Inside—though he wouldn't know yet—was a handful of things.
Dried meat rolls. A homemade rice cake Makino taught her to make. A tiny toolkit. And a folded piece of paper, scribbled on with Ace's aggressively bad handwriting.
A list of every swear word Ace had invented over the years.
And beside each one, what it meant, and when it was "acceptable pirate usage."
Dadan pretended to look at the fire.
Krishna sat beside her.
Not speaking.
Just sitting.
Like he always had.
...
Ten years ago, the first time she met him, she'd nearly brained his snake with a frying pan.
In her defense—it was a huge snake.
And it was coiled near the house.
And it had weird eyes.
But when she'd swung, the serpent hadn't hissed or struck.
It had caught the pan.
One coil curled calmly around her wrist. Not tight. Not threatening.
And then, incredibly, it handed the pan back.
Dadan was too stunned to speak.
Then a voice—small, quiet, deliberate—said,
"She means no harm. I do not travel without her."
She turned and saw him.
A boy.
Five years old. Not trembling. Not loud. Just… present.
His eyes were too old for his body.
His hair too long. His silence too unnatural.
And she instantly hated how much he reminded her of things she'd buried.
Makino had intervened, arms folded.
"If he trusts the snake, we should too."
Dadan had grumbled, but allowed them both in.
That night, she'd found Sheshika coiled like a scarf around the boy's neck while he slept. He'd carved something in his sleep, too—a wooden fox, smooth and polished, lying near Ace's bed.
The next morning, Ace found it, blinked, and yelled, "WHO PUT THIS HERE? IT'S COOL!"
Krishna hadn't said anything.
He just smiled.
And then offered him a piece of fruit.
Ace had taken it.
Sabo had watched from the treehouse, smirking.
"Guess the weird kid buys his friends."
Krishna didn't respond.
But the next day, there were two carvings—one of a hawk, and one of a pipe.
Both suspiciously shaped like Sabo's favorite daydreams.
...
Dadan chuckled.
"He was so bad at making friends."
Sheshika raised her head, blinking from her coil by Krishna's side.
"He learned."
"Yeah," Dadan muttered. "Too well."
...
There had been a week back then when Krishna kept showing up with small offerings.
Dadan opened a cupboard once and found fifteen jars of preserved peaches.
She didn't even like peaches.
But apparently Ace did.
Then there was the time he "fixed" the roof by removing it and replacing it with reinforced clay tiles he hand-carved from nearby cliffs.
Sabo had been impressed. Luffy had fallen off it six times.
Krishna didn't say much through it all.
He just did.
And slowly, without them even noticing—it became normal.
...
She lit her pipe again.
"You remember when he first fought with Ace?" she said aloud.
Sheshika made a soft rattle—agreement.
"Ace kept trying to beat him up, call him a 'monk wannabe' or 'weird snake prince.' And he just… took it. Until Ace tried to kick Luffy for eating his apple. Then Krishna moved."
Dadan could still see it.
Ace swung.
Krishna didn't flinch.
He just turned, placed a hand on Ace's chest, and pushed.
Ace went flying into a tree.
No pain.
No fury.
Just a lesson.
He stood over Ace and said, flatly,
"I do not allow harm to those who are hungry."
And walked away.
Ace had sulked for two days.
Then offered him half a fish.
And just like that—they were brothers again.
...
"You know," Dadan said suddenly, "when he first showed up, I thought he'd break."
She looked at Krishna now.
The wind caught his hair just enough to show how long it had gotten.
There was strength in every inch of him. But not just the kind you trained.
It was the kind that came from knowing yourself.
And choosing to wait anyway.
She huffed.
"Didn't break. Didn't crack. Just… got quiet. And sharper."
Krishna didn't respond.
But the corner of his mouth quirked upward.
Just a bit.
"Try not to get dead, alright?" she said suddenly.
Krishna blinked. "I do not intend to."
"Well good," she muttered. "Because I don't want to have to go to your funeral. I don't like funerals. They make me cry."
"You've never cried at a funeral."
"Shut up, yes I have."
"You cried at that one squirrel's funeral."
"He was a good squirrel!"
Sheshika made a small hiss of agreement, amused.
Krishna reached into the bag finally.
Pulled out the folded note.
The title said: "The Grand Line Guide to Glorious Profanity: Ace and Dadan's Certified Collection of Curses, Insults, and Tactical Expletives (For Emergency Use Only)"
Read it.
Then, for the first time that evening—
He chuckled.
Soft. Quiet.
But Dadan heard it.
She glanced sideways.
"Don't tell Ace I packed it."
"I will protect your honor."
"Damn right you will."
...
The silence afterward wasn't awkward.
It was comfortable.
They sat until the fire died.
Until the crickets took over.
Until the world reminded them that time never stopped.
And the boy who once tried to make friends with food, carvings, and awkward silences…
Was leaving.
This time for good.
But not alone.
Never alone.
Not anymore.
...
Makino always started her mornings before the sun had the decency to rise.
But today wasn't a normal morning.
Today was the last morning.
And the braid wasn't cooperating.
"This strand won't stay," she muttered, pressing her fingers into Krishna's hair again. "Hold still. You're not fighting a sea king."
"I am sitting."
"You're fidgeting."
"I have not moved."
"You're exuding resistance."
Krishna sighed—quietly. But the kind that could've made a mountain frown in sympathy.
Makino ignored it.
She weaved the strands with care, as she always had.
It had become a small ritual between them. Every time he was about to leave for a journey—be it for weeks or months or longer—he'd let her braid his hair.
He never asked.
He simply sat down, spine straight, eyes soft, and waited.
Makino took it seriously.
Because the first time he let her touch his hair, he was still a child.
Still too quiet.
Still wrapped in silences deeper than his years.
And his hair back then had been a tangle of knots and forest wind and time.
She'd asked him, jokingly, "When's the last time someone helped you with this?"
He'd answered, "Never."
Just that.
So now she always did it.
Not out of duty.
But because it reminded her that he was still a boy beneath the poise and the silence and the impossible strength.
A boy who needed someone to brush his hair and pretend that goodbyes were normal.
...
Makino finished the braid and tapped his shoulder. "Done."
Krishna reached back, feeling it.
He nodded.
"Thank you."
She watched him a moment longer.
Then, leaning against the wooden post of the house, she said with a small smile, "You know… the girls in the village are going to cry when they find out you've left."
He blinked.
"Why?"
Makino rolled her eyes. "Because you're gorgeous, you giant dolt."
Krishna looked at her, visibly confused.
Then he looked down at his hands, then at the water's surface just past the porch. His reflection shimmered with the morning mist.
He didn't frown.
But something thoughtful passed through his face.
He murmured, "Am I?"
Makino tilted her head. "You're not serious."
"I am."
"You're Krishna."
"I do not believe that correlates with appearance."
Makino stared.
"Wait," she said slowly, "you actually think you're not—?"
Krishna's voice was level, but quiet. "I was told I am tall. My hair is considered interesting. Perhaps… pleasant. But I have always considered myself—at most—average."
Makino's jaw dropped.
"What."
She stepped closer.
"You… think you're average?"
Krishna gave a small nod, as if stating a math result.
"I do not find anything particularly exceptional about my face. Or form. They function."
Makino blinked. Then barked a short laugh. "You function? Krishna, you're six-three, with hair like night and shoulders that make brick walls feel insecure."
"That seems… excessive."
"You could model for a divine sculpture series."
"That sounds inefficient."
Makino gave a strangled sound of disbelief.
Then, from just behind Krishna's shoulder, Medha whispered—visible only to him and Sheshika, as always:
"You are an idiot."
Krishna sighed internally.
Medha pressed on. "You're what teenage dreams are made of."
"Is that a compliment or a threat?"
Makino, seeing his expression, leaned closer. "What?"
"Nothing," Krishna said, expression stiff.
Makino smirked. "You're blushing."
"I do not blush."
"You're definitely blushing."
Sheshika hissed softly in amusement from her perch above the doorframe.
Krishna closed his eyes for a moment. Then looked back at Makino, seriously.
"Do I truly… look good?"
Makino paused.
The teasing drained from her eyes.
She stepped forward, gently took his hand, and pressed it over his own chest.
"You look like you," she said softly. "And that's always been more than enough. But yes, Krishna. You are beautiful."
He looked down.
Not shyly.
Not vainly.
Just… processing.
As if the idea itself had never been handed to him clearly before.
Not without agenda.
Not without weight.
Makino touched his shoulder. "People don't just follow you because you're strong. Or wise. Or kind. Sometimes they follow because when they see you—they feel hope."
Krishna blinked. His throat worked once.
She smiled.
"And I think you should know that before you disappear on us again."
"I'm not disappearing."
"No," she said gently. "You're becoming."
...
They stood in silence a while longer.
Then Makino shifted.
Her voice took on a brighter lilt.
"Also, you'll definitely break hearts across the Grand Line. I can see it now."
"Makino…"
"I'm just saying," she shrugged innocently. "Tall, broody, divine aura, silent wisdom—do you know how rare that is?"
"I do not intend to attract attention."
"Sweetie," she said, patting his arm. "You are attention."
Krishna sighed again, but didn't argue.
...
Later, as they sat on the steps watching the river drift lazily by, Makino pulled out a small ribbon and tied it gently around the end of his braid.
Just like she always did.
"Last time," she said softly.
"No," he corrected. "Until next time."
Makino nodded once.
And then leaned her head on his shoulder.
He didn't move away.
She could feel the tension in his spine, the way he always held the world up inside him.
So she reached out, without words, and took his hand.
Krishna did not cry.
But tears fell from his eyes all the same.
...
She didn't mention them.
Just held on.
And watched the water drift by.
As if it might carry all their quiet grief with it.
...
The next morning, the clearing was the same.
The moss still curled up the roots of the ancient fig tree. The breeze still rolled soft down the slope from the east, carrying the scent of salt and pine and old sunlight. The river still made its music, soft and lazy.
But the silence was not the same.
It was too full.
Luffy sat cross-legged with a fistful of stolen snacks, chewing like a squirrel preparing for winter. Ace leaned against the tree, arms folded, gaze pinned on the horizon like it owed him something.
Krishna stood just beyond the tree, his hand resting lightly on the bark, as though listening to its old memory.
None of them said it out loud.
But they all knew.
This was the last time they'd be like this.
All of them.
Here.
Before the world cracked open again.
...
Luffy swallowed too loudly.
"Can we come with you?" he blurted, mouth still full.
Krishna didn't turn.
His voice was gentle.
"Not yet."
Ace straightened. "Why not?"
"Because you still have to become you first."
There was no sting in the words.
Only truth.
Ace huffed. "That's cryptic."
Luffy tilted his head. "I thought I already was me."
"You are," Krishna said. "But not the you who can sail beside me. Not yet."
He turned then, walking toward them, the wind following like a dog too loyal to stray.
Luffy's brow furrowed. "But I'm strong. Ace too. We've trained for years."
Krishna nodded. "You are both stronger than anyone your age. But strength isn't readiness. Readiness is choice."
Ace's eyes narrowed. "What kind of choice?"
Krishna sat between them and let his hand settle against the ground.
"Not the kind that comes from orders," he said. "Not what someone tells you. Not even what I believe."
His gaze flicked to both of them.
"I want you to follow your own dharma."
Luffy blinked. "What's a… dharuma? You said something about it when we were little. I forgot." he shrugged.
Krishna gave the faintest of smiles.
"Dharma," he corrected, "is truth. Not truth you borrow. Not truth someone gives you. The truth of who you are, even when no one is watching."
Ace frowned. "So it's like… purpose?"
"In part," Krishna said. "But not a destiny forced on you. A purpose you choose, moment by moment."
Luffy scratched his head. "That's confusing."
Krishna chuckled softly. "It should be."
"Everything is confusing for you." Ace smirked at Luffy.
"What?! Krishna! Ace is being mean agaiiinnn!"
...
After the chaos died down, they sat in silence for a moment. The fig tree's leaves rustled like slow applause.
Then Krishna said, "When you fight, what do you fight for?"
"Meat," Luffy answered instantly.
Krishna gave him a flat look.
Luffy grinned. "Kidding. Kinda."
Ace said, more serious now, "To protect. To prove I deserve what I have. Who I am."
Krishna nodded slowly. "Those are honest answers. But you must learn to trace your intentions all the way back. Not just the surface reason. But the thread beneath it. The 'why' behind your why."
Luffy stared at him. "That's like… thinking too hard."
"That's exactly what it is."
Ace smirked. "You're really not gonna make this easy, huh?"
"No," Krishna said, eyes soft. "Because nothing worth becoming ever is."
Ace leaned his head back against the tree. "You always talk like a monk."
"I'm not."
"But you sound like one."
Krishna shrugged. "Maybe monks sound like me."
Luffy laughed, mouth full again. "That's cheating!"
...
A breeze rolled through.
Krishna's fingers brushed the grass.
"There's a time coming," he said softly, "when you'll be asked who you are. Not by someone else. Not even by me. But by the sea. By the world. And if your answer is someone else's words… you'll sink."
Ace's jaw tightened.
Luffy swallowed slowly.
"So what should we say?"
Krishna looked at them both.
"Whatever is true."
...
They sat like that for a while. The quiet wasn't heavy. It was vast. Like a sky waiting to be filled.
Then Luffy poked his arm.
"Do you ever get scared?"
Krishna blinked. "Of what?"
"Of leaving."
There was a pause.
Then he answered, quietly, "Yes."
Ace looked over, surprised.
Krishna didn't flinch.
"But not for me."
He reached over and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.
"I'm afraid of what I'll miss. Not just your journeys. But the moments. The ones that matter most when you're not looking."
Luffy blinked. "Like what?"
Krishna thought.
"You learning how to lead without fighting. Ace choosing not to prove anything. You both laughing until your stomachs hurt. Small things."
Ace looked away quickly, suddenly annoyed with his own throat.
...
The wind blew again.
Krishna let it brush through his hair.
"Don't chase after me," he said. "Not out of loyalty. Not out of love. Chase you. And when your path becomes strong enough to meet mine—we'll sail together."
Luffy grinned. "Promise?"
Krishna smiled.
"Promise."
...
A few more minutes passed.
Then Ace reached into his pocket.
"Here."
He handed Krishna a folded paper.
Inside was a drawing.
Four boys, arms slung over each other's shoulders. Laughing. Luffy's hat too big. Sabo's grin crooked. Ace flipping the world off. And Krishna—eyes half-lidded, mouth a line, but hands steady on their backs.
"It's stupid," Ace muttered. "But… it felt right."
Krishna held the drawing like scripture.
"It is not stupid."
"Don't get weird about it."
"I'm already weird."
"Fair."
...
They sat under the fig tree until the sun dipped below the distant hill.
No more talk of leaving.
Just stolen snacks, arguments over brawls that never happened, and a sky too wide to measure.
Krishna leaned back.
Listened to them.
Didn't say a word.
His smile—faint and private—touched the corner of his mouth and stayed there.
He didn't tell them how much they meant to him.
He didn't need to.
He had already given them the only thing he ever could.
Themselves.
...
Krishna's half-smile lingered as Luffy and Ace launched into their hundredth debate about who would win in a bare-knuckle showdown: Luffy with his unpredictable swings, or Ace with his relentless brawling rhythm. They punched each other gently in the ribs while stealing more snacks from the bag Dadan had "accidentally" left behind.
Then—
Crunch.
Boots.
Heavy ones.
Rhythmic.
Measured.
Each step louder than it should've been.
Ace turned.
Luffy perked up, grinning wide.
"Gramps!"
Garp emerged from the treeline like a walking cliff.
He wasn't scowling yet, which was already suspicious.
He didn't speak right away, either. Just stared at the trio—at Krishna seated under the fig tree, legs folded, watching them with a softness that rarely surfaced.
Then he spoke, low and dry.
"They still don't know how weak they are."
Luffy blinked. "Huh?"
Ace stood. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Garp didn't raise his voice.
But the weight of it dropped like a war drum.
"You're strong for the East Blue. For kids, even stronger. But in the Grand Line?"
He let it hang there.
Krishna's gaze didn't shift.
"They're not ready?" he asked quietly.
"They will be," Garp said. "But they need to see what the peak looks like. Need to feel the distance between them and the monsters out there."
He looked directly at Krishna now.
"Fight me."
Ace's eyes widened. "Wait—what?!"
Luffy bounced on his heels. "Krishna vs. Gramps?!"
Krishna's brows lifted, faint amusement in his eyes. "You want them to witness despair?"
Garp snorted. "No. I want them to witness what's possible."
...
Krishna stood slowly.
The air around him shifted, just slightly.
The pressure didn't rise.
But something else did.
Presence.
Ace stepped back. "Are you really gonna do it?"
Krishna glanced at them both.
"This is not a battle of hate. It's a mirror."
Luffy looked confused. "Mirrors are for girls."
Garp slapped the back of his head.
...
They moved.
To a smaller island just west of the main Dawn cluster. It was uninhabited—rocky, overgrown, surrounded by steep cliffs and fog.
Makino and Dadan insisted on coming.
When Garp tried to argue, both women gave him a look.
He shut up.
Ace and Luffy clung to the side of the marine transport, giddy and bouncing with excitement, whispering wild theories about how Krishna might glow or sprout wings.
Krishna stood at the prow, arms folded, silent.
Meghakshi soared above, her wings like streaks of oil-slick light.
Sheshika coiled calmly around his shoulders.
And Medha flickered beside him, unseen by all but him and the serpent.
"You won't hold back, will you?" Medha asked.
"No."
"Good."
...
They reached the island.
A clearing near the cliff edge—wide, open, encircled by ancient boulders.
The sky rumbled faintly, though no storm approached.
The sea was quiet.
Too quiet.
Krishna stepped onto the field, boots pressing softly into the moss.
Garp followed, cracking his neck.
Makino sat far off with Dadan, arms folded, anxiety hidden behind narrowed eyes.
Luffy and Ace stood, whispering loudly, completely ignoring the tension.
"I bet Krishna wins."
"No way. Gramps once punched a sea king to death."
"Krishna can walk on air, Ace."
"He built a bike. That's not the same as punching an ocean."
...
["Unstoppable" by Sia – Krishna vs Garp Remix]
Krishna didn't draw a weapon.
Garp cracked his knuckles.
They didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The battle wasn't about settling grudges.
It was about showing the gap.
The mountain between childhood and legend.
...
Then it began.
...
Garp launched forward like a boulder hurled by gods.
Krishna moved not with speed—but with silence.
One step.
Padanyāsa Vidhi — Discipline of the Sacred Steps.
The air bent.
Garp's fist struck—
—but Krishna wasn't there.
He was behind.
A palm open, armament haki humming gold-black.
He tapped Garp's back lightly.
Garp spun mid-air, catching himself, and drove a foot toward Krishna's ribs.
It landed.
Or seemed to.
Krishna's body bent like reed through wind—flexing with Kāya Kalpa Sūtra, Scripture of the Eternal Body.
The blow rippled through muscle and bone—absorbed, then redirected.
He slid backward, feet barely grazing the earth.
...
[I put my armor on, show you how strong I am...]
Garp charged again, this time with a roar.
Krishna flickered forward—Tārakā Gati, Stellar Motion.
Too fast.
Too fluid.
He appeared before Garp's right side, hand already coated in dense armament haki.
Fist met fist.
The shockwave tore the grass from the roots.
Ace and Luffy both fell backward.
"What the hell was that?!"
"He didn't even move!"
...
[I put my armor on, I'll show you that I am...]
...
Garp grinned, eyes wild now.
"I've fought gods. Celestials. Pirates worth entire fleets."
He grinned wider.
"But I've never fought someone who refused to dominate."
Krishna didn't smile back.
He didn't need to.
...
The battle surged.
Garp struck with enough force to crater mountains.
Krishna parried with open palms, stepping through attacks like he was guiding wind through a field.
Every movement taught something.
Every clash revealed a path.
...
[I'm unstoppable, I'm a Porsche with no brakes...]
Garp shouted as he leapt into the sky, fist drawn back.
"This is what you'll face, Luffy! Ace! The world doesn't care if you're kind!"
He slammed down—
—and Krishna caught the blow.
One hand.
Ground cracking beneath him.
His eyes met Garp's.
[I'm invincible, yeah I win every single game...]
"But I care," Krishna said quietly.
"And that is why I won't fall."
...
[I'm so powerful, I don't need batteries to play...]
...
The final exchange.
Fists wrapped in conqueror's haki—Garp blazing like a war god, Krishna shining like dawn.
They clashed.
The forest buckled.
The sea roared.
Clouds parted in a halo.
...
[I'm unstoppable until I'm broken and bled...]
...
Then—
Silence.
Garp on one knee.
Krishna standing, hand open, breathing steady.
No winner.
Only message.
...
[I'm unstoppable today...]
[I'm unstoppable today...]
...
Back at the clearing, Ace sat stunned.
Luffy had tears in his eyes—not from sadness. But awe.
"Did you see that?" he whispered.
Ace nodded slowly.
"That's what we're aiming for," he muttered. "That's the summit."
Garp rose slowly, grunting.
"Damn. You're one terrifying grandson."
Krishna exhaled.
"You held back."
"So did you."
They both laughed.
...
Back on the transport home, nobody spoke for a while.
Not because they were scared.
But because they'd seen the shape of something real.
Something vast.
Something worth becoming.
...
The sun had dipped low. Twilight stretched across the village in soft indigo and molten gold. Lanterns flickered to life. Even the crickets seemed to hold their breath—leeping the only sounds.
Krishna stood at the edge of the clearing, his packed satchel resting against his leg. He'd gathered what he could: sturdy clothes, rations, a folded note from Luffy and Ace, the handmade bracelet Dadan made every year, and his flute—small, polished, silent witness to Uta's melody. He tucked it under his scarf as he waited.
First, his brothers.
Ace and Luffy sat cross-legged on the wooden deck of Dadan's hut. The firelight played across their faces, half-joking, half-sad.
Luffy picked at his boots. "So… this is it."
Ace said nothing at first. Then, quietly, "You really gonna go now?"
Krishna folded his hands calmly. "Yes."
Luffy's bottom lip quivered. "Promise you'll come back?"
He looked at Ace, who shrugged. "He's got to."
Krishna's throat tightened. He knelt before them. "Your journeys are yours. And—if paths align—I'll meet you again."
Luffy sprang up and launched forward. They enveloped Krishna in a group hug, Luffy's arms around his waist, Ace's hand around his neck. Krishna kept still.
Luffy buried his face in Krishna's robes. "We'll be waiting."
Ace grunted. "Don't get soft on me now… or I'll punch you next time." He punched Krishna lightly. Krishna offered a rare, slow half-smile in return. It almost broke Luffy's heart to see him finally smile.
They stayed locked like that, wordless.
Then Ace whispered into his hair, "Stay alive."
...
They pulled back apart. Luffy brushed his eyes with the back of a hand. "Bye, big bro."
Krishna nodded once. Then stood.
...
The firelight flickered across the doorway as Dadan stepped out. Midnight grey. She held a small scarf—stitched to be almost worthless for anyone else: old, faded, but perfect to him.
She cleared her throat and tossed it toward him—it landed across his shoulders like a silent cloak.
"Don't lose it," she said. "Don't drink the ocean. Don't starve yourself. Don't stop being someone worth finding."
Krishna reached up to hold the fabric.
Dadan turned away before tears could gather. Her voice was low, but gruff. "Don't die."
He didn't speak. He slung the satchel over his shoulder.
But before he stepped away—
Dadan gripped his arm. Broken voice. "When you come back—you make me pancakes."
Krishna stilled, then smiled. And the world didn't feel quite so empty.
...
Makino emerged last, quiet like dusk in blossom. The one who'd found him floating. The one who'd always known more of him than he had of himself.
Her eyes brimmed—and he felt a single tear in his chest: the ache of leaving home for the first time in his life.
He knelt before her, placing his head gently against her lap. She brushed his hair once, twice, and leaned in.
He closed his eyes, the world falling silent around him.
Makino wiped a tear from her own cheek. Then whispered as if to a child, as if to a god,
"You've always been more than we could hold. But we will carry you—wherever you go."
Krishna's breath caught.
She pressed her forehead to his.
Her voice cracked with both grief and pride, "Be who you must become."
Tears escaped his eyes—tears not of sorrow, not of fear, but of deep love. Longing. Hope. Everything in a single unspoken collision.
He didn't cry. But tears fell.
Makino did not bury them. She let them fall. Then she lifted his face and placed her forehead back against his once more.
In that silence, everything passed without words.
...
Behind them, the village lanterns glowed in warm defiance of the coming night.
They embraced again—softly, for the last time before dawn claimed their world.
...
When he emerged, the stars were above him—Thousand silent witnesses.
Garp's transport waited. Garp stepped from the deck, silent.
Krishna met his gaze for the first time since dawn broke. Garp nodded.
Krishna stepped forward.
One last look back.
Ace, Luffy, Dadan, Makino—standing under the fig tree where childhood had ended and manhood began.
He turned.
Heart heavy. Soul burning.
He didn't look back again.
...
On deck, Meghākṣī perched silently beside the railing. Her storm-lit eyes reflected the shimmering sea. She fluffed her feathers as Krishna approached. He nodded—shared strength without words.
Sheshika slithered up his arm and coiled around his wrist. He sighed softly. A snake, a peacock, an AI—his quiet companions.
Medha's whisper slipped through his mind, "We're still here."
He reached out, touching the peacock's head gently.
"Thank you," he said. Not to her. To them. To the world he was about to re-enter.
Garp watched quietly. Then spoke softly—not as idol to soldier, but as storm to his grandson.
"You ready?"
He was.
Krishna nodded.
Garp placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
They turned toward the bow, toward the Grand Line.
...
For Krishna, turning away from the island was more than leaving land.
It was leaving a piece of self.
But it was time.
The intern assignment awaited. The world beyond dawn awaited.
He carried their hopes with him—and their silence.
He carried vengeance that burned for justice.
He carried dharma that would not stop until it found shape.
He carried their trust.
Most of all, he carried them—all of them—inside.
And only when the island was lost to darkness did he finally allow himself to breathe.
...
Omake Title: The Profanity Paper Incident: A Study in Motherly Wrath.
The bar was quiet.
Too quiet.
Makino hummed as she wiped down the counter, her motions serene and rhythmic. The sun filtered in through the windows, casting golden lines on the wood.
Then her hand brushed against something odd.
A folded paper. Titled—quite elaborately:
"The Grand Line Guide to Glorious Profanity: Ace and Dadan's Certified Collection of Curses, Insults, and Tactical Expletives (For Emergency Use Only)"
She blinked.
Read.
And blushed.
"Oh… my… goodness."
The paper, cursed with the combined efforts of Dadan's barroom mouth and Ace's creative flair, contained words that should never be said within five kilometers of a child—or a saint. Or anyone who hadn't sold their soul in a card game.
"Where… where did this come from?" she whispered.
Sheshika slithered across the beam above, lazy as the serpent goddess she was.
"Dadan and Ace. Gifted it to Krishna. For emergencies."
Makino's eye twitched. Her smile tightened.
A silence so sharp it made even the bar stools sweat.
"…Is that so."
She set the paper down.
Then picked up her apron.
Then removed her apron.
Then set it down very, very deliberately.
"Excuse me," she said, stepping out into the sun.
She was no warrior.
But she was a mother.
And her maternal instincts were already zeroing in on the criminal duo.
...
Dadan sneezed.
"Why is it so cold all of a sudden?"
Ace stretched in the sun, grinning. "Probably someone talking about you behind your back."
"Yeah, probably Makino. She's always looking for reasons to yell."
Then a shadow fell over them.
They looked up.
Calm. Smiling.
Makino.
"Oh… Makino. Hey. What brings you he—"
"I found the paper."
Ace choked. Dadan's eyes widened. Both froze.
Makino continued, voice sweet as poisoned honey, "Why, exactly, did you give such a… colorful list to Krishna?"
Ace opened his mouth. Dadan stepped back.
"Wait wait wait," Ace said, waving his hands. "It was for educational purposes! Like—like pirate survival!"
Makino smiled wider.
Dadan hissed, "She's too calm. Ace. That's not a good sign."
Makino reached behind the bar she somehow conjured from nowhere.
And pulled out the frying pan.
...
It was beautiful.
If by beautiful, one meant catastrophic.
Ace went flying through a tree. Dadan tried to escape but tripped over a log.
Then Garp arrived.
"Hahaha! What's all the noise about?"
Makino shoved the paper in his face.
He read it.
He laughed.
"Oh c'mon, this is nothing! I wrote something ten times worse when I was six! I called my teacher—"
The look.
Makino's deadly glare.
He paused. Blinked.
"…Who am I?" he mumbled. "Where am I? My eyes don't work. My ears either. My name is… Bloop?"
Luffy, who'd just arrived, took one glance at the carnage and instantly mimicked Garp.
"I'm blind! And deaf! And emotionally unavailable!"
Makino turned away.
Garp and Luffy breathed sighs of relief.
Dadan and Ace? Not so lucky.
She went back to work.
With precision.
With fury.
With love.
...
Later, Krishna arrived.
Saw Dadan and Ace in matching fetal positions, bruised and groaning.
"…What happened?"
Luffy cackled from a safe distance. "They made Makino mad."
"Oh."
He tilted his head.
"Makino, did you see a paper I left at the bar? Had a really long title. Swear list. Emergency use. I think Dadan gave it to me—"
That was the mistake.
Dadan flinched. Ace whimpered.
Makino turned, sweet as sugar.
"A paper? No, Krishna. I haven't seen any paper."
Krishna blinked, glancing between her and the corpses of his adoptive siblings.
"…Are you sure? Because they just—"
She appeared in front of him.
"I said," she purred, eyes slightly twitching, "there is no such paper."
Krishna slowly nodded.
"…Right. Got it. No such paper."
She smiled. "Good boy."
He turned to Luffy.
Luffy saluted, pretending not to see anything.
Krishna walked away.
Sheshika whispered, "You should really label things better."
Makino wiped her hands.
Calm once more.
Peace returned to the village.
Mostly.
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
I don't know what's more dangerous: Krishna's haki or a Makino with a frying pan and a mission.
This chapter… this was goodbye. Not forever. But the kind of goodbye that tastes like salt and leaves you staring at the sea for answers you already know. Krishna didn't just leave the forest — he left his boyhood, his silence, and his sanctuary. And in return, he gave all of them a little piece of what he's becoming.
Ace and Luffy? They're already walking their own dharmic paths, even if they're covered in swear words and bad decisions. Garp? He showed that strength is not always about might — but about guidance. And Makino? Let's just say there are very few people in the world who could physically scare a Conqueror's Haki user. She's top three.
Krishna cried this time.
He didn't sob.
But the tears fell anyway.
And they mattered.
Now the seas await.
And the gods are watching.
And somewhere… a flute waits to be played again.
Before I go — important question:
Which ride would you want? Krishna's divine bike or divine car? Bonus points if you can name the most stylish combo you'd ride into battle with.
Until the gears burn and the sea sings—
—Author out.