Four days before the Red-Hair Pirates depart.
The wind over Foosha that morning carried the scent of salt, fish... and something else. Change.
Krishna sat by the cliff's edge, a bamboo training staff balanced across his knees. The Red-Hair Pirates were packing in the village below—supplies, charts, crates. Energy buzzed, but Krishna sat still. Sheshika coiled beside him like a warm rope of divine intent. Medha's presence hummed low behind his eyes.
"You've been quiet," Medha said, breaking the stillness.
"I've been watching," Krishna replied. "Something's off."
"You mean aside from Higuma being knocked unconscious by your kick, then later mysteriously found dead with his entire crew?"
Krishna didn't flinch. "Yeah. That."
He hadn't seen the bodies. Hadn't needed to. When he'd awakened in Shanks' arms the morning after the Sea King incident, the village was buzzing. The Higuma Gang was gone. Erased.
Medha's interface blinked into clarity. She didn't open with a joke.
"Do you want to know what happened after you passed out?"
Krishna nodded silently.
Medha brought up an overhead view—recorded from Sheshika's memory. Shanks, still blood-soaked and missing his arm, holding Krishna and Luffy in one side of his cloak. His crew stood in formation on the dock, facing Higuma's gang.
It wasn't a fight. It was an execution.
Yasopp shot three men before they even drew weapons. Benn walked through the remaining ones like a ghost of war. Lucky Roux cracked skulls open like breadfruit. Even Limejuice—usually so quiet—unleashed his staff like it held grudges.
Krishna's face didn't move.
"They killed all of them?" he asked.
"Yes," Medha confirmed. "Your presence created too many distortions."
Makino had quietly passed him a coin pouch heavier than any child should carry. Shanks' crew had "cashed in the bounty," she'd said, and left it in Krishna's name. The silence that followed was louder than any laughter they'd shared before.
Sheshika stirred. "The red-haired one's crew is not gentle when protecting their own."
"I know," Krishna murmured. "They covered it well. But it was never about vengeance. It was a message."
"And what message is that?" Medha asked.
Krishna's voice dropped to a whisper. "That the canon's gone."
There had been no massacre in Foosha's version of events, not until Shanks lost his arm. Not until Higuma fed Luffy to the sea. But here, the gang was wiped out after Krishna's Conqueror's Haki burst—long before Shanks even departed.
The timeline had diverged.
No loud alert. No apocalypse. Just... drift. Like a river slowly bending away from its bank.
"Canon Drift Detected. Deviation Class II. Predictive consistency down to 81.2%."
Medha's HUD flickered inside his vision, sharp and sterile.
"Branch projection model unstable. Emotional tethers in place. Future chain paths: undefined."
He sighed.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're no longer walking a shadowed script, Krishna. You're shaping it."
Sheshika lifted her head, tongue flicking the air. "That is not a burden easily borne."
He didn't respond. Instead, he unrolled the small bandage he had folded into his sash.
It was stained—still faintly red.
From Shanks.
Back during the aftermath, Makino had been tending to the pirate captain's wound when Krishna asked if he could help. Shanks had waved it off with a chuckle. "You're not squeamish, are you, kid?"
Krishna had smiled faintly and handed him clean cloth. The soaked wrap was discarded… right into his waiting hand.
He had collected blood samples from Ace, Sabo, and Luffy over time—minor pinpricks from play-training injuries. Even Uta, though she had no idea, had offered hers when Krishna offered to clean a scraped knee with his cloth.
But Shanks' sample was different.
"Divine-grade signature confirmed," Medha had whispered when she first scanned it.
"Celestial bloodline. Haki resonance: Conqueror's and Observation near-perfect alignment. Genetic durability... anomalous."
And Luffy's? Almost the inverse.
"Lineage Factor shows Garpian musculature. Rubber physiology confirmed. But the fruit's energy doesn't want to leave."
"Mythical Zoan energy is not data," she added. "It's presence. It resists transfer."
"Because it belongs," Krishna had murmured then.
Now, with the cliff winds combing through his hair, he recalled it again.
"This will be the last piece for now," he said aloud, folding Shanks' bandage into a clean seal and placing it inside the metal capsule embedded in his chest rig.
"Five samples," Medha confirmed. "No, six. You've included yourself, too."
"Of course," he said.
PROJECT INITIATED: MARTIAL GOD BODY
— Root Authority Confirmed
— Divine Structure Present
— Growth Mode: Infinite
— Pathway logs: Infinite
— Progression: personalized.
He breathed in. Salt. Wind. Smoke from the cookfires below. The sounds of pirates shouting, barrels being rolled, sails being mended. Life continued. But his direction had already shifted.
"Tell me about Mok Gyeongwoon again," Medha prompted.
Krishna closed his eyes.
"He had no name when the sky first broke open. No sword. No clan. Only the will to survive."
"He wasn't the strongest. Not at first," Krishna said. "Born at the bottom. No parents. Only his grandfather, who got killed when he was jus 16. No power. No divine backing."
"Then how did he win?"
"He learned. Everything. He broke down movement like music, breath like language, pain like math. He became the Chun Ma—Heavenly Demon—not because he had a fate, but because he outgrew fate itself."
So he forged his own path.
Over time, titles followed him:
The Demon Without Origin.
The One Who Fights With Heaven.
And finally… Chun Ma — The First Heavenly Demon.
"And that's your goal?"
Krishna stood slowly, the wind tugging his dark tunic back.
"The Heavenly Demon walks not to defy the sky—but because the sky no longer defines him."
"No. My goal is Dharma. Balance. But if I need the power to uphold it... I'll build something the world's never seen."
Medha's interface opened like a lotus in his mind's eye.
Martial God Body: Initiating Logging Protocol
Medha began logging.
[SAMPLE 1: SHANKS]
— Celestial Dragon Lineage
— Divine-Class Conqueror's & Observation Haki
— Presence Density: 93%
— Note: Conqueror's signature harmonizes with divine matrix. Blood soaked in spiritual durability.
[SAMPLE 2: MONKEY D. LUFFY]
— Garp's Bloodline
— Physically dominant structure
— Armament Haki Potential: High
— Rubber Physiology: Present
— Mythical Zoan Energy: Inaccessible (refused extraction)
— "The fruit's core remains bound. Attempts to extract divinity will fail unless the body perishes."
[SAMPLE 3: PORTGAS D. ACE]
— Roger's Bloodline
— Latent Conqueror's Haki
— Soul Tempered by Flame
— Energetic volatility: Chaotic but reactive
— "Soul memory encoded with heat-based potential. Instinct-driven explosiveness."
[SAMPLE 4: SABO]
— Neural Plasticity: Exceptional
— Adaptability Quotient: 97%
— Internal Flow Sync: Fluid
— "Ideal candidate for multi-haki pathing. Martial comprehension gene active."
[SAMPLE 5: UTA]
— Resonant Frequency Bloodline
— Emotion-Affinity Signature: Strong
— Paramecia Sync Potential: Audio/Symbolic class
— "Mental-spiritual conductivity. Sound-based evolution compatibility—rare harmonics detected."
Base Pillars: Five Divines Registered
Anantadeha Mārga (Path of the Infinite Body)
Asi Kriyā (Divine Sword Ritual)
Hridaya Tantra (Doctrine of the Heart – Haki)
Kāya Kalpa Sūtra (Scripture of Eternal Body Refinement)
Padanyāsa Vidhi (Discipline of Sacred Steps – Footwork)
"Blood sample resonance: 83.2% stable. Your divine soul is metabolizing the knowledge patterns without consumption. Mimicry through adaptation, not theft."
Krishna whispered, "Then let's begin."
Medha confirmed:
"Six foundational samples integrated, including self. Evolutionary growth path stabilized."
"Martial God Body supports infinite sequence logging. Bloodline count: irrelevant. Progression: exponential."
A golden seed pulsed in the center of his HUD, roots stretching outward in fractal spirals. No limit. No edge. Only direction.
The branches hadn't formed yet—but the trunk stood tall.
Krishna inhaled slowly. Eyes half-lidded. Still.
Krishna doesn't idolize Mok Gyeongwoon.
He understands him.
Because Krishna, too, was born without divine blood in his last life. He earned every inch of progress through failure, comprehension, and silent pain. What Mok did with chi and martial arts, Krishna now attempts with Haki, Devil Fruits, and the body of a dharmic vessel.
This isn't imitation.
It's emulation.
Behavioral mimicry at the divine level.
"I won't follow a legend," he whispered. "I'll carve one."
The air didn't answer.
But something in the ground did.
The kitchen behind Makino's bar hadn't seen this much chaos since Garp tried to make dumplings using gunpowder instead of flour.
Krishna stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted in turmeric, red chili powder, and cumin. The scent of marinated chicken—clove-heavy, cardamom-kissed—hung thick in the air.
Outside, crates of vegetables were stacked high, a small mountain of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and green chilies waiting for the knife.
"Who sliced the carrots like this?" Krishna called, staring at a pile that looked more like injured shuriken than vegetables.
Shanks raised his hand proudly. "That would be me."
Krishna blinked.
Makino laughed from beside him. "He also tried to peel onions with his sword."
Krishna sighed. "Of course he did."
It had been his idea. A farewell meal—not a feast for kings, but something that felt like a home.
Chicken biryani, spiced and layered with saffron rice, garnished with fried onions and coriander, cooked in giant iron pots dug into the earth. Enough to feed one hundred, but just barely enough for the ASKL gang, Makino, Sheshika, and the entire Red-Hair Pirates.
The prep had taken all day. Ace, Sabo, and Luffy had been sent on "spice duty"—they returned with cumin in their eyebrows and coriander seeds in their pockets.
"I sneezed and the turmeric exploded!" Luffy had cried earlier, mid-laugh.
Yasopp had volunteered to butcher the chickens, talking to them as if preparing them for a noble afterlife. "You've served the cause, my feathered friends."
Shanks and Lucky Roux were in charge of prepping vegetables—though Lucky Roux mostly kept "accidentally" eating them raw.
Krishna oversaw the rice. He had measured the water with absurd precision, stirring the soaking grain like it was sacred. Every movement was part of his routine—a choreography inherited from the human life before this one, grounded in the smells of his grandmother's kitchen.
Makino leaned over, whispering, "This is the most alive I've seen the village in years."
Krishna looked around. Laughter. Flame. The clatter of wooden spoons against metal pots. Even Sheshika was curled near the cookfire, warming her scales, watching the chaos with ancient amusement.
He smiled faintly. "Then let's give them something to remember."
By evening, the stars were out, and the tables were set.
Barrels were turned into makeshift stools. Plates were stacked, metal spoons clinked. Even Benn Beckman wore a bandana for the first time anyone could remember.
Krishna opened the lids on the biryani pots.
The first wave of scent hit like a divine war drum—spice, ghee, garlic, and the long steam of basmati rice opening into the sky.
Uta, slipping into her seat beside Makino, sniffed once, blinked, and muttered, "Damn. He can cook too?"
Yasopp's eyes lit up. "Careful, girl. With that hair and that biryani, he's dangerous."
Uta flicked a sprig of coriander at him. Shanks, overhearing, nearly dropped his cup. Krishna kept stirring the next pot, utterly unaware of the stares.
They served in rounds. Krishna handed out plates like a temple priest—carefully, gently. Sabo asked for extra chili. Luffy begged for five servings. Ace tried to hide how much he was enjoying it.
Then, the first bite hit.
Silence.
Yasopp froze mid-chew. Benn Beckman lowered his cup slowly.
Even Shanks blinked once, twice, then let out a long, audible sigh.
"This... this is illegal."
Benn, always composed, muttered, "I'd trade the ship for this."
Roux nodded. "If I die, bury me with a pot of this."
Yasopp moaned dramatically. "Krishna, marry me."
Krishna choked on his bite.
Uta snorted into her drink.
Shanks, scowling with a full mouth, whispered, "This boy is dangerous."
Makino patted his shoulder. "Yes, dear. He's feeding your daughter."
Shanks narrowed his eyes. "Too well."
Ace blinked like he'd seen the sun for the first time. "Okay, fine. He wins. Whatever it was—we were competing in—I give up."
Sabo just grinned.
Luffy yelled, "I'M GONNA MARRY THIS RICE!"
Then the dam broke.
"TOO GOOD!" Luffy shouted, tears flowing down his cheeks.
Uta hiccuped and sniffled beside him.
Makino blinked rapidly. "It's... just biryani," she whispered.
"NO," Shanks cried, standing. "It's a spiritual experience."
Everyone started bawling.
Even Sheshika quietly slid her plate closer to Krishna for seconds, tail thumping softly in approval.
"Tail thump: confirmed," Medha said. "Divine approval secured."
Somewhere during the third serving, Shanks wiped his face with his sleeve and said, "If I had eaten like this growing up, I'd have become Pirate King faster."
Luffy's eyes sparkled. "I'LL COOK LIKE THIS FOR MY CREW TOO!"
Krishna raised an eyebrow. "You once burned water."
"Details," Luffy huffed.
Ace chuckled beside them. "He's not wrong though. This stuff tastes like... a memory you didn't know you missed."
"Hey," Sabo said, nudging Krishna, "how did you even learn this?"
Krishna just shrugged, lips twitching. "Family secrets."
Medha's voice buzzed in his mind, "Emotional saturation at 89%. Haki channels unusually calm. Very dharmic. I approve."
Krishna smiled faintly, chewing slower than the rest. It wasn't just food to him. It was his offering. His way of saying thank you.
Makino leaned in, whispering to Uta, "He's too kind for his own good."
Uta didn't respond. She just kept eating, eyes never leaving the boy with the dark eyes and silent hands.
As the night deepened, someone lit a bonfire.
The Red-Hair Pirates broke into songs. Luffy and Uta danced around the flames. Makino tapped a glass against a spoon, leading a toast. Even Dadan appeared, muttering something about "stealing leftovers."
Shanks leaned close to Krishna. "You've done more for this crew than you know."
Krishna glanced up. "It was just food."
"No," Shanks said, "It was farewell without sorrow. That's a harder dish to serve."
And later that night, when the fire dimmed and only the stars remained, Krishna sat beside the last pot of biryani, watching the dying embers.
Sheshika curled beside him. "You fed them well."
"I wanted them to leave full."
"They'll leave heavier," Medha said softly. "With memory. With meaning."
Krishna looked at the horizon where the sea met the dark. Tomorrow, they'd go.
Tonight—they were still here.
The feast had ended, but Foosha's quiet didn't return right away.
The village exhaled the joy slowly—through the soft washing of dishes, the last stories muttered over dying embers, and the sound of Red-Hair Pirates hauling barrels back to their ship under the cover of night.
Most of the crew had retreated to the ship. Only embers remained at the fire pit. The stars were wide and sharp above.
Their earlier conversation had settled between them like coals—still warm, still smoldering.
Uta tugged Krishna's sleeve gently. "That was... incredible."
"The biryani?"
"No," she said softly. "All of it."
He turned toward her.
"You didn't have to cook for everyone. Or marinate by hand. Or season each pot differently."
"I did," Krishna said. "Because they gave me a year. And this is all I know how to give back."
Uta stared at him for a moment. Then looked down.
"…You really are annoying."
He blinked.
"I mean," she added, cheeks red, "who does all this just to say goodbye?"
"I do."
"Exactly. Annoying."
She bumped his shoulder with hers. He didn't move. But his mouth twitched.
Makino watched from the porch with a smile.
Behind her, Benn whispered to Yasopp, "Think the captain's gonna cry?"
"Bet ten thousand he does."
"I'm in."
Ace sat alone on a barrel, staring into the sky. He didn't notice Shanks walking up behind him until the older man dropped a bottle of juice beside him.
"You've got your father's eyes," Shanks said quietly.
Ace tensed. His jaw locked. He didn't turn.
"I know who he was," Ace muttered. "I've always known."
Shanks nodded. "You hate him?"
Ace's knuckles tightened on the glass. "Of course I do."
Krishna stayed near the fire until the coals turned black.
Then, as if summoned by gravity, he rose and walked toward the cliffside clearing overlooking the bay. Something was tugging at his senses—not Haki, not fate. Just... feeling.
He wasn't alone.
Ace stood there, arms crossed, leaning against a tree stump that had seen too many storms. The wind tousled his hair. He didn't look up when Krishna approached.
But someone else did.
Shanks sat cross-legged across from him, cradling a cup of weak rice wine and staring into the distance like he was trying to see someone long gone.
"I'll go," Krishna murmured.
But Ace said, "No. Stay."
Shanks finally turned his head. His eyes were older tonight.
"I told him," he said quietly. "About Roger."
Krishna blinked.
Ace's jaw tightened. "Didn't need you to."
"I know," Shanks replied.
"Then why?"
"Because I was there."
Ace's knuckles whitened. "And?"
Shanks took a slow breath.
"I saw the man who carried the world's hatred on his back—and still smiled like a fool when someone talked about dreams."
Silence.
The waves below whispered like ghosts.
Krishna didn't move. Sheshika watched from the shadows.
Shanks sipped from his cup. "His crew found me as a baby in a treasure chest. They raised me until Roger turned himself in. I didn't understand him at first. No one did. He had this... stupid laugh and this endless optimism."
Ace said nothing.
"He gave up everything to protect one final life. His crew. His son."
Ace flinched. Krishna's eyes flicked toward him.
"He's still a coward."
"Maybe," Shanks said. "But coward or not—he gave you his will. Whether you wanted it or not."
Ace's fists tightened. "I don't want it. I'm not him."
"Good," Shanks said. "You shouldn't be."
Ace blinked. "What?"
"You're better," Shanks said. "More stubborn. More grounded. Less arrogant. You think before you act. He didn't."
Ace scoffed. "Everyone keeps saying I have his fire."
"You do. But fire doesn't have to burn down everything."
The boy was silent for a long time.
Then: "…Do you think he would've liked me?"
"I think," Shanks said gently, "he would've been terrified of how much you outshine him already."
Ace looked back, unsure if it was a joke. It wasn't.
"You don't have to be him," Shanks said. "You don't have to reject him either. Just… accept that he was broken. And so are you. But you don't have to carry his sins."
"I'm not that life," Ace said coldly. "I'm just the reminder. The leftover."
"That's not true," Krishna said softly. "You're what came next."
Ace turned on him, eyes sharp. "What would you know about it?"
Krishna looked up at the sky. "I had a father too. Not like yours. But... the kind who gave me life and nothing else. Then told me I was broken for not following his path."
The words hung heavy. His voice stayed level, but Medha's HUD dimmed behind his eyes—giving him space.
"I spent years thinking I had to become someone else to deserve love. And I never did. Not until I left everything behind."
Ace stared at him, breath caught somewhere between anger and disbelief.
"You think that means you understand?"
"No," Krishna said. "I think it means I'll stay. No matter what you decide."
Shanks watched them both, expression unreadable.
Then Ace's shoulders slumped.
"I hate him," he said quietly. "I hate that the world worships him. I hate that I look like him. I hate that he died before I could punch him."
"You're allowed to," Shanks said.
That made Ace look up.
"You think I never cursed his name? That I never wished he had been more—present, maybe? But I learned something on that ship."
He leaned forward, voice lowering.
"Roger never wanted anyone to carry his name. He just hoped someone would carry the flame."
Ace looked down at his hands.
"They burn too hot," he muttered.
Krishna walked over and sat beside him, not too close.
"Then let them," he said. "Fire that knows itself doesn't destroy. It forges."
For a long time, none of them spoke.
Then Luffy's voice echoed from the village below: "KRISHNAAAA! ACE! THERE'S STILL SWEETS LEFT!"
Sabo added, "And Uta's about to punch Lucky Roux for stealing her drink!"
Ace snorted.
Shanks chuckled into his cup. "Romance novels got nothing on this group."
Krishna stood. "Come on, flame-head. Our little brother might start crying."
Ace stared at him for half a second longer. Then rose, quietly.
As they turned to walk back, Shanks spoke again—low, firm.
"You're not your father, Ace. But you're not his opposite either."
Ace stopped.
"You're just... you. And that's what the world's not ready for."
Ace opened his mouth to argue—but Krishna raised a hand and pointed toward the house behind them.
"We chose you."
Ace turned.
Sabo, asleep in a chair with a book over his face.
Luffy, curled up under a blanket near Makino, mouth still stained with syrup, mumbling "meat" in his sleep.
Makino, still awake, gently cleaning cups by lantern light.
"We know who you are," Krishna said. "We're still here."
Ace's voice cracked. "Why?"
"Because sometimes," Shanks interjected, "the people who matter don't give a damn who your father was. They only care who you choose to be."
Ace stood in silence, wind brushing through his hair.
Then he whispered, "...What if I mess it up?"
Shanks chuckled softly. "Welcome to being human."
A pause.
Then: "You're not alone, Ace. That's what your father never figured out. But you can."
Ace's breath hitched. His shoulders dropped just a little.
"…Thanks."
Shanks stood, dusted off his coat, and clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"No need. Just live better than him."
Ace nodded once. Then again.
Ace didn't reply.
But Krishna saw it—the shift. The tension in his shoulders easing. The internal weight not vanishing, but... redistributing. Carried with help.
Flashback:
They were sitting around a cracked stump in the woods, the four of them: Ace, Luffy, Sabo, and Krishna. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows on the bark.
Sabo poked the flames with a stick. "You know… Ace's dad was the Pirate King."
Luffy blinked. "WHA—REALLY?!"
"Ace, is that true?!" Luffy leaned forward, eyes wide. "YOU'RE ROGER'S SON?! THAT'S SO CO—"
A fist flew.
Ace's punch stopped just short of Luffy's jaw.
"Shut. Up."
Luffy flinched. "W-why?"
Ace stood up, jaw clenched, eyes storm-dark.
"I have nothing to do with that man," he said. "Don't ever call me his son."
Sabo didn't speak.
Luffy opened his mouth again, but Krishna raised a hand gently, stopping him.
Krishna's voice was quiet. Steady.
"Sometimes," he said, "we're born with names that don't belong to us. And people try to stitch those names onto your skin. Make you wear them like armor or chains."
The firelight danced across his eyes.
"There was a boy I knew, once," Krishna continued. "His father was a brute. Not famous. Not powerful. Just… cruel. Always shouting. Always disappointed. And that boy—he grew up thinking he had to earn love through silence."
Ace looked at him.
"He tried to be better. Kinder. Smarter. Stronger. But no matter what he did, he thought he was broken—because of where he came from."
Krishna met Ace's gaze.
"He wasn't."
A long breath.
"You're not him, Ace. You're not your father. You never were. And no matter what blood runs through you—you get to choose who you are. Not him. Not the world. You."
Ace didn't reply.
But he sat down again.
And this time, when Luffy looked at him, he didn't see fire.
He saw someone who was learning how to breathe in his own skin.
Present:
They returned to the village under starlight.
The sweets were mostly gone. Uta had already punched Lucky Roux, making him bend over and cough dramatically.
Sheshika slithered beside them silently, her gaze soft.
"A flame tempered is a flame that shapes the world," she said quietly.
Krishna said nothing.
But he smiled.
The morning arrived far too soon.
Golden light spilled across Foosha's docks as the Red-Hair Pirates made final preparations. Ropes were coiled. Anchors checked. Sails mended and furled. It was an orchestra of practiced movement, loud but oddly respectful—like even the crew knew this goodbye wasn't just for Luffy.
It was for all of them.
Luffy stood near the water's edge, arms crossed tightly, jaw jutting forward. His straw hat was still years away—but the fire in his eyes had already begun to burn.
"I'm not going with you," he said.
Shanks looked down at him with a small smile. "I know."
"I'm gonna build my own crew," Luffy went on, louder now. "And they'll be stronger than yours!"
Shanks just blinked. Then cracked into a wide grin. "Stronger than mine, huh?"
"You'll see!" Luffy shouted. "We'll have a musician! A swordsman! A fishman! And we'll go everywhere!"
Krishna, standing a short distance away, smiled. This moment—he'd seen it before. But living it, feeling the wind cut across his skin as Luffy screamed into the sea breeze—it hit different.
It mattered.
Shanks only chuckled. "Good. I'd be disappointed if you didn't aim higher."
"But…" Luffy's voice caught. "I still wanna see you again."
"You will," Shanks said. "When you've become a great pirate. Come find me then."
Then, slowly, he took off his treasured straw hat.
He leaned down and placed it carefully on Luffy's head.
"Return it to me," Shanks said, "when you've become a great pirate."
Luffy didn't cry.
He just grinned, lips trembling, fists clenched.
"Take care of that hat. It's my treasure."
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was full. Of memory, of meaning, of years that hadn't happened yet but already mattered.
Behind them, Makino wiped her eyes with a cloth. "That boy's going to shake the world," she whispered.
Krishna nodded silently. "He already is."
Krishna stood a little distance away, watching, heart caught in his throat.
Then came soft footsteps behind him.
"Hey."
He turned—and saw Uta.
She wasn't smiling.
Her hands were clenched at her sides, her eyes red but dry, like she'd already used up every tear.
"You didn't think I'd leave without saying goodbye, did you?"
Krishna looked at her, unsure what to say.
"I packed you sweets," he offered weakly.
"…Seriously?"
"You liked them."
She blinked once. Twice.
Then suddenly stepped forward and punched his shoulder—just hard enough to sting.
"That's for being a coward," she muttered. "Say what you mean."
He straightened. Tried to breathe.
"…I'll miss you."
Uta hesitated. Then whispered, "I'll miss you more than I should."
The weight of it sat between them. Something unspoken, but loud.
"You're strong," he said. "You'll be fine."
Her voice cracked. "That's the worst compliment I've ever gotten."
"You're welcome."
She laughed wetly and then, without warning, she stepped forward and hugged him—tight, fierce, like she didn't trust herself to let go once she did.
"You made this year bearable," she whispered into his shoulder. "You didn't treat me like glass. You didn't flinch when I sang. You listened."
Krishna froze.
"I…" he started.
"I'll miss you," she said quickly. "Not just because you're strong. Not because of your weird training or your singing voice or your eyes or—"
She stopped.
He blinked. "My eyes?"
Uta pulled back slightly, cheeks coloring. "You have stupidly nice eyes."
Krishna's ears turned crimson.
From a distance, Shanks narrowed his eyes. Makino placed a firm hand on his shoulder to hold him back.
Uta's fingers clutched his shirt, fists tight. Her voice was barely audible.
"I don't know why it hurts this much."
He raised his hand slowly and placed it on the back of her head. His fingers trembled just slightly.
"I'm… glad I met you," he said.
That was what broke her.
The tears came fast, messy, silent. She buried her face in his shirt, and Krishna stood frozen—then held her gently, just enough.
Behind them, Medha whispered in his mind:
"Heart rate spike. Throat constriction. Tear ducts active. You're not crying, but you're close."
"I know," Krishna thought back.
Krishna took a shaky breath. "You're… really easy to be around."
"You're not," Uta said with a smirk. "You're awkward. And quiet. And intense."
He looked down. "Sorry."
"But," she added, softer now, "you make me feel understood. That's rarer than pretty words."
Krishna didn't reply. He couldn't.
They stood in silence.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
He didn't move for a beat. Then slowly—awkwardly—wrapped his arms around her.
"I am too," he said.
Medha, silent in his HUD, only whispered:
"Emotional resonance: exceeding thresholds. This moment is permanent."
When Uta stepped back, her cheeks were tear-streaked, but her eyes were clear.
Krishna whispered, "You're one of the best things that's ever happened to me."
She hiccuped. "You really suck at goodbye speeches."
"I didn't rehearse."
"Gods, you're such a nerd."
She turned to leave.
Paused.
"If you forget me—"
"I won't."
"—I'll write a song so sad it'll haunt your dreams."
"I'd probably listen to it on repeat."
She laughed wetly. "Ugh. You're impossible."
She sniffed and gave him a last shove.
"You better not die before I see you again."
"You too."
Looked back one last time.
"And Krishna?"
He straightened. "Yeah?"
"You're not alone."
Then she ran—light on her feet—and boarded the ship just as the last gangplank was pulled away.
Krishna didn't move.
Didn't wave.
He just watched.
Behind him, Makino sniffled again. "She really cares about you."
Ace crossed his arms. "Why do I feel like I just got dumped and I wasn't even in the relationship?"
Sabo grinned. "Better than those cheesy romance novels we found."
Luffy tilted his head. "Are they dating?"
"No," said all three at once.
"Yet," added Yasopp.
Lucky Roux grinned. "I cried during Midnight Duel: Lover's Oath, but this? This wins."
Yasopp whistled. "That was better than every drama I've ever read."
Benn nodded sagely. "Ten out of ten emotional choreography. No wasted dialogue. Strong payoff."
Shanks, arms folded, stared blankly at the sea. "…They didn't even kiss."
"YET," Yasopp said with a smirk.
Makino leaned forward. "You okay, Captain?"
"I'm fine," Shanks grunted.
Benn raised an eyebrow. "You've been fine since he knocked out that bandit for her."
Shanks grumbled under his breath. "He's still too tall."
Roux chuckled. "You're really worried she's not coming back, aren't you?"
"She's my daughter," Shanks muttered. "He's… too composed."
Makino whispered, "You're jealous he hugged her better than you ever did."
"Shut up, Makino."
From Krishna's shoulder, Medha whispered:
"Emotional resonance confirmed. Hormonal pathways: volatile. Internal reaction classified as: dumb love."
Krishna muttered back mentally, "Not love."
"Sure. And Luffy's hat isn't important."
Krishna sighed. He didn't smile. Not exactly.
But for the first time in a while, he felt like he understood what growing up meant:
Not being less afraid of goodbyes—but learning to carry them anyway.
Shanks walked up next, hands in pockets.
"You kept her safe," he said.
Krishna nodded. "I tried."
"You did better than most grown men ever could."
Then, after a pause, Shanks reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound journal.
"Here," he said, handing over a small, leather-bound journal. Worn. Faded. Edges stitched by hand. "Something to write your thoughts in. Or your sword forms. Or your future plans. Up to you."
Krishna blinked.
"Empty pages," Shanks said. "Because some things are worth remembering. And you strike me as the kind of kid who remembers too much."
Krishna accepted it reverently. "Thank you."
Shanks gave him one last look.
"Stay on your path. Whatever it ends up being."
One last hug for Makino.
A nod to Sabo and Ace.
Even a gentle tail-wrap from Sheshika, who Shanks quietly whispered to: "Watch over him. Please."
She blinked. Coiled tighter.
And then they were aboard.
Lines were cast.
The sails caught wind.
And slowly—so slowly—the Red Force drifted out to sea.
Luffy stood at the dock, eyes hidden by the shadow of the hat now too large for him.
Uta leaned on the railing, watching Foosha fade behind them.
Krishna remained by the cliffs, wind in his hair, journal in hand.
The ship shrank against the horizon.
Luffy held the straw hat to his chest, silent.
Sabo sighed. "So what now?"
Krishna looked up at the sky.
"We train."
Ace nodded. "Until we break."
Makino smiled softly. "Until you fly."
Krishna whispered to no one:
"Until we're worthy of the ones who left."
Medha's voice was quieter than usual.
"This story just changed arcs."
Krishna nodded, barely.
Then he opened the journal, flipped to the first page, and wrote:
"Today I learned that sometimes the loudest goodbyes... are made without sound."
The next morning came like an echo after a thunderclap—too quiet for what had just passed.
The docks were empty. No sails, no laughter, no red-haired pirates packing crates. Just the sound of ocean waves brushing against weathered planks and a breeze that made the village feel too still.
Krishna sat cross-legged behind the bar, an empty plate before him, eyes half-lidded in thought. The journal Shanks had given him sat nearby, untouched since the line he'd written the night before.
He was thinking about rubber.
More precisely—myth disguised as rubber.
Luffy, true to form, crashed into the bar not five minutes later, screaming something about wanting meat and asking where Uta had gone.
Krishna gave him a mango.
It shut him up for five seconds.
Then Luffy's face lit up. "Hey! Can we train again? I wanna punch faster!"
Krishna tilted his head. "Actually… I wanted to ask you something."
They moved to a small clearing behind the village where the ground had been softened by weeks of footwork drills and impromptu wrestling matches.
"Stand still," Krishna said.
Luffy obeyed without question, bouncing slightly on his feet.
"I'm going to try something. It might feel... strange. You okay with that?"
"Will it hurt?" Luffy asked, suspicious.
"No," Krishna said. "It'll just feel a little weird. Maybe tingly."
"And I will also bring you something to eat." He added quickly.
"YEAHH!! I WANT MEAAATTT!" Luffy shouted.
"Ok, ok. Calm down." Krishna quickly stopped Luffy from bouncing out of the place.
Medha's voice whispered softly.
"Nano-resonance calibration complete. Begin field analysis."
Krishna placed his hand gently against Luffy's chest.
And began.
A subtle hum rippled out from his palm. Nano-machines threaded through the air like dust motes made of thought, seeking—not to take—but to listen.
Inside Luffy's body, the energy was alive.
Not in the usual way.
It didn't pulse like blood or swirl like Haki.
It danced.
There was laughter in it. Wild, unstructured, free. It wasn't energy—it was intention wearing skin. It resisted mapping, pushing against the scanners like a mischievous child swatting away hands.
"Rubber physiology locked. Standard elasticity parameters confirmed," Medha intoned.
"But the Fruit's core energy—mythical, animate, will-based—refuses to separate. It doesn't leave the host because… it doesn't want to."
Krishna narrowed his eyes.
He wasn't trying to steal it. He just wanted to touch it. To see what the boundary between divine and physical felt like.
He pushed slightly—just enough to encourage a surface reaction.
Luffy's body shimmered. His arm twitched, then stretched slightly, a flicker of rubber extending an inch longer than it should have.
And in that moment—
Krishna's palm lit up with a ghost of the same elasticity.
His fingers trembled—light shimmered across them like water pulled into a ripple—and for a moment, his hand bent, not by bone or muscle, but by something deeper.
Then—
A pulse.
A sudden kickback, like a divine slingshot.
Krishna staggered backward, blinking hard. His body jolted with a strange surge—not pain, but something mythic brushing against the edges of his soul.
"WHOA!" Luffy giggled, rubbing his chest. "That felt funny!"
Krishna looked at his hand. The glow had faded. But for a second, he could still feel it.
Medha's voice was sharp now.
"You touched the edge of a myth. Be careful. Next time, it may touch back harder."
Krishna wiped his forehead. Sweat clung there.
"Was that… Nika?"
"The form? Yes. But not the soul. The soul is dormant. Buried. Protected. Possibly sentient."
He sat down slowly on the grass.
"I wasn't trying to take it."
"I know. But the fruit doesn't. Not yet."
Luffy sat beside him, still grinning.
"You're always doing weird stuff, Krishna."
Medha's analysis floated in:
"No destabilization detected. Subject's body harmonizes instinctively with Fruit waveform. True mythical Zoan containment: subconscious."
"Attempted tether failed to replicate divine aspect. However…"
"Signature fragment copied. Data stored in restricted vault."
Note: No pain to subject. Laughter registered.
Krishna opened the interface in his HUD, and sure enough—a single fragment hovered in digital stasis. Too incomplete to simulate, too wild to compress.
But it was there.
His first Devil Fruit interaction.
He tapped the pen twice against the paper.
"This… is only the beginning."
Medha was silent for a moment.
"Project 'Fruit Interface Protocol' initiated. Based on your current trajectory, you may one day not need to consume a Devil Fruit to wield one."
Krishna closed the journal, eyes glinting.
"Then we build this too."
They walked back slowly, Luffy swinging a stick like a sword and challenging leaves to duels.
Krishna watched him—his laughter, his movement, the bright gleam in his eyes.
Something about Luffy's presence had always felt... like sunrise.
He didn't just change the world. He reminded it to dream.
"System note," Medha added gently, "You've now made contact with both chaos and control. Shanks' blood gave you balance. Luffy's essence gave you bounce."
Krishna nodded.
He now had a taste of the wildest myth in the world—and he hadn't burst into flames or gone mad.
Just a flicker. A handshake with the divine.
And that was enough—for now.
The cliffs were quieter than usual that evening.
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, its orange light stretching long and low across the sea. Foam curled gently around the rocks far below, and above it all—Krishna sat cross-legged in the lotus position, the leather-bound journal resting closed beside him.
He wasn't meditating this time.
He was preparing.
Behind his eyes, the interface of his system flickered softly, golden overlays spinning like prayer wheels. Sheshika coiled nearby, silent but alert. And in his mind, Medha's voice was calm, reverent, as if understanding the weight of this moment.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
"Yes," Krishna whispered. "Let's begin."
System: Martial God Body Protocol – Online.
Divine Architecture loading…
The interface bloomed.
Like a sacred yantra, golden geometric lines unfurled across his inner vision—circles within circles, etched with ancient runes that even Krishna didn't recognize but felt in his bones.
They weren't human.
They were intentions.
"Compatibility matrix: initialized," Medha reported.
"Divine Soul Response: Stable."
"Blood Sample Integration: Six total—Luffy, Ace, Sabo, Uta, Shanks, Self."
Each one floated before him like a glowing lotus petal, rotating gently.
Each had a resonance—not power, but pattern.
And none were absorbed. They weren't food. They were lessons.
"Your soul is mimicking their biological responses," Medha continued. "Not by replication, but through neural patterning and cellular behavioral imprinting. Like a body learning how to dream in someone else's rhythm."
Krishna smiled faintly.
"That's what Mok Gyeongwoon did," he said.
"Correct. But you are doing it with divine interface support."
"I'm not him," Krishna said quietly.
"No," Medha agreed. "You will surpass him."
He opened his palm, and five golden paths rose before him—like carved branches of the Tree of Life, blooming in radiant script.
One by one, they named themselves:
1. Anantadeha Mārga (Path of the Infinite Body)
A full-body martial system where movement is instinct and the spine a weapon. Based on Mok Gyeongwoon's adaptive chaos, it trains not technique, but adaptability itself.
Core Insight: "Your body is not your limit. It is your medium."
2. Asi Kriyā (Divine Sword Ritual)
A sword path with no forms. Asi, the divine blade, only appears when Dharma aligns. This path cannot be trained—only awakened.
Core Insight: "The sword does not serve form. It reveals truth."
3. Hridaya Tantra (Doctrine of the Heart – Haki)
Observation, Armament, and Conqueror's Haki—reimagined not as power, but as resonance:
Flow Sight → Vision through stillness
Armament Flow → Will made manifest
Sovereign Will → Authority of the soul
Core Insight: "True strength is willed, not won."
4. Kāya Kalpa Sūtra (Scripture of Eternal Body Refinement)
A discipline in which his divine soul learns from high-level bloodlines under stress. No consumption—only mimicry, adaptation, and biological enlightenment.
Shanks: Celestial lineage, peak Observation + Conqueror's Haki
Ace: Roger's legacy, instinctual aggression and potential
Luffy: Garp's raw stamina, elasticity, and hidden joy
Sabo: Tactical adaptability, internal control
Uta: Emotional resonance, vocal focus, rhythm-based coordination
Core Insight: "The divine is not in your blood. It is in your effort."
5. Padanyāsa Vidhi (Discipline of Sacred Steps – Footwork)
The art of presence. Not speed, but intentional placement. Movement becomes anticipation. Direction becomes dominance.
Core Insight: "Where you stand defines what you become."
Krishna stared at the golden diagram. The wind played in his hair.
Each path gleamed with potential—but they weren't static. They were living algorithms, meant to grow with him, through hardship, blood, doubt, and grace.
Medha's voice shifted tone.
"All five paths initialized. Progression locked to soul resilience and experience. No simulation will suffice. Only reality."
"I wouldn't want it any other way," he said softly.
"Combat protocols updating. Neural reinforcement channels syncing."
"Training schedule?"
"Mapped. I've staggered daily focus across Anantadeha Mārga (Infinite Body Path), Kāya Kalpa Sūtra (Body Refinement), and Padanyāsa Vidhi (Footwork). Hridaya Tantra and Asi Kriyā will be enhanced during real combat encounters only."
Krishna breathed in.
Then asked, "What's my base integrity?"
"Eighty-three percent synchronization with all samples. No rejections. Mild instability from Shanks' bloodline due to Conqueror's Haki compression—manageable. Internal stress minimal."
The lines pulsed.
Krishna slowly brought his hands together.
No mantras. No power-up screams.
Just presence.
"I'm not building this to become a monster," he whispered.
"I'm building this because the world will need something beyond monsters."
"Understood," Medha said. "Then let's make the blueprint worthy."
Sheshika lifted her head from where she lay coiled nearby. Her golden eyes flickered with approval.
"The body is not merely a vessel," she said. "It is the battlefield and the prayer both."
Krishna smiled. "Then we start with the first step."
And in the last light of the sun, he took it.
Forward.
The fire eventually faded to embers.
But the vow did not.
Beneath stars, four boys chose not just friendship—but truth. Pain. Purpose. Dreams too large for their age and burdens too heavy for their hands.
Still, they drank.
And that night, without fanfare, four paths braided into one.
Not by fate.
Not by blood.
But by will.
And the world would never be the same.
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic dreamers!
This one was different.
No explosions. No flashy fights. Just farewells, vows, and quiet foundations—the kind that shake destinies more than fists ever could.
This is where Krishna stepped beyond being a prodigy.
Where Luffy, Ace, and Sabo stopped being "the boys"—and became brothers.
Where Uta, without saying it outright, carved out a piece of Krishna's soul and took it with her.
And where Shanks—the man who laughed through everything—almost couldn't.
I wanted this chapter to feel still, but never stagnant. Because sometimes growth isn't loud—it's the weight of a cup shared beneath the stars. The twitch of a father's eye as his daughter walks away with a boy he respects but doesn't quite understand. The moment a divine system activates not with thunder, but with breath.
Also:
Yes, Krishna cooked a biryani that made Yonko cry.
Yes, that goodbye was emotional blackmail with a soundtrack.
And yes, the vows scene was deliberately low on drama. Real bonds don't need fireworks. Just fire.
If any part of this chapter made you ache, smile, or whisper "damn," you already know what to do.
Drop a review. Send a star. Or just yell "DHARMA OR DEATH" at your ceiling fan.
Chapter 7 begins the climb.
No safety nets. No slow days. No going back.
—Author out.
(Shanks still hasn't recovered from Uta's "he has better hair" comment.)