Disclaimer: I don't own One Piece.
If I did, I'd be legally obligated to brag that I own peak.
All rights belong to Eiichiro Oda — I'm just a humble sinner writing mythic fanfiction in his shadow.
Support the official release. Always.
This story may contain:
Mild existential crises.
Unexpected mythological breakdowns.
Bikes faster than your GPA recovery speed.
Flutes played with more emotion than your last breakup.
And one suspiciously silent protagonist who absolutely, definitely, is not smiling.
All emotional damage is self-inflicted. All enlightenment is optional.
Side effects include spontaneous philosophy, violent brotherly love, and sudden cravings for justice.
You've been warned.
Enter at your own karma.
...
[A/N:
Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay—life decided to go full "Final Boss Mode" with college projects and exams breathing down my neck. Between chasing grades, dodging deadlines, and pretending I understand everything in class, my upload speed's been nerfed.
So for now, it's going to be 2-3 chapters a week, 4 if I somehow unlock Ultra Instinct (or if coffee turns me into a one-man writing machine). Thanks for sticking with me through the chaos, and for letting Krishna and the crew keep living rent-free in your heads.
Now, back to the madness!]
...
The world's mightiest prison, Impel Down, faded to a jagged shadow on the horizon. The warship's hull sliced the black water, leaving the horrors of the abyss behind. Above the deck, the sky had no memory of blood, no reflection of the crimson stains that still clung to Krishna's mind. There was only a thin breeze and the bright, indifferent sun—a sun that saw everything and cared for nothing.
Krishna stepped onto the deck, his uniform still marked by the single black feather of Meghākṣī—an omen and a blessing, both. The world called him a prodigy. In that moment, he only felt tired.
A soft weight pressed against his leg. Meghākṣī, in her smallest illusioned form, pecked his ankle with gentle insistence. She looked less like a storm-eyed peacock and more like a silk pillow with wings, her feathers puffed, eyes wide with knowing concern. Without asking, she hopped onto his lap, curling there as if to shield him from the wind.
He gave a faint smile. "You're as heavy as regret," he whispered, but there was no bite in it.
She ruffled her feathers, transmitting a thread of warmth, like a pulse sent through the black feather stitched at his collar. It was not language, not quite, but Krishna felt it anyway:
I see you. Rest, even if you cannot heal.
A few steps away, Admiral Aokiji was sprawled on the deck, flat on his back, coat draped like a blanket, snoring softly. Ice crystals clung to his lashes. His face, usually so unreadable, was childlike in sleep, the lines of exhaustion erased by the cold. The ship itself seemed to lean into his presence, the air cooler, cleaner, less burdened.
Krishna almost envied him. But he envied less and less these days.
He closed his eyes.
The images returned, sharp as broken obsidian:
—Red leaves and grass, stained not by autumn, but by the blood of men trampled, cut, and made to kneel.
—Prisoners driven before beasts, their faces twisted in the final loss of all dignity.
—Emaciated bodies, starving for days, dying by inches while the world looked away.
—Boiling air and the scent of charred flesh, the echo of screams swallowed by stone.
—Cold that never healed, only preserved the agony.
He had felt nothing for Level 6. That was simply a consequence, a sealing away of the world's chosen monsters. But the first five levels... they were not justice, only the theater of it.
Is torturing monsters different from being a monster?
The thought was a whisper. But in Krishna, whispers grew roots. They did not leave.
He felt the old impulse—to silence it, to bury it under training and rituals. But this time he let it rise. He watched the guilt, the discomfort, like a watcher observing the turning of the tides.
A flicker of static danced at the edge of his vision—chibi Medha, arms crossed, her virtual face drawn into a deep, knowing frown.
"So," she said, voice both gentle and mocking, "are you going to actually feel your feelings, or just sit there cataloguing human rights violations like an intern on caffeine?"
Krishna's answer was a slow exhale. "I thought I understood cruelty," he said. "But there is a difference between consequence and… spectacle."
Sheshika, the divine serpent and his guardian, coiled tighter around his shoulders, her voice a silken thread in his mind. "Dharma does not always require mercy. But cruelty in the name of order is not order. Remember, Krishna—pain without meaning feeds only itself."
Medha, now perched on top of Sheshika's head, flickering between forms, grinned. "The world loves a good show, Krishna. You saw it in the propaganda. You saw it in the cells. Sometimes justice is just a word they paint on the door of hell."
Krishna stroked the peacock's head, feeling the silent agreement transmitted through the feather—a pulse of sadness, a deeper undercurrent of hope.
"It's easier to punish than to change," he said, mostly to himself.
Medha snorted. "And much more entertaining. But you're not here to entertain."
He opened his eyes again, staring at the rolling sea. "No. I am not."
Silence grew between them, not empty but alive with all that went unsaid. Meghākṣī trilled softly—a sound no human language could translate, but one that soothed the ache behind Krishna's ribs.
Sheshika's voice echoed in his ears, low and soothing, "The world's justice is not always your justice, Krishna. You must choose what to carry, and what to let go."
He nodded, more to himself than to her. "I won't let cruelty become my habit," he said quietly. "Not even for those who deserve none."
A sudden gust sent a spray of saltwater across the deck. Kuzan grunted in his sleep, rolled over, and muttered, "Five more minutes, Mom. The ocean can wait…"
Medha dissolved into silent giggles, chibi form doubled over. "Should I record this for posterity? The mighty Admiral, slain by nap time."
Krishna almost smiled. "He's earned it," he said. "We all need… something to hold on to."
Megakshi fluffed her wings in agreement, sending another ripple of warmth through his chest.
The warship sailed on. The rhythm of oars, the snap of canvas, the distant cries of gulls—all became a lullaby for the weary. Krishna let himself lean back against the railing, eyes half-closed, feeling the sun warm his skin through the haze of memory.
Kuzan, finally roused by the chill or the laughter, sat up abruptly, squinting at the horizon. "Best nap of my life," he announced, voice raspy. "You know, the trick is to freeze the dreams before they melt."
Medha raised a hand, as if delivering a verdict. "Ten points for poetic nonsense, Admiral-san."
Kuzan stretched, bones cracking, and looked over at Krishna. "You look like you wrestled with the devil and lost."
Krishna replied, voice mildly amused, "It was a tie."
Sheshika, soft as dusk, said, "Welcome back, Admiral. Did the world survive without you?"
Kuzan shrugged, almost philosophical. "Probably. But I wouldn't bet on it."
Krishna rose, gently setting Meghākṣī down. She lingered by his side like a clingy girlfriend, reluctant to leave his side.
He gazed out at the line of white on the horizon—Marineford's stone gates, gleaming like the teeth of some ancient leviathan. Home, or as close as he would ever come.
He let the last of Impel Down's darkness slip through his fingers, not forgotten, but transformed.
Kuzan nudged him with an elbow. "You coming, intern, or do you need a push?"
Krishna nodded, his answer quiet but certain. "I'm ready."
Medha flickered into a final salute. "Welcome to the surface, Sovereign."
The warship docked. The gangplank descended with a thud. Marines in crisp uniforms waited, backs straight, eyes curious.
Krishna squared his shoulders, letting the sunlight catch the black feather at his collar, the black emblem absorbing sunlight like a void. Meghākṣī trilled again, regal and proud.
Together, they stepped through the gates of Marineford—crownless, but not unseen. A legend returning from the depths, a shadow among kings.
…
The hush of Marineford's inner sanctum was unlike any other quiet in the world. Here, thick stone walls sealed away both the wind and the weight of a thousand secrets. The room was rectangular, spacious, the table in its center long enough for twenty, though only four chairs were drawn close today. At one end, sunlight slid in through the tall windows, dust motes drifting like ghosts. The Fleet Admiral's seal gleamed on the wall.
Admiral Aokiji entered, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, face unreadable. He'd never looked so awake, the nap on the deck had been a resurrection, not a rest.
Garp was the first to break the silence. He was never one for restraint. "How'd my grandson do, Kuzan?"
The title of a grandson wasn't a joke. Not here, not with these three. Everyone of them knew there were no blood ties between the two, but family is not just tied by blood. Sengoku, Fleet Admiral, sat ramrod straight, eyes shadowed beneath his cap. Tsuru, the Great Staff Officer, was poised beside him, her famous clipboard nowhere in sight for once—her attention on Kuzan, and nothing else.
Kuzan didn't answer right away. He moved to the table, drew back a chair, and sat, as if the report required anchoring himself to something solid.
"He was…" Kuzan paused, searching for the right word, "different. Not just strong. You should have seen it."
Sengoku steepled his fingers, leaning forward. "We read your telegraph. Now tell us what the report doesn't say."
Kuzan's eyes flickered—ice blue, cool as the ocean at midnight. "Bullet was ready for a fight. Not just a prisoner. He wanted to prove he was still king."
Tsuru's voice cut in, sharp as a knife. "He's always been that way. Could have started another war with just a word."
Kuzan nodded, his gaze distant and reminiscing. "He used his Conqueror's Haki, tried to crush everyone to the floor. You know that pressure? The kind that makes even veterans drop to their knees?"
Garp barked out a short laugh. "Bullet always did have a thick skull."
"But it wasn't enough," Kuzan said. "Krishna walked right through it. Didn't flinch."
Sengoku's eyebrows rose in surprise and a small bit of shock. "He matched Bullet?"
Kuzan shook his head. "No," he paused, as if searching for the right words to describe the incident. He bent him. There's a difference."
Tsuru leaned forward, a slow, rare gesture. "Explain."
Kuzan's voice grew more deliberate. "When Bullet unleashed his Will, it was like a storm—pure force, no finesse. Most would shatter. Krishna… didn't fight back with more force. He just—" He hesitated, as if the word itself felt heavy. "He remade it. It's like… his Haki doesn't break your Will, it remakes it. Bends it to him, like the tide bending to the moon."
The silence stretched. Even the ever-irreverent Garp seemed caught off guard, lips parted, lost in some old memory.
Garp finally broke the spell, booming with pride. "That's my grandson! He did the same to a pirate I caught a while back. Alvida."
Tsuru, ever present and one of the most knowledgeable on these seas, blinked. "Alvida? The riffraff captain from the East Blue, the one you said Krishna defeated?"
Garp's grin was broad and genuine. "Yeah, that's the one. She was all bluster, all teeth. Krishna faced her down—slapped her only once. He simply looked at her, hit her with his Haki, and it was like… she fell apart inside. Tears, guilt, talking about every rotten thing she ever did, like she'd been forced to see herself as she really was."
Tsuru's brows knit together, curiosity shining through her stoicism. "Is that like my Wash-Wash Fruit? Cleansing guilt, cleaning souls?"
Garp shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't think so. Your fruit, Tsuru-chan, it cleanses. But this… It's not just washing away stains. It's existential. Like—" He stopped, fumbling for words like a four-year-old. "Like giving someone a mirror that shows everything they ever tried to bury. Not just what they did, but why."
Sengoku finally spoke, voice calm but low. "So his Haki is nothing like yours or mine."
Garp looked him square in the eye, his voice as confident as ever. "Exactly. It's not kingly, Sengoku. It's Sovereign."
That word hung in the air, heavier than any medal or sword. Tsuru closed her eyes for a heartbeat, as if she were running mental calculations, checking every file, every legend.
Kuzan, hands folded, finally let his exhaustion show. "I've seen Conqueror's Haki plenty. You, Garp, and you too, Sengoku. It's always been about dominance, imposing your Will, right? Like a king forcing the world to kneel." He shook his head. "Krishna's is… gentler and worse. He doesn't just make you kneel. He makes you see yourself kneeling."
Garp's smile faded a bit, the memory of that moment flickering behind his eyes. "Alvida never raised a weapon again. She walked away, muttering about atonement and forgiveness. At least that's what the intel from Louge Town said. Never seen a pirate look so lost."
Tsuru opened her eyes, all business again, but her voice was softer. "We've never seen anything like this, not in all our years. Not even Roger had that kind of Haki. Not Whitebeard. Not Rocks."
Kuzan didn't argue. "Bullet felt it, too. Fought back with everything he had. But Krishna… didn't fight harder. He just stood there. All that power, and he used less of it than any of us would have."
Garp ran a hand through his hair. "The world's changing, Sengoku. Kids aren't just inheriting our legacies—they're rewriting them."
Sengoku's fingers tightened. "And what about you, Garp? You ever see your own Conqueror's Haki do that?"
Garp barked a laugh. "My Haki just knocks heads. Same with yours. You can shatter a mountain or a pirate's dreams, but you can't make someone see who they really are."
Kuzan's lips curled into the ghost of a smile. "Krishna's Will isn't kingly, it's… foundational. It doesn't rule over people, it changes what they are inside."
Tsuru let out a rare sigh. "If that's true, he's not just dangerous—he's transformative. The world won't know how to handle him."
Sengoku's face grew grave. "The last thing we need is another unpredictable force. The world is still recovering from Whitebeard's war, from Roger's era. Now this."
Garp shrugged, entirely unbothered. "If anyone can handle it, it's Krishna. He's got the Will for it. And he's got us, too."
Kuzan slouched in his seat, staring at the ceiling. "I've never seen someone walk out of Impel Down with that much power and less blood on his hands than he went in with."
Tsuru pursed her lips in thought. "That will make the world nervous. More than any buster call."
Sengoku nodded, his gaze contemplative. "We'll need to watch him. Not because he's a threat, but because he's… something new."
For a while, no one spoke. The sun shifted, sending a new pattern of light across the room.
Garp finally broke the silence, his voice thoughtful. "You know what's funny? I used to think we were the legends. Now I wonder if we're just the introduction to someone else's story."
Kuzan chuckled, tired but sincere. "Let's hope he writes a better ending than we did."
Sengoku rose, collecting his cap, the meeting all but over. "I'll make arrangements for his training. We can't let that power go untempered."
Tsuru, as always, took the long view. "We should be grateful. Better he's on our side than anyone else's."
Kuzan grunted his agreement, the lines in his face softening a little. "He's not on anyone's side. Not really. He's just… Krishna."
They sat a little longer, each lost in their own calculations, memories, hopes, and worries. Outside, the cries of gulls mingled with the rising sun. Inside, the world shifted imperceptibly but forever.
Krishna would never hear the end of this conversation. But as the legends sat, aware they had just witnessed the birth of something new—something beyond king, beyond pirate, beyond Marine-the world itself seemed to listen, waiting to see which way the balance would tip.
…
Marineford, fortress of justice, had rhythms all its own. The white stone corridors pulsed with the unending energy of purpose—messengers running reports, officers in crisp coats barking orders, sailors moving crates and barrels from ships to storerooms and back again. And in the middle of this living engine, a sixteen-year-old intern navigated his new world with silent precision.
Krishna rose before the sun. He liked the cold quiet of early morning, when only the gulls and the ocean's hush kept him company. His uniform was always immaculate, but not for show—he moved through the barracks, through the training grounds, unseen and unheard by most. Only those with sharp eyes would spot the black feather at his collar, a tiny, silent rebellion against conformity. The badge of the Kurohane.
He started each day in meditation, kneeling by the open window of his quarters, eyes half-closed. Medha's chibi-form flickered beside him, all soft glow and endless commentary, her code lines pulsing in invisible currents.
"Another day, another hundred admirers added to your fan club, Kurohane," she teased.
Sheshika curled on his shoulder, voice warm as a mother's hush. "Ignore her, child. But the whispers are true—you've changed the rhythm here. Even the air feels different."
Krishna breathed, letting the dawn wash over him. It never got easier, this quiet. He listened for silence, but always found the hum of possibility just beneath it.
...
His routine was precise, but never stagnant. By the second day, when he first stepped foot in here, he'd learned the layout of every Marineford department without Medha's help—law, logistics, procurement, medical, communications, naval intelligence, marine sciences, and the famous, or infamous in Krishna's opinion, the HR. He moved quietly, shadow to shadow, never the center of attention, but always absorbing.
In Logistics, he watched how supplies were inventoried and distributed. The records were neat, the efficiency impressive, but Krishna noticed bottlenecks—crates left too long in the sun, vital medicine moved with regular cargo, unnecessary paperwork slowing the relief to islands that needed it most.
He wrote a note to the quartermaster, a gentle suggestion about streamlining cargo routing and emergency protocols. The man blinked, read the note, and tried the adjustment the next day. It worked so well he sent word to HR, who added "Intern with the mind of a Tactician!" to Krishna's growing file, much to his discomfort.
In Procurement, Krishna saw how contracts were awarded for ships and supplies. He asked quiet questions about price spikes, about the black market, about the silent competition between suppliers. With Medha's whisper in his ear, he suggested rotating the approval boards and checking for collusion—no accusation, just a method to keep people honest. The change was made, and the budget saved millions in a month.
At the Medical Wing, he watched the nurses tend to injured recruits—how their supplies dwindled before new shipments arrived, how training accidents surged every time a new batch of hopefuls arrived from the Blues. He showed the head nurse how to triage wounds using basic pressure points, reducing the number of casualties from training by a third. She asked for his name, and he just smiled, letting her think he was another cadet.
At Communications, he noticed the Den Den Mushi were always half-asleep. Medha, interfacing quietly, tweaked their channels so vital signals received priority, and the sleepy snails perked up. The communications officer called it a "miracle," but Medha just preened in Krishna's mind. "Not all divine intervention is loud."
At Naval Intelligence, Krishna asked to see the maps. The marine in charge grumbled but did as he was told. Krishna pointed out three likely pirate routes the charts had missed—places where currents shifted subtly, where intelligence from the Blues had dried up. The admiral double-checked and found a minor crew using one such route to evade capture for years.
...
But HR was something else entirely.
The entrance was plastered with posters and flyers: "The Prodigy Intern from East Blue! Trained by Garp! Strong enough to survive his Iron Fist! Join the New Era of Justice—Follow Krishna!" There were even crude sketches—some heroic, some awkwardly cute, all featuring his unmistakable black feather.
Inside, a dozen marines clustered around a small bulletin board, whispering and comparing notes.
"He's only sixteen, right?" "Did you hear he tanked a punch from Garp?" "Someone said he can run on water—barefoot!" "They say he meditates with his eyes open. Like, who does that?"
Krishna moved past them quietly, face impassive, but inside, he burned with discomfort. Propaganda. The same one that started after his demonstration fight with Garp when he arrived at Marineford. It was still going even after all this time. He understood the purpose—heroes inspired, legends recruited. But it was not the truth. He was not a myth, not a hero. Just a boy trying to keep his balance while the world spun.
As he left HR, Tsuru herself intercepted him, looking up from her clipboard, a rare half-smile breaking her legendary composure.
"They're only half wrong, you know," she said, voice pitched low so only he could hear. "You do inspire them. Just… don't let them turn you into a slogan."
Krishna nodded. "I won't."
She studied him for a moment. "Good. We have enough statues around here. We need people."
...
By mid-morning, he was in the Training Fields. Marines of every stripe—Ensigns, Lieutenants, Commanders, even Captains—had gathered, some waiting, some excited, some skeptical.
Krishna ran his sessions with surgical calm. He never shouted. When someone struggled, he moved in close, demonstrating with slow, precise movements. "Haki isn't about force. It's about alignment. Breathe from your center. Let your Will flow, not force."
A nervous Ensign tried the technique and broke a stack of training tiles he'd never managed before. He stared at his hands in awe.
A Captain, bruised but determined, asked Krishna to spar with her. She attacked hard, all bluster and muscle, but Krishna sidestepped, gently redirecting every blow, correcting her footwork with a nod or a look. She left the field that day with new respect—and new bruises, but a smile wider than she'd worn in years.
He never belittled anyone. When mistakes happened, he corrected them quietly. "Try again. Don't tense your jaw—let your breath guide you."
His reputation spread fast. Marines started calling him "the Quiet Blade" behind his back. Fanboys and fangirls watched from the edges, taking notes, some daring to wave at him, most too shy to approach. The rumors grew wild: "He never eats lunch—he just drinks tea and meditates!" "He talks to a white-gold snake on his shoulder—must be some ancient guardian!" "If you touch the black feather on his collar, you get good luck."
Krishna, oblivious, focused on the work. But not everyone missed the growing spectacle.
Sheshika, ever the wry observer, whispered in his ear as a gaggle of marines giggled and pointed from the sidelines. "You are developing quite the following. If you're not careful, they'll start selling your handkerchiefs for a fortune."
Medha, chibi-form stretched out in a digital lounge on his shoulder, cackled. "How does it feel to be a pin-up, Kurohane? Should we trademark your likeness?"
Krishna blinked, genuinely baffled. "I just want to help them. That's all."
Tsuru, passing by during a drill, caught his eye and grinned. "Careful, Krishna. Dangerous popularity is the worst kind. They'll follow you into the storm without ever knowing who you really are."
He shrugged, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "Then I'll have to make sure I walk the right path."
...
By the fifth day, even Vice Admirals started to show up at his training sessions, most incognito. Momonga came first—his swordplay crisp but rigid, his Haki formidable but lacking flow. He asked for a demonstration, expecting to win by experience.
Krishna met him blade for blade, barehanded, correcting his stance, disarming him twice in ten moves. Momonga was gracious in defeat, asking for pointers. Krishna gave them freely, "Your grip is strong, but your intent is divided. Focus on the blade, not the opponent's reputation."
Onigumo, grim and imposing, tried a test of Willpower, pitting his Haki against Krishna's. He lasted longer than most, but Krishna's Sovereign's Will pressed him to his knees. He rose, silent, then bowed in rare respect.
Gion—Momousagi and Tokikake—Chaton, the Admiral Candidates, joined in next. Gion's sword flashed, a blur, but Krishna sidestepped with the fluidity of water, redirecting each strike with a smile. She laughed, out of breath after the spar. "You'd make a terrifying opponent on the sea, Kurohane."
Tokikake tried brute strength, his punches like cannon fire. Krishna absorbed them, letting the force dissipate through his body, countering with a single tap that knocked Tokikake back, more surprised than hurt. He laughed, cheeks red from his lips stretching too wide. "I can see why Vice Admiral Garp likes you."
After each bout, Krishna offered honest assessments. "Your strength is real, but your mind races. Slow down, feel each moment."
The Vice Admirals listened, absorbed his words, and left with new conviction. The whispers grew louder. "He's not just strong—he understands."
...
Marines from every rank sought him out—sometimes for training, sometimes just to ask about the black feather. "Is it true you can see the future?" "Can you really read emotions?" "Did you really tame a sea king from the Calm Belt?"
Krishna, patient and polite, answered honestly or not at all. When overwhelmed, he'd retreat to the garden by the north wall, seeking peace. Megakshi would flutter down, nuzzling his cheek, transmitting calm through their bond. In those moments, the noise faded, and only the sky remained.
Sheshika would coil tighter on his shoulder, whispering wisdom. "You are building something, Krishna. A legend grows faster than you can control. But remember: you can always choose the shape of your own silence."
Medha, ever the trickster, hacked the HR Den Den Mushi more than once, slipping in her own edits, "Krishna, intern and undefeated instructor—warning: may cause spontaneous improvement and excessive blushing and nosebleeds."
Krishna sighed at the screens, but did nothing to stop her.
...
One afternoon, as the sun dipped low, Tsuru found him meditating under the old cherry tree, the petals drifting down like rain.
"You're doing well," she said, folding her arms.
He opened his eyes. "Thank you."
She studied him, her gaze sharp but not unkind. "It's not easy, you know. Walking between what people want you to be and what you really are."
Krishna considered, then smiled—soft, almost shy. "I know who I am. I just forget sometimes," he repeated the same thing he said when they first met in the Fleet Admiral's office on his first day.
Tsuru nodded, her face filled with satisfaction. "That's enough."
She left him there, surrounded by petals, the sky blushing pink above. The world spun on, never noticing how close it was to the edge of something new.
And as Krishna returned to the training fields, to the endless cycle of hope and struggle, he felt it—a storm rising on the horizon, and himself at its calm, unyielding eye.
...
Marineford, for all its rituals and rules, always danced at the whim of its strongest personalities. Krishna had learned that much in his short tenure as intern and temporary instructor, watching the tides of hierarchy shift from the subtle to the absurd with every passing day.
But even he couldn't predict the precise flavor of chaos Garp would unleash.
It started with a morning disturbance. Krishna was meditating on the roof, savoring the hush before the base awakened. He liked it there, above the swirl—nothing but wind and a faint, salty tang on his tongue. Megakshi's feather tingled, sending a muted pulse of affection. Sheshika lay curled, a silent white and gold loop against his neck.
The quiet was shattered by distant bellowing—laughter, footfalls, a voice like a drumbeat shaking the tiles.
"Found you, brat! Get down here, quick!"
Garp's silhouette loomed in the stairwell, cap bent the wrong way, grin fierce. Krishna didn't sigh—he simply stood, stretching the stiffness from his back, and descended.
Garp met him at the bottom, already grinning. "You're popular. Too popular. I swear, these Vice Admirals—no backbone! All pestering you for tips, asking for advice… You'd think you were giving away the secrets to eternal youth!"
Krishna regarded him calmly. "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of training?"
Garp snorted, clapping a hand on his shoulder hard enough to make the floorboards complain. "That's the spirit. C'mon—we've got work to do."
And Krishna followed him, slightly worried about the 'work' he has to do for the old man.
...
The work, as it turned out, wasn't paperwork, patrol, or even training. It was a conspiracy.
Garp led Krishna to a back corridor near the high command wing. There, waiting in uneasy alliance, stood Fleet Admiral Sengoku, Great Staff Officer Tsuru, and—slouching against the wall, one eye open—Admiral Aokiji.
Sengoku had his arms folded, face half-hidden behind the eternal white beard. Tsuru's clipboard was tucked away, her posture just a touch more rigid than usual. Kuzan's gaze slid from Krishna to Garp, then to the floor, like he was hoping to melt into the tiles and nap through whatever chaos was coming.
Garp didn't bother with a preamble. "I've got a plan. A good one. No more of this Vice Admiral pestering—let's have a real test. Private. Quiet. Just us, the kid, and whoever's got the guts to try."
Sengoku's eyes narrowed. "What sort of test?"
Garp's grin widened, and for a second, Krishna thought he saw a shadow of the man who'd once wrestled monsters and pirates barehanded, laughing all the while. "Battle royale. Every Vice Admiral and admiral candidate who is here right now, against Krishna. All at once."
There was a pause. Tsuru, never one to flinch, pursed her lips. "Are you trying to traumatize them, or him?"
Kuzan opened both eyes, the fatigue momentarily forgotten. "You want a fair fight, you'll need more than a battlefield. Might as well bring popcorn."
Garp ignored them, bulldozing ahead. "Here's the prize. Whoever beats Krishna gets personal tutelage under me. Iron Fist training, the works. Make it worth their while."
Sengoku's frown deepened. "That's not just any prize. You realize the rumors that'll start if this gets out?"
"Which is why," Garp said, "we do it somewhere nobody can watch. And we don't talk about it after."
Tsuru's eyes narrowed, calculating. "If Krishna wins, do you realize what message that sends?"
Garp didn't miss a beat. "Message is: don't underestimate the next generation. Or my taste in grandkids."
Kuzan sighed, defeated. "If you're dragging me into this, at least let me freeze the place. Don't want to clean up blood from the floors."
Garp beamed at Krishna, all teeth and promise. "You in, brat?"
Krishna met his gaze, steady as the dawn. "I trust you."
Sengoku muttered under his breath with his face a tad bit paler. "That's what worries me."
...
The summons went out quietly, almost conspiratorially, across the base. Vice admirals trickled into the assembly hall, still in travel-worn uniforms, some bruised from recent pirate hunts, others too fresh-faced to know they should be nervous.
Momonga, sword at his side, was the first to enter—his eyes sharp, measuring. Onigumo, scarred and silent, flanked him. Doberman, stoic, stood apart from the cluster, arms folded. Strawberry, ever the professional, brought up the rear, clipboard in hand as if expecting an audit. The Admiral Candidates, Gion (Momousagi) and Tokikake (Chaton), hovered nearby—Gion's posture loose, Tokikake twirling a rose between his fingers with forced bravado, contemplating whether to give this rose to the rose beside him.
Garp took center stage, arms crossed, grin undiminished. Sengoku and Tsuru stood at his sides, silent sentinels. Kuzan leaned on the far wall, already radiating chill.
Krishna, black feather immaculate at his collar, took his place at the edge, expression unreadable.
Garp cleared his throat. "All right, listen up! Today's a special training session. You want to get stronger? You want the secret of the Iron Fist? You want to know why that kid here made it through alive?"
He gestured at Krishna with a flourish, the attention of every room locking on the intern.
"Today, you get your shot. Battle royale. One against all. Your target—Krishna. Rules are simple: last man or woman standing, or whoever puts him down, gets me. Full tutelage, full training. Everything I know."
There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by a ripple of anticipation. The Vice Admirals exchanged wary glances. For some, ambition flared—Momonga's hand tightened on his sword, Gion's eyes sparked. Others looked doubtful, even nervous.
Tokikake muttered, "I didn't come back from a week chasing pirates just to get manhandled by a teenager."
Onigumo's voice was gravelly. "This is a waste of time. Garp's just showing off his pet."
Gion grinned. "If it's the Iron Fist on the line, I'll fight anyone."
Strawberry spoke, quiet and clipped. "Is this wise? What if the results… leak?"
Sengoku interjected, voice calm but iron-edged. "This is off the record. No observers. No recordings. Understood?"
There were murmurs of assent, some more confident than others.
Garp, sensing the growing tension, only laughed. "You all want to get stronger. Well, here's your chance. And if you're worried about losing—remember, nobody's watching but us. If you can't beat a kid, maybe you need my training more than you think."
Kuzan finally pushed off the wall, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Let's just get it over with. I'll set up the battlefield. And nap in there," he said, his expression turning dreamy towards the end, making Garp kick him straight in the face.
...
They boarded a mid-sized warship—private, unmarked, manned only by trusted sailors. The trip was short, and the mood tense. The Vice Admirals and candidates took the opportunity to size each other up, some quietly stretching, others meditating or sharpening blades. And the lone Admiral still had a boot-shaped print on his face.
Krishna found a quiet spot on deck, letting the sea wind whip around him. Megakshi landed at his side, feathers puffed with pride. Sheshika curled tighter, humming a calming mantra.
Medha, flickering to life on Krishna's shoulder, sent a private message only he could hear, "This is going to be fun. Don't hold back—make it a show."
Krishna nodded once, silent.
They arrived at a lonely patch of open sea, the sky vast and cloudless overhead. Kuzan stepped to the prow, lifting a hand, his palm radiating a cold blue aura and mist. In moments, the sea itself froze, a perfect white-blue arena blooming from beneath the ship—broad enough for a dozen giants to duel without crowding.
He fashioned four thrones at the edge—ice-carved, imposing, fit for judges at a gladiatorial trial. Garp claimed the leftmost, bouncing into his seat with glee. Sengoku and Tsuru followed, settling with the composure of old generals. Kuzan slouched into the last, eyelids drooping but alert.
Kuzan glanced at Krishna and, with a subtle flick, conjured two warmer seats from the ice beside his own—one for Sheshika, who blinked her approval and slithered forward, and one for Megakshi, who nestled in and fluffed her feathers regally. Medha, always invisible to others, made herself a pixelated cloud on Krishna's shoulder, offering commentary only he could hear.
Garp cupped his hands, voice thundering across the arena. "You ready, brat? Win or else!"
Krishna looked up, met Garp's eyes, and smiled—a slow, almost mischievous curl at the corner of his lips. "I'm always ready."
Gion drew her sword with a flourish, Tokikake spun his rose with mock ceremony, Onigumo cracked his knuckles, and Momonga's blade gleamed under the sun. The others followed suit, tension crackling in the frozen air.
Tsuru leaned toward Sengoku, whispering, "Do you think they have any idea what's coming?"
Sengoku shook his head, faint amusement flickering across his face. "They'll learn soon enough."
The sound of swords being drawn echoed across the ice, sharp as thunder.
The storm was about to begin.
...
The surface of the ice gleamed like a battlefield forged for legends—broad, blinding, edged with frost that snapped under every footstep. In the middle, Krishna waited, his uniform crisp, black feather at his collar, hair barely ruffled by the chill breeze. Around him, the Vice Admirals and Admiral Candidates circled in wary formation.
Some measured him, eyes narrowed—Momonga, Onigumo, Doberman, Strawberry, Gion, Tokikake. Some were grinning, flush with the adrenaline of real challenge. Some tried to look as if they belonged anywhere else.
Garp sat on his throne of ice, grinning with open anticipation. Sengoku and Tsuru watched with the stillness of old warriors. Kuzan had propped his chin on his palm, half-asleep but fully attentive.
Sheshika and Megakshi, each perched on their own modestly-warmed seat, radiated subtle pride.
Medha, all pixels and spark, was invisible to all but Krishna. Her voice hummed inside his mind. "Ready for your opening act, storm boy?"
Krishna just breathed.
...
[YOUNG BLACK AND RICH – MELLY MIKE(Krishna X One Piece Original)]
[Yeah
It all starts with you
Everything you ever wanted
And everything you ever
Dreamed it starts now
It starts today
There is no tomorrow]
...
The fight began not with a war cry, but with the scuff of boots and the whistle of drawn steel. Momonga launched first—no bravado, no warning—his sword a silver line slashing for Krishna's collarbone. Gion darted alongside, blade flashing to intercept, while Onigumo split into six-armed offense, blades weaving a net.
Krishna slid forward, body loose, feet gliding as if the ice were his element. Momonga's sword met his wrist, hard as steel, skin blackened with Haki. He shifted, shoulder rolling, using the force to pivot away from Gion's lunge.
...
[I'm tired of your fucking
Excuses nigga, ain't nobody
Coming to save you, nigga
It's you, it's you versus you nigga
So how bad you want this shit huh,
come on]
...
He spun, arm blurring in a chopping motion—Asi Kriya—Divine Sword Ritual. The side of his hand, fingers fused, cut the air like a scythe, passing within a breath of Gion's sword. Sparks jumped as his Haki met hers, black and gold on black.
Onigumo came in, six blades descending like a rain of steel. Krishna's body curved, hips swiveling, back arching—he turned, let the first blade whistle past, then snapped an elbow up, catching Onigumo's wrist and sending him spinning away. Two more swords crashed down. Krishna ducked, hand snaking out—index and middle finger together—Aṅguli Astra—Finger Weapon of Will. He tapped the flat of a blade, sending a shockwave of Haki along its length that vibrated in Onigumo's grip, nearly wrenching it free.
...
[Yeah
My social meter ran out so
You know I finna dip
I just wanna stack this cake
Stay out the way, yeah that's it
Ain't nobody gave a damn
Buddy on nigga, till you got rich
I'm geekin way to hard, yeah
Yeah, I'm finna glitch
I just changed my whole lifestyle
I just cut off dead weight
Now they know I'm fly as shit]
...
Gion tried to circle behind, but Krishna was there—his footwork a blur, Tārakā Gati—Stellar Motion, the upgraded Soru. She lunged, he let his body fold, shoulder brushing the ground, before launching upward in a sudden, Vyomagaṅgā—Heaven-Step Stream—powered leap, the upgraded Geppo, flipping over her blade and landing behind her.
He didn't attack—just tapped her shoulder. "You're overreaching."
Gion glared, spun with a sweep, and Krishna—without thinking—caught her sword-hand, twisting it gently until she was off balance. He let go. She staggered, regained her footing, and hissed under her breath.
The others were not idle.
Doberman came from the side, fists sheathed in Armament Haki, moving with brutal economy. Strawberry, sword low and eyes calm, attacked from Krishna's other flank. Tokikake tried a midair Rankyaku, sending a razor-sharp crescent of air toward Krishna's knees.
Krishna responded with terrifying composure.
He met Doberman's punch with an open palm, absorbing the blow, letting the energy roll through his frame and out of his feet. He used Strawberry's momentum, stepping aside at the last instant and letting the sword glide past his ribs, then flicked his wrist—Tārakā Gati—Stellar Motion, Soru's higher form—appearing instantly behind Tokikake, who blinked, startled, and barely managed to turn before Krishna's palm met his chest.
He pushed—soft, gentle, but filled with Will. Tokikake skidded across the ice, frictionless, coming to a halt a dozen yards away. He landed in a pile, dazed but unhurt.
The others regrouped. Momonga and Onigumo flanked left, Gion and Doberman flanked right. Strawberry and Tokikake took the rear-guard.
...
[We always have potential
I'm just cashing in my chips
Krishna just like God
Yeah, yeah cause he don't miss
I don't give my energy to
Nobody except my click
Yeah, I just spent a couple
Bands eating good on a dish
They don't say congratulations
But you know they watch that shit
I ain't even gon get mad
I'm young black and rich]
...
Gion, watching Krishna's effortless grace, decided to change tactics.
She called out, voice hard and provocative. "What's wrong? Afraid to hit a woman?"
Krishna, in the midst of pivoting, froze—just a half-second, but enough for her to close the distance, blade slashing for his head.
He dodged, almost sheepish, stammering. "I… that's not—sorry—"
Garp stood from his throne and bellowed. "You little brat, don't be a damn pussy! Remember the damn words you said yourself, 'Justice is Unisex!'."
Tsuru glared daggers at him, voice crisp. "Don't corrupt the boy. He needs more exposure, not less. I know just the way to—"
Sengoku coughed, his face coloring. Megakshi's feathers fluffed up, uncertain. Sheshika grinned, baring tiny, sharp fangs.
Kuzan just sighed, covering his face. "This world's lost. And if this gets any more embarrassing, I'm sinking to the bottom of the ocean."
Medha was in hysterics, her virtual avatar cackling and glitching. "She's getting in your head, dummy!"
Krishna, recovering, stopped short of retaliating. He gave Gion a flat, unamused stare, then tripped her with a precise sweep of his ankle—never striking, just off-balancing.
She landed on the ice with a grunt. "Cheating."
Krishna replied, voice dry. "You said to treat you equally."
...
[She tryna sell me lies, bitch
I ain't buying shit
If we ain't talking money
Then imma plead the 5th
I put ice in my mouth
Yeah I'm hydrated
I ain't even gon get mad
I'm young black and rich]
...
The next attack was not so playful.
Onigumo unleashed his full power—blades whistling, his arms splitting in a display of Rokushiki mastery. Momonga matched him, the two Vice Admirals moving in perfect tandem.
Krishna met them head-on. When Onigumo struck with Tekkai—Iron Body—Krishna responded with Vajrāṅga Kāya—Diamond-Body Principle, his own body hardening, absorbing the shock. He met Shigan with Aṅguli Astra—Finger Weapon of Will, finger strikes that left ripples in the air.
Momonga tried to lock him in a sword grapple, Krishna shifted, using Vyomagaṅgā—Heaven-Step Stream—Geppo's higher form—to launch himself skyward, then descended, heel first, with Padma Chidra—Lotus Cleave—Rankyaku's higher form, sending multiple pulses of air at the same time that cracked the ice where it landed.
The Vice Admirals scrambled back.
Doberman and Strawberry unleashed coordinated attacks—Haki-imbued strikes, blades, kicks—every Marine technique in their arsenal. Krishna absorbed, deflected, redirected—never showing off, never wasting motion. He caught Strawberry's blade between his palms, gripped with just enough force to stop it dead.
"Your stance is too rigid," Krishna advised, and pushed him back with the flat of his palm.
Doberman aimed a punch at Krishna's solar plexus—Haki flaring. Krishna let the punch land, body hardening in the instant of impact, the blow glancing off harmlessly.
"You need to follow through more," Krishna commented, voice calm.
As the others recovered, Gion—frustrated and unbowed—came at him again, using a feint and then a real attack. Krishna, watching her with a new awareness, sidestepped, tripped her again, and whispered, "I don't hit women."
She glared, rolled, and tried to sweep his legs. He hopped over, amused, and returned to the center.
...
[I ain't even gon stay in your life
745, gotta catch that flight
Both my flight, my life on private
Gotta take a bad bitch out to a island
I don't say too much
Nigga I'm silent
And we fell off cause
We ain't in an alignment]
...
The field was a blur of motion. Blades clashed, fists flew, feet pounded the ice. Krishna danced among them, a ghost in white, black feather catching the light.
Onigumo roared, merging all six swords into a single, whirling wall. Krishna didn't hesitate—he raised his arm, hand flattening into a chopping blade, Haki swirling black and gold. He stepped into Onigumo's guard, struck—Asi Kriya—Divine Sword Ritual—his hand moving like water, cutting through the wall of swords, sending a shockwave that split the ice at their feet.
Onigumo staggered back, swords ringing in the air, breath coming in harsh gasps.
Tokikake, desperate, tried a Rankyaku from behind, a sickle of air hurtling for Krishna's back. Krishna didn't turn, he twisted, letting the air blade pass within a hair's breadth, then flicked his hand, sending a ripple of his own—a refined Padma Chidra—Lotus Cleave—that sliced Tokikake's attack in half.
One by one, they fell.
Doberman collapsed to his knees, panting, sword hanging limp.
Momonga, bleeding from a shallow cut on his arm, dropped his weapon, hands raised in surrender.
Strawberry, seeing the writing on the wall, sheathed his sword and bowed.
Gion, ever stubborn, tried one last rush—Krishna, not unkindly, stepped aside, caught her by the wrist, and spun her gently to the ice. She looked up at him, half-angry, half-awed.
"You're holding back," she accused.
Krishna shook his head. "No. I'm using only what I need."
...
[Yeah, money come in and
I get on a different timing
Yeah, you niggas ain't dead
Cause you still gotta pay me homage
Yeah, why you so nosey
What the fuck wrong
With your signage
Yeah, got so much on my
Plate that we find diamond
Yeah, when you up like this
They do what you say like simon
I'm young black and rich
I'm young
I'm young black and
I'm young black and rich
I'm young black and rich
I'm young
I'm young
I'm young black and rich]
...
In the end, the ice was littered with Marines—some unconscious, some gasping for air, all defeated.
Krishna stood alone at the center, breath even, uniform barely ruffled. The black feather on his collar gleamed like obsidian.
Garp was the first to break the silence, roaring with laughter. "That's my boy!"
Tsuru, shaking her head, exchanged a glance with Sengoku.
Sengoku said quietly, "This will stay between us. The world's not ready for this truth."
Kuzan slouched lower in his throne, a small, genuine smile touching his lips.
Sheshika, on her perch, purred approval. Megakshi fluffed her feathers, sending a wave of pride.
Medha, inside Krishna's mind, whispered, "Storm proved, storm remembered."
Krishna closed his eyes for a moment, letting the ice-cold air steady him.
He had not broken a sweat.
But the world would feel the aftershocks of this day for a long, long time.
...
The ice battlefield was a mosaic of bruised pride and raw ambition, the kind of hush that followed only the truest defeats. Marines—men and women who had bled for the flag and hunted legends on open seas—now stood or sat, breaths shallow, eyes fixed on the boy who had bested them all. Some nursed bruises, others only their egos, but none could say they had been shamed. Krishna's victory was absolute, yet never cruel.
He walked the circle, still composed, not a trace of mockery or gloating in his bearing. If anything, the black feather on his collar caught the last of the winter sun, making him look almost somber. Garp's laughter echoed, but Krishna said nothing, simply meeting each gaze with a quiet nod.
It was Tokikake—his jaw set, pride battered but unbroken—who finally broke the silence.
"I don't get it. You're half my age, and I've been fighting pirates since before you could walk. What did I miss?"
Krishna turned to face him, eyes clear. "Your stance is strong, but your weight distribution leaves an opening to your left. When you channel your Haki, you tense your shoulders. It slows your follow-through, especially after a Rankyaku."
Tokikake blinked. "You noticed all that? In one fight?"
"Noticed it after your first move," Krishna answered, not unkindly. "You rely on momentum, but you fight best when you let your center shift. Try breathing slower, settle your weight lower—Haki flows easier that way."
Tokikake tried, tentatively at first. He exhaled, shifted his stance, and felt the difference. His brows rose. "I… see. That's… that's better."
Momonga, ever the stoic, spoke next. "You barely used your own swordsmanship. Are you mocking us?"
Krishna shook his head. "No. I just didn't need it today. But your blade work is disciplined. You grip too tightly, though—let the sword breathe with you. That's when Armament Haki flows most naturally. Too much tension, and the Haki leaks away."
Momonga tested his grip, relaxing slightly. "Like this?"
"Exactly. Let the sword become part of your intent, not just your body."
Onigumo, grumbling, nursed a twisted wrist. "What about me? Six swords, and you didn't even blink."
Krishna allowed himself a faint smile. "You have raw power, but your arms move independently. Think of them as one creature, not six. Synchronize your intent—then you'll move as a true beast, not just a tangle of blades."
Onigumo scowled, but deep down, a glimmer of realization dawned.
Gion approached, still brushing frost from her uniform, pride warring with admiration. "You always hesitate with women. Why?"
Krishna answered with a straight face. "It's not about gender. It's about intent. I never use lethal force unless it's needed. With you, I knew I could win without hurting you."
She narrowed her eyes, but there was no real anger there. "Chivalry won't save you next time. But… your feints were clean. I couldn't read your weight at all. How?"
"Footwork," Krishna replied. "Don't rely on the eyes. Trust your sense of balance—let the ground tell you when to move."
Gion nodded slowly, already running through patterns in her head.
Doberman, ever the bulldog, knelt at Krishna's feet, sword point down. "What about me?"
Krishna knelt with him, meeting him at eye level. "Your Will is strong, but your breath is shallow. When you fight, breathe from the gut, not the chest. Haki starts there. Otherwise, you'll gas out early in a long fight."
Doberman drew a long, slow breath. For the first time in years, he felt something shift—like an old engine finally oiled.
Strawberry, gentle and precise, bowed his head. "Thank you, Instructor. I have been stuck at the same level for a decade. May I spar with you privately, sometime?"
Krishna inclined his head. "Of course. Any time."
The circle loosened, the Vice Admirals and Admiral Candidates passing words among themselves—quiet, earnest, no trace of their earlier bravado. A few even smiled, shy as students. The change was subtle but real. Marines, even those who had always kept their pride armored, now opened themselves to learning.
A hush settled as Tsuru and Sengoku rose from their thrones. Tsuru's lips curled into a rare smile.
"You didn't humiliate them, Krishna. That matters."
Sengoku's tone was more grave, but his eyes held approval. "A true instructor is not the one who breaks his students, but the one who helps them stand taller."
Gion and Tokikake, both Admiral Candidates, lingered at Krishna's side. Gion spoke first, voice lower, more sincere than before. "Can you show me your footwork patterns? The ones that let you pivot without losing ground?"
Krishna nodded, moving aside to demonstrate, each step slow and deliberate. Gion mirrored him, concentrating fiercely, until she managed a very clumsy imitation that almost made her fall face-first into the icy ground.
"Your center is too high. Sink your hips. Now—move from the waist, not the knees."
She adjusted. Tokikake watched, absorbing every correction.
Meanwhile, Onigumo and Momonga discussed breathing and Haki management, comparing Krishna's tips to their own experience. Doberman, finally standing, began running through new exercises, testing his stamina with deep, powerful breaths.
Medha's avatar flickered above Krishna's shoulder, unseen by all but him and Sheshika. "You're going to make the fan club even bigger if you keep this up."
Sheshika coiled contentedly. "He needs the practice. Humans grow best in the company of those who challenge them."
Krishna let their voices wash over him, a reminder that his strength was not just in dominance, but in guidance.
One by one, the vice admirals drifted closer, forming a loose, respectful circle. Gion called for attention. "Listen up. He's giving us pearls here. Anyone who wants to improve—ask now."
So they did. Some shy, some bold, but all earnest. Krishna corrected stances, demonstrated Haki techniques, even sparred briefly with a few, showing them how to channel Willpower more efficiently.
Strawberry attempted a feint he'd always struggled with, Krishna watched, then gently redirected his elbow.
"You're leading with your eyes. Let your intent come first, then your body. Try again."
Strawberry tried, and this time, landed the move. He looked up, astonished.
"You made it look easy," he breathed.
"It will be, with practice."
Tsuru and Sengoku exchanged another look—a mixture of pride and satisfaction.
"This is what the Marines need," Tsuru murmured. "Not just stronger soldiers, but a new generation of instructors. A new generation of leaders."
Sengoku's reply was barely audible. "He's more than an intern now."
At that, Garp strode over, his grin as wide as the sea. Without warning, he swept Krishna into a massive, bone-crushing hug, lifting him off his feet as if he weighed nothing.
"That's my grandson!" Garp roared with laughter, voice echoing across the ice.
A few of the vice admirals stared, thunderstruck. Strawberry nearly dropped his sword. Momonga's jaw slackened. Even Onigumo, usually unmoved, blinked in surprise.
Krishna, caught in Garp's embrace, only managed a wry smile. He'd learned long ago that resistance was pointless. Sheshika flicked her tail in amusement. Medha beamed, proud as ever.
Garp set him down, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder. "Don't forget this, brat. You made them better. That's what matters."
Krishna nodded. "I just want them to be stronger. The sea doesn't forgive mistakes."
Tokikake, ever the professional, saluted. "Instructor. Thank you for your time."
The others followed suit, offering salutes or bows—some crisp, some awkward, all genuine.
Krishna inclined his head awkwardly to each in turn. "I'm always here if you need me. My door is open."
The group slowly dispersed, some heading back to the ships, others lingering to spar or discuss among themselves. The field of ice bore scars from their battle, but the deeper marks were on their pride—and on their resolve.
As the sun set, casting a golden glow over the frozen arena, Krishna looked up, feeling the weight of the day and the hope of new beginnings. He stood, not as a conqueror, but as a guide, his presence quietly changing the shape of Marineford's future.
And in that moment, as the sea breeze caught the black feather at his collar, Krishna realized that this was the true measure of power, not in domination, but in lifting others beyond what they believed possible.
Tsuru's final words lingered, soft as a blessing.
"Well done, boy. Well done."
...
The final rays of the sun bled gold across Marineford's rooftops as the last Vice Admirals drifted off the training grounds, still murmuring about the storm they'd faced. Krishna slipped quietly away from the crowd, intent on nothing more than a few minutes of solitude, his mind still echoing with the day's battles and lessons.
He didn't make it far. Garp's shadow fell across the corridor like a mountain moving. He beckoned, all booming voice and careless grin.
"Come on, brat. Got something for you."
Krishna followed, more out of habit than curiosity, winding through empty hallways until they reached a storage room near the mess—a place nobody visited after hours except the janitors. Garp shut the door behind them with a heavy thud, the noise muffled by the thick walls.
The air inside was thick with the tang of old cleaning supplies and the distant hum of Marineford's machinery. Garp's voice dropped, rough but serious.
"You remember the deal, right?"
Krishna nodded, gaze steady. "You said if I agreed to intern, you'd keep your promise. I haven't forgotten."
Garp grinned wider, but there was an uncharacteristic flicker of respect behind his eyes—a recognition between two who'd kept more than their share of secrets.
"Good. Because what I'm about to tell you isn't just off the books. It's so classified Sengoku'd feed me to sea kings if he knew I opened my mouth."
He paused, as if weighing the cost, then continued in a voice so low Krishna had to lean in to catch every word.
"Vegapunk is coming here. Not a rumor, not a maybe—the real thing. He'll arrive in a week, top secret. Only a handful of people know. Not even the Admirals are looped in yet."
Krishna's eyes flickered, but his expression never changed. "Why are you telling me this?"
Garp folded his arms, his expression suddenly grave. "Because I made a promise. And because I trust you. You'll get to meet him one-on-one, just like you asked. But you keep this to yourself. No one, you hear me? Not your brothers, not that Momousagi who keeps following you around, not even the damn walls."
There was a beat of silence—just enough for the gravity to settle.
Krishna gave a single nod. "Understood."
Garp's voice softened, something rare and unspoken passing between them. "You earned this, kid. Don't waste it."
For a moment, neither spoke. The distant clang of the yard echoed outside—life in Marineford moving on, oblivious to the pact sealed in a forgotten room.
Garp grunted, already reverting to his usual bark. "And don't be late. Vegapunk doesn't wait for anyone, not even the Fleet Admiral."
He opened the door, light flooding the room, and was gone in two strides, leaving Krishna alone, the secret burning like a comet in his chest.
The weight of it pressed down, not with fear, but anticipation. The promise wasn't just for a meeting—it was the doorway to the future, to answers only a mind like Vegapunk's could provide.
Krishna stepped back into the corridor, the world unchanged but subtly shifted beneath his feet. The game was moving again. And this time, he was more than just a piece on the board.
...
Omake: The Legendary Trial of Krisna-senpai!
The sun broke over Marineford's battlements, scattering coins of gold on the white parade ground. The yard was already buzzing—boots stomping, voices rising—but there was a particular focus today, an undercurrent of anticipation as sharp as the salt in the air.
Krishna, ever the early riser, sat cross-legged in a patch of sunlight at the yard's center, breathing deeply. A black feather shimmered at his collar, trembling faintly as if echoing his pulse.
His meditation was a quiet island—until the tide crashed in.
It began as a ripple: giggles, hurried whispers, the nervous shuffle of a hundred feet on tile. Suddenly, Krishna found himself at the center of a whirlwind—a blizzard of crisp uniforms, gleaming shoes, and hair tied back with regulation precision. There must have been fifty—no, a hundred—female marines, every one of them carefully chosen, shining with confidence and hope. Tsuru, arms folded and eyes twinkling, watched from the edge like a patient general.
Krishna blinked, uncertain if this was some new form of training or a waking dream. "Uh...good morning?"
A wall of excitement answered back, all at once:
"Krisna-senpai!"
"Senpai, will you show us that move again from yesterday?"
"Senpai, is it true you can catch Garp's punches?"
"Senpai, do you meditate every morning?"
"Senpai, is it true you never sweat?"
Krishna's mind spun. He'd faced warlords, pirates, even demonic beasts in Impel Down. None of them, he realized, had ever looked at him quite like this. He tried to inch back, but the circle closed in, enthusiasm turning the crowd fluid.
Observation Haki bloomed—a map of honest hearts, shining with excitement, hope, and genuine admiration. Not a flicker of ill intent among them. If anything, the force of so much innocent hope nearly made him stagger.
A shy girl, rank insignia slightly askew, blushed and offered him a towel. "For the sweat you never have," she said, and two of her friends giggled.
Another bolder recruit leaned in. "Can I touch your feather, Krisna-senpai? For luck?"
Krishna, beet-red, could only nod. He hadn't been this off-balance since Luffy tried to teach him the "gum-gum dance."
All around, voices competed for attention:
"What's your favorite food, senpai?"
"Who cuts your hair, senpai?"
"Can you teach me meditation, senpai?"
"Are your eyes naturally that color, senpai?"
He raised his hands in surrender, helpless. "Everyone here...is beautiful."
That set off a tsunami. Squeals. Laughter. At least three marines fainted on the spot, others huddled, clutching each other as if he'd just pronounced them admirals on the spot.
Upon the yard's fence, Megākṣī ruffled her feathers—her true plumage disguised, but beauty undeniable even in illusion. Her head bobbed sharply, neck arched high. Through the feather at Krishna's collar, a wave of emotions crashed through him—curiosity, then sharp-edged annoyance. She glared down, wings tight against her sides, projecting an unmistakable feeling:
Why do you not react this way to my beauty?
He looked up at her with that silent, soft smile, eyes full of affection and apology.
A surge of warm reassurance traveled back through the feather: You're... beyond compare, Meghākṣī.
Megākṣī fluffed, satisfaction rippling through her. She turned away with regal poise, but the connection pulsed with possessive pride... and the tiniest hint of pouting jealousy.
It didn't last.
A squeal broke the spell. "He smiled at me! He really did!" cried a marine near the front, and suddenly the ring collapsed. Recruits crowded in, desperate for a handshake, a word, even a passing glance. One tried to copy Krishna's breathing, almost fainting in the attempt.
Overwhelmed, Krishna took a step back—then another. In a desperate escape bid, he tried to retreat toward the fence, but the crowd surged, tripping over each other in their enthusiasm. In that moment, it was unclear if he was the sovereign or if he was the one being conquered.
Medha's tiny pixel-form hovered above his head, laughing so hard she was nearly static. "Well, this is one way to train your social stats, storm boy! Don't worry, we'll make a playboy out of you yet."
Sheshika, ever the guardian, coiled a little tighter around his neck—motherly comfort laced with gentle warning. "Remember, not too much kindness, or they'll never leave you alone. Moderation, Krishna. Even in love."
He tried to answer, but it was too late—the fangirl avalanche hit. Krishna, outnumbered, off-balance, and thoroughly overwhelmed by the tidal wave of well-meant adoration, let gravity take him. He toppled backward, arms spread, landing gently in the grass with a thud.
Silence descended—startled, worried, a hundred faces peering down.
"Did we break him?"
"Is he breathing?"
"Medic—oh wait, he's the medic too!"
In his mind, Medha's digital cackling was a storm of static. "Storm-boy's been conquered by fangirls. Historic."
Krishna, staring up at the sky, caught his breath. Sunlight was warm on his face. His pulse steadied as, through the feather, a rush of affection, jealousy, and possessiveness flowed from Megākṣī. She flapped down beside him, tucking herself close with a haughty shake—her message clear: You are mine.
He smiled. "Is this... what heaven feels like?"
A moment later, as if to confirm, several marines dropped beside him, worried and doting.
"Senpai, are you alright?"
"You look happy!"
"We'll protect you, senpai!"
Megākṣī huffed, glaring at the crowd, and with regal disdain, wrapped one wing possessively over Krishna's chest. The sensation through the feather was fierce and smug: He is not for you.
Sheshika snickered, Medha howled with laughter.
And at the edge of the yard, Tsuru—her hands folded behind her back—surveyed the glorious chaos with deep satisfaction.
Mission accomplished.
...
Author's Note
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
This chapter was one hell of a ride—literally. From the cold aftermath of Impel Down's horrors to Krishna turning Marineford into his personal dojo, things are heating up even as our boy tries to stay cool. Garp's "evil plans" reached new heights (or lows, depending on how much you like being body-slammed by vice admirals), and the storm's legend just keeps growing.
Also, Tsuru's special training plan may have broken Krishna's brain—and possibly the hearts of half the Marine base. The man survived Level 6, but can he survive fangirl hell?
Next time: Vegapunk enters the chat, secrets unravel, and the world keeps watching.
Omake: If you thought hell was scary, try surviving a stampede of fan club recruits and a jealous divine peacock. Send prayers—or towels.
See you in the next descent!
—Author out.