"So, this is where the Shandian tribe lives…" I muttered, my voice tinged with curiosity and a touch of somberness as I took in the scene before me. The settlement was a shadow of its former glory, a place where resilience clung tightly to the edges of decay.
The air smelled of damp earth and smoke, a testament to both the forest canopy surrounding it and the fires burning in crude pits at the center of their makeshift village.
Ganfall, standing beside me, nodded slowly. His expression was grim but calm, as always. "The Shandians are a proud and fierce people. Approaching their settlement uninvited is… unwise. Perhaps I should speak with them first, see if we can avoid any misunderstandings."
"There's no need for that," I said, letting my Observation Haki spread out like an invisible web. What I sensed only confirmed my suspicions. The Shandian warriors were alert but few, their strength greatly diminished from the legends I'd heard.
What was once a tribe of mighty warriors now seemed like a fragment of their heritage. A pang of pity tugged at me, but I quickly dismissed it. Pity would not help them now.
We moved closer, the crunch of leaves underfoot muted by the thick vegetation around us.
Suddenly, a booming voice shattered the quiet.
"Halt!"
The word carried the weight of authority and desperation, a bark of command designed to stop any intruder in their tracks. A Shandian guard stepped out from behind a tree, his feathered headdress swaying as he raised a spear in warning. His muscles were taut, his stance ready to spring into action, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
Before we could respond, he brought a bugle to his lips and blew hard. The mournful sound echoed through the forest, reverberating through the trees and spreading deep into the settlement. The alarm was unmistakable, and it had the intended effect. The camp behind him came alive with hurried activity—shouts, the clinking of weapons, and the hurried stomping of feet.
Ganfall held up a hand in a calming gesture. "We come in peace!" he called out, his voice carrying the practiced diplomacy of a man who had brokered fragile truces for years. "I am Ganfall, a friend to the Shandians. Let me speak to your chief."
The guard's eyes narrowed suspiciously, his grip tightening on the shaft of his spear. "Stay where you are!" he barked, retreating a step while keeping his weapon leveled at us. "You'll move no further until the chief decides what to do with you."
The Shandian settlement sprawled across the dense, verdant canopy of Upper Yard, hidden among the massive trees that had grown unchecked for centuries. Tents made from stitched animal hides and woven leaves stood clustered in tight groups, their weathered appearances bearing testament to generations of hardship and survival.
Smoke spiraled lazily from cooking fires, and crude totems carved with the symbols of Shandia's ancient gods dotted the area, reminding everyone of their once-glorious heritage.
Emerging from the largest and most central tent was the Shandian chief, a man in his forties named Wyrah. His broad shoulders and battle-worn frame carried the scars of countless skirmishes, each marking him as a warrior of unmatched grit.
His dark, intense eyes burned with determination, framed by thick locks of raven-black hair streaked with silver. A massive headdress adorned with vibrant feathers and animal teeth crowned his head, while his muscular arms bore traditional tattoos recounting his tribe's history and struggles.
In his right hand, Wyrah gripped a massive axe, its blade jagged and chipped but still gleaming with deadly intent. His other hand rested on a knife sheathed at his waist, ready for quick, brutal action. As the commotion reached his ears, his voice thundered across the settlement.
"What is it?" Wyrah demanded, striding out of the tent. His presence alone seemed to bring a sense of order to the guards and warriors who stood at attention, their eyes locked on him.
"The northwest perimeter patrol sent out a signal!" a guard captain quickly informed him, standing rigid and saluting.
Wyrah's expression hardened. "This could be a feint. Keep most of our forces here to defend the settlement. The rest of you, follow me. If these Sky People think they can raid us again, let's show them what it means to challenge the Shandian tribe!"
With a rallying cry, Wyrah launched himself into motion, his warriors following close behind. Their movements were swift and purposeful, a testament to years of fighting and surviving against insurmountable odds. In just under a dozen minutes, the force reached the outer edge of the settlement, where the northwest patrol's signal had originated.
What greeted them, however, left the seasoned warriors stunned.
A towering figure loomed over the battlefield, her immense size dwarfing the Shandian warriors attempting to subdue her. Dora, the blue sea giantess, stood at nearly twenty meters tall, her long, muscular arms swatting away the warriors like flies. Her thick, brown hair swayed with each motion, and her laughter rumbled through the forest like distant thunder.
"Come on, little ones!" Dora teased, crouching slightly to make herself an easier target, though her mocking grin made it clear she was toying with them. "Is that all you've got? I've faced storms fiercer than you!"
One Shandian warrior lunged at her with a spear, aiming for her side. Dora snatched the weapon mid-thrust, twisting it out of the man's hands before flicking him away with a casual swipe of her arm. He flew several meters before crashing into the underbrush.
Another tried to attack from behind, but she pivoted, her foot sweeping across the ground like a falling tree. The warrior barely had time to react before being knocked to the side.
"More!" Dora bellowed, stamping her foot down hard enough to shake the ground beneath them.
"This is boring!"
The Shandian warriors scrambled, their ranks thinning as more and more of them were tossed aside. Some clung to her limbs, trying to bind her movements with ropes, but Dora flexed her arms and legs, snapping the restraints as if they were threads.
In the distance, Wyrah and his guard captain observed the scene, their expressions grim.
"It's them," the captain whispered. "The intruders from the blue sea. The ones who attacked one of our guardians earlier."
Wyrah's eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over the battlefield. Dora was clearly the centerpiece of the chaos, but his focus shifted to a group standing further away, observing the commotion. His jaw clenched when he recognized one of them—Gan Fall.
"Gan Fall," Wyrah growled under his breath, gripping his axe tighter. His voice was laced with venom as he continued, "The so-called 'God of Skypiea.' The man who preaches peace while keeping what is ours. How dare he set foot here?"
But as Wyrah prepared to confront the intruders, he couldn't help but feel a pang of unease. The strength of the giantess alone was overwhelming, and the presence of Gan Fall complicated matters further. These were no ordinary invaders. Whatever their purpose, Wyrah knew this would not be a simple skirmish.
"Chief," the guard captain ventured cautiously, sensing the gravity of the situation, "What are your orders?"
Wyrah's eyes flicked back to the giantess as another wave of warriors was scattered like leaves in the wind. He exhaled deeply, the fire of determination flaring brighter within him.
"Prepare to engage," he commanded, his voice resolute. "We will not let them mock us on our own land. Call for the others—every able-bodied warrior. Today, the Shandian tribe will remind them why we are not to be trifled with."
The air around the battlefield grew tense as the Shandians regrouped, readying themselves for what promised to be an epic clash against an unstoppable force. And amidst the chaos, Dora's laughter boomed, a harbinger of the storm to come.
The tension in the air snapped like a taut string as a figure appeared out of nowhere, materializing before the Shandian guard captain in an instant. His eyes widened in shock, the bugle trembling in his hand, but before he could sound the alarm, my hand closed around his wrist with a grip like iron. The guard's breath hitched in pain as I slowly turned my gaze toward the Shandian chief, Wyrah.
The chief's sharp eyes narrowed, his stance firm, yet even with his mantra active, he hadn't sensed my approach. That momentary lapse didn't go unnoticed, and I smirked. This was the man who, in the canon timeline, would lead the Shandians when Luffy and his crew arrived in Skypiea. Today, though, he stood as a man unprepared for the reality he faced.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I said, my voice calm but laced with danger. The grip on the guard captain's wrist tightened, the crunch of bone audible as the bugle fell from his grasp. A pained cry escaped his lips as he crumpled to his knees.
"Release him!" Wyrah roared, his voice echoing through the forest. Without hesitation, the tribal chief launched himself forward, his massive war axe raised high. He moved with the ferocity of a warrior defending his home, the blade whistling through the air with lethal intent.
But to me, his movements were sluggish, almost comical. Compared to the apex predators I'd faced in battle, this was child's play.
The axe passed harmlessly through my head, the lack of Haki infusion rendering it completely ineffective. Wyrah stumbled forward, caught off balance by the futility of his attack. His expression twisted in confusion and frustration.
"Now, now, Chief," I chuckled, turning to face him. "That was a rude greeting. But it's only polite to return your hospitality… don't you think?"
Before Wyrah could respond, I raised a hand to the sky. A crackling hum filled the air as dark clouds gathered above, swirling ominously. The sky itself seemed to darken in fear, and then, with a deafening roar, a massive black lightning pillar tore through the heavens.
The lightning split into countless tendrils, each one lashing out with precision. Shandian warriors screamed in shock as the bolts descended, moving with the speed of light. Their defenses were shredded in an instant. Even those with mantra—seasoned veterans who'd fought countless battles—couldn't keep up. The strikes were too fast, too relentless.
The ground trembled as the strikes hit, leaving craters and scorch marks in their wake. Weapons clattered to the ground, warriors fell unconscious, and the air was thick with the scent of ozone. The once-proud force of the Shandian warriors lay in ruins, incapacitated in a single, overwhelming attack.
Only a handful of the tribe's veterans managed to avoid the brunt of the assault, their instincts and experience barely saving them. But even they couldn't escape unscathed, their bodies trembling from the residual shocks.
Wyrah staggered back, his eyes wide in disbelief as he surveyed the devastation. The once-mighty defenders of his tribe were now little more than groaning bodies scattered across the battlefield. His jaw clenched, and his knuckles turned white around the haft of his axe.
"What… what have you done?!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with fury and desperation. The chief's gaze snapped back to me, his eyes filled with helpless rage.
I smirked. "What needed to be done. Be thankful I held back—otherwise, none of them would still be breathing."
Wyrah's grip on his weapon tightened as he lunged at me again, his rage overcoming his better judgment. But this time, I didn't wait for his strike. In the blink of an eye, I closed the distance between us, my speed overwhelming his perception.
"Bam!"
My fist drove into his gut with the force of a cannon, the impact echoing through the battlefield. Wyrah's eyes bulged as the air was forced from his lungs, a sharp, pained gasp escaping his lips. He doubled over, his axe falling from his grasp as he crumpled to his knees.
"You—" he wheezed, his voice barely audible. The sound of his ribs cracking was unmistakable, a cruel reminder of the gap between us.
I crouched before him, meeting his dazed gaze with a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Perhaps next time, you'll think twice before swinging that axe. But then again… there won't be a next time, will there?"
Before he could respond, his body sagged, his consciousness slipping away under the weight of the pain and humiliation.
The battlefield fell silent, save for the faint crackle of dissipating lightning and the groans of the fallen warriors. Ganfall, who had been watching with a grave expression, stepped forward.
"This wasn't necessary," he said quietly, though his tone lacked accusation.
I stood, brushing imaginary dust from my hands. "Wasn't it? Now they understand the reality of their situation. If they want to rise again, they'll need to face the truth of how far they've fallen."
Ganfall said nothing more, his eyes drifting to the unconscious chief. The Shandians had suffered another crushing blow, but whether it would break them or forge them anew was yet to be seen.
*****
Jaya, Grand Line
The salty breeze swept across the cape, tugging at the loose ends of a worn bandana tied firmly around the head of a lean, wiry pirate. His sharp eyes, shadowed with worry, scanned the waters below.
The rhythmic crash of waves against jagged rocks served as an ominous backdrop to his thoughts. For three months, they had been stranded here, their once-spirited pirate crew now tethered to the cursed island of Jaya like a ship without sails.
The pirate, vice-captain of the crew, clenched his fists at his sides. They weren't powerhouses like the pirate crews of the New World, but they had been a respectable band of misfits—strong enough to make a name for themselves in the first half of the Grand Line, daring enough to dream of one day joining the ranks of the Donquixote family as affiliates. Yet all those ambitions now lay in ruins, buried under the obsessive whims of their captain, Montblanc Cricket.
Cricket, the descendant of the infamous "Liar" Montblanc Noland, had taken to piracy to escape the weight of his name. Under his banner, they had roamed the North Blue, carving out a life where lineage meant nothing, where only courage and cunning mattered. But that changed when they set foot on Jaya, a place steeped in legends and false hopes.
At first, the tales of a golden city hidden on the island were just background noise in this haven of scoundrels. But Cricket had latched onto those stories like a man drowning in the tides of his heritage. Day by day, he had grown more obsessed with proving Noland's tale true. What started as an idle curiosity had morphed into an all-consuming mission.
The vice-captain's gaze sharpened as the calm waters of the bay below began to ripple. The surface stirred, then broke apart as a figure emerged—a man gasping desperately for air. Montblanc Cricket.
He surfaced like a specter from the deep, his face pale and gaunt, his bloodshot eyes wide with exertion and determination. He sucked in ragged breaths, his body trembling from the strain of diving without equipment. Dark, wet hair clung to his forehead, and his shoulders heaved with the effort of keeping himself afloat.
"Captain!" the vice-captain shouted, his voice cutting through the salty wind. His heart clenched as Cricket's head tilted dangerously, his breaths growing shallow.
Without hesitation, the vice-captain unclasped his cutlass belt, tossing it aside. The heavy overcoat followed, hitting the rocky ground in a heap. The cold bite of the sea barely registered as he leapt from the cliff's edge, slicing through the air before plunging into the churning water below.
The icy depths swallowed him briefly before he surged upward, strong strokes propelling him toward his captain. Cricket was floundering, his strength waning fast.
The vice-captain reached him, looping a steady arm under Cricket's shoulders to keep his head above water. "I've got you, Captain. Don't you dare give up on me!" he growled, his own muscles burning as he began towing Cricket toward the shore.
Cricket's lips moved, barely forming words. "...Golden...city..."
"Forget the city! Focus on breathing, damn it!" the vice-captain snapped, his tone harsh but his grip firm. The waves fought against him, each one seeming to mock his efforts, but he pushed forward, the weight of his captain's body pulling at him like an anchor.
By the time they reached the shallows, his chest heaved with exertion. He half-dragged, half-carried Cricket onto the rocky shore, collapsing beside him. Saltwater dripped from his soaked bandana and clothes, pooling in the crevices of the uneven ground.
Cricket lay sprawled on his back, his ragged breaths slowly evening out. But even now, his eyes held a wild gleam, an unrelenting fire that refused to be extinguished. "We're close... I can feel it... Noland wasn't a liar..."
The vice-captain clenched his jaw, frustration and worry warring within him. "You're going to kill yourself chasing shadows," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his wet hair.
But Cricket didn't hear him—or if he did, he didn't care. His fixation on the golden city, on redeeming his ancestor's name, had already consumed him.
The vice-captain stared at the horizon, where the golden hues of the setting sun met the darkening sea. Somewhere out there was the freedom they once sought, now a distant dream.
For now, he could only steel himself for the days ahead, knowing his captain would dive again, and he might not be there to pull him out of the depths, no matter how much he needed him.
The harsh coughs racked Montblanc Cricket's body, water sputtering from his lips as he gasped for air. His chest rose and fell erratically, each breath a battle to reclaim what the sea had almost stolen. The vice-captain knelt beside him, his hands pressing rhythmically on Cricket's chest until he finally wheezed out another mouthful of brine.
"You madman," the vice-captain growled, his voice a mixture of relief and exasperation as he slumped onto the wet sand. His arms hung limp at his sides, but his eyes burned with an intensity born of frustration. "What were you thinking? Were you planning to get yourself killed?"
The tide lapped gently at their feet, oblivious to the storm of emotions swirling above. Cricket, still sprawled on the ground, turned his head toward his friend, his lips parting as if to explain. But his voice caught in his throat as he saw the weariness etched into the vice-captain's face.
"I've had enough." The vice-captain's words broke the tense silence, his voice trembling under the weight of his emotions. "This isn't the first time you've done this, Cricket. Every dive, every reckless plunge into the depths—it's madness. Sheer madness!"
Cricket flinched, pushing himself up onto his elbows despite the fatigue that weighed him down. But before he could speak, his friend's words came again, sharper, cutting through the air like a blade.
"I've tried, Captain. I really have. I've followed you into storms, fought alongside you against bounty hunters, and stood by you when everyone else doubted. But this?" The vice-captain gestured at the endless sea before them, the frustration evident in his trembling hand.
"This obsession? It's tearing us apart. Two-thirds of the crew is gone—jumped ship or joined other crews. And the ones who stayed? They're barely holding on."
Cricket opened his mouth, but no words came.
"I know what you're going to say," the vice-captain pressed on, his voice heavy with anger and sorrow. "You'll talk about proving Noland wasn't a liar. About how this golden city will redeem your family's name. But what about us? What about the crew? Is this mad dream worth sacrificing everything we've built?"
Silence fell between them, punctuated only by the gentle crash of waves. Cricket looked away, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but his hands clenched into fists.
"I've made up my mind," the vice-captain said after a long pause, his voice quieter now but no less firm. "At daybreak tomorrow, I'm taking what's left of the crew and leaving this cursed island. If you still care about us, about what we've fought for, then be on that ship before we set sail. But if this...this golden city means more to you, then I guess this is where we part ways."
The vice-captain stood, his boots crunching against the gravel as he retrieved his cutlass and coat. He paused for a moment, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his decision. Without another word, he turned and began walking away, leaving wet footprints in the sand as the setting sun cast long shadows behind him.
Cricket watched him go, his chest tightening with a mix of guilt and sorrow. He wanted to call out, to beg his friend to understand, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he let his head fall back against the sand, staring up at the darkening sky as the first stars began to appear.
For a moment, he thought about giving up. About abandoning this quest and rejoining his crew. He had always cared deeply for them—had always seen them as more than just shipmates. But even as those thoughts crossed his mind, his hand drifted to the small sack tied to his waist. Slowly, almost reverently, he untied it and spilled its contents onto the sand.
The setting sun caught the objects within, its golden rays reflecting off their surfaces. Three solid gold statues, each the size of a cannonball, glinted in the fading light. They were coated in grime and sludge from the seabed, but their luster was unmistakable.
Cricket stared at them, his heart heavy with a mixture of triumph and despair. Fate, it seemed, had chosen this moment to mock him. For three long months, he had plunged into the treacherous waters of the bay, returning empty-handed every time. And now, on the very day his closest ally had decided to abandon him, the proof of his ancestor's truth had finally revealed itself.
He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and broken. "Cruel...just cruel," he muttered, his voice trembling. He brushed away some of the muck, revealing more of the intricate carvings on one of the statues. The craftsmanship was undeniable, the gold unmistakably ancient. This was it—the proof he had sought for so long.
But as he stared at the statues, the weight of his choices bore down on him. He could chase this truth to the ends of the earth, but at what cost? His crew—the people who had stood by him through thick and thin—were slipping away. His dream of clearing his ancestor's name had already begun to feel like a curse.
He let out a deep sigh, his hands falling limp at his sides. "They'll be better off without me," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. His fingers traced the edge of the golden statue, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the setting sun.
Cricket made his decision. He would let them go, let his friend take the crew and sail to safer waters. And he would stay here, alone if he must, to see this through.
As the vice-captain's figure disappeared over the ridge, Cricket chuckled softly, a melancholic smile tugging at his lips. "Guess it's just you and me now, Noland," he murmured, his voice tinged with both sadness and determination. He tied the sack shut once more, clutching it tightly as the waves whispered their eternal song.