Foosha Village slept. The kind of sleep only small towns earned—slow, patient, breathing with the ocean.
Krishna sat cross-legged on the floor of Makino's attic, back straight, eyes closed, surrounded by silence. No meditation chants. No monologues. Just breath and sweat and bone-deep repetition.
The first year had been... humbling. His mind remembered how to move. His body didn't.
But that was fine. That was the point.
He inhaled.
The movement began—not in his limbs, but in his thoughts. Imaginary tension spread down his arms, through his fingertips. A Rokushiki elbow pivot—precise, invisible. One of five he'd been mapping since dawn.
He exhaled. Visualized the same pivot with added tension in the spine.
Again. And again. And again.
Medha's voice hummed in his thoughts, soft as moonlight.
"Muscle fiber tension: within safe range. Neural circuits for 'Tekkai' phantom activation: 47% stabilized. Progress: Acceptable."
Krishna nodded faintly.
He hadn't spoken in two hours. That too was the point.
Two years ago, he had tried to sprint ahead—push his body before it was ready.
He tore something in his thigh within three days. Makino scolded him like a mother hen. Sheshika hissed in disappointment. Medha refused to give him any further simulation feedback for forty-eight hours.
So he changed course.
He learned how to stand again. Properly. Like a monk, not a martial artist.
Weight forward on the ball of the foot. Knees aligned with breath. Shoulders relaxed. Head alert, but not raised.
Every movement from nothing. Every tension earned.
Now, at seven, he still wasn't fast.
But he could move like he meant to. Every step had reason. Every stretch, intention.
His strength hadn't grown much. But his control? His stillness?
That had become a weapon all its own.
A low rustle beside him.
Sheshika coiled slowly into the room, flicking her tongue once before looping around his back like a sash. Her presence cooled the air, yet grounded him further.
"Your bones are humming again. That's a good sign."
Krishna smiled faintly.
"They're sore."
"They should be."
He shifted slowly into a standing stance—one leg raised, arms held in front of him like wings, foot hovering millimeters off the floor. The tiniest imbalance, and he'd fall.
He didn't fall.
Ten seconds.
Eleven.
Twelve.
The wood creaked underfoot, but he held. Not with brute strength—but breath. Breath that wrapped through his core like coiled rope.
"Martial Foundation: 6.2% synchronization," Medha reported softly.
"Nano-muscular response is forming reflex memory layers. Still weak. But stable."
There was a quiet satisfaction in knowing no one else in the village would notice what this meant. Not even Makino. Certainly not Luffy.
They saw a boy who stretched in strange poses and fell asleep standing upright. Who wandered into the woods barefoot and returned without a scratch, sometimes soaked with dew.
What they didn't see were the layers. Every breath honed. Every nerve drilled. Every failure measured and refined until it was no longer failure—just fuel.
"Enough simulation," Krishna murmured aloud.
His voice was hoarse—he hadn't spoken since last evening.
He stretched once, slowly, and felt a tight pull down his left side. Not pain. Not yet.
Outside, the first hints of sunlight crept across the sky. He would have about fifteen minutes before Makino knocked on the attic door with breakfast and a smile that insisted he was still a child.
He didn't mind that. Not really.
He turned toward Sheshika, who had slithered into a half-circle near the window.
"If I fail..." Krishna's eyes narrowed slightly. "They get hurt."
"You haven't failed," Sheshika replied, voice quiet but steady. "You've only started."
"Starting isn't enough."
"Not yet," she said, curling around his ankle like armor. "But it will be."
Krishna closed his eyes again.
No aura. No divine light. No heroic music in the background.
Just him. Just breath. Just silence.
But inside the silence, a slow ember burned. Patient. Focused.
And that ember would one day set the world on fire.
Makino had warned him.
"He doesn't sit still," she said. "He bites things. He runs into walls. He thinks barrels are boats."
Krishna thought she was exaggerating.
She wasn't.
Luffy had been dropped off at Makino's bar three days before the Red-Hair Pirates arrived.
Dropped off wasn't quite the right phrase—launched was more accurate. Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp had literally tossed the boy from his warship's deck into the shallows and shouted something about "making a man outta him."
Krishna had been watching from the pier, sipping barley tea. When the boy face-planted into the sand and stood up laughing with blood in his nose, Krishna realized two things.
One: Garp really was a lunatic.
Two: He now had a problem.
"Hi! I'm Monkey D. Luffy! What's your name?" the boy asked, all teeth and sunshine.
"Krishna," he replied simply.
Luffy stared up at him, eyes wide. "You're cool. I'm gonna follow you!"
"You don't have to."
"I'm still gonna!"
Krishna didn't know how to respond. So he sat with him for an hour in silence. Luffy talked the entire time.
Luffy did, in fact, follow him. Everywhere.
He mimicked Krishna's movements, ruined his breathing drills, and fell asleep mid-squat more than once.
But he smiled easily, got up after every fall, and never once let go of Krishna's sleeve when the world felt too big.
By day two, Luffy had decided they were friends.
By day three, they became brothers the only way boys do—by accident.
Three days have passed, and Luffy had already latched onto Krishna like a excitable puppy nonstop, mimicking his morning stretches, and loudly declaring that "training is dumb but cool."
Most days started the same.
Krishna woke before sunrise. Breath exercises. Life Return muscle mapping. Visualization drills. Shadow-form practice.
Luffy woke up somewhere mid-pose and yelled, "That looks cool! Teach me!"
Krishna gave him a chance.
Fifteen seconds in: "This is boring!"
Thirty seconds in: "Are we done?"
One minute in: face-first into the grass.
"You're doing it wrong again!"
Krishna sighed and rolled back onto his feet as Luffy flopped onto the ground beside him, arms and legs spread wide like a dying starfish.
"You're not even trying," Krishna said, brushing dirt from his hands.
"I am! I'm just... not made for this breathing stuff!" Luffy huffed dramatically, face red from exertion.
"You're talking while trying to hold your breath."
"Exactly! That's the problem!" Luffy whined louder.
Krishna stood over him, arms crossed. "If you don't get up in five seconds, I'm telling Grandpa Garp you gave up."
Luffy shot upright so fast he wobbled. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
"Cheater," Luffy grumbled. "Fine. Let's do the dumb stance again."
Krishna didn't reply. He just turned and resumed his position—heel raised slightly, breath steady, arms curved in a guarded circle. Stillness with intention.
Luffy tried to copy it, arms flailing and lips puffed like a balloon.
The third time Luffy collapsed and pretended to be dying, Krishna stepped over him and continued training.
Krishna sighed.
He didn't know it yet, but that sigh was the first of a thousand more to come.
Makino only smiled knowingly.
Sheshika, who had taken to coiling around the inn's ceiling beams, observed Luffy with cautious neutrality. She didn't dislike him. She just didn't like how loud he was.
"He's not harmful," she told Krishna once.
"He's just... unfiltered joy."
Krishna didn't disagree.
Sometime later, Ace and Sabo arrived—dragged into the clearing by Krishna himself..
They had already met Krishna weeks earlier—Sabo shook his hand, Ace nearly punched him. Krishna dodged and offered food. That settled it.
Now, introduced to Luffy, Sabo shook hands with him immediately. "If he's your friend, then he's mine too."
Ace wasn't so quick. His eyes narrowed at Luffy's grin. "He's loud."
"So are you," Sabo said cheerfully.
Ace scowled. "Don't touch me."
Luffy's face puffed with outrage. "You're mean! Krishna's friends should be nice!"
"I'm not friends with him."
"You're standing next to him."
Krishna rubbed his temples. "This is going well."
Ace took longer. Luffy's clingy energy grated on him. But Krishna bridged them without effort, and Ace—grudgingly—gave in.
Sheshika slithered up beside them that afternoon. She nudged Sabo affectionately and wrapped lightly around Ace's shoulders. Ace tolerated the affection with his usual grumble.
Luffy blinked. "Whoa… the sky noodle likes you guys?"
"She's met them before," Krishna said. "They passed."
"Passed what?"
"Didn't die."
Ace nearly dropped his lunch.
When the Red-Hair Pirates docked, the village changed in an instant. Song. Rum. Laughter. Weapons clinking in sheaths. Boots stomping across dirt paths like they owned the place—and maybe they did, if only for a while.
Krishna stood in Makino's doorway, arms folded, watching them unload. He didn't move when they walked past.
Sheshika draped around his neck like a sentient scarf, tongue flicking.
Luffy practically vibrated with excitement. "WHOAAA! Are those pirates?! REAL pirates?!"
"Don't shout," Krishna said. "They might hear you."
"I WANT THEM TO HEAR ME!"
Of course he did.
They came in loud. Yasopp tossing peanuts into the air and shooting them mid-fall. Lucky Roux rolling barrels with one hand and eating chicken with the other. Benn Beckman, silent but sharp-eyed. And at the center of it all—Shanks.
Red hair like fire. Smile like mischief wrapped in a legend. He didn't command attention. He drew it, like gravity in boots.
And then—her.
Krishna spotted her in the middle of the chaos. A girl about his age, maybe a bit older, with crimson hair tied into uneven tails and a song hovering on her lips. Not quite singing, not quite silent—just humming to herself as she walked behind the crew, head low, sleeves too long.
His body froze.
That… wasn't right.
"Medha," he thought.
"Subject detected: Uta. Female, age 6. Confirmed match with canonical profile."
"She shouldn't be here. Not now. Not with them."
"Affirmative. Canon deviation logged. Uta's proximity to Shanks predates known timeline events. This is a divergence."
"Have we altered the future already?"
"Possibility: high. Certainty: unquantifiable. Recommendation: monitor and adapt. Canon is now a loose prediction, not law."
Krishna didn't speak. He just watched her. She was walking quietly, not speaking to anyone—except occasionally tugging on Shanks' coat or leaning slightly closer to Benn Beckman when a drunken crewmate stumbled too near.
No one else seemed to notice how her voice softened the air around her.
No one else… except him.
He looked at her the way a time traveler might look at a painting come to life—beautiful, but deeply wrong in its presence.
And yet…
She didn't feel like a disruption.
She felt real.
Shanks entered the bar and greeted Makino with all the charm of a prince disguised as a drunk. "Still the prettiest bartender on this sea," he said, tipping his head.
Makino rolled her eyes, but Krishna noticed the hint of a smile.
Then Shanks looked to his right—and saw Krishna.
Just standing there. Not afraid. Not blinking.
Their eyes met. Something old passed between them. Not recognition. Not quite curiosity either.
More like... weight.
Sheshika raised her head slightly. Not aggressive. Just alert.
Shanks gave a soft chuckle. "Strong neck for a kid."
Krishna didn't reply. But inwardly he was fanboying a bit, after all this was the man who passed on the legacy of his Captain, Gol D. Roger, to Luffy, and set him on the path to become the next Pirate King.
Benn Beckman, walking up beside him, whispered, "That one doesn't act like he's seven."
But Shanks said nothing. He just kept watching.
Later that evening, Krishna was running through stance transitions behind the bar—silent footwork drills from Rokushiki theory. Luffy tried copying him, tripping over his own legs and shouting about it.
Krishna was already outside by the time the Ace and Sabo returned from the forest, their arms full of scavenged firewood and wild herbs. Luffy ran towards them as always, shouting, "KRISHNAAA! THEY'RE BACK!"
Behind him, Ace and Sabo followed at a slower pace—Ace as usual trailing slightly behind, arms crossed, sharp eyes scanning everything.
The bar was bustling. Pirates were drinking, laughing, singing off-key. And in the middle of it all, as if gravity itself bent around him, stood Shanks.
The moment Shanks looked up, his gaze passed right over Luffy and Sabo…
…and froze on Ace.
Just for a breath. A heartbeat.
But for Shanks, it felt like time skipped.
The freckles. The spiky hair. The posture—half defiant, half burdened. It was like staring at the stormy echo of someone he'd sworn he'd never forget.
Roger.
Shanks' heart lurched.
He almost dropped the sake cup in his hand.
Benn Beckman noticed. So did Yasopp and Lucky Roux. But neither said a word.
Shanks schooled his face immediately, and smiled.
Walked forward like nothing had happened.
"You're Ace, right?" he asked, voice warm and easy.
Ace narrowed his eyes slightly. "That's right."
"You give Krishna trouble?"
"Depends. He gives it back."
Shanks laughed. "Good answer."
He extended his hand without a hint of tension. "I'm Shanks."
Ace shook it firmly. "I know."
They locked eyes for a moment. Shanks let it linger. Just long enough for Ace to wonder.
Then he released.
"Whoa! You're the captain?" Sabo cut in, genuinely curious. "You don't look scary at all."
Shanks ruffled his hair. "That's how I fool people."
Luffy was already circling Shanks like a tiny moon, throwing question after question at light speed.
Krishna stood nearby, watching the entire exchange silently. But his eyes flicked once toward Ace.
Ace didn't say anything. But his shoulders were tense.
Something had passed between him and Shanks. He didn't know what—but he felt it.
Later, after the sun dipped and the children had wandered off, Shanks sat alone with Benn Beckman behind the bar.
"You alright?" Benn asked casually.
Shanks let out a breath, looking up at the stars.
"He looks like him," Shanks said. "And he's got that fire. Not Roger's—but his own."
"You sure?"
Shanks nodded slowly. "He's not Roger's ghost. But the world might not see the difference."
"You gonna say anything?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. He deserves a life that's his."
Benn nodded, lit a cigarette, and didn't press further.
And inside the bar, Ace sat across from Krishna, silent, arms crossed.
Krishna broke the quiet. "You felt it, didn't you?"
Ace's jaw tightened. "He knew something."
Krishna didn't argue. He just nodded once.
Ace looked down at the table. "I don't trust him."
"You don't have to," Krishna replied calmly. "But maybe… trust that he didn't say anything, when he could have."
Ace didn't answer. But the silence between them felt heavier. Realer.
And somehow—closer.
Sheshika slithered down the tree behind them and curled gently around Sabo's shoulder, nuzzling his cheek. He giggled, scratching her scales.
Ace flinched the first time, but didn't pull away. "She's creepy."
"She likes you," Krishna said plainly.
"Even creepier."
Later that night, Benn sat beside Shanks on the inn's roof, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.
"You always pick the weird ones."
Shanks didn't answer immediately.
"My intuition said to take the Gomu Gomu no Mi. That same feeling... it says the quiet kid's more than he seems."
"You trusting your gut again?"
"It hasn't failed me yet."
They sat in silence.
Below them, Krishna was still outside, running the same three-step breathing drill he'd been doing for an hour.
"Look at him," Shanks muttered. "He's not training. He's preparing."
The village quieted once the sun dipped past the hills. Children returned home. Lanterns flickered to life. The clamor of pirates dulled to laughter behind closed doors and barrels of rum.
Krishna, meanwhile, finished his evening drills beneath the trees—sweat cooling across his back, legs faintly trembling from the last round of stance holds.
He didn't report his progress to Medha. He didn't need to.
It wasn't a day for breakthroughs.
Just maintenance.
Discipline stacked upon discipline.
After training, Krishna liked to walk.
Not to cool down—he didn't overheat much anymore. It was just something about silence after movement. Letting the world settle while his breath returned to baseline.
That was when he heard it.
A melody.
Soft. Uneven. Not meant for an audience.
It was coming from the woods behind Makino's bar. A voice—young, but not small. Shy, but not weak. Carried by the breeze like it had been waiting for someone to listen.
Krishna slowed his steps.
There—under a crooked tree, surrounded by wild grass and bits of sea-glint shell—sat a girl.
Red hair tied in loose uneven knots. Baggy sleeves. Boots too big for her legs.
She sang like she was letting go of something no one else could see.
His steps faltered. His brows drew together.
Krishna exhaled slowly, gaze never leaving her. She didn't notice him.
Not yet.
When her song tapered into silence, she curled tighter around her knees and stared off toward the sea.
And then she looked up—and saw him.
Their eyes met. Neither moved.
"…You were listening?" she asked. Her voice was calm, but uncertain.
Krishna blinked. His mouth opened, closed. Then, after a beat too long: "Yeah."
"I wasn't spying," he added quickly. "It was... good."
She raised an eyebrow. "Good?"
He winced, then awkwardly looked away. "I mean—beautiful. Honest. I've never heard anything like it."
Uta stared at him. "...You're weird."
Krishna shrugged, and nodded. "Probably."
Something softened in her face—not a smile, but the memory of one.
"You sing?"
"I tried once," he admitted with a straight face. "Nearly choked."
She huffed, half-laughing, and looked away.
Krishna bowed slightly, then turned and walked off—measured, composed.
He made it ten meters into the trees before the calm cracked.
He doubled over, hand on a tree trunk, chest rising and falling like he'd just run a lap.
"Medha," he whispered through tight breath, "is this what it's like to talk to girls?"
"You did fine," Medha replied. "By 'fine,' I mean: socially neutral. Slightly terrifying. Minor poetic damage."
He groaned.
"You didn't say anything wrong. Your tone, however, was flat enough to be legally concerning."
"I forgot how lungs work."
"Anatomically concerning. Emotionally appropriate."
Later that afternoon, Krishna sat outside Makino's bar, sketching breathing sequences on scrap parchment.
Uta sat beside him without a word.
"Can I see?"
He handed the page over without looking up.
She squinted at the lines and notations. "This looks... complicated."
"It is."
"You always train like that?"
He nodded.
"You're weird," she repeated.
"Still probably."
This time, she smiled. Really smiled.
Over the next few days, she found him more often.
Sometimes she sang. Sometimes he listened. Once, he tried to match her melody.
It was awful.
She nearly fell over laughing.
He didn't stop.
From a distance, Shanks and Benn watched them with quiet eyes.
"He doesn't act like a kid," Benn murmured one evening.
"No," Shanks said, sipping from a bottle. "But he laughs like one. That's something."
"You trust your instincts?"
Shanks nodded. "Always."
"What do they say about him?"
Shanks didn't answer right away.
Then, as Uta's humming drifted on the wind, he said quietly,
"That he's holding something back. Not because he's dangerous... but because he's scared of what he'd become if he ever let go."
The next few days was quieter than before, without the usual ruckus from the pirates in the village.
"Is that the same kid who barely speaks?" Benn asked.
"Yup," Shanks replied.
"He's been doing that same routine every morning. Breathwork, footwork, slow striking forms. Alone."
"And calm," Shanks added, narrowing his eyes. "No wasted energy. No showing off."
"Poor kid," Lucky Roux added, biting into a hunk of meat. "He trains harder than some Marines we've met."0
Benn took a drag of his cigarette. "Serious little thing."
Shanks didn't answer. He just watched. He was listening to that old voice in his gut—the one that had never once failed him.
For the next few days, Shanks made sure at least one member of his crew observed Krishna's training. Lucky Roux brought food. Yasopp offered teasing commentary. Benn watched with still eyes.
Krishna never reacted to their presence. He trained like they weren't there.
Not for applause. Not for recognition.
Just... for control.
Krishna ignored the comments and continued the sequence. This was normal now.
On the fourth day, after watching Krishna land a precise one-legged kick followed by a seamless recovery pivot, Shanks finally stepped forward.
But then a new voice joined the scene.
"Mind if I step in?"
Shanks.
Krishna blinked once. "You want to train with me?"
Shanks smirked. "Something like that."
"You learn that from someone?" he asked casually.
Krishna lowered his stance and wiped his brow. "Sort of."
"Want to learn something... stranger?"
Krishna blinked. "Depends what you mean by 'stranger.'"
Shanks grinned. "Haki."
That evening, as the sky turned to gold, Shanks gathered the group outside Makino's bar. The whole crew was there—Yasopp, Lucky Roux, Benn Beckman. Ace and Sabo leaned against barrels. Luffy bounced in place. Uta sat beside Krishna on the stone wall.
Even Makino stepped out, drying her hands on a cloth. Sheshika coiled silently behind Krishna like a shadow, laying her head on his shoulder, her eyes half-lidded but alert.
Shanks stood in front of them, a half-full bottle in one hand and a story in the other.
"Haki's something you don't see. But once you feel it, you can't unfeel it," Shanks said. "It's in everyone, but most people go their whole lives without touching it."
"Sounds like a lie," Ace muttered.
Shanks chuckled. "It would be, if it wasn't true."
"There are three kinds," he continued. "And I've seen people die from not understanding the difference."
He raised one hand.
"First is Observation Haki. It's sensing what's around you—danger, emotions, killing intent. Makes you feel attacks coming before they land."
He glanced at Yasopp. "Want to show them?"
Yasopp gave a one-finger salute and drew his pistol.
The shot rang out. Clean, and fast.
Shanks didn't blink. He moved slightly. Not a dodge. Just… adjustment. The bullet whizzed past his ear without so much as grazing his hair.
Luffy and Sabo gasped. Uta's eyes widened. Ace narrowed his eyes.
Krishna didn't blink. But inside, Medha's voice whispered:
"Signature recorded. Spiritual shift logged. Initiating cross-analysis."
"What did you feel?" Shanks asked, turning to Krishna.
"Your breathing slowed. You exhaled when the trigger was pulled. Feet didn't shift."
Shanks raised an eyebrow. "Not bad."
Krishna nodded.
"Second," Shanks said, "is Armament Haki. It's trickier. You use it to harden your body—or anything you're holding. It lets you strike with real force, even against things that normally can't be touched or harmed. It's about making your will solid enough to shape the world."
"and the Third?"
"Conqueror's Haki," he said, more quietly now. "That one's rare. Real rare. It's willpower so strong it crushes other people's will just by existing. Not something you learn. You're either born with it... or you're not."
He let the silence hang for a moment.
"Any questions?"
Luffy's hand shot up. "Can I learn all three?!"
"No," Yasopp said bluntly.
"Yes," Shanks corrected, "but not overnight."
Uta asked, "How do you know if you can use one?"
Shanks smiled. "You try. You fail. You try again."
Then, more seriously, he looked at Krishna.
"Tomorrow morning. Just you and me. Let's see if you can feel something."
Later, as the group dispersed, Benn Beckman handed Shanks a drink.
"You explained that better than usual," Benn muttered.
Shanks took the cup, sipped. "Had an audience worth it."
"You're watching the boy."
"Mm."
"You think he's gifted?"
Shanks didn't respond right away.
Then, "My gut's never wrong."
"That same gut that stole the Gomu Gomu no Mi?"
Shanks grinned, but his eyes didn't smile.
"That fruit was meant to be stolen. So is he meant to be nurtured."
The next dawn, Shanks stood in the clearing with Krishna.
"Relax," he said. "Close your eyes. I'll walk around. You tell me when I stop moving."
Krishna did as told.
At first, nothing. Then—something faint. A shift in the wind that didn't belong to the trees. A step without sound. An intention without action.
"There."
Shanks froze. "You felt that?"
Krishna opened his eyes. "You moved just enough to strike."
Shanks grinned. "I was right about you."
The next morning, Krishna stood again in the training clearing—this time with Yasopp, Lucky Roux, and a few others forming a loose circle around him.
"Okay, kid," Yasopp said, cracking his knuckles. "No talking. No thinking. Just feel."
"Meaning?"
"Don't worry. Your body will get it before your brain does."
Without warning, a wooden baton arced toward Krishna's side.
He stepped out of range—barely. Instinct.
Then another strike, from the back. He ducked. Another, high and fast—he tilted.
He didn't dodge all of them. But more than he should have.
On the second day, Ace, Sabo, and Luffy insisted on joining.
"Observation what now?" Luffy asked, squinting one eye. "Do I gotta sniff the air or something?"
"No," Krishna replied flatly. "Just breathe."
Uta joined them too, sitting on a barrel with her knees pulled up, watching.
Shanks and Benn stood a few meters back, quietly observing.
For an hour, Krishna repeated the drill—Yasopp threw stones, Roux threw jabs, Benn flicked a coin past his shoulder. Krishna missed some, but dodged more.
Ace was next.
He flinched at the first throw. Missed all the rest.
"Nothing," Ace grumbled, rubbing his cheek. "I don't feel anything. This Haki stuff's a scam."
Sabo tried. Same result. "Are you sure this isn't just a reflex thing?"
"No," Krishna said, adjusting his stance. "It's not about speed. It's about intent."
"Intent doesn't have a sound," Ace snapped.
"Neither does danger," Krishna replied.
Luffy, predictably, was enjoying himself for all the wrong reasons.
"Throw more! Harder!"
He got hit in the face and collapsed, laughing.
Uta shook her head. "It's like he's immune to training."
Later, as they rested under a tree, Ace muttered, "I don't get it. Why does he feel it and we don't?"
Sabo shrugged. "He's weird. He does everything like it's the last time he'll ever try it."
Krishna didn't answer. He just kept breathing, eyes closed.
By the end of the week, during a sparring game with Yasopp, Krishna's breathing hit a strange rhythm. His focus clicked into place. His heartbeat slowed—but his awareness expanded.
He felt it.
Yasopp's body shifted ever so slightly. Krishna moved.
The bullet passed where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier.
He didn't react with surprise. Just looked down at the groove in the dirt.
"Observation Haki," Medha whispered internally. "Beginner-level unlocked. Environmental sensory field stabilized."
Yasopp whistled. "You sure he's not a ghost?"
Benn muttered, "Took me almost two years for that."
Krishna sat down, catching his breath. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, lungs burning from the last dodge.
"How long would it have taken without the recording?" he asked.
Medha's voice replied calmly, ever clinical:
"Your natural talent, spiritual conductivity, and soul-depth indicate projected awakening within one month."
"Shanks' data signature is high-quality. Feeding it into your instinctive layer accelerates outcome. Even without me… you were close."
Krishna let out a breath, arms resting over his knees.
"So… not cheating. Just... bending the curve."
A pause.
"…A lot."
Medha's tone was neutral, but he swore he heard the faintest amusement:
"Efficiency is not dishonor."
He exhaled, quietly.
That night, Benn said to Shanks, "It's rare to see someone so tuned in this young."
Shanks nodded, watching Krishna walk Uta back toward the village lights.
"Yeah," he said. "He's not just learning fast. He's learning like his life depends on it."
Benn lit a fresh cigarette. "Does it?"
Shanks didn't smile this time. "Maybe not yet."
Benn glanced toward the bar, where Krishna sat beside Uta, sketching in silence.
"You think he's that important?"
"I think he's holding something back. Not out of pride. Out of fear."
"Of hurting someone?"
"Exactly."
Shanks exhaled, tossing the blade of grass into the sea.
"And my instincts," he added softly, "haven't failed me yet."
In the days that followed, Krishna trained with them more directly.
Observation Haki became his focus. He watched, he asked questions, he absorbed everything—more from listening than from mimicking.
Uta watched too. Sometimes she joined in. Krishna never questioned it.
Luffy pestered everyone. Ace refused to admit he was having fun. Sabo asked too many smart questions. Sheshika supervised like a stoic guardian deity.
And Krishna—stillness incarnate—grew sharper with each breath.
Time moved like tidewater after that. Quietly, persistently. Almost a year passed.
Krishna didn't mark it in months or weeks—but in repetitions, breaths, sparring sessions, voice harmonies, and the awkward softness that bloomed between stillness and noise.
Luffy had grown bolder, louder, and even more attached to him. Sometimes Krishna wondered if the boy breathed between words. Most days, he doubted it.
Sabo and Ace visited regularly now. Their bond with Luffy had solidified—mostly thanks to Krishna acting as the quiet hinge between them. Sabo respected the bond. Ace tolerated it.
Makino swore the bar hadn't been this noisy in years. She also swore Krishna was growing up too fast.
"You're starting to look like a monk," she said once, brushing his bangs back. "Or a storm trying not to be noticed."
Krishna didn't reply. But he smiled.
Uta had also changed.
She trained beside him now. Not always, but often enough to become routine. Sometimes she'd watch him from a distance, sometimes she'd join in. She never explained why.
He didn't realize she had started sitting closer. Or laughing more. Or that she sang more freely when he was around.
Medha, of course, noticed everything.
"Your emotional perception settings are still underdeveloped."
"She likes you."
"She likes training," Krishna muttered back.
"She likes you."
One afternoon, Krishna sat on the porch with Luffy, whittling a stick into a practice dart while Luffy swung his legs off the edge.
"I'm gonna be a pirate someday," Luffy declared. "A strong one!"
Krishna gave a noncommittal hum.
"Stronger than Ace and Sabo."
He raised a brow.
"And you too!"
Krishna looked at him. "That's a tall order."
Luffy grinned. "I'll eat something cool. Like a legendary fruit. Then you'll see!"
Krishna froze for a breath.
Wait.
Later that night, when most of the pirates were drunk or asleep, Krishna found Luffy slipping toward the ship's storage room. Of course.
"I told you not to wander," Krishna said, following with a sigh.
"I'm not wandering. I'm exploring treasure!"
Krishna didn't stop him. He just made sure he was close.
Inside the treasure room, Luffy's eyes glittered at the sight of gold, strange weapons, and bizarre trinkets. But what caught his attention wasn't shiny—it was weird.
A purplish fruit with spiral ridges. Glossy. Unnatural.
"That looks gross," Luffy said. "Bet it tastes great."
He reached for it.
"Wait," Krishna said quickly. "Let me see it."
Luffy blinked. "Why?"
"I just want to check something. I won't eat it."
Reluctantly, Luffy handed it over.
Krishna took it gently, holding it in both hands. The fruit pulsed with strange energy—like it was alive. Medha activated instantly.
"Devil Fruit signature confirmed. Anomalous energy. Core fluctuation active. Organic-spiritual interface detected."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the data register.
Then handed it back.
Luffy took one look, shrugged, and bit half of it in one go.
Krishna didn't even get the chance to warn him.
"What is this stuff?!" Luffy gagged. "It tastes like garbage!"
He swallowed anyway.
Krishna sighed. "You're unbelievable."
Two seconds later, the door burst open.
Shanks. Benn. Roux. Yasopp.
They all stared at the half-eaten fruit in Luffy's hand.
"You ate it?" Shanks asked flatly.
"Yup."
Silence.
"You ate it?!"
Panic, shouting, and chaos followed.
Krishna stood off to the side, quiet, as the pirates scrambled to make sense of it.
Eventually, Krishna looked at Shanks.
"What exactly is a Devil Fruit?"
There was a moment of pause. Shanks' expression shifted—only slightly—but enough for Benn Beckman, standing off to the side, to glance toward him.
Shanks hesitated. Just for a breath.
Then he exhaled.
Beside him, Benn Beckman tilted his head, watching silently.
Krishna's expression was calm—his wide, dark eyes unreadable, his breathing measured. There was no fear or urgency in his voice. Just curiosity, quiet and precise.
Shanks relented with a small exhale. "They're... cursed, some say. Strange fruits from the sea—or maybe the world's edge. No one really knows where they come from. But eat one… and your body will never be the same."
He leaned back slightly, fingers tapping the wooden table. "You gain a power. Sometimes bizarre. Sometimes terrifying. But in exchange, the sea turns on you. You sink like a stone. Can't swim, can't float. The ocean hates you."
Luffy, who was sitting beside Krishna, froze mid-chew. "WAIT, WHAT?!"
His arms shot up dramatically—then flopped back down as he remembered the food still in his mouth. "I CAN'T SWIM?!"
"Nope," Shanks said flatly, a bit too amused.
Luffy wailed.
Shanks ruffled his hair with a small grin. "Yeah, genius. Should've thought of that before eating a weird glowing fruit from a locked chest."
Krishna's gaze didn't shift. "What kind of powers?"
He turned his gaze back to Krishna.
Shanks raised three fingers.
"There are three kinds," Shanks explained. "At least that we know of."
He raised one hand, counting off on his fingers.
"There are three main kinds. First: Paramecia. They're... weird. One man I knew could split his body into pieces like a jigsaw puzzle. Another could make anything around him sticky. Another turned people to stone with a look."
Krishna didn't blink.
"Second: Zoan. Beast types. You transform—partially or fully—into an animal. Some are simple, like a bull. Others... less so. I've seen a man become a phoenix. Another, a literal dragon."
Krishna felt a quiet shift inside his chest.
Shanks continued.
"And third: Logia. Elemental. They become their element. Smoke, ice, sand, fire. You try to hit them—and your fist goes right through. Unless," he added, tapping the side of his head, "you've got Haki."
Luffy blinked. "So... what am I?"
Shanks smirked. "A rubber ball. A Paramecia. Supposedly."
"Supposedly?" Krishna echoed.
Shanks didn't elaborate. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "It's what the records say."
Shanks looked at Krishna again. "Each type has its own rules. But all of them come with a price. You get power—but your freedom narrows. You lose your ability to swim. Some lose themselves entirely."
Krishna nodded slowly.
"Power without control leads to ruin," he murmured.
Shanks raised his mug.
"To the ones who control it, then."
Luffy clinked his cup of juice against it, wide-eyed and completely missing the point.
Krishna, silently, took it all in—recording not just the facts, but the weight behind Shanks' words.
Krishna didn't say more. But Medha was already working.
"Internal transformation in progress. Body elasticity increasing. Spiritual coherence adapting. Digestive phase complete. Rubber physiology confirmed."
Uta had slipped in during the commotion, unnoticed by most. She was now seated beside Krishna, legs tucked beneath her, her shoulder just brushing his.
She didn't say anything. Just sat beside him, quietly listening.
Shanks noticed.
His eye twitched.
Why is my daughter sitting beside that boy again?
He didn't speak. Didn't interrupt. But his fingers tensed ever so slightly around his glass.
Krishna had no idea.
And Uta?
She leaned in just a bit closer.
The next day, a group of bandits showed up, again.
Krishna was cleaning training mats behind the bar when he heard raised voices again.
The same ones from weeks ago. Loud. Rude. Pushing into Makino's space.
He walked in calmly.
The leader of them, Higuma, raised a bottle, aiming to smash it across Shanks' head.
Krishna caught the wrist before it moved. With his other hand, he gently took the bottle and placed it on the counter.
"Don't," he said simply.
The man sneered. "What's a brat like you gonna—"
"You should respect women."
The man scoffed and lunged.
Krishna stepped left, pivoted, and drove a precise kick under his chin.
The bandit hit the floor, instantly unconscious.
The bar fell into silence.
Then: laughter. Cheers.
Makino clapped her hands to her mouth.
"My hero!" she gasped.
Krishna turned pink instantly.
Uta grinned. "That was really smooth."
"Nice form," Yasopp added. "Ten outta ten."
Medha whispered:
"Impact force: optimal. Chin displacement: clean. Ego inflation: 2.7%."
"I hate you," Krishna muttered internally.
Shanks just laughed, elbowed Benn, and said, "Told you he's preparing."
Luffy, of course, exploded.
"SUGEEE!! DO IT AGAIN!"
The night passed without further disturbance, save for Krishna's cheeks remaining suspiciously pink every time someone brought up "the kick."
But it wasn't until the next morning that something changed.
Uta showed up at the training clearing just after sunrise.
Krishna had already begun his stances, working through breath and motion with silent precision. He didn't notice her until she stepped into the sunlit ring, hands behind her back.
"You're early," he said.
"I was curious."
"About?"
"You," she said simply.
Krishna blinked.
"I want to train," she added before he could say something awkward. "With you."
"I thought you didn't like training."
"I don't," she admitted, shrugging. "But I like how you do it."
Krishna stood still, watching her. He didn't know how to respond, so he said the first honest thing that surfaced.
"I don't really know what I'm doing with people."
"You're... honest," Uta replied, stepping beside him. "You don't act like someone trying to be impressive. You just are."
Krishna looked down at his training staff. "I don't know what to say most of the time."
"I noticed." She smiled, tilting her head. "It's kind of cute."
The staff slipped from his hands, with Medha's voice cackling inside his head.
From that morning on, Uta began showing up daily.
Not out of obligation.
Not for strength.
But because something in Krishna's presence made her feel safe. Heard. Steady.
He didn't try to fix her voice. He didn't talk over her music. He didn't stare when she sang.
He just listened.
And trained.
And existed near her like gravity with gentleness.
Of course, it didn't help that he was... stupidly nice to look at.
His eyes were dark, almond-shaped and patient—like they understood things you hadn't said yet.
His skin caught light like polished bronze, and his hair was so silky it seemed to fall into perfect place no matter how hard he trained.
It was unfair, really.
One morning, when he was meditating with his legs folded and hands resting lightly on his knees, Uta reached out and ran her fingers through his hair.
He flinched slightly, eyes opening.
"What are you—?"
"Do you use anything in it?" she asked, gently fluffing a strand between her fingers.
"I... rinse it with cold water," Krishna muttered, red creeping up his neck.
She laughed. "It's disgustingly perfect. I hate you."
"Emotional resonance detected," Medha whispered calmly.
"She reminds me of Kalindi," she added, almost thoughtfully.
"One of your wives. In the other life."
Krishna tensed slightly, but didn't ask more.
Some moments were too fragile to poke.
Uta told herself she just liked being around Krishna. As a friend.
But sometimes, when he looked at her—calm and steady, without expectation—she felt something she hadn't known she was starving for.
Understanding.
The next day, Shanks sat on the porch railing of Makino's bar, a half-finished drink in hand and one eye squinting toward the field behind the inn.
He watched silently as Krishna adjusted Uta's foot placement during a stance.
He didn't touch her. He never did. Just used a stick to lightly tap the ground by her toes and motioned silently, then stepped back.
Uta nodded, listening attentively. Too attentively.
Shanks took a slow sip, narrowed his eyes.
Makino noticed. "You're brooding."
"I don't brood," Shanks muttered.
"You're squinting like someone's kicking sand in your drink."
He didn't respond.
From the field, Uta suddenly laughed at something Krishna had said—short, soft, and real. The sound hit Shanks harder than he'd admit.
"She never used to laugh like that," he said.
Makino leaned against the doorframe. "She's growing up. And she trusts him."
"That's what worries me," Shanks said dryly.
Later, that evening, Shanks watched Uta sit beside Krishna on the grass, their plates of food untouched for a moment as she asked him about breathing control in combat. Krishna answered, voice calm, posture upright—but with the subtle stiffness of someone trying not to overthink every word.
She leaned in a little when he spoke.
Shanks' eye twitched.
"Something wrong?" Benn asked, nudging him with an elbow.
Shanks kept watching, one brow raised.
"Nothing," he muttered. "Just observing."
Yasopp snorted. "You mean glaring."
"Didn't glare."
"Your hand's tightening around your mug."
Shanks looked down. It was true.
"She's still a kid," Shanks said after a pause.
"So is he," Benn replied.
"He's too calm."
"He's a monk with social anxiety. Let it go."
"I am letting it go."
"You're scowling."
Shanks sighed, rubbed his temples. "Fine. I'm letting it go. But if he touches her hair again, I'm cutting his training ration in half."
Yasopp leaned back, grinning. "Dad mode activated."
Despite all that, Shanks said nothing to Krishna.
But every time Uta sat too close or laughed a little too brightly, he sipped his drink a bit slower.
Watching.
And praying, silently, that his daughter had good taste.
Which—unfortunately—she did.
The training had become a rhythm.
Krishna would lead quietly. Uta would follow beside him, attentive and steady. Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he didn't. But every movement, every breath, carried the same precision she admired from the first day she saw him move.
She didn't need words to enjoy his presence.
But she could feel eyes on her back.
Again.
Later, as she sat beside Krishna under the tree near the bar, he was explaining the principle of "stillness before speed," using a flat stone and a leaf in his palm.
Uta wasn't even pretending to hide her smile. "You make everything sound important."
He looked away slightly, ears tinted pink. "It is important."
Then she looked up—and caught it.
Her father, sitting across the yard. Drink in hand. Staring.
Not openly. Not angrily. But watching. That narrow squint. The twitch in his cheek.
He tried to look away too late.
Uta turned back to Krishna, who was now trying (and failing) to pretend he hadn't noticed her looking.
She leaned in just slightly and whispered, "My father thinks you're trying to steal me away."
Krishna stiffened. "Wh—what? I— No—I wasn't—"
"I know," she said with a grin. "That's why it's funny."
He stared at her, then sighed through his nose. Then why is he watching us like I'm planning something?"
"Because he's a dad," Uta said simply. "And dads are weird."
That night, Shanks passed by her at the porch, plate in hand, pausing only long enough to say: "You've been spending a lot of time with the quiet one."
Uta didn't miss a beat. "He's nice. He listens. You don't."
Shanks blinked.
She walked past him and called back over her shoulder, "And he has better hair."
Behind her, Shanks stared into the middle distance for a moment.
He touched his hair, then muttered, "This is what betrayal feels like."
And somewhere behind the laughter, the training, and the teasing, the world continued shifting—quietly, steadily—around a boy who never asked for attention, but was slowly becoming the reason everything changed.
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic dreamers!
This chapter was quiet—but don't mistake quiet for empty.
Chapter 4 is the pressure beneath the stillness. No explosions, no flashy power-ups, no new titles. Just weight. Relationships shifting. Tensions tightening. Emotional scars starting to itch.
This is the chapter where Krishna stops being an observer of the world and begins to shape it—through awkward kindness, restrained fury, and the kind of still presence that makes people lean closer without knowing why.
Uta's arc here? Yeah, that's one of my favorites so far. She doesn't "fall" for Krishna—she recognizes him. And that matters. He doesn't impress her with flexes or speeches. He just listens, and that's enough. (Also yes, Shanks is totally running on 100% Protective Dad Instinct. My man's intuition is doing squats.)
Shoutout to Medha for clocking emotional developments before Krishna does. Again.
And Luffy? Fully committed to chaos. 10/10 energy. "Let me shout while you sneak" is peak baby pirate energy.
This is the calm before the storm. The breath before the leap. And yeah, Krishna's just getting started.
If you felt something—anything—drop a rating, a review, or just scream "OM SHANTI" into the narrative ether.
We keep walking. One breath at a time.
—Author out.
(Still monitoring Shanks' blood pressure.)