Ten months had passed since the Red-Hair Pirates dropped anchor in Foosha Village.
What once felt like the arrival of gods now felt… routine. Shanks' crew had become part of the village's rhythm—louder than the tide, hungrier than the goats, and somehow still welcome in Makino's bar even after breaking her ceiling beam twice. Children no longer gawked at their coats and swords. Adults just waved and moved on. They weren't legends here.
They were locals.
But Krishna?
Krishna had changed.
Where once stood a boy with a storm in his chest and no ground beneath his feet, now stood someone heavier. Firmer. A boy still, yes—but his body bore the quiet bruises of someone being sharpened, not just trained.
It had been one month since he unlocked Observation Haki—his senses blooming outward until he could feel life itself humming in a thirty-meter radius. Not just presence. Emotion. The flex of muscle before motion. The twitch of a liar's eye. The subtle difference between a raised fist and a clenched heart.
Shanks called it mastery.
Krishna didn't. Not yet.
But it was enough.
Enough for Shanks to nod after one particularly sharp spar and say, "You're ready for the next one."
They met just after sunrise, in a clearing swept clean from a dozen mornings of drills. The grass refused to grow back, and the air still held the bite of dawn mist.
Krishna stood shirtless—skin darkened by sun, hair damp with sweat, arms lined with faint marks from wooden blades and blunt blows. His breathing was quiet. Measured. Ritual.
Shanks cracked his knuckles, rolling one shoulder like a man preparing to spar with fate itself.
"Time to sharpen the blade," he said.
He stepped forward—and his fist moved like thunder.
Krishna barely raised his arms before it hit.
It wasn't just an impact—it was a weight, a pressure that filled the world for a split second. Krishna flew back five feet, feet skidding, legs absorbing just enough to avoid collapse. The shock rippled through his bones. Not pain. Just density.
Medha's voice pinged calmly in his mind:
"Impact: within tolerance. Internal bruising: minor. No fractures. Adrenaline buffering active."
Krishna rose without dusting himself off.
Shanks raised an eyebrow. "Observation wouldn't save you from that one."
"I didn't intend it to."
Shanks grinned wider. "Good."
They paused. Benn tossed Krishna a flask. He caught it mid-air without looking, drank deep, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. No words.
Shanks stepped closer, his voice settling into a tone reserved for serious lessons—the kind that stayed under your skin long after bruises faded.
"You've learned to see," he said. "But now you learn to withstand. Armament Haki isn't about hardening your skin. It's about hardening your will. Coating your spirit until it becomes part of your body."
Krishna nodded once. His expression didn't change, but his fists had curled slightly.
Not in tension—in readiness.
"It's not about armor," Shanks continued. "It's about conviction. Punching with a belief so strong the world feels it."
Krishna's breath deepened.
"I'm ready."
"No holding back," Shanks warned.
"I insist on it."
"Recording Armament Signature: Red-Haired Shanks," Medha whispered.
"Quality: Tier S. Likely pre-Future Sight Adjacent. Analysis window opened."
"Feedback loop complete."
"Armament Haki Awakened: Initial Coating Layer stabilized.
Projected natural awakening time: 2 months.
Accelerated completion: 14 days.
Time remaining until Shanks' departure: 1.5 months."
The training began.
It wasn't cinematic.
It wasn't fast.
It was grinding.
Shanks, Benn, and sometimes Yasopp rotated in—delivering precise, punishing blows. Krishna was forbidden to dodge. Every motion had to meet force with will. His legs adapted, arms redirected. His spine became an anchor.
They didn't count hits.
They counted standing time.
By day three, his arms no longer flinched before impact. By day five, his palms blistered but never slipped.
He caught strikes like they were responsibilities.
When Makino brought him water, he drank without complaint.
When Sheshika coiled nearby, he didn't even glance.
Pain became irrelevant.
One morning, it rained.
They trained anyway.
The mud dragged his footing, the wind masked movement, but Krishna still stood, still blocked, still absorbed.
By the ninth day, he began catching the strikes.
Redirecting the flow.
Letting it pass through bone and breath and resolve.
It wasn't strength. It was acceptance.
On the tenth day, Benn came in high with a spinning elbow—and Krishna stepped in.
His hand met the strike, and for the briefest second, a dark shimmer danced across his skin.
Armament.
It vanished just as quickly.
Benn stepped back slowly. "...He's close."
Yasopp gave a low whistle from the tree stump. "Kid's turning into iron."
Shanks didn't smile this time. He just folded his arms and nodded once. "Now we harden it."
That evening, Krishna sat alone in the clearing. His knuckles were wrapped, fingers trembling faintly. His shoulders slumped. But his back remained straight.
His body ached—not like it had been broken, but like something inside had fused under pressure.
Like a bone set straight through fire.
He held his hand out in front of him. Open. Quiet.
"Feedback loop locked," Medha murmured. "Adaptation threshold reached. Armament efficiency increased 14.2%. You're syncing faster now."
He didn't respond.
He just exhaled.
The air felt thicker. Not heavier. Fuller.
As if the world itself had gained mass, and he'd learned to hold it without collapsing.
"I can feel the world pressing back," he whispered.
A faint rustle.
Sheshika stirred beside him, her coils loosening from rest. She watched him in profile for a long moment, her golden eyes reflecting starlight.
"That means it's listening," she said, voice low, reverent.
He glanced at her, tired but grounded.
"Does that mean I'm ready?"
Sheshika didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she pressed her head gently to his shoulder.
"Not ready," she said at last. "But becoming."
And somewhere beneath his ribs—beneath the silence and strain and sweat—a new foundation had clicked into place.
Like the first brick of a fortress.
Uta had started showing up every morning.
She never announced it. Never asked to join. Just appeared—at the edge of the clearing—arms crossed, staff in hand, hair tied back with that red ribbon she always claimed she didn't care about.
Krishna didn't know what to do with it.
He was used to Luffy's loud enthusiasm, Sabo's sharp questions, and Ace's borderline hostility during sparring. Uta, though?
Uta just… trained. Quietly. Consistently. And always beside him.
It made him nervous.
Medha, of course, noticed immediately.
"Her heart rate increases when she's near you," she said cheerfully during one spar.
"Do you think she's registering chakra fluctuations or romantic confusion? I could run diagnostics—"
"No," Krishna muttered under his breath, just loud enough for only her to hear. "Don't make it weird."
"You make it weird. I'm just observing patterns. Very cute patterns."
Krishna missed a block and nearly got cracked in the ribs.
Yasopp, who had been supervising that day, laughed from a distance. "Eyes on your opponent, kid! Not on the girl!"
Krishna turned red from the collarbone up.
Uta didn't say anything. But Krishna could feel her smirking.
That morning, they moved through blade forms side-by-side. Krishna's wooden sword traced long arcs through the air, each motion flowing into the next. Uta kept just behind him—light-footed, silent, mirroring him like a shadow with better posture.
"Synchronized breathing," Medha noted in his ear. "Adorable. You should ask her to calibrate your rhythm sensors next."
Krishna grit his teeth. "She's just copying my forms."
"Or maybe you're finally in sync with someone. Emotionally. Spiritually. Hormone-ly."
"That's not a word."
"It is now. I coined it for you, lover-boy."
Krishna stumbled slightly on a step. Uta glanced at him sideways, catching the flicker of confusion in his eyes, and raised one eyebrow like a silent joke had just landed. He looked away immediately.
He knew he was awkward. That much was clear. He didn't stammer, didn't freeze—but he fumbled emotionally. His timing was always off. Compliments came out wrong. Gestures felt stiff, too much or too little.
And worse than anything—he wanted connection.
But it scared him.
The idea of hurting someone—really hurting them, not with fists but with silence, missteps, or unspoken weight—froze him in place more than any enemy ever could.
He didn't know how to love without fearing damage.
That morning, they were practicing footwork drills—Krishna moving through increasingly complex forms with Uta mirroring beside him, her movements lighter, more rhythm than technique.
She stumbled on a tight pivot.
"Back heel's too high," Krishna said automatically.
Uta rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Captain Precise."
She tried again. This time she nailed it.
Krishna offered a nod. "That was… better."
She glanced sideways. "That's your version of praise?"
"I don't…" he trailed off.
"Careful," Medha whispered. "You're nearing emotional honesty. Brace for social awkwardness."
"I don't really know how to… compliment people. Properly."
Uta smirked. "You're doing fine. For someone who trains like he's got a snake watching his every move."
He blinked.
And then, despite himself, smiled.
She liked that about him.
He didn't try to impress her. Didn't puff his chest or pretend. He just was—awkward and quiet and strangely respectful in a world full of loud boys who always wanted something from her.
Uta had been wary of Krishna at first. Most people either feared her voice or tried to possess it. But Krishna hadn't even mentioned her singing… until the day she caught him humming the tune she'd whispered to herself in the woods.
"You heard that?" she'd asked, startled.
Krishna had gone pink. "You… have a very beautiful voice."
She'd blinked. "You really think so?"
"Yes," he said, and then, after a beat too long, added: "Objectively."
"Oh my god," Medha had sighed. "You've committed romantic seppuku."
Shanks watched from across the clearing, seated beside Benn with a mug of morning tea.
He didn't say anything. But his brow was creased.
"I'm not gonna say it," Benn murmured.
Shanks grunted. "Good. Don't."
"She's laughing. With him."
"I said don't."
Benn took a slow sip. "He's not a bad kid."
"He's too calm. It's suspicious."
Benn nodded. "Right. Because calm people are dangerous. Unlike, say… pirates?"
Shanks muttered something unintelligible and glared harder at the two kids doing synchronized footwork.
That night, at the bar, the teasing began in full.
Yasopp slapped Krishna on the back hard enough to jolt him forward in his seat. "Hey, our golden boy's got a sparring partner now! You two doing Haki drills or heart drills, eh?"
Krishna choked on his stew, sputtering.
Makino smiled faintly as she wiped down glasses.
Ace, who usually didn't engage in this sort of thing, raised an eyebrow. "You're really popular with other emotionally stunted people, huh?"
Luffy nodded sagely. "She sits so close. That's a mating ritual, right?"
Krishna buried his face in his bowl, and briefly considered teleportation as a life skill.
"Wedding's probably next week," Lucky Roux called from the bar. "Dibs on best man!"
"I'll handle the cake," Yasopp added, raising his drink. "Snake-shaped. Obviously."
Krishna muttered something inaudible.
Benn Beckman leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette with a click. "Sure, sure. There's nothing happening. Same thing Shanks said in Water 7, right before the noblewoman punched him in the mouth."
Uta, pretending to stretch, smirked. "Wow, it's so loud in here. Can't hear over all the insecurity."
Krishna looked like he wished Conqueror's Haki could delete him from existence.
"Statistical analysis complete," Medha teased. "You are now officially 89% blush."
Later that evening, Shanks leaned against the doorframe of the bar, watching Krishna and Uta finish cooldown drills in the moonlight. Their movements were slower now—less sparring, more flowing—like music performed without an audience.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
It was that quiet rhythm between people who didn't quite understand what they were building, only that they kept showing up to build it anyway.
Shanks frowned.
He didn't like it.
Not because Krishna had done anything wrong. In fact, that was part of the problem. The boy was polite. Reserved. Too quiet. Too thoughtful.
Too much like him.
Yasopp slid up beside him, holding a drink. "You're watching those two like a hawk watches a snake."
Shanks didn't respond.
He kept his arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.
"She spends more time with him than with us now," he muttered. "She used to sing for the crew. Laugh at Lucky's jokes. Now she just follows him around with those big eyes and—"
"And what?" Benn asked, appearing on the other side of him like smoke.
"She's… growing attached."
"And that's a bad thing?" Benn asked mildly.
"It's dangerous," Shanks said flatly. "He's not normal."
"Neither is she," Benn said.
Shanks didn't argue.
Instead, he watched Uta smile at Krishna as she corrected his sword grip—gently, without ego.
"She used to smile like that at me," he muttered, too quiet for most to hear.
Yasopp blinked, then looked away politely.
Benn sighed. "You're not afraid of Krishna, are you?"
Shanks didn't answer for a long time.
Finally, he said, "No. I'm afraid of what comes for boys like him. The ones born with power and purpose before they're old enough to carry either."
He took a long drink, then set the mug down too hard.
"Men like that don't stay in safe harbors."
Lucky Roux strolled over, grinning as always. "You're mad because she's acting like you did when you met that noble girl in Loguetown. Remember?"
Shanks' eye twitched. "We don't talk about Loguetown."
At that exact moment, Krishna walked past, toweling off his face. "What happened in Loguetown?"
Shanks didn't look at him.
"Training's at sunrise," he said flatly. "Bring two wooden swords."
Krishna nodded, slightly confused, and kept walking.
Yasopp choked on his drink, shoulders shaking. "That poor kid has no idea."
The bruises stopped bothering him after the first week.
The real pain came after—when the skin healed but the fatigue remained buried deep, like rust clinging to the marrow. It wasn't pain that made Krishna slow down. It was grind. That slow, crushing inertia that built over time.
Every morning before dawn, Krishna stood barefoot in the dirt. The wind still sharp with salt, the air cool against his skin.
Hands wrapped in thick cloth, muscles twitching from the day before.
And every day, the strikes came harder.
Shanks, Benn, Yasopp, even Lucky Roux when he felt mischievous—none of them held back anymore. This was the pact they had all agreed on.
No training wheels.
No mercy.
Just pressure.
Armament Haki had come two weeks in.
Not as an explosion. Not as a scream of will.
It arrived quietly, the way a callus grows from repetition.
A strike landed on Krishna's forearm, but something pushed back.
Not muscle. Not strength.
Density.
A shimmer, almost invisible, flickered along his knuckles.
"Wait," Yasopp muttered, lowering his bow. "Did you—?"
"Yep," Benn said without blinking. "He felt it."
Shanks crossed his arms. "Let it come slow. Don't force it."
"Armament Haki detected," Medha reported later that night.
"Stage 1: Surface Coating achieved. Internal compression: stabilizing."
"Natural awakening estimate: 2 months. Achieved in 14 days via feedback acceleration."
"New learning protocol: closed-loop refinement. Shanks' haki signature is now your base feedback source."
Krishna didn't smile.
But something in him steadied.
Armament Haki was the opposite of Observation.
Observation was listening. Receptive. Feeling everything without trying to control it.
Armament was pressure.
A stance. A refusal to be moved.
Krishna stopped dodging. Stopped flinching. He met the strikes now.
Every blow became an opportunity to shape himself.
Every missed block became a puzzle.
Makino stopped bringing water halfway through the sessions. Krishna didn't take breaks anymore.
Sheshika sat curled at the edge of the clearing most mornings, her head resting on one loop, golden eyes watching silently.
When Krishna trained, the world narrowed.
It wasn't spiritual.
It was technical.
Posture. Balance. Contact point. Mental focus.
Over and over until it stopped being training and became truth.
Ace, Sabo, Luffy and Uta trained nearby, sparring in pairs, dodging foam weapons and slingshot bolts. They watched Krishna from the corners of their vision—watched him absorb hits, catch strikes with his palms, redirect them with small but deliberate steps.
They saw the change before he did as they watched him.
At first out of curiosity.
Then confusion.
Then awe.
"He's not fighting anymore," Ace said, watching Krishna take three consecutive hits and respond with a palm strike that made Benn grunt.
Sabo frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He's enduring. That's different."
Krishna didn't hear them.
He only heard breath.
His own. His opponent's. The wind between their steps.
He could feel the exact moment before a strike landed—the shift in intent, the ripple in will.
Not from Observation. Not anymore.
From instinct honed into expectation.
The world was no longer something to defend against.
It was something he could push back on.
On the eleventh day, Shanks switched to both hands.
He'd fought Krishna single-handed until then—out of caution, out of tradition.
But not anymore.
Everyone noticed.
"Ready?" Shanks asked.
Krishna nodded. "Don't hold back."
The clash was short. A handful of seconds.
Shanks came in high.
Krishna stepped forward—absorbed the hit on his forearm, let it roll through his body, and returned it with a shoulder strike that knocked the wind from Shanks' lungs.
Not enough to stagger him.
But enough to make Shanks pause.
He blinked. Then grinned.
"Didn't expect that."
Krishna's knees trembled—but he didn't show it.
Shanks raised a hand. "Again."
They went again.
And again.
They kept going for another thirty minutes.
Krishna's vision blurred. His legs wobbled beneath the stance, but he didn't fall.
He never fell.
He stepped forward one last time, parried a low swing, countered with a raised knee—and then stopped.
Mid-motion.
His arms locked.
His back held firm.
His legs trembled, but didn't move.
"Krishna?" Shanks asked, brow furrowed.
Nothing.
No answer.
No collapse.
Just stillness.
His stance was perfect. His spine upright. But his eyes were unfocused.
Medha spoke softly, as if even she respected the moment:
"Neural activity falling. Consciousness: suspended. Muscle rigidity: locked. Exhaustion limit reached. He's… standing while unconscious."
Benn crossed the field first, crouched beside Krishna and examined his face.
"He's out," he said, almost in disbelief. "But he's not falling."
Yasopp gave a slow, impressed whistle. "He passed out mid-stance?"
Ace's eyes narrowed. Sabo's mouth parted.
Luffy stared like he'd seen the birth of a legend.
Uta stopped walking mid-step, eyes wide.
Makino, watching from the porch, covered her heart with one hand.
Even Sheshika rose slightly, body tense.
"Don't touch him yet," Shanks said quietly.
Everyone froze.
He walked forward, stopped a foot away, and studied the boy—his student, his storm.
"Let him have this," he whispered.
Krishna remained unmoving.
A statue of bone and sweat and will.
Shanks finally exhaled.
"Now that… is resolve."
Krishna didn't wake for hours.
They carried him carefully—still locked in posture—to the small room behind Makino's bar, the one he'd quietly claimed without ever asking. Benn and Roux laid him down like a soldier, not a boy.
He didn't stir.
His arms stayed half-tensed until Sheshika coiled around his torso and exhaled a gentle hum, loosening the knots.
Medha's voice was steady, clinical, but quieter than usual:
"He's not hurt. No neural shock. Just… drained. Think of it like a soul cramp."
Makino sat beside the bed, brushing sweat-matted strands from his forehead and replacing the damp cloth.
"He's so stubborn," she whispered. "Just like Garp. Only quieter."
Sheshika said nothing. But one of her loops rested protectively over Krishna's chest, rising and falling with his breath.
Near midnight, the door creaked.
Uta entered slowly, her steps soft, posture tentative. The flickering oil lamp cast her shadow against the wooden walls like a silhouette caught between sleep and guilt.
She didn't speak at first.
She just stood there, looking down at him.
Krishna's brow was furrowed, even in unconsciousness. His fingers twitched—still locked in a half-fist, like his body couldn't let go of the training.
"You idiot," she whispered.
Her voice cracked.
She sat beside him on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, back to the wall. Her gaze never left him.
"I didn't think you'd push yourself that far. You always act like you're made of stone, but… you bleed too."
Silence answered.
So she hummed—a soft tune, nothing planned. Just something warm to fill the space.
Sheshika, recognizing the melody, relaxed further and didn't interrupt.
Uta stayed until the horizon turned pale.
Chaos erupted with the sun.
Yasopp burst through the doors yelling, "They're gone!"
Boots thundered. Benn's voice barked orders. Makino's serving tray hit the floor.
Sheshika lifted her head, tongue flicking once—and hissed.
"Status update," Medha said sharply. "Uta and Luffy missing. No exit logs. Tracking uncertainty: high."
Krishna's eyes snapped open.
There was one moment—one second—of disoriented calm.
Then panic.
He tried to sit up. His body screamed in protest, muscles stiff and overheated. His head spun. Sheshika moved to stabilize him, but he was already dragging himself upright.
"What happened?" His voice was hoarse, low, sharp.
"They were here last night," Makino said, her face pale. "Now they're gone. Just—gone."
Benn tossed him his cloak. "No signs of struggle."
"Initiating forensic protocols," Medha intoned. "Scent trace. Footprint residuals. Wind trajectory. Confirmed exfiltration westbound—toward the coast."
Sheshika whipped her head toward the sea.
"The sea," she hissed.
Krishna was already moving.
He ran.
Past the bar. Down the hill. Beyond the village path, past the well and toward the cliffs.
Every step lit his nerves on fire. Muscles screamed. Joints crackled. But his feet never stopped.
By the time he reached the cliffside, his breath was already ragged.
There—just past the horizon.
A ship.
Small. Uneven. Already drifting into the pale morning fog.
Medha's voice clicked in again:
"Distance: 800 meters. Speed: sail wind. Identification: 87% match—Higuma's vessel."
"Condition: 62%. Muscle fatigue at critical. Oxygen capacity: halved. Proceeding not recommended."
"Override," Krishna muttered.
"Override accepted."
The nano-machine suit surged to life beneath his skin.
He didn't hesitate.
He dove.
The water hit like a slap.
Cold. Deep. Merciless.
But Krishna kept moving.
His arms sliced through the surf, legs pumping with mechanical rhythm. The nano-lattice adjusted for drag, amplifying muscle output just enough to prevent collapse.
Every kick, every stroke felt like dragging chains—but he pushed. Arms burned. Lungs throbbed. But he pushed.
He had no backup plan.
No clever strategy.
Only two names in his head, pounding like war drums: Luffy. Uta.
Every few strokes, Medha whispered stats he tried not to hear:
"Oxygen efficiency: 72%."
"Cognitive drift: manageable."
"Pain suppression: engaged."
But it wasn't the numbers that drove him forward.
It was the image in his mind—Uta's hand clutching the side of his shirt during training. Luffy laughing with food stuffed in his mouth.
They weren't just kidnapped.
They were his.
Halfway through the swim, the voices started.
Drifting from the ship.
Faint. Ugly.
"…gonna get a fortune for that girl's voice, I swear. Sell her to the opera freak in New Marineford. He likes 'em young and scared."
"…that rubber kid? Put him in a sideshow. Stretch his arms for laughs. Maybe a circus'll take him."
Krishna stopped.
Just for a second.
The sea churned beneath him, but he didn't move.
Something inside him pulled taut.
Not snapped. Strained.
Like a rope looped around his soul, holding too many weights, stretched so thin a single scream could tear it apart.
His fingers curled underwater.
His vision blurred—not from exhaustion, but fury.
Sheshika's voice whispered in his mind:
"Don't break. Channel it."
He inhaled sharply.
And kept swimming.
The ship loomed closer.
He reached its side—barely visible above the swell—and clung to the wood like a ghost clinging to the edge of the world.
Medha dimmed his suit systems.
"Stealth engaged. Vital dampening active. Prepare for boarding."
Krishna climbed silently, every movement measured.
He slipped onto the deck like a shadow.
No one noticed him.
Yet.
He crouched behind a stack of barrels, peering through the gaps.
There.
Tied up. Bruised. Gagged.
Uta and Luffy. Huddled together.
Alive.
Luffy's eyes met his—and widened.
"Krish—!" came the muffled shout.
Krishna winced.
The nearest bandit turned.
Krishna melted into the shadows.
Sheshika, concealed in the mist just off the port side, hissed in his mind.
"I'll distract. Get them."
"No killing," Krishna replied silently.
"Then I'll hurt."
They were on a timer now.
The rope inside him… was about to snap.
Krishna waited until the patrolling footsteps passed.
Then he moved.
Silently. Cleanly. Every step measured. Every breath controlled.
He reached the mast's shadow and signaled once. Sheshika surged from the sea like a ribbon of ink, slithering up the side with eerie grace. Her tongue flicked once—confirmation.
Krishna slipped behind the next crate and reached them.
Uta's eyes widened, but she didn't cry out. Luffy nearly did—but she nudged him, hard, before he could ruin everything again.
Krishna pulled a blade—small, carved, nothing special—and severed their bonds in two cuts.
"You alright?" he whispered, kneeling.
Luffy nodded. Uta didn't answer.
Krishna glanced at her—her wrists red and raw, her cheek swollen, a tear trailing from one eye that hadn't even fallen yet.
His jaw clenched.
"I'm getting you out."
"No," Uta whispered suddenly. "We go together."
Krishna nodded once. His voice remained low.
"Stay behind me. Luffy—hold her hand. Run if I say run."
"But I can fight!" Luffy whispered indignantly.
"Then protect her."
They moved.
They reached the outer deck before—
"There!"
A bandit stumbled out of the galley, shouting.
Blades drew.
Krishna exhaled once.
"Go," he whispered.
Luffy grabbed Uta's hand and ran. She followed without protest.
The bandits surged forward.
Krishna didn't wait.
He launched forward, meeting the first with a knee to the ribs. The second swung a plank of wood. Krishna ducked low, sweeping the legs out from under him and slamming his heel into the falling man's temple.
Sheshika coiled from above, dropping like a serpent from legend. Her tail whipped out, catching two more squarely in the chests, sending them flying over the rails.
Screams echoed.
Krishna kept moving.
He didn't care who was behind him. Only who stood between him and safety.
Then Higuma appeared.
He stood near the helm, sword drawn, face twisted into a sneer.
"Well, well," he said, gripping Uta by the hair as she stumbled past. "Thought you'd be smart, did you?"
Krishna froze mid-step.
Luffy skidded to a stop too. "Let go of her!"
Higuma didn't even look at the boy. He backhanded him instead, sending Luffy flying into a crate—and over the side.
"LUFFY!" Uta screamed.
Krishna saw the impact—the sound of Luffy hitting the water—and something inside him strained.
He moved without thinking.
Dove straight off the side.
The sea swallowed him whole.
He reached Luffy in seconds—arms flailing, body heavy. Rubber or not, the boy couldn't swim.
Krishna clutched him tightly and turned to find the boat—his mind spiraling.
"Medha—status—"
"Oxygen 41%. No backup route. No reinforcements detected."
Sheshika roared from the deck above, rage filling the sky.
Then Uta screamed.
A sound Krishna had never heard before—raw, wounded, ripped from her soul.
"You think you're special?" Higuma sneered from above. "You're a freak. Your voice is a curse."
He yanked her by the hair again.
The rope snapped.
Not in the world.
Inside Krishna.
That final, thin strand—straining all morning—gave out.
A pressure surged outward.
It didn't feel like rage.
It felt like collapse.
Like a dam breaking inward.
Like a void pulling the world into its center.
And then—everything went still.
On the ship, every bandit dropped to their knees.
Some screamed.
Some clutched their heads.
Others passed out where they stood.
Sheshika coiled tighter, her body glowing faintly with suppressed divine energy, shielding Uta from the worst of it.
Higuma took a half-step back, his sword clattering to the deck. His mouth moved, but no sound came.
In the water, Krishna's body surged with that pressure.
"Conqueror's Haki detected," Medha said flatly. "Initial burst: 1.2 seconds. Collapse imminent."
He held Luffy to his chest.
He couldn't breathe.
His vision faded.
Even his heartbeat felt distant now.
He whispered something—he wasn't sure what.
Maybe a prayer.
Maybe an apology.
Then everything darkened.
A shadow moved in the deep.
Fast.
Hungry.
A Sea King burst from the depths—massive, scaled, fanged. Drawn by the burst of Haki and the flailing bodies in the water.
Its jaws opened.
Krishna didn't even flinch.
But Luffy screamed.
Then—
And then a blur of red slammed into the water.
Shanks.
Blood. Water. Foam.
He landed between them and the beast—arm already gone.
He held Krishna and Luffy both in one massive arm, blood trailing from his shoulder like a banner.
The Sea King hesitated.
Then Shanks looked at it.
The air cracked.
The beast recoiled.
Shanks' Haki rolled out like thunder.
The Sea King turned—and vanished beneath the waves.
On the deck, Sheshika was already mid-leap.
She landed beside him, coiling around the wound, compressing the artery, her fangs sinking into the flesh with precision to slow the bleed.
In the next moment, Krishna felt arms around him. One of them strong. The other—absent.
His vision swam.
Then—
"KRISHNA!!"
Luffy's voice broke through the haze, full of panic and something deeper. Loss.
He grabbed at Shanks' coat, tears already streaming. He didn't even care that he was soaked, that the salt stung his eyes, that the water clung to his lungs.
Shanks knelt on the beach, shirt already soaked through with red.
His left arm was gone.
Krishna, half-conscious, lay slumped against his chest.
And Luffy?
Luffy clutched at Shanks' side like a child lost at sea.
He buried his face in his captain's shirt and cried.
"Your arm!!"
Shanks said nothing at first.
He simply looked down at them—one in each arm. One sobbing. One barely awake.
His face was calm.
Resolved.
"It's just an arm," he said at last, voice low but steady. "You two are safe. That's all that matters."
Luffy shook his head. "It's not okay! It's not—"
"I said it's fine," Shanks interrupted, gently ruffling Luffy's hair with what hand he had left.
Then he looked at Krishna, still weak in his grasp.
"You did good," he murmured. "You held the line."
Krishna's lips moved, but no words came.
His eyes fluttered.
And then closed.
Luffy didn't stop crying.
He clung to Shanks like the world had cracked.
Sheshika coiled around all three of them, shielding them with her warmth, eyes glowing faintly as she tightened her grip around Shanks' bleeding shoulder—preventing the worst of the loss.
No one spoke.
The ocean was still again.
And the boy who had once only dreamed of being strong—
Now cried for a man who gave up everything, not to win, but to protect.
The world felt quieter the next day.
Not peaceful. Not healed.
Just... quieter.
Krishna awoke in Makino's room—body sore, nerves twitching, lungs heavy with memory. Medha's interface was dimmed, but her voice returned the moment his eyes opened.
"Neural stability: recovered. Cortisol levels still elevated. Sleep depth: inadequate."
He groaned softly and sat up, ribs aching.
"Luffy? Uta?"
"Both safe. Minor bruises. Emotional trauma: considerable. You were unconscious for twenty hours."
Krishna slumped back against the pillow, exhaling slowly.
His arm trembled slightly.
That burst of Conqueror's Haki had taken something out of him. More than strength. It was as if part of him had been squeezed—wrung out like cloth—just to keep Luffy breathing, just to keep Uta from crying again.
He'd saved them.
But the cost…
His eyes drifted to the door.
Makino entered a minute later, tray in hand.
Chicken broth. Rice. Pickled vegetables.
The moment she saw he was awake, she exhaled relief through a tight smile and walked over silently. She didn't scold. Didn't praise.
Just fed him.
One spoonful at a time.
He didn't resist.
Halfway through, she placed her hand on his.
"You scared me," she said softly.
He didn't reply.
Later, on the porch, he found Sheshika curled in the sun. She lifted her head when she saw him, flicked her tongue once, and exhaled slowly—her version of a sigh.
"I thought I'd lost you," she murmured, nuzzling his hand.
"I thought I'd lost me," Krishna replied.
A pause.
She tilted her head. "...It's begun, hasn't it?"
He looked at her.
That invisible war. The thing no one else could see.
The burden of power. The weight of will. The threads of destiny stretching thin.
He nodded. "Yeah. I think so."
The village remained tense that evening.
Makino didn't open the bar.
The Red-Hair Pirates had docked their ship quietly. No fanfare. No music. Just footsteps.
Luffy clung to Shanks like a shadow. He followed the captain from place to place, not talking, just... being there.
Krishna watched from the rooftops as Shanks knelt beside the boy once again, ruffled his hair gently, and smiled—quiet and soft.
He couldn't hear what they said.
But he didn't need to.
He saw it in the boy's eyes.
The moment Luffy's soul set on fire.
Later, when night fell and the lanterns were lit, a soft knock came at Krishna's door.
He opened it.
Uta stood there, hair still wet from a bath, eyes puffy, but not afraid.
She didn't speak right away.
Instead, she reached out—and touched his hair again.
"Still perfect," she muttered. "I hate you."
Krishna blinked. "Is that your version of a thank you?"
"No," she said. "This is."
And then—without drama, without warning—she hugged him.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't loud.
Just two kids who had come too close to something terrible... and made it out together.
"I'm glad you came," she whispered.
"So am I," he answered.
That night, Krishna sat outside under the stars, cross-legged, eyes half-closed.
Sheshika lay beside him, tail flicking faintly, coiled in protective silence.
Makino had long gone to sleep. The village was quiet. Even the Red-Hair Pirates had retreated into subdued laughter and soft music by firelight—quieter than usual. As if honoring something sacred that had passed.
Krishna didn't join them.
He breathed slowly, letting the night air cool his skin and the weight on his chest.
"You were supposed to be a training chapter," Medha said dryly in his mind. "Instead, we got abduction, Haki awakening, near-drowning, and amputations."
Krishna smiled faintly.
"You did good," Medha added, quieter now. "You saved them."
"I didn't save them," Krishna said. "We survived. There's a difference."
Medha's voice came again, quieter than usual.
"You used it."
He nodded.
"Conqueror's Haki. Early stage. Volatile. You barely held on."
"I know."
"Do you regret it?"
He was silent for a long moment.
Then: "No."
Another beat passed.
Then Medha said something he didn't expect:
"I'm proud of you."
He blinked.
But she didn't elaborate.
Another silence.
Then:
"So what now?"
Krishna opened his eyes. Black skies. Bright stars.
"I start building," he said quietly. "The body I'll need. The path I have to walk."
He stood up.
Opened his interface.
Typed it himself:
New Project Created
> MARTIAL GOD BODY // CORE PATHWAY
> Status: Awaiting Blood Source
Medha didn't respond for once.
And that was how he knew—
She was proud.
Krishna exhaled.
The journey had begun.
Not with glory.
But with pain, sweat, and the quiet resolve of a boy who refused to let the world break.
Even when it tried.
And so the storm passed.
Not without cost. Not without scars.
But something new had taken root beneath the bruises—something stronger than pain, deeper than survival.
A quiet promise.
That if fate would not give him peace, then he would forge a body capable of withstanding its every war.
Not a warrior gifted by the gods.
But one built, cell by cell, with the fire of one who refused to kneel.
Author's Note
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic dreamers!
This chapter was a turning point—and not just for Krishna.
This was where the story cracked open.
Where all the cozy training and banter finally met blood, consequence, and the weight of real protection. And like many of you guessed, this is where Krishna begins to evolve beyond just a reborn genius—into a legend in the making.
I tried my best to preserve Luffy's iconic Sea King moment while still making space for Krishna's own arc. This chapter was a delicate dance between canon homage and original soul—and I hope I did it justice.
To everyone who said, "When will the stakes rise?"—they just did.
And they're only going higher from here.
If you felt something, if this hit any part of your soul, then drop a review, send a shoutout, or just scream "OM SHANTI" at your wall like a lunatic.
We're only getting started.
—Author out.
(Medha's sarcasm levels now at 98%. Send help.)