Disclaimer:I don't ownOne Piece.
If I did, I'd be legally obligated to brag that I own peak.
All rights belong to Eiichiro Oda — I'm just a humble sinner writing mythic fanfiction in his shadow.
Support the official release. Always.
This story may contain:
Mild existential crises.
Unexpected mythological breakdowns.
Bikes faster than your GPA recovery speed.
Flutes played with more emotion than your last breakup.
And one suspiciously silent protagonist who absolutely, definitely, is not smiling.
All emotional damage is self-inflicted. All enlightenment is optional.
Side effects include spontaneous philosophy, violent brotherly love, and sudden cravings for justice.
You've been warned.
Enter at your own karma.
...
A/N:
Special Thanks to all of my amazing readers.
Your reviews give me more motivation than a hundred cups of Sengoku's coffee. No matter how my day's been—good, bad, or a total Marineford-level disaster—seeing your thoughts and feedback always lifts my spirits and keeps me writing.
This is to all the people who take their time to read my story, vote for it, favorite and follow it, thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart. Your support means everything.
—Author
...
The world's greatest fortress did not roar, it hummed.
A low, relentless vibration—a kind of pressure that lived in the bones of Marineford, the Marine Headquarters G1. From the outside, it looked like something built by gods who'd forgotten what mercy was, white stone archways taller than the tallest trees of East Blue, walls so thick even legends could only guess what lay beneath, watchtowers that glimmered like cold eyes beneath a sky streaked with the blood-orange promise of dusk.
Krishna stood at the shadow's edge, not quite inside, not quite out, the kind of presence that neither guards nor walls could truly define. He said nothing, moved nothing, yet every sense in him uncoiled—like a serpent waiting for silence to breathe.
Behind him, Garp ambled forward, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his dog-faced cloak, a grin stretched so wide it seemed to mock the very idea of seriousness.
"Welcome to the heart of justice, brat," Garp rumbled, voice carrying without effort through the broad parade ground that lay just inside the gates. "Try not to break anything for at least five minutes. Sengoku gets cranky."
The guards on duty—young, disciplined, and quietly terrified of the man beside Krishna—snapped salutes so sharp their arms trembled. Krishna's eyes flicked across them, uniforms crisp, boots polished, rifles at the ready, but beneath it all, nerves thrummed, the ever-present awareness that here, every mistake could be fatal, every glance a test.
The scale of the place was not just in its stone, but in its rhythm. He heard it all—the slap of marching boots, the whistle of the wind off the Red Line's scarlet cliffs, the guttural laughter of a distant patrol, the creak of an anchor being raised on a warship whose cannons gleamed like rows of teeth in the dying sun.
And beneath that, the tension, the order, strict and absolute, the casual strength of men and women forged by the world's hardest sea. To stand here was to know you were less than the sum of these walls—unless you could become something more.
...
A single step—measured, silent—Krishna entered the threshold. He walked like a shadow that knew every stone's secret, the kind of movement that was not Soru, yet could have been, refined beyond even the Marine six forms.
Sheshika, his divine serpent, coiled with languid confidence at his side, every golden-white scale catching what little light filtered through the archways. She radiated an aura that even the most battle-hardened Vice Admiral would pause at—a primal, mythic warning hidden beneath beauty.
On Krishna's opposite side, Megakshi, his peacock companion, strutted forward with an elegant arrogance only true power could justify, tail feathers shimmering with blue and green fire. Marines paused to stare, one dropped a stack of papers, forgetting rank, protocol, and even gravity for a moment.
Only Krishna heard Medha's whisper, a voice that existed not in the air, but in the circuitry of his own mind and in the subtle psychic threads that connected him to Sheshika.
"Security matrix active. Two vice admirals on the west tower. Cipher Pol lurking in the shadows near the records building. Surveillance snails: seventy-four active, four down for maintenance, one... watching you, Krishna."
He blinked once, slow. "I know."
Sheshika flicked her tongue, amused. "They fear you already."
Krishna did not smile, nor did he allow even a flicker of arrogance to mar his face. Instead, he listened—first to the fortress, then to the men within it, and finally to the memory of why he had come. The air was thick with history, the blood of pirates, the screams of the innocent, the laughter of heroes, and the secrets only stone could keep.
For a moment, the gates seemed to close behind him—not in sound or motion, but in certainty. This was no longer the world he knew, this was the world that made the rules.
...
Garp strode ahead, ignoring the ripple of nervous glances that followed in his wake. He grinned at the watchtower guard, who nearly tripped over his own saber, then bellowed, "Don't mind us! Just bringing the most troublesome brat in the world to meet the old men. Try not to faint."
A wave of nervous laughter swept across the courtyard, quickly drowned by the barked orders of a captain who didn't dare meet Krishna's eyes.
As they moved deeper into the compound, Krishna's senses expanded, not in obvious ways but in layers—each detail mapped, each face cataloged, each whispered rumor spinning itself into the web of information Medha silently wove.
Above them, the Red Line glowed with the last red-gold rays of the sun, a reminder of the world's divisions and the power that flowed from suffering. Krishna felt it all—each heartbeat in the fortress, each ounce of suspicion and hope, and, far above, the chill of something far darker.
"Impressions?" Medha's voice was softer, less analytical.
Krishna's answer was wordless, more sensation than thought. Strength, pride, fear. All balanced, all one step from chaos.
Sheshika wound a little closer to his ankle, her presence as much comfort as shield. "You walk into a den of lions, my prince, but do not forget—sometimes, the lion fears what it cannot see."
He nodded, silent agreement.
...
The first test came before the training ground—a trio of lieutenants standing stiff-backed, hands resting on the hilts of their sabres, eyes flicking from Garp's smile to Krishna's calm.
"Identification," the lead demanded, voice cracking on the last syllable.
Garp rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle he didn't sprain something. "That's Krishna. The one Sengoku's expecting. If he's not on the list, then your list is wrong."
One of the younger lieutenants swallowed, met Krishna's gaze, and looked away almost instantly. "Of course, Vice Admiral Garp. This way, please."
Krishna said nothing. He offered no bow, no salute, only the calm confidence of someone who had long ago mastered the art of walking invisible through the heart of power. He could have vanished with Tārakā Gati—Soru refined, Stellar Motion that blurred the line between reality and memory—but here, every step was a statement.
They passed through a corridor hung with banners of past glories, the walls lined with portraits of the greatest marines: Garp—The Hero of The Marines, Sengoku—The Buddha, Tsuru—Great Staff Officer, even Aokiji—The Marine Admiral's stoic face carved in stone. Krishna studied each, reading not just the triumphs but the wounds, the flaws, the ghosts that haunted eyes used to looking down at the world from above.
Medha offered a thought, sharp and clear, "None of them smile like Garp."
...
The air changed as they reached the central plaza. Here, the fortress showed its heart—a space where order and chaos circled each other like dancers, where the laughter of marines on break collided with the silent watchfulness of officers who never truly relaxed.
Megakshi let out a soft, imperious call, spreading her tail feathers. A gust of wind caught the iridescent plumes, scattering flecks of color across white marble.
A pair of captains, older men with faces lined by salt and war, murmured to each other.
"Who brings a peacock into Marineford?" one whispered.
The other shrugged, "If you heard what the boy did in East Blue, you'd let him bring a sea king."
Krishna caught the words, allowed himself the barest nod—a private acknowledgment. Every eye was drawn to him, but none could truly see him. His aura, restrained but immense, hovered just beneath perception—a tide waiting for the moon.
Sheshika's coils brushed against the marble. "They respect strength. But they understand power only when it's shown."
"Not yet," Krishna whispered. "Today, I observe."
...
The sky deepened to indigo as night crept in, lanterns flaring to life on every wall, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with the restless wind. Krishna and his companions were led to a guest wing, overlooking the central training ground and the distant, blood-red cliffs of the Red Line.
From this vantage, Krishna watched the movements below, squads of marines running drills, officers arguing over paperwork, Cipher Pol agents melting in and out of sight. The fortress was a living thing—its heartbeats the drills, its dreams the thunderclouds massing on the horizon.
Inside the room, Sheshika coiled by the window, eyes reflecting starlight. Megakshi perched atop the wardrobe, silent sentinel, tail feathers folded like the wings of a dream yet to be dreamt.
Only Krishna could see Medha, her form flickering as data streams and geometric patterns, blue-white light pulsing with gentle intelligence.
"Status?" Krishna's voice was low, for Medha alone.
"No threats inside. Admiral Kuzan in his office, Sengoku and Tsuru reviewing battle reports. Cipher Pol movements anomalous, but not yet aggressive. Security snails watching you, but you are not the primary subject of interest. Yet." she replied, her voice laced with curiosity.
Krishna's gaze never left the window. "And Garp?"
"Already in the mess hall. Third bowl of rice, two pies, one brawl already in progress." she giggled, amused by the old mans antics.
A faint smile ghosted Krishna's lips—gone before it could grow.
He shifted, pressing his palm to the cold stone. Through his senses, the fortress revealed itself, the vibration of steel in its frame, the hum of a hundred Den Den Mushi, the tangled pulse of a thousand lives, each with hopes and regrets. Above it all, the pressure of justice—an idea so vast that even the strongest here bowed before it.
For a moment, Krishna let his will drift, brushing against the deeper currents. He sensed the order, but also the undercurrents of fear—fear of failure, fear of pirates, fear of the darkness that even the World Government could not name.
And then, above all, he sensed the sea, wild, indifferent, eternal. A reminder that every fortress is only as strong as the world allows.
Krishna sat at the edge of his bed, body perfectly still, mind alive with observation.
Sheshika slithered across the floor to his feet, head raised. "You are restless."
"I am awake," Krishna said.
Medha materialized beside him, her digital form shimmering. "You are cautious."
"I am alive," Krishna answered, words simple but infinite.
Megakshi watched from the wardrobe, silent, as if waiting for a verdict.
Krishna's hand closed around the hilt of memory—a fragment of the past, a promise to himself. He had entered Marineford not as a weapon, nor as a supplicant, but as a question the world could not yet answer.
Tomorrow, he would face legends. Tonight, he was content to watch, to learn, to wait.
The fortress breathed around him, vast and unsleeping.
Krishna allowed his own breath to sync with the slow pulse of stone, his senses merging with the unseen patterns of order and chaos. Out there, somewhere in the night, destinies shifted.
He listened for the sound of thunder, the promise of change, the weight of his own shadow at the gates.
...
Night deepened. The fortress breathed and Krishna listened.
He sat unmoving at the window's edge, gaze fixed beyond the floodlit marble and disciplined order of Marineford—upward, toward the night-shrouded heights of the Red Line. The fortress was a nest of iron and order, but beyond, rising like a wound on the world itself, was something far older and crueller, the Holy Land, Mariejois. The Celestial Dragons' paradise, fortress of the "gods," and the world's most exquisite cage.
Outside, Marineford's lights flickered as officers finished their final drills and the night-shift began. Yet within Krishna, the silence thickened into something electric—an intuition honed by divinity, pain, and purpose. He let his eyes close, not to sleep but to see deeper. To feel beyond the fortress, past stone and steel and flesh.
Sheshika stirred at his feet, as if sensing the gathering storm inside him. Megakshi flared her feathers, a ripple of iridescence against the moonlit darkness. Medha's digital form hovered at the edge of perception—barely a whisper in the aether, but woven so tightly into Krishna's mind that her presence was a second soul.
Krishna exhaled. He let go of the physical, reaching out with his will—past the clamor and discipline of the Headquarters, up, up, up, to the very heart of the world's order.
He extended his Observation Haki further than ever before. At first, it brushed only the familiar, the fatigue of Marine recruits dreaming uneasy dreams, the restless minds of Cipher Pol agents pacing the inner halls, the wary alertness of Garp somewhere in the mess hall, grinning at another foolish marine who dared challenge him to a food eating contest.
But Krishna pressed on. His senses spiraled upward, snaking through the invisible highways of will and fate, clinging to the walls of the Red Line as if he could physically scale that impossible height by force of mind alone. He ascended, searching—not for power, but for truth.
And as he reached the spiritual skin of Mariejois, his mind struck a tide of sensation so raw and violent that he nearly recoiled.
The arrogance hit first—a heavy, poisonous confidence, thick as perfume, pouring from the shining palaces above. Krishna could taste it, a thousand Celestial Dragons and their kin, all convinced of their own invincibility, their birthright. Their thoughts were syrupy, lazy, spoiled and cruel. They looked out at the world not with awe or gratitude, but with a casual expectation that everything beneath them existed to be used and discarded.
Yet behind the arrogance, Krishna felt another current—a rotten, anxious thrum. Fear, buried deep beneath centuries of entitlement, crawling through the corridors of Mariejois like a parasite. The "gods" were haunted by something only they could feel, the unspoken dread that all thrones are temporary, and that justice, sooner or later, comes for everyone.
...
Deeper still, Krishna found pain—a thousand streams of agony, winding through the stone and marble like rivers of fire. He tasted suffering—not abstract, but painfully real, the ache of chained hands, the groans of those who had long since forgotten their names, the sharp, shivering terror of children stolen from their homes and broken into property.
He heard the cracks of whips, the prayers of mothers, the silent howling of men whose tongues had been cut out. Suffering so normalized that the Celestial Dragons did not even register it, except as background noise—a lullaby of power. Krishna felt the misery as if it were his own skin.
And then came the hopelessness,the sense of entire lives ground beneath the weight of tradition and power, each soul extinguished until only memory remained. The slaves of Mariejois—unseen, uncounted, un-mourned. Their agony radiated like a silent scream across the world, echoing off the Red Line and back into the sea.
But Krishna sensed something else—a flicker beneath the despair. Rebellion. The secret hope, fragile as a spark, that somewhere, someone would break the chains.
The force of it almost broke him. Rage, hot and immediate, surged up in his chest—so powerful it made his breath catch, his fists clench. His Sovereign's Will, so long banked beneath discipline and silence, bled out into the world in a way that was as natural as it was unstoppable.
The air itself thickened. Outside, marines on patrol paused, suddenly short of breath, their knees going weak as if a giant hand pressed upon their lungs. A dozen men stumbled. A few fell, clutching their chests, gasping. The Den Den Mushi monitoring the wing flickered, images distorting under the pulse of the invisible force.
Inside Krishna's room, the tension became palpable. Sheshika's coils tightened defensively around his ankle, her golden eyes narrowing as if preparing for a storm. Megakshi's feathers bristled, a living barrier of beauty and threat. Medha's digital form flickered red at the edges, signals dancing as she recalibrated to the growing psychic pressure.
...
Down in the mess hall, Garp set aside his rice bowl mid-bite. He stared up, brows drawn, as if listening for thunder that had not yet sounded. He knew this feeling—the taste of a will so strong it bent the air. He'd felt it in Alvida's defeat, when Krishna's presence had swept through a battlefield and left men weeping or speechless. But now it was more—sharper, darker, infused with a fury Garp recognized all too well.
A memory rose, vivid as lightning at midnight. He saw Krishna again—not the quiet boy of today, but the one who had stood with him at the edge of that wild, wind-lashed cliff, back before their journey began. The sky had been torn open by stormclouds, the sea beneath raging against the rocks. Krishna had faced him, gaze steady, eyes smoldering—not with light, but with something deeper, a heat that burned cold and clean.
"I am vengeance." Krishna had said then, voice quiet but ringing with promise. There was a fire in his eyes—a flame not for destruction, but for justice, a righteous fury, for all that the world had stolen and twisted.
Garp had seen that fire before. In men who fought for something larger than themselves. In heroes, and sometimes in monsters.
Now, as the storm built again, Garp wondered which the world would call Krishna when the reckoning finally came.
"So the brat feels it," he thought, both proud and troubled. "He's looking at the world's truth and not flinching. But can he hold it in?"
Inside the room, Medha's voice echoed in Krishna's mind, trembling at the edges, concern bleeding into her voice as well as fear, not for him, but what might he do to the world.
"Warning. Heart rate spiking. Neural pattern: Anger. Blood pressure rising to dangerous levels. Emotional threshold approaching rupture. Krishna—control it. Don't burn yourself out."
Sheshika lifted her head, fixing Krishna with an unblinking gaze. "Do not become what you hate, Krishna."
Megakshi hopped from her perch and pressed herself against his side—silent, but solid as a shield.
Krishna fought for control. His Rage was a living thing now, pressing at his bones, demanding expression. He saw the faces of those suffering on the Red Line, felt the echoes of their dreams and deaths. The Celestial Dragons' fear and cruelty, the slaves' agony, the world's indifference—it all pressed on him at once.
He wanted to shatter something. To scream. To tear the heavens open and drag down the "gods."
...
But even in this fire, Krishna's discipline was forged.
He recalled the teachings he had etched into his soul—"He who conquers his own mind is the true master." The words of the Gita, spoken in his mother's voice, flickered through his memory.
He closed his eyes. He drew breath. He gathered the flames inside, not to extinguish them, but to bank them—like a smith saving heat for the sword yet to be forged.
Slowly, his presence shrank back—still hot, still dangerous, but caged by will.
Outside, the air started to ease. Marines straightened, blinking in confusion at the sudden return of breath. A few exchanged nervous glances. The officers, more experienced, made mental notes. Some sent coded reports—"Anomalous spiritual pressure detected in the intern quarters." The whispers would begin soon.
...
In Krishna's room, the silence returned. Sheshika relaxed, her scales gleaming once more. Megakshi's feathers settled. Medha's form re-stabilized, shifting back to cool blue.
But the feeling did not leave Krishna. It burned in him—a Righteous Fury, a holy refusal to accept the world as it was. He knew the Celestial Dragons would sleep safely tonight, never feeling the pain they caused, never fearing justice except as an abstract idea. The slaves would cry themselves into oblivion. The world would keep turning.
But not forever.
Sheshika pressed her snout against Krishna's hand. "You did not let it control you."
Krishna nodded, a silent vow in his eyes. "Not today. But one day, I will make them see."
Medha's voice, gentle now, drifted into his mind. "Not through rage alone, Krishna. Change requires patience—and the wisdom to strike at the root, not the leaves."
He accepted it. He could not afford to burn himself out, not here, not now.
...
From the corridor came a hesitant knock. It was Sheshika who answered, flicking the door open with her tail. Medha, invisible to all but Krishna and Sheshika, flickered protectively between the door and her chosen ones.
It was Medha who scanned the intruder—an unassuming young ensign, trembling beneath the weight of the moment, and the pressure from moments before. He stammered, "Vice Admiral Garp asks if you're… alright. He said to tell you, uh, not to blow up the base until after breakfast."
Sheshika snorted. Megakshi regarded the ensign as if judging whether to peck his hat off.
Krishna offered a single nod, his voice a deep and steady whisper. "Thank you for informing me. Tell the Vice Admiral I am well. And that the storm has passed."
The ensign bowed—nearly tripping over Sheshika's coils in his hurry to escape—and disappeared into the hall.
For a moment, the only sound was Megakshi's low, musical coo.
...
Krishna stood. The world outside had shifted, subtly, in response to his will. He looked out the window, gaze tracing the path his Haki had taken—up the fortress, over the training fields, across the Red Line, into the heart of the world's greatest injustice.
He pressed his palm to the cool glass, feeling the hum of power and oppression from above.
"Someday," he murmured, "I will tear down their heaven and build something new, something people can look up to and not feel fear."
Sheshika pressed herself against his leg, silent solidarity. Medha floated at his shoulder, her digital hand resting just above his heart.
Megakshi fanned her feathers, a promise in living color.
Krishna breathed in the pain, the rage, the hope. He would not let it control him. But neither would he forget it.
The flame was banked now, hidden beneath calm. But it was there—waiting, patient, unbreakable.
He sat once more, cross-legged on the floor, letting silence return. The fortress outside was unchanged, but inside, Krishna was never the same.
He had touched the edge of the world's wound and refused to look away.
...
The night crept onward, heavy with secrets. Krishna found himself drifting—not to sleep, but to a place between thought and will, where the boundaries of self and world dissolved.
In that stillness, he reached for his mother's voice again, for the lessons that had carried him this far.
"Anger is not the enemy, Krishna. Only surrender to anger is defeat."
He let the lesson settle deep within. When he opened his eyes, they were bright as dawn.
He had seen Mariejois. He had felt its agony, its arrogance, its fear.
He was not afraid.
...
The world slept, but Krishna did not.
He sat in darkness, spine straight as the mast of a ship braving storm tides, breath so slow it barely stirred the cool night air. The fortress of Marineford pulsed with its thousand routines, footsteps, whispered conversations, the tick of Den Den Mushi. But all these passed by the chamber where Krishna made himself smaller than silence, more patient than stone.
Sheshika's body encircled his feet, a silent coil of living gold. Megakshi perched at the window, every feather folded, gaze sharp but calm. Medha's presence shimmered only for Krishna and Sheshika, a web of blue-white light that flickered in time with Krishna's slowing heartbeat.
He did not reach for power,he reached for discipline.
His eyes closed—not in retreat, but in return. His focus dropped inward, to the living depths of his own flesh and spirit. Here, there was no audience, no test, no need to prove anything to the world. The only battle was the one fought nightly in the dark, the mastery of self.
A memory rose, neither sharp nor sweet:
"From anger, delusion arises, from delusion, loss of memory, from loss of memory, destruction of intelligence,and from destruction of intelligence, he perishes."
—Bhagavad Gita 2.63
He let the words fill the silence, weaving through his nerves like cooling rain on fevered skin.
...
He summoned the Kāya Kalpa Sūtra—Scripture of The Eternal Body Refinement—not as a technique, but as a discipline, a scripture written into the marrow of his being. He breathed in, feeling the air trace the passage from nostrils to lungs, lungs to heart, heart to blood. He became aware of every vessel, every shifting cell, the endless work of flesh that went unnoticed by all but the dying or the ascetic.
"A person who has conquered himself is greater than one who conquers a thousand men in battle."
—Bhagavad Gita 6.6
He began the nightly ritual—not to fight, but to harmonize.
He slowed his pulse, guided blood away from the tension in his temples, eased the adrenal surge left by rage. With a single thought, he triggered a cascade. Muscle fibers unwound, lactic acid dissolved, cortisol ebbed. The aches of the day—the microscopic tears and strains, the bruises beneath skin and memory—were acknowledged, then soothed.
He extended his awareness deeper, finding the engine of his hunger, the churn of his stomach, the slow, determined grind of his liver and kidneys. He listened to the dialogue of hormones, the dance of insulin, leptin, adrenaline, and melatonin. Each system, a nation of billions of cells, obeyed his silent command.
Where anger had kindled fire, he drew water. Where fury threatened to sear, he called wind and space.
He practiced pain conversion, breathing out the residue of suffering, breathing in focus. Each exhalation a letting go, each inhalation a promise to endure.
...
His thoughts wandered, as they always did in the first hour. The image of Mariejois still haunted his mind, the arrogance above, the agony below. It would have been easy to let rage burn uncontrolled, to let it justify action.
But Krishna remembered—
"There is neither this world, nor the world beyond, nor happiness for the one who doubts himself."
—Bhagavad Gita 4.40
Doubt and anger were siblings, both turning vision inward, making a prison of the mind. He could not destroy the world's chains if he was chained by his own fury.
He used Jīvana Mūla Sūtra—Scripture of The Living Root—the evolved form of Semei Kikan—Life Return. He reached into the roots of his nerves and spirit—where pain from old battles with himself, the disappointment in himself and the world, and memory clustered.
He found the knots of trauma, places where the world had struck him so hard the echo remained. But instead of turning away, he opened those wounds, letting them breathe.
Each trauma was compartmentalized—not denied, but sorted, set aside for gentle processing. Old fears, ancient disappointments, the sorrow of seeing children broken in chains—all these he catalogued, neither clinging nor rejecting.
He understood what it meant to be wounded and not broken.
"Man must elevate himself by his own mind, not degrade himself. The mind is the friend of the conditioned soul, and his enemy as well."
—Bhagavad Gita 6.5
...
His mind, left undirected, wanted Vengeance. It wanted to strike, to burn, to scream for justice. Krishna did not deny these urges. He met them, accepted their reality, but did not let them rule him.
He realigned his posture, rolling his shoulders with the subtlest of motion—a gesture invisible to any but the keenest observer. Vertebrae settled, muscles relaxed. He flexed the deep muscles of his abdomen, guiding his diaphragm lower, expanding the capacity of his lungs. He drew in more oxygen, slowed the rhythm of his heart.
He began a silent chant—
"Anger is the enemy of wisdom. He who has let go of anger has peace."
His body obeyed, the rituals of Kāya Kalpa Sūtra—Scripture of The Eternal Body Refinement—bringing first relief, then order, then silent power.
He directed his awareness to his immune system, tracing the lines where white blood cells gathered, where infection and inflammation hid. He whispered a command—rest here, repair here. Muscle knots eased, even the smallest tear was marked for restoration.
He allowed a single thought:
"As a lamp in a windless place does not flicker, so is the disciplined mind of a yogi."
—Bhagavad Gita 6.19
His body became the lamp, his mind the windless shrine.
...
He reached deeper still, activating the full depth of Jīvana Mūla Sūtra—Scripture of The Living Root—the evolved form of Semei Kikan—Life Return. In this state, the mind was not just a commander—it was a healer, a keeper of secrets, a gardener tending the roots of life itself.
He called up memories of every lesson, every hardship. Each was stored, not repressed—he had learned, in the silence of hardship, that trauma not processed becomes the enemy. But trauma, when honored and compartmentalized, became fuel for transformation.
He created rooms within himself, a chamber for anger, a chamber for sorrow, a chamber for love lost and found. Each was visited, each was respected.
"The mind acts like an enemy for those who do not control it."
—Bhagavad Gita 6.6
He would not let his mind become enemy.
He shifted the distribution of energy, lowering his core temperature, slowing the rate at which his cells consumed oxygen. He entered a state of wakeful hibernation, a trance so deep even the most advanced medical scans would mistake him for sleeping or nearly dead.
Yet every part of him was alive, aware, awake.
...
Sheshika watched, silent approval in her ageless eyes.
Megakshi, sensing the drop in external threat, shifted into a deeper, feathered rest, her head tucked under her wing.
Medha's avatar flickered at the edge of Krishna's vision, monitoring neural signals, endocrine shifts, and the beautiful dance of homeostasis. Medha spoke only to Sheshika, her voice a soft digital echo,
"He has entered the root scripture. Processing anger through compartmentalization. Restoration efficiency optimal. No danger."
But Krishna did not hear her. He was deep in the sanctum of self—a place beyond distraction, beyond pain.
He listened for the final whisper of anger, the last embers of rage. He did not smother them. He let them rest—fuel for the next dawn, not the coming night.
He recalled:
"He who is able to withstand the force of desire and anger, even here before giving up the body, is a yogi, he is a happy man."
—Bhagavad Gita 5.23
He wondered if happiness was possible for someone like him. But he let the question drift away—there was work yet to do.
...
Hours passed. The fortress beyond his window shifted from darkness to the faintest blue of predawn.
Krishna's body had not moved, but inside, every cell was reborn. Toxins processed, trauma sorted, anger distilled into resolve.
He rose, not with drama, but with the certainty of someone who had faced the hardest battle—the one within—and chosen mastery.
He opened his eyes. The world was quiet, and so was he.
A final thought, softer than breath:
"Let a man lift himself by his own self alone, and let him not lower himself, for this self alone is the friend of oneself, and this self alone is the enemy of oneself."
—Bhagavad Gita 6.5
He was ready for whatever dawn would bring.
...
Dawn arrived in a hush of silver light, brushing the fortress with a pale, forgiving glow. Krishna opened his eyes, slow and unhurried, the last fragments of meditation dissolving into quiet readiness. His body felt impossibly light—each muscle restored, each thought in order, every ember of last night's fury banked beneath still waters.
He stood, silent as a shadow, and Sheshika uncoiled to glide beside him, a living echo of his serenity. Megakshi ruffled her feathers and hopped from her perch, joining the procession with a soft, iridescent shimmer. Medha faded from perception, her presence folded quietly into the digital ether, watching as Krishna crossed the threshold from his room to the waking world.
He walked the long corridor toward the open parade ground, every step a study in perfect balance. Marines on early patrols paused mid-step, their fatigue vanishing in a ripple of instinct. Something about Krishna—his poise, the utter quiet of his presence—forced a hush as tangible as a winter wind. Conversations died. Salutes stuttered. More than one recruit, barely awake, moved instinctively aside, unsure why the path suddenly seemed narrower.
A group of junior officers, clustered by the mess entrance, parted before him without a word. Even a Vice Admiral—Momousagi—Gion herself—hand resting idly on her sword, stiffened as Krishna passed. For a moment, her blade almost cleared its sheath. Then, recognition dawned, and her hand relaxed, confusion flickering across her face before she managed a respectful nod.
Garp was waiting by the main entrance, arms folded, grin half-formed—until he saw Krishna approach. The usual hurricane of laughter and bluster stilled, just for a heartbeat. Garp studied the young man's eyes—clear, untroubled, the storm utterly spent.
For an instant, even legends hesitated.
Krishna bowed his head in greeting—calm, composed, as if the night's trial had never occurred. He carried no trace of rage, no burden of turmoil. Only quiet strength, distilled and whole.
The morning belonged to him, and to the new day.
...
The sun climbed above the Red Line, spilling pale gold over Marineford's endless courtyards. Krishna's new uniform draped over his forearm, he followed Garp's rolling stride up the gleaming steps to the command tower. The world's strongest fortress was just beginning to stir—drills echoing on distant stone, breakfast lines forming, seagulls circling lazily in the brightening sky.
But here, at the top floor, where the air thinned with reputation and pressure, even the seabreeze seemed to hesitate. The thick wooden door to the Fleet Admiral's office loomed ahead—tall, ancient, bearing the scars of a hundred generations of Marine legends. It was a symbol, a threshold, a warning.
Garp barely broke stride. He grinned sideways at Krishna—a conspirator's smile—and with a single, joyful stomp, he kicked the door clean off its hinges. Wood and iron crashed sideways with a splintering thunderclap, ricocheting down the polished marble corridor. A flock of startled Den Den Mushi in wall-mounted boxes blinked as if scandalized.
"Why use a door when you can make an entrance?" Garp announced to the world, his laughter booming in the chamber like the arrival of a storm.
Krishna, perfectly calm, stepped over the fallen door. If Garp was a typhoon, Krishna was a breeze—silent, balanced, his eyes drinking in every detail. The contrast was so stark that even the ancient paintings along the walls seemed to notice.
...
Inside, the office was a microcosm of the world's balance of power.
Sengoku the Buddha—Fleet Admiral, justice incarnate—stood by his desk, white-gold cap angled just so, eyes sharp behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. His uniform was immaculate, his goatee precise, his aura that of a man whose patience was legendary—and yet whose temper could end wars. He turned, golden eyes narrowing as he assessed the latest disaster to befall his office door.
Kuzan, Admiral Aokiji—towering, laid-back, perpetually half-awake—sprawled in a battered armchair in the corner, long legs dangling, justice coat draped carelessly over one shoulder. His afro was slightly squashed, and a blue sleep-mask dangled from one ear. He looked, in this moment, like a student who'd wandered into the wrong exam room and decided to nap until it all blew over.
Tsuru, the Great Staff Officer—tall, elegant, hair swept back in a silver bun—stood by the conference table, arms folded, mouth set in a line equal parts amusement and exasperation. Her uniform was crisp, adorned with her iconic red scarf and sword at her side. She looked every bit the legendary tactician, the kind of woman who could silence a riot with a look—and who often did.
Medha's voice, a private shimmer in Krishna's ear, giggled, "Best morning show in all the seas."
Sheshika, looped around Krishna's shoulders in regal coils, let her tongue flick out, the ancient serpent unimpressed by the so-called wisdom on display by grown men. Megakshi, feathers glinting in the slanting light, perched with poised disdain on a filing cabinet.
...
Sengoku was the first to erupt, pointing an accusing finger at Garp. "Garp, you bastard! How many doors is that this month? Five? Six? At this rate, we'll be holding meetings in the yard!"
Garp just grinned wider. "Maybe if you bought better doors! Or stopped scheduling meetings at dawn, old man!" He swung a fist at the air, as if threatening the concept of punctuality itself.
Kuzan, sensing imminent crossfire, began a slow, stealthy slide out of his chair—hoping, perhaps, to reach the window and escape the commotion. He barely made it three inches before, with practiced, almost choreographed indifference, both Garp and Sengoku—still facing each other—extended an arm and pushed him right back into his seat. Kuzan slumped down, defeated, sighing like a man whose vacation had been canceled twice.
Tsuru pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is why I have migraines," she muttered, half to herself, half to the heavens.
Garp, feigning innocence, tried to catch her eye. "Aw, come on, Tsuru-chan! You know I keep things lively!"
Tsuru glared. "You keep the repair budget lively, Garp. Not the same thing."
Medha's laughter bubbled in Krishna's mind. "This is better than television."
Sheshika squeezed his shoulder just once, as if to say, "Let the children play."
...
For a moment, Krishna lingered in the doorway, unsure whether to step forward or let the chaos exhaust itself. The office felt less like the world's center of justice and more like the world's oddest family breakfast. The banter, the insults, the easy laughter—there was something familiar here, something that tugged at memories of sunrise brawls and rough affection in the forests of Foosha.
He saw Ace's stubbornness in Garp, Sabo's long-suffering wisdom in Sengoku, Luffy's mischief in every sideways grin. For the first time since entering Marineford, Krishna allowed himself a faint, unguarded smile.
Sengoku caught the look and, for a fleeting instant, his eyes softened.
...
Order—if you could call it that—returned only when Krishna finally stepped inside. Instantly, the room's energy shifted. Sengoku's gaze sharpened, Tsuru straightened, and even Kuzan's eyes slid open another notch.
Tsuru glanced up, and her sharp eyes widened in honest surprise—she hadn't sensed him at all. For a woman whose Observation Haki rivaled the top powers in the world, that was a rare experience.
Kuzan straightened in his chair, wariness flickering over his features. "When did you get here…?"
Sengoku, folding his arms, studied Krishna with the deliberate focus of a man who once saw through the plots of pirates, kings, and monsters. His devil fruit's wisdom flickered in his eyes—analytical, golden, quietly dangerous.
The silence was thick, nearly reverent. Even Garp, usually immune to gravitas, looked a little smug at the effect his protégé had on legends.
Tsuru, devil fruit powers lending her subtle insight, observed Krishna's posture—the tranquility, the lack of any lingering negativity. No anger, no arrogance, just a stillness that felt like the eye of a hurricane.
She exhaled, half in relief, half in resignation. "Finally. Someone here has manners."
Garp, as proud as a peacock, swept an arm around Krishna's shoulders. "That's my intern. The one making Cipher Pol agents lose sleep."
Sengoku, ever the professional, snorted. "We don't have interns, Garp. That's not a position."
Krishna met the Fleet Admiral's gaze without flinching, voice dry and deadpan. "Change starts with something small, Fleet Admiral sir."
The room paused, as if considering whether to be scandalized or impressed. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Tsuru, breaking character for the briefest instant, let out a genuine, delighted laugh.
Kuzan, face hidden behind his hand, muttered, "He's got you there, old man."
Even Sengoku, forced to acknowledge the point, had to hide a small smirk behind a cough.
...
Medha whispered mischief into Krishna's ear, her tone that of a younger sibling, "You should have told them you're here to fix the door budget."
Sheshika, ever watchful, kept her golden eyes on Krishna's companions, ready to intervene if the old men's bickering turned into an actual brawl. Megakshi preened, feathers splayed wide as if critiquing the office decor.
In the background, the remains of the door still lay sideways on the floor, a mute testament to Garp's entrance. Kuzan eyed it, then fished in his pocket for a snack—finding only a crumpled receipt and an empty candy wrapper. He slouched deeper in resignation, clearly realizing he'd be trapped here longer than he hoped.
Garp started to defend himself, launching into a wild tale about "pirate-proof doors," but Sengoku cut him off with a glare so fierce even Garp's laughter faltered. Tsuru threatened, not entirely joking, to put both Garp and Sengoku in detention.
Krishna, in the middle of the chaos, was a study in serenity. He didn't shrink from the noise, nor try to fix it. He simply was—embodying the calm at the center of the storm, the stillness that made everything else possible.
...
Eventually, business could not be postponed forever. Sengoku, with a final, exasperated sigh, straightened the papers on his desk and motioned everyone to sit. The Legends of the Marines—Fleet Admiral, Admiral, Vice Admiral, Great Staff Officer—took their places, their roles settling around them like old cloaks.
Tsuru folded her hands, giving Krishna a look both curious and appraising. "I hope you're ready, Krishna. Because this place—" she gestured to the office, the battered door, the men inside "—doesn't run on order. It runs on people willing to hold chaos together. Can you do that?"
Krishna inclined his head, a ghost of a smile in his eyes. "If chaos is the price of change, then I am at home."
For a moment, the world's most powerful officers simply watched him—measuring, weighing, perhaps even hoping. And in the morning light, it was hard to tell which of them was teacher, and which was student.
...
Continued in the next chapter.
...