Disclaimer: I don't own One Piece.
If I did, I'd be legally obligated to brag that I own peak.
All rights belong to Eiichiro Oda — I'm just a humble sinner writing mythic fanfiction in his shadow.
Support the official release. Always.
This story may contain:
Mild existential crises.
Unexpected mythological breakdowns.
Bikes faster than your GPA recovery speed.
Flutes played with more emotion than your last breakup.
And one suspiciously silent protagonist who absolutely, definitely, is not smiling.
All emotional damage is self-inflicted. All enlightenment is optional.
Side effects include spontaneous philosophy, violent brotherly love, and sudden cravings for justice.
You've been warned.
Enter at your own karma.
...
Dawn came to Marineford not with thunder, but with the whir and thump of press machines and the distant, ceaseless murmur of the sea. The headquarters of the World Government's proudest force — today, more fortress than workplace, more myth than city.
A dozen birds circled the main spire, but only one black feather cut through the morning mist — a single, glossy pinion, tucked against the breast of a white intern's coat, near the collar. Krishna, sixteen, tall and silent as the sea's promise, walked the long promenade toward the Marineford administration wing, Medha's voice flickering like a digital shadow in his ear.
"Today's top headlines," she deadpanned. "First-ever Marine intern. East Blue's orphan prodigy. The Boy Who Tanks Marine Hero Garp's punches. No mention of divine nanomachines or existential crises. What a disappointment."
Sheshika, draped like living silk over his left shoulder, flicked her tongue. "Perhaps it is better that way, Medha. Even the truth cannot be held in a net."
"Or printed in a morning rag," Medha said.
Krishna's own face watched him from every corner: newsboys hawking "Progeny of the East — the Next Generation?" and "Hero of the Marines Discovers Talent in Orphanage." In every poster, his eyes looked impossibly calm. In reality, the world beneath his skin was less tranquil — something between rising storm and bitter amusement.
He walked on, the single black feather — Meghākṣī's gift, pulled from her wing and pressed into his palm that morning — gleaming with a faint, midnight sheen. It marked him not as a hero, but as something singular. Kurohane — Black Feather. A warning more than a title.
The sea wind carried voices. A young marine, crisp uniform and too-bright eyes, darted toward him at the main steps. He was older than Krishna by at least three years, but his nervousness made him look much younger.
"Krishna, sir! I—uh, good morning! I just read about you — in the new edition, I mean — you're really the first intern? Ever?"
Krishna blinked. The junior marine seemed to vibrate with unspent energy.
"I am. It's only a title. But… yes."
The junior marine fumbled for words, eyes wide with awe. "Is it true you… you tanked Vice Admiral Garp's punch? That you can fight barehanded? How—?"
Krishna hesitated, aware that all eyes on the steps had swiveled to watch. He felt the impulse to flee, to vanish into the crowd, but stilled it. This, too, was a test.
"Garp… is a good teacher," Krishna said. "But most strength is built slowly. Through repetition. If you want to get stronger, focus on form. Slow down. Every movement should have purpose."
The junior seemed to memorize every word, already mirroring Krishna's stillness.
"Try this," Krishna said, and corrected the angle of the man's wrist as he readied a punch — just a millimeter, just so. "Now again. Feel the connection through your body."
The marine punched. The force was cleaner, more direct, and even he could feel it. He beamed, eyes alight with gratitude.
"Thank you, sir — I mean, Krishna! That's—wow! I've never felt that before!"
Before he could finish his gratitude, Krishna was already gone, melting into the current of morning routines. He heard the junior shouting after him, voice ringing with newfound joy. "It worked! Did you see that? He fixed my form in one second!"
Medha whispered, "Fan club population: up 20%. At this rate, they'll be naming drills after you by sundown."
Krishna barely stifled a sigh. "I don't know how to deal with this."
"You could scowl," Medha suggested. "Or teach them existential despair. That always works."
Sheshika's coils tightened, comforting. "Just walk. Let their praise pass through you like rain."
Krishna nodded. Praise, like myth, was not something to be accepted or rejected. It simply existed, another tide to cross.
...
The administration building's halls were brighter than he remembered. Marines in blue and white bustled through, clutching papers, shouting orders. A wall-sized poster of Krishna, eyes cast upward, dominated the HR office entrance. Slogans screamed in red: "First Ever! Orphan of the East — Now a Marine!" and beneath, in smaller print: "If he can do it, so can you! Enlist Today!"
Krishna stared at his own face for a long, silent moment.
Medha broke the hush. "Congratulations, you're a recruitment drive. I give it three days before they start putting you on rations packaging."
Sheshika said, her voice low and soft, "They do not see you, child. Only the story they have woven from your shadow."
He pressed a hand over the black feather — Meghākṣī's presence at his heart. For a moment, the noise of the world receded, replaced by the gentle, wordless music of the peacock's mind. A flicker of song, a memory of a sky before storms.
A group of marines in HR uniforms crowded around a table, eyes darting between Krishna's poster and Krishna himself as he entered. Great Staff Officer Tsuru stood among them, arms folded, her gaze sharp as glass.
"Lost?" she asked, voice dry.
Krishna shook his head. "Just… observing."
Tsuru stepped close, lowering her voice. "You know this is all for show. The World Government needs a symbol. 'First intern' is a good story. The details — your training, your real strength — are better kept quiet."
Krishna studied her. There was respect in her words, but also a hint of warning.
Tsuru continued, "Don't let it change you. Today's hero is tomorrow's scapegoat if the wind shifts. You understand?"
Krishna nodded. "I do. But I am not the story they write."
Tsuru almost smiled. "Good. That's why Garp likes you."
One of the younger HR marines, bolder than the rest, approached with a sheaf of papers and nervous excitement. "We're getting record numbers of enlistment forms, Staff Officer Tsuru! They're saying almost every kid in East Blue wants to join after seeing Krishna's story!"
Tsuru rolled her eyes, but her tone softened. "Send them the right forms. And you —" she looked at Krishna — "don't vanish. Sengoku wants to see you before you're sent anywhere."
Krishna bowed his head and turned away. The crowd parted for him, whispers trailing in his wake.
The halls grew quieter as he approached the command offices. The rhythm of Marineford pulsed here — ambition, bureaucracy, history. Krishna's steps echoed, he let the silence fill him. Meghākṣī's feather was still, but her mind brushed his, a whisper of reassurance.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with Garp, who was crouched over a crate of donuts, grinning like a bandit.
"Morning, brat! Survived the HR pit?"
Krishna managed a ghost of a smile. "I did."
Garp thumped his shoulder. "Don't mind the circus. Marines love a hero, but they love gossip even more. You just keep doing your job — the rest will sort itself out."
Krishna nodded, the rhythm of their silence more grounding than any poster.
Garp eyed the feather. "That's new. Good luck charm?"
Krishna touched the feather. "Something like that."
Garp's face softened. "You earned it. Don't let them take it from you."
They parted with no more words, understanding spoken in silence.
...
The corridors of Marineford felt endless—windowless at times, too bright at others, lined with polished stone and the constant pulse of distant footsteps. Krishna moved between departments, a name on a list, a black feather on a white coat, and a silence that clung to him like a rumor. Here, the legend of justice was less thunder and more paperwork. Less swords, more signatures.
He passed through the Law Division first, as ordered. Here, rows of clerks bent over thick ledgers, ink stains running up their sleeves. Stacks of bounties and criminal profiles threatened to collapse on every desk. Krishna, intern badge bright and foreign, drew curious glances and cautious distance. The department chief, a square-jawed man with bloodshot eyes and medals lost among coffee stains, waved him over with the weary authority of someone long past caring about protocol.
"So. You're the prodigy. The intern." The man's voice was dry. "You know what real justice is, kid?"
Krishna met his gaze. "It's supposed to mean balance. Order. The right action for the time."
The chief grunted. "Supposed to. In practice, justice here is—" he flipped a file open, showing a stamp marked Case Pending: 13 Years "—whatever survives the system. Remember that. Do your job, but don't get lost in doctrine. We're not gods. Just keep the files from swallowing you."
Krishna nodded, absorbing the man's bluntness. As he turned to leave, Medha whispered, "Add three years if you want the file to actually move. Justice delayed is justice denied, but paperwork is eternal."
Sheshika's presence brushed against his spine, gentle as a mother's sigh. "Balance is not found in ledgers, child. But these, too, are weights on the world's scale."
...
Next was Logistics. The air here smelled of salt, sweat, and dried ink. Marines in crisp uniforms shouted orders down the echoing length of the supply hall. Barrels, crates, rifles, food, and medical packs moved in endless relay. The quartermaster, a brawny woman with a scar running from cheek to jaw, regarded Krishna as one might regard a sabertooth in a glass case.
"Need something, feather-boy?"
Krishna shook his head. "Just observing."
She laughed, low and rough. "Good. Don't get in the way. Marines eat, sleep, and bleed logistics. Without us, the admirals starve before the pirates do."
Krishna watched as a dispute broke out over a miscounted crate of ration bars—three men, two clipboards, and a wave of frustration rising like a tide. No one asked him for help, a supervisor whispered, "That's the intern. Be nice. He could probably kill us all by blinking."
Krishna felt the distance like a chill. He wanted to help, but interference would only widen the gap. He memorized the patterns—what worked, what didn't, where kindness was just another delay in a world powered by efficiency and hierarchy.
Medha's commentary ran quietly in his head, "Every army is a stomach with a flag. Remember that when the heroes are hungry."
Meghākṣī sent a wave of cool reassurance from the feather at his heart—a ripple of calm, as if to remind him: even the smallest gear can still turn the whole.
...
Training Division. This was closer to home, in theory—a courtyard of shouts and sharp movements, blunted swords and barked orders. Krishna watched as squads of recruits drilled under the eyes of instructors who measured strength by volume, not precision. One man barked at a recruit to "be more like the intern!" Krishna felt the entire squad's eyes on him, nervous, impressed, envious.
He moved along the periphery, watching forms—stance, motion, the flow of bodies in and out of combat. Their spirit was willing, but most were overreaching—forcing technique for the sake of spectacle. A young woman overextended in a lunge, stumbled, nearly fell. Krishna caught her wrist without thinking, steady as a monolith.
"Your center is too high," he said quietly, adjusting her hip by a fraction. "Strength comes from the ground up. Try again."
She blinked, stunned, then tried. This time the motion was clean, balanced. Her face lit with relief, but before she could thank him, Krishna had already slipped into the background.
From a shaded bench, Garp watched the exchange, donut half-eaten, grinning. "Teaching already? Careful, brat. They'll make you an instructor before you're even an officer."
Krishna offered a quiet shrug. "It's easier than being a poster."
Garp barked a laugh. "Just don't forget — nobody likes a symbol that outshines the real thing."
...
Back at the HR Division, the propaganda machine was in full swing. Posters featuring Krishna's face, emblazoned with slogans—"Justice Begins with You!", "Become the Next Legend!"—littered the walls. Rows of recruiters sat behind desks, phones pressed to ears, churning through lists of potential volunteers.
A junior officer waved him over, barely out of training himself. "Sir—Krishna—I mean, would you mind signing these posters? For the East Blue recruitment drive?"
Krishna hesitated, then took the pen. He signed his name, awkward, his handwriting elegant but detached. The officer beamed. "This'll go straight to Foosha! Kids will go wild."
Medha's digital sigh echoed. "Welcome to the paper trail of legend. Statistically, you'll be on ten thousand walls by next month."
Tsuru appeared then, arms folded, eyes appraising. "They're getting mileage out of you, intern."
Krishna offered a neutral smile. "That was the plan?"
Tsuru's expression softened, just a little. "It's necessary. Hope costs less than war. A living myth recruits more marines than any speech."
Krishna considered that. "But myths aren't real."
Tsuru inclined her head. "Doesn't matter. Reality is heavy. Give them something to lift, even if it's just a story."
Krishna nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. He wondered how many times Tsuru herself had been reduced to a symbol, how many wars she had watched begin and end with propaganda rather than swords.
...
The rhythm of his day settled into a cycle—observe, assist, disappear. Marines tracked his movement, wary and curious, as if expecting miracles or disaster. At times, the air in a room shifted when he entered, even the seasoned officers spoke more quietly, straightened their coats, watched him from the corner of their eyes.
He passed through the legal archives, feeling the press of unsolved cases and forgotten names. He sat in on a logistics strategy meeting, where resources were divided and destinies decided with the stroke of a pen. He watched drills in the training grounds, sometimes correcting a stance or a grip, but always vanishing before anyone could speak too much.
Everywhere he went, the pattern repeated: myth, awe, distance. He tried to break it with small acts—gentle corrections, quiet nods, a kind word here or there. It worked, but only on the edges. For most, he was the boy from the East Blue who could tank Garp's punches, not the silent storm carrying burdens unseen.
...
Admiral Aokiji found him near the east windows as dusk bled into the sky, the halls emptying, only the distant clangor of the evening bell echoing through Marineford.
"Intern," the admiral called, lazy as always, hands in pockets. "Looks like you survived your first full rotation. Not bad."
Krishna met his gaze. "It's… complicated."
Kuzan grinned. "Everything is. You get used to the grind, or you don't. Me? I sleep through it."
He paused, studying Krishna with that half-open, half-knowing look.
"Watch out, though," Kuzan said quietly. "This place eats up true believers. You get caught up in the machinery, you start losing what made you special. Don't let the propaganda write your story for you."
Krishna nodded, absorbing the advice. "It's harder than it sounds."
Kuzan shrugged. "So is justice. Doesn't mean you stop trying."
He leaned against a sunlit wall, half-asleep, coat draped over his shoulder.
Kuzan yawned. "Heard you're coming with me. Sengoku wants you to see real justice. Don't expect glamour."
Krishna's stomach tightened, but he only said, "Understood."
Kuzan looked at the black feather, eyebrow rising. "You always dress like that? Makes you look like a poetic disaster."
Krishna shrugged. "It's better than standing out."
Kuzan snorted, but there was a note of respect. "Maybe you'll survive longer than most."
He turned, boots dragging, and vanished down the hall, muttering something about "kids these days."
As Kuzan left, Medha murmured, "You could do worse for a mentor. Lazy outside, sharp inside. Good shield, if you ever want to hide behind ice."
Sheshika, curled around his neck, offered warmth. "A heart that freezes itself suffers. Learn from his caution — but keep your own warmth alive."
Meghākṣī sent a subtle pulse of pride and comfort from her feather, as if to say: Walk steady. You are seen.
...
Krishna's last stop was the Command Room, the mind and mouth of Marineford. Fleet Admiral Sengoku stood by the central table, deep in conversation with Great Staff Officer Tsuru. Maps, lists, projections — war distilled into numbers and probabilities.
Sengoku noticed him and beckoned. "Intern. You've seen the machine. Now it's time you see the blade."
He slid a folder across the table. "You'll accompany Admiral Aokiji to Impel Down tomorrow. Officially, it's a routine freezing protocol. Unofficially, it's a show of strength. The world will know the marines can send an intern and an admiral where others fear to tread."
Krishna studied the folder, then met Sengoku's eyes. "I understand."
Sengoku's gaze was tired, but not unkind. "Don't lose yourself in the machine, Krishna. Remember who you are. And what you are not."
Tsuru's nod was firmer, her eyes carrying the weight of years. "You're more than a story. Be careful not to become a warning."
Krishna inclined his head, feeling the gravity of their trust. The pressure of myth pressed against his back, heavy as armor, light as a feather.
He answered quietly, "I know who I am. I just... forget sometimes."
For a moment, neither Sengoku nor Tsuru replied. But something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, the kind that exists only between those who've nearly lost themselves before.
...
As he walked back through the main hall, Meghākṣī's mind touched his again — music without words, a silent blessing.
Medha's voice echoed in his mind, gentle now, "Well, 'Intern Kurohane.' Ready to descend into hell?"
Sheshika's coil was a silent answer, warm against his neck.
Krishna looked up at the banners, the posters, the sea of faces he didn't know — and wondered how long it would be before they saw him as something more than a story.
Krishna exhaled. The myth was only a shadow. He was still himself.
He closed his eyes, feeling the balance — duty and doubt, burden and purpose.
Tomorrow would bring new storms. For now, he listened to the silence, and let himself breathe.
He moved forward, black feather bright against his heart. For the first time that day, he felt not watched, but real — walking not as a myth, but as himself.
...
The sky over Marineford was washed with autumn blue, stretched wide and cloudless. A morning wind carried the brine of distant seas, stinging sharp and clean as Krishna followed Admiral Aokiji down the steps to the harbor. Gulls wheeled overhead. The world seemed both impossibly vast and suffocatingly close.
Krishna wore his new uniform—crisp white, gold-trimmed, the intern patch a mark both of experiment and exile. At his collar, black feather from Meghākṣī glinted in the morning sun. Even in his stillness, he moved like a shadow with purpose—no wasted step, no wasted glance.
Medha's voice hummed inside, irreverent as always. "You look like someone who got lost on his way to a cosplay convention."
He said nothing aloud, but the dry flicker of a smile touched his mouth. Sheshika coiled more tightly at his nape, mother-serpent gentle but watchful. Meghākṣī's presence hovered, unseen to others but singing at the edge of his senses.
Waiting at the dock, Admiral Aokiji yawned behind a gloved hand, eyes hidden by his sleep-creased mask of composure. "You ready, kid?"
Krishna nodded, gaze steady. "As I'll ever be."
Kuzan gestured toward the Marine warship—a leviathan of iron and canvas, crew standing at nervous attention. "Let's go, then. Sengoku wants us at Impel Down by noon."
They walked side by side, an Admiral and an Intern. One trailing stories of shattered pirates, the other trailing silence and prophecy.
...
The voyage began in silence.
Marineford fell away, white walls shrinking against the rim of the world. The ship cut through choppy water, wind snapping banners above. Sailors worked quietly, stealing glances at Krishna—some with awe, others with the hollow wariness reserved for loaded cannons and gods.
Kuzan leaned against the rail, coat draped over his shoulders, eyes tracking the horizon. His posture suggested sleep, but his presence never faded. He was the calm after a storm, cold and detached, a man who had learned to let the world pass through him.
Krishna stood at the bow, arms folded, letting the wind tear at his hair. He watched the ocean as if reading a script only he could see. The blue stretched out, infinite, carrying both memory and omen.
Medha commented, "You know, statistically speaking, every important anime character stands dramatically at the bow at least once. Don't fall in."
He ignored her. But the quip curled somewhere inside, a tether to ordinary things.
Kuzan broke the silence first. "So. You ever been to Impel Down before?"
Krishna shook his head, eyes on the shifting waves. "No."
"Don't envy you. Place has a way of getting inside your bones."
A pause. Only the slap of the hull and the whine of rigging.
Kuzan continued, voice softer now. "You know, the first time I went, I thought I could save everyone. Thought justice meant… fixing things. But the deeper you go, the more you realize—some things can't be fixed. Just endured."
Krishna considered that, gaze unfocused. "Endurance is its own kind of justice."
Kuzan snorted. "Maybe. Or maybe it's cowardice with a better PR agent."
Krishna glanced at him, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. "Is that why you freeze people? Endure them?"
Kuzan cracked a smile, thin and self-mocking. "I freeze people because I'm lazy. And because sometimes… mercy is cold. Cold enough to stop pain, at least for a while."
Another pause, deeper this time. The wind shifted, colder. Clouds gathered on the horizon, hints of storm in the distance.
Krishna asked, his voice low and steady, "Do you ever regret it? Freezing your heart?"
Kuzan watched the sky. "Regret? Yeah. But you get used to it. The world will freeze you, if you let it. It'll chip away until there's nothing left but routine and rules. But you—" He turned, eyes sharp for a moment. "You're different. I see it. You carry something… I lost. Warmth. Don't let this place turn you to ice. Not all of us have the strength to thaw again."
Krishna looked down at his hands, flexing them once. The warmth Kuzan spoke of—he didn't feel it, not the way others did. He felt weight. The heat of anger carefully banked, the slow burn of duty, the residual glow of Makino's kitchen, Ace's laughter, Luffy's hands sticky with ink and rice. The cold came easy, the warmth had to be remembered, gathered, protected.
He answered quietly. "Sometimes, warmth is all I have. Even when I don't feel it."
Kuzan nodded, watching him with a kind of weary envy. "Keep it, kid. Most people never even experience it. It's rarer than you think."
...
The voyage passed in long, shifting silences.
Krishna watched the crew—how they stiffened when he passed, how they averted their eyes but whispered in corners. He saw fear and curiosity tangled in their faces. He did not resent it. Power isolates. Myths cast shadows. It was the bargain he'd made, even if the world made it for him.
Sheshika murmured in his ear, her tone as gentle as falling rain. "Warmth is not always comfort. Sometimes, it's simply refusing to let the world make you cruel."
Medha added, her voice more impish, "You should make them all curry. That would fix at least seventy percent of their terror."
He smiled, almost imperceptibly. "Maybe later."
Meghākṣī, perched atop the highest mast as an ordinary peacock, ruffled her plumage, sending a single black feather drifting down to the deck. It landed at Krishna's feet, a reminder—silent, loyal, unbroken.
...
They sailed beneath a sky that grew steadily darker.
As Impel Down's shadow appeared on the horizon—a jagged monument rising from the sea like a myth come to punish the guilty—the air thickened with anticipation. The crew's mood turned somber. Even the most hardened sailors grew silent.
Kuzan straightened, rolling his shoulders, the easy slouch falling away. "Here we are. Time to play warden."
Krishna gazed at the fortress, its black stone swallowing the sun, its walls slick with the memory of ten thousand screams. He felt the weight of rage and fear drifting on the wind—echoes of suffering so dense they felt physical.
Kuzan rested a hand on his shoulder, heavy but not unkind. "You ready?"
Krishna nodded once, eyes never leaving the looming gates. "As I'll ever be."
They stood together at the bow, intern and admiral, facing down the dark heart of justice.
...
As the warship drew close, the great iron gates of Impel Down began to grind open with a sound like the earth cracking. Marines lined the causeway—ranks rigid, saluting, their faces a blend of awe and dread. Krishna walked beside Kuzan, his every step echoing on the stone. Meghākṣī's black feather caught the breeze, trailing a line of shadow behind him.
Impel Down Warden Magellan awaited at the entrance, face set in the impassive mask of a warden. His eyes flicked between Admiral Kuzan and Krishna, lingering a beat longer on the latter.
"Welcome to Impel Down," Magellan intoned, voice resonant as the sea itself. "We've been expecting you."
Krishna bowed, quiet but unwavering. "Thank you for receiving us."
Kuzan yawned, offering a lazy wave. "Let's not stand on ceremony. Lead the way, warden."
As they entered the fortress, the doors slammed shut behind them, the echo rolling through corridors lined with silence and memory. The sea, the storm, and the shadow walked together into hell.
Krishna felt the chill settle into his bones—not from the prison, but from the certainty that this would not be the last time he stood at the edge of a darkness the world dared not name.
Still, as he moved forward, he remembered Kuzan's words—the warning, and the gift.
"Keep the warmth, kid."
He pressed the feather to his heart, and the storm within walked forward, unbroken.
...
Magellan stood, warden's coat immaculate, eyes flat as a tide pool. "Admiral Aokiji. Intern Krishna. The Executive Lift is ready in my office. We'll descend to Level 6 directly. Efficient, safe. Not a place for sightseeing."
Kuzan, still drowsy from the voyage, let his gaze wander. "Shortcut, huh? Not bad."
But Krishna did not move. His stance was deliberate, as if listening to something under the stone. His eyes traveled the corridor, following the curve of torchlight. Behind his shoulder, the black feather from Meghākṣī moved as though in a breeze that didn't exist here.
"I'd rather walk," Krishna said quietly.
Magellan blinked. "Walk? Through the levels? That is… highly irregular. Not recommended. Some of the staff—"
"I want to see," Krishna interrupted, his voice even. "All of it. If this is justice, I need to witness it with my own eyes."
Kuzan's sigh was the wind through dead leaves. "Should've seen that coming…"
Magellan's lips pressed into a line, but he gestured for them to follow. "As you wish, intern. The warden will accompany you. Admiral, I trust you—" He hesitated. "I trust you'll keep the boy from wandering."
Kuzan yawned. "Yeah. No promises."
The descent began.
...
Level 1 — Crimson Hell
The stairs spilled downward, torches flickering in pools of sickly yellow. The air changed, thickening, metallic and warm. When they emerged, the landscape struck like a blow.
Everything was red.
Trees twisted upward, bark peeled to reveal crimson sap. Leaves like serrated knives hung overhead, dripping slow blood. The grass was a carpet of needles—each blade stained rust-dark. Stones glittered wet, painted with stories no one would ever read. The scent of iron filled the lungs, heavy as regret.
Cries echoed. Not constant — just sudden, sharp, swallowed as quickly as they came. Somewhere, a man sobbed. Somewhere else, another begged, then choked.
Prisoners moved through the "forest" in ragged lines—barefoot, skin lacerated, eyes glazed. Some crawled, others limped. The guards watched from platforms above, impassive. In this hell, indifference was policy.
Krishna walked slowly, his footsteps leaving no mark. The white of his uniform was a shock in this landscape. He watched as a man tripped and fell into a thicket, slashing his arms to ribbons. The man did not scream. He simply crawled forward, eyes blank.
Magellan's voice was clinical. "Level 1—Crimson Hell. Designed to break spirit and body. The blood stains everything. Eventually, they stop bleeding, but the stains never leave."
Kuzan strolled beside Krishna, hands in pockets, gaze unfocused. He did not look away, but he did not look closely.
Krishna's eyes moved over the prisoners, over the trees and the grass and the stains that had soaked into everything. He felt the tension in his jaw, the slow burn at the base of his spine. It was not anger, not yet. It was something more subtle—an existential discomfort, a refusal to let the sight become just another scene.
Medha's voice whispered through his mind, "You see it, don't you? The pattern. Suffering repackaged as order. Crime begets cruelty, and the system grinds on."
He did not answer her. But Sheshika's presence pulsed, steady as his heartbeat. "You are right to bear witness. To judge is not to look away."
A guard snapped a whip, and a prisoner stumbled to his feet. Blood ran in rivulets down the man's calf, mingling with the old stains.
Krishna's fists closed, then released.
Magellan watched him carefully. "Don't pity them. They made their choices. Pirates, murderers, traitors. No one ends up here by accident."
Krishna met the warden's gaze, his own unreadable. "But cruelty is never just."
Magellan's lips tightened. "Justice has its price. The world demands order."
Kuzan gave a slow, careless shrug. "Order or not, it's ugly business. Can't freeze the blood out of stone."
They continued on, the three of them—intern, admiral, warden—moving through a landscape built on punishment. Every sound seemed sharper here. Krishna heard the crunch of feet on needle grass, the ragged breathing of the dying, the dull scrape of shackles.
One prisoner met his eyes—a woman, face smeared with dirt, eyes wide and unbroken. She didn't plead. She just stared, daring him to look away.
He didn't.
...
Krishna's thoughts turned inward, the way rivers turn under ice. This was not justice. It was the aftermath—what was left after justice failed, after law lost its voice and became machine. He weighed, silently, the distance between what was necessary and what was cruel. The world liked to blur that line. Here, it was drawn in blood.
"Why walk this path?" Medha mused, voice soft. "You could look away. No one would blame you."
He did not answer her. Instead, he watched as another prisoner collapsed, silent, and a guard prodded him with a spear until he crawled forward.
Magellan spoke, more to himself than anyone. "Some try to escape. They all fail. The forest is designed to kill slowly, to teach a lesson."
Kuzan's eyes flicked to Krishna, reading the silence. "You think it's wrong?"
Krishna replied, voice quiet, "I think there are lines we draw to protect ourselves. But when cruelty becomes routine, no one is safe—not even the ones who enforce it."
Kuzan grunted. "Spoken like a philosopher. Or a fool. Depends on the day."
They passed a group of guards. One recognized Krishna—straightened, offered a salute, then lowered his gaze quickly, as if in the presence of something dangerous and holy.
Krishna moved through Crimson Hell like a ghost.
...
He saw the mechanisms of pain. The ways suffering became architecture—trees sharpened to cut, grass bred to pierce, order designed to bleed. The marines did not flinch. Neither did most prisoners. They had learned, both, that to survive here was to become numb.
But Krishna felt every cut, every sob, every silent plea. Not as wounds—but as debts.
He wondered what it would take to fix a world where suffering had become currency.
Sheshika's voice, old and gentle, uncoiled in his mind. "Do not lose yourself in their pain. Remember: to see is not to drown."
He breathed out, steady, grounding himself. Not here. Not yet.
Kuzan, sensing the gravity, tried for lightness. "You know, kid, there's a saying—'the tree that bleeds does not give shade.' I never figured out what it meant. Maybe some places are just meant to be cruel."
Krishna replied, just as quiet, "Or maybe we use that as an excuse. So we don't have to try."
Kuzan didn't answer. Magellan watched the exchange, something wary in his eyes.
They paused at the edge of a clearing. Here, a group of prisoners huddled, eyes hollow. One began to weep, softly. Another, older, simply stared at the sky—what little could be seen through the iron grating overhead.
Krishna knelt for a moment, resting his hand on the red grass. The stains didn't bother him. The pain did.
He whispered, almost inaudible, "If this is justice, then let me remember it. So I never become what I hate."
Kuzan said nothing. Magellan looked away.
...
They finished their passage through Crimson Hell in silence.
The exit wound downward, a stone stair slick with old blood and the weight of old stories. At the threshold, Krishna looked back once—at the crimson trees, the haunted faces, the justice that had curdled into something else.
He swore, silently, to carry the memory—not as a curse, but as a warning.
And as they descended, the world grew darker still.
Meghākṣī's feather brushed against his cheek, grounding him, a whisper of sky inside a world that had forgotten the meaning of mercy.
They walked on, deeper into hell, and the storm within Krishna did not rage.
It simply waited.
...
The descent from Crimson Hell to the next layer of suffering was less a transition and more a reckoning. The stairs wound downward, stones sweating with the memory of every prisoner who had ever screamed, every guard who had ever looked away. Magellan led the way, his silhouette framed in torchlight. Kuzan trailed, posture loose but eyes narrowed, more alert than he let on.
Krishna moved between them—a silent axis. Meghākṣī's black feather rode the motion of his uniform, whispering with each step. Sheshika's presence was a pressure at his spine, Medha a cool edge at the back of his mind.
The doors to Level 2 opened with a clang, the air thick and bestial.
...
Level 2 — Wild Beast Hell
They emerged into a chaos of motion and sound. The "forest" was alive—not with trees, but with monsters. The ground shook under the weight of stampeding creatures: basilisk-lizards with venom tongues, horned maned beasts, sabertoothed giants. The air was a symphony of roars, shrieks, and the blunt thud of bodies falling.
The prisoners were no longer merely punished—they were prey. Ragged figures sprinted, dodged, or were trampled and torn. Some had gone feral themselves, eyes glassy with terror and hunger, lashing out at anything that moved.
Magellan surveyed the carnage without blinking. "Wild Beast Hell. The weak are eaten. The strong last a little longer. All are broken in time."
Kuzan watched a sabertooth drag a man away. His face was unreadable, but he muttered, "They could at least clean up once in a while."
A shadow moved in the periphery—something huge, eyes like lanterns. The monsters scented the newcomers, paused, and then, slowly, the largest among them began to approach.
Krishna felt the tension ripple through the ground. His own instinct—to step forward, shield, end the suffering—rose unbidden, a tidal force. He reined it in, remembering the words above, the truth in the system: mercy here was not justice, not now, not yet. These were men who had crossed every line.
But the beasts, massive and mindless, didn't know justice from hunger. A pair of them—a horned tiger and a plated crocodile—drew close, yellow fangs bared.
Kuzan's body tensed slightly, ice flickering in his palm, ready to freeze the beast in a moments notice.
Magellan readied his venom, eyes tracking the alpha beasts, sickly liquid dripping down his palm, melting the floor beneath.
Krishna did not raise a hand. He simply stood, still as the world's axis, and let his will unfurl.
A pulse radiated—silent, formless, but ancient and overwhelming. The Sovereign's Will, shaped now by months of silent rage and dharmic discipline, burned like invisible fire.
The effect was instant. The closest beasts stumbled, heads jerking, eyes rolling white. The horned tiger collapsed, shivering uncontrollably. The crocodile whined, jaws snapping shut. The entire pack recoiled, then bolted, trampling lesser monsters and prisoners alike in their panic.
But the effect did not stop with the beasts.
Magellan staggered, his mouth suddenly dry. Sweat beaded his brow. "What… was that?"
Kuzan, always the unshakeable one, felt his arms tremble. The air around his fingertips crackled with cold. He managed a smirk. "Didn't know the new intern could clear a zoo with a stare."
Krishna withdrew the pressure, reining his presence back to silence. "It wasn't meant for you," he said softly. "It's just—sometimes, the world needs to remember it has a king."
Magellan exhaled, steadied himself, and managed, "Level 2 is clear, then. Let's move on."
Kuzan grunted. "Remind me never to bring you to an aquarium."
As they moved, Krishna felt the eyes of the remaining prisoners—some filled with terror, others with the dim spark of hope. He did not comfort either. He was not here to be their savior. Not today.
...
Level 3 — Starvation Hell
The descent was steeper here. The air changed: it grew thinner, drier, filled with the coppery scent of old blood and rot. When they reached Level 3, the world seemed to have bled out and forgotten itself.
This was Starvation Hell. A barren landscape of cracked stone, giant cauldrons that never boiled, and prisoners who resembled ghosts more than men. Emaciated figures lay scattered like broken twigs. Every breath was a rasp, every movement a plea.
No monsters hunted here—the only predator was hunger.
Magellan spoke, voice lower. "Starvation Hell. No food. No water. The cauldrons are for show. They cook nothing but despair."
Kuzan didn't try for a joke this time.
Krishna's eyes traced the withered bodies. Some had died in prayer, hands clasped, others in curses, fists clenched. Every inch of stone was etched with the script of desperation. He watched a man, barely more than bone, try to crawl toward a stone bowl—finding it empty, he collapsed and did not move again.
Krishna's body wanted to act. Every lesson of his soul, every instinct to protect, screamed for release. He took a step, just one, the beginning of a motion to intervene.
Kuzan's hand came down—gentle, but final—on Krishna's shoulder. "Don't. They don't deserve your mercy—not here. If you start saving people in hell, you'll never stop. And you can't save them all."
The words were not cruel, but old. Spoken from the weight of too many regrets. Krishna stood still, letting the urge burn in his bones. He did not break—he hammered his heart, forging his pain into harder resolve.
Medha murmured, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, "You can't carry all their hunger, Krishna. Don't feed yourself to a world that only wants to eat."
He nodded, breathing out, and let the moment pass.
The trio walked on, the silence now a living thing.
Some of the prisoners saw him—saw the feather, the eyes that did not flinch, the posture of someone who still remembered what dignity was. A few cursed. A few begged.
Krishna did not respond. His mercy, today, was restraint.
At the far edge, a body tumbled from a ledge, crashing to the stone below. No one looked. No one screamed. The sound was just another note in the music of starvation.
Sheshika coiled tighter at his shoulders. "To witness suffering is a burden. To ignore it, a sin. You are here to learn the difference."
He understood, now, why so many in power chose blindness.
He would not.
...
Level 4 — Blazing Hell
The transition was abrupt. The cold, dry emptiness of starvation gave way to heat so intense it felt like entering a furnace. Flames licked at the stone, the air shimmered with every step. The trio paused at the threshold, and the smell—charred flesh, boiling blood, something deeper and more elemental—hit them like a wave.
Magellan gestured ahead. "Blazing Hell. Those who survive the first three levels face fire. Most don't last a day."
Prisoners screamed here—real screams, desperate and full-throated. Some ran in endless circles, flames chasing their heels. Others simply burned, silent, the pain beyond expression.
Krishna's composure almost cracked. His eyes watered. The scent burrowed under his skin, memories flickered—other fires, other deaths, other losses. For a moment, his breath caught, the memory of taking his own life flashing before his eyes, the scent and feeling of fresh, warm blood still vivid in his mind.
Kuzan, noticing, quietly extended his powers. The air around them cooled, a thin shield of frost against the furnace. The flames receded from their path, the scent of charred flesh and boiling blood avoiding the cold air.
Krishna glanced at him, gratitude plain but unspoken. "Thank you," he said, voice subdued.
Kuzan shrugged. "Don't mention it. Not everyone can walk through fire and come out whole."
They moved on, Magellan watching both with new wariness. He realized, perhaps for the first time, that these two were not just marines—not just symbols. They were forces of nature, walking through a world built on the pain of others.
At the center of Blazing Hell, Krishna stopped. He looked at the flames, at the prisoners, at the system that called this justice.
He did not rage. He did not pity. He simply stood—an axis, a witness, a challenge.
"Justice is not pain," he whispered. "But the world often forgets the difference."
The fire crackled, as if in reply.
...
They crossed the final line of fire. The flames closed behind them, swallowing the echoes of the damned.
Ahead, the coldest hells waited.
Krishna did not look back.
...
The heat of Blazing Hell vanished with a single step. It was not a gentle transition but a violent wrench—the air itself seemed to collapse inward, devouring all warmth, all sound. Krishna felt the shift first as pressure on the skin, then a brightness in the mind. The flames were gone. Now only the white silence remained.
Level 5—Freezing Hell
The world here was sculpted from agony and cold. Icicles hung from the stalactites, thick as tree trunks, and the very stone glistened with perpetual frost. Prisoners huddled in miserable clumps, clothed in rags, lips blue and eyes hollow. Some tried to move, only to collapse, the blood in their veins turned to slow poison. The air crackled—not with fire, but with a chill that bit bone and hope alike.
Magellan led them onward, breath steaming behind his mask. "They say the cold here is alive. The longer you stay, the more it forgets that you are, too."
Kuzan, for once, looked entirely at home. Frost gathered at his boots, blooming upward, and he walked with hands in pockets, unconcerned. "Reminds me of a nap I took on Drum Island," he murmured. "Coldest place in the world until this."
Krishna walked between them, his own presence a black flame amid the white. The cold licked at him but found no purchase. He could feel the chill, sense it settling against skin and soul—but it did not penetrate. Kāya Kalpa Sūtra—Scripture of the Eternal Body Refinement—ran through him, each breath realigning body and mind, each heartbeat burning out the cold before it touched his core. His body began to emit steam, pure heat rising and melting the snow falling from the air.
Meghākṣī's feather caught the weak light, a streak of midnight in the endless blue.
The trio advanced, boots crunching over snow and ice. A pack of wolves, their fur matted with frost and hunger, emerged from behind a shattered wall. Their eyes locked on the newcomers. They lowered their bodies, ready to pounce—then froze.
It was not the cold that stopped them, but something older. Krishna felt it too late: his Sovereign's Will was still leaking out, unconsciously thickening the air, pressing down on every living thing. The wolves' hackles rose. They whimpered, tails tucked, and fled, whining into the darkness.
Magellan shivered—not from the temperature, but from something deeper. He kept his gaze averted, voice lower than before. "The creatures here fear nothing. Except, apparently, you."
Kuzan turned, his lazy grin edged with real curiosity. "You ever teach a class on how to scare monsters? Might do wonders for Marine training."
Krishna shook his head, jaw tight. "It's not something I do on purpose. It's just… this place, it draws out the worst in me. I'll try to rein it in."
He paused, closed his eyes, and forced his breath to slow. Kāya Kalpa Sūtra—Scripture of the Eternal Body Refinement—pulsed again, his will folding inward, tighter and tighter, until the air eased, and the walls seemed to sigh in relief. Magellan's shoulders relaxed. The wind lightened. Even the ice seemed less angry.
Kuzan's smirk softened. "If you ever figure out how to control it completely, kid, let me know. I could use a few pointers. People still run from me even when I'm just getting coffee."
Krishna's reply was dry. "Perhaps they fear the bill."
Kuzan snorted. "Or the brain freeze."
Even Magellan managed a brittle smile. "The cold here is cruel, but it's not alive. Not like you three."
They continued, passing frozen bodies—some curled in on themselves, others staring blindly at the ceiling, lips moving in silent prayers or curses. Krishna watched each one. Every time his gaze lingered, he felt a pressure in his chest: the knowledge that suffering, once normalized, became a kind of background music to the powerful. He hated it.
Sheshika murmured across his senses, "To witness suffering is not the same as to accept it. Remember what it does to you, but do not let it define you."
Medha chimed in, her voice a snowflake in his mind. "Ice preserves as much as it kills. Your heart is still warm, even here. Don't let them convince you otherwise."
The descent continued. The wind howled louder the further they went, carrying with it the old legends—stories whispered by guards and prisoners alike, tales of those who simply vanished, "Demoned Away" by the cold or by some ancient demon or justice no one dared name.
Magellan stopped beside a wall where the frost had thickened to the point of opacity. He pointed to a series of names, carved haphazardly in the ice—some scratched with fingernails, others chiseled with stone or bone.
"Some say the cold eats the memories of men," Magellan said quietly. "But here, even the forgotten try to leave a name. They call it being 'Demoned Away'—prisoners who vanish, no body, no trace. No one knows if they died, escaped, or were devoured by the very prison."
Kuzan tilted his head. "Ghost stories. Keeps the guards jumpy. I'll admit, it's got style."
Krishna examined the names. So many had tried to mark their existence in this tomb of ice. He wondered, absently, if his name would ever be written on a wall like this—proof of a life spent on the wrong side of justice.
A movement in the periphery—a flutter of senses, a discordant note amid the monotone misery—caught Krishna's attention. He stilled, the world tightening around him. Beneath the freezing wind, he felt it: a flicker of life that did not belong here. Vibrant, unfamiliar, alive in a way that no suffering could suppress.
Krishna paused, scanning the path ahead. He turned to Kuzan, voice low. "I need a moment. Something… different. I'll catch up."
Kuzan nodded, not questioning, already thinking the position to take a nap. "Take your time, intern. Try not to pick up any stray wolves."
Magellan hesitated, his gaze sharp. "Do you need—?"
"I'll be fine." Krishna replied without looking back.
Kuzan, true to form, shrugged and sauntered over to a flat stone near the tunnel mouth. With the ease of a man used to waiting, he settled down, arms folded, eyes drifting shut. "Wake me if you need help finding your way back."
Magellan watched Krishna go, unease writ large on his face. He sat as well, legs drawn up, restless. "Dangerous boy," he muttered. "Too calm for a place like this."
Krishna let the world fade behind him, his focus tightening on the spark he'd sensed. He reached inward, calling forth Observation Haki—the honed, refined awareness he'd spent years forging. Here, in this hell of ice and absence, every feeling was amplified. He felt not just presence, but emotion—tangles of fear, rebellion, hope, and something brighter, thrumming like music in a sealed box.
He closed his eyes and mapped the currents of energy: prisoners, guards, animals, all muted, all shadowed—except one thread, pulsing with clandestine joy, with defiance and color. A secret land in a world that had no business holding secrets.
Krishna moved with purpose, following the tug through the labyrinth of ice and stone. The path narrowed, twisted, doubled back on itself. A false wall loomed—plain to the eye, but Haki revealed the seam, the faint echo of sound behind.
He pressed his palm against the wall, searching for the lock. The ice resisted at first, then yielded as his will pressed in, warm and inexorable. The entrance cracked open with a sigh.
He slipped inside, letting silence settle behind him.
The tunnel was different here—warmer, alive with distant laughter, bright lights echoing off the stone. Paintings and graffiti bloomed across the walls, fantastical creatures and wild dreams drawn in every color. A thousand hands had left their mark, creating a mosaic of resistance and hope.
Medha's voice bubbled up, delighted. "Well, well. Looks like you found the party in hell, Krishna."
Sheshika's approval hummed at the edge of his mind. "Even in darkness, life finds its garden."
Krishna advanced, the pulse of music and celebration growing louder. He did not smile, but something in him eased.
He reached the edge of a new world—an underground Eden in the heart of punishment.
He had found Newkama Land.
He paused, letting his presence melt into the shadows. He would observe first. The world here was not his to claim, not yet.
Outside, the cold raged and howled. Here, in this secret sanctuary, Krishna waited at the threshold, ready to see what hell's hidden heart had saved.
...
Level 5.5—Newkama Land
For a heartbeat, Krishna stood at the threshold—one step outside the frozen world, one step inside something entirely different. The air in the tunnel shimmered with the residue of laughter and perfume, alive with the hum of rebellion. Light spilled out, soft and gold, accompanied by the beat of drums and the shriek of untamed joy.
He entered, his presence a shadow amid riotous color.
At first, no one noticed. In Newkama Land, every day was a defiance of hell—a masquerade of silk and song. Ivankov presided from a throne sculpted from repurposed stone and tattered banners, crown cocked, lips painted the color of roses. Beneath the arch of the grand hall, queens and kings and all who were neither or both danced in circles, arms linked, bodies sparkling with glitter and sweat.
Ivankov's voice soared above the revel, velvet thunder cut with champagne laughter, "Tonight, darlings, we celebrate! We laugh in the face of the world! We—"
A scream slashed through the music—an animal sound, raw and ancient, as if the marrow of the world had just remembered its own mortality.
Silence swept the chamber. Not the silence of an empty room, but of the air itself bracing for judgment.
All heads turned, breath hitching. At the far end, past trembling torchlight and half-finished banners, someone sat where no one should. Not entered—arrived, the way a storm arrives: sudden, inevitable, rewriting the space around it.
Krishna.
He sat at the vacant throne, one knee crossed, right fist pressed to his cheek in casual decree. Not a mortal pose—the pose. Regal, but effortless. Not a boy waiting his turn, but an emperor waiting for the world to catch up.
His Marine uniform was immaculate—white and blue, but shadowed by the sharp contrast of a single black feather at the collar. It should have been a costume, but it was a sigil—Kurohane. Black-winged .Ominous. Around him, the air thickened, as if gravity itself knelt.
A hush swept the crowd. Light seemed to bend around him, and for a moment it was impossible to tell whether he was illuminated by the torches, or if the torches burned only to make his silhouette visible. His presence was neither cruel nor merciful—just vast, like the sea before a storm.
He did not move. He did not need to.
Some felt awe, as if seeing a god they'd denied. Others felt terror, as if every secret shame had just been weighed and measured. Most felt both—recognition not of a man, or a marine, or a myth, but of something older. The promise of consequence. The embodiment of judgment.
Ivankov's bravado faltered, their painted smile trembling at the edges. The Newkama drew back unconsciously, every instinct screaming at them to kneel, or run, or confess.
Krishna's gaze swept the room. When his eyes met yours, it was not your body that shivered—but your soul, suddenly remembering the word for reverence.
He was not a king.
He was not a conqueror.
He was the memory of every story in which power sat quietly, and the world held its breath.
And for one impossible moment, Newkama Land was utterly still—awestruck by the silent, sovereign will that had stepped down into their paradise of misfits, and, without speaking a word, crowned himself myth.
Ivankov drew up to full height, dramatic cape flaring, flashing with fake confidence. "Well, well! To what do we owe the pleasure, intruder? You must have nerves of steel, honey, to crash our little ball. I hope you brought a gift."
Krishna's gaze was unblinking, his voice quiet and resonant, echoing in the hush. "Emporio Ivankov. King—Queen—of Newkama Land. Former Revolutionary. Bounty, 160 million. 'Miracle Person.'"
The room tensed further, a few denizens gasped. Ivankov's painted eyes narrowed.
"And who, may I ask, are you, to know so much and walk so far?" Ivankov's tone was playful, but his aura was razor-sharp, ready to split truth from lie.
Krishna uncrossed his legs, resting both feet on the floor. The gesture was both offering and assertion. "My name is Krishna. I am… an intern of the Marines, at least for now. The one who found this place—because I sensed the living hope buried here."
He allowed the silence to stretch, making every word a weight.
"I know you serve the cause of freedom. I know you answer to Dragon—your commander, your friend. I know about Sabo, who was saved by Bartholomew Kuma and brought to the Grand Line. I know, because I am Sabo's brother. The brother of Ace and Luffy. And, in my way, Dragon's ally."
Ivankov's jaw tightened, the mask slipping just a fraction. "You say you are an ally. But you wear the Marine white, darling. You walk where none should find us."
Krishna's presence intensified—not by volume, but by gravity. The feeling that no lie could survive here. "The world wears many uniforms, Emporio Ivankov. I wear this one for my own reasons. For now."
A ripple of unease swept the hall. Some began to murmur—Marine? Spy? Savior?
Ivankov took a step forward, arms open, cape glimmering. "How did you get in, then, little prince? This land is invisible to those who cannot accept themselves. Even Haki struggles here."
Krishna's answer was unhurried. "Haki can sense hatred, pain, intent. I followed the opposite—a pulse of hope, laughter, rebellion. Life that refused to be crushed by walls. That's how I found you."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Ivankov laughed—a nervous, rolling sound that spread tension like perfume. "You're a dangerous guest, boy. Even the stones remember when someone like you walks among them. Are you here to turn us in, or turn the world upside down?"
Krishna shook his head. "I am not here to harm you. I came because I sensed your presence. I came to say: I am not your enemy. When the time is right, I will help you leave this place. Until then—your secret is safe."
A queen with emerald eyes, trembling at the edge of the crowd, asked, "How can we trust you? You could bring the wrath of the Marines any day."
Krishna turned, letting his eyes sweep the room. "You can't trust me. Not yet. But you can trust the promise of a man who walks between storms. I give my word as Sabo's brother. And as Dragon's ally."
Silence again. Then Ivankov approached, each step deliberate. He studied Krishna—first with suspicion, then with the slow dawn of recognition. Not just in the words, but in the calm. In the way Krishna's power did not press down, but balanced on a knife-edge.
"You're not like the others, are you?" Ivankov said softly. "You don't want to rule. You don't want to save everyone. You just… stand there, waiting for the world to reveal itself."
Krishna nodded. "I am not your savior. Nor your judge. Only a witness—for now."
The party around them shifted, unease giving way to a strange, reluctant respect. The members of Newkama Land bowed their heads—not to submission, but to the reality of a power that offered observation, not domination.
Ivankov spread his arms, a note of ceremony in his voice. "Then be welcome, O Witness in White and Black. If you are what you say, you will return. And if not—well, we will have survived one more myth."
Krishna stood, his movements precise, deliberate. He met Ivankov's gaze with something like kinship—one outcast to another. "I will return for you. When the time comes."
He turned to leave, the crowd parting in awed silence. His footsteps were neither loud nor soft, but inevitable.
At the edge of the hall, Krishna paused. For the first time since entering, he allowed a faint smile—less comfort, more acknowledgment of the absurdity and beauty of survival in hell.
Medha's voice flickered in his mind. "That's a new one. Party in hell, revolutionaries on the throne, and you—invited but unclaimed. You sure know how to make an exit."
Sheshika's warm voice followed, filling his mind with a motherly warmth, "You've left a mark without leaving a scar. That is the way of dharma."
Outside, the tunnel beckoned—a passage back to cold, to suffering, to war. But inside, for a moment, Krishna had found what he sought: a living heart beating in the center of the abyss.
He vanished into the darkness, the promise lingering: I will return for you, and free you from this hell.
...
Omake: Impel Down's Got Talent— Emperor Edition
Night in Impel Down was rarely peaceful, but tonight the air vibrated with anticipation, wild music, and questionable confetti. In Newkama Land, a banner stretched across the arching tunnel mouth in garish pinks and golds:
IMPEL DOWN'S GOT TALENT: EMPEROR EDITION
Ivankov, in high heels that could impale a sea king, pirouetted onto stage.
"Darlings, welcome! The stage where legends are born—and sometimes just drop dead from embarrassment! Tonight, only one can claim the title of Supreme Emperor of the Pose!"
Spotlights stabbed through the darkness. Marines, Newkama, and prisoners—some in drag, some still in striped rags—filled the stands. The mood was fevered, an unholy blend of theatre, circus, and spiritual awakening.
At center stage, guarded by two Newkama warriors in oversized peacock-feather boas, stood a life-size cardboard cutout of Krishna. He sat, right fist to his cheek, eyes unreadable and heavy as myth. It wasn't just a pose, it was a throne carved out of stillness and thunder, and more than one onlooker swore the cutout was judging them.
Ivankov gestured grandly. "You must all defeat the Emperor Himself! Well, a piece of cardboard, but you get the idea. And our judges!"
He twirled.
"Inazuma, the original snip-and-serve queen!"
Inazuma nodded, stone-faced, sipping something fluorescent from a mug marked "JUSTICE."
"Next, the infamous toy peacock—Megakshi—who will, of course, judge in silent elegance!"
Megakshi, an actual toy, was propped on the judge's table, plastic eyes fixed and serene.
"And finally, me! The one and only, Ivankov!"
Applause, shrieking, rose to the stalactites.
First up, the main event: the Three Admirals.
Admiral Kizaru strolled out, sunglasses reflecting a dozen Den Den Mushi flashes. He squinted at the cardboard Krishna, cocked his head, and murmured, "Yare yare. I guess I'll try my best to look mysterious."
He folded his arms, leaned slightly, and let the stage light catch his angular jaw.
The crowd whistled, but the energy was more "fashion show" than "mythic terror."
Admiral Aokiji slouched in from the side, one hand in his coat, the other scratching his head.
He flopped into the throne beside the cutout and managed to look both half-asleep and oddly regal.
The crowd was silent, watching.
Kuzan, noticing, cracked one eye and gave a lazy salute. "This chair's pretty comfortable, ya know. Wake me if I win."
Someone snickered, and applause followed, almost against their will.
Then, from the other wing, Admiral Akainu thundered onto stage, magma simmering at his knuckles. He struck the Emperor Pose with all the violence of a man issuing a death sentence.
Veins bulged. His jaw clenched so hard the chair creaked.
He looked less like a sovereign and more like a volcano with constipation.
The three admirals froze in formation, recreating their legendary Marineford pose—back-to-back, arms crossed, faces set for battle.
The crowd exploded—even the cardboard Krishna seemed to lean in, as if inspecting their resolve.
The judges conferred.
Inazuma: "Technical excellence. Lacks the aura of silence."
Ivankov: "So much testosterone, I might just faint! But darling, where is the mystery? The divinity?"
Megakshi, the toy, teetered and fell flat—unreadable, but the audience interpreted this as "shook."
Kuzan mumbled, "Guess we'll always be runners-up to the real thing," and shuffled off, the others following.
Next: Magellan.
He lumbered on, resplendent in ceremonial chains and a cape that fluttered like death.
He sat—no, commanded—the Emperor Pose, letting his poison leak ominously.
Half the crowd fainted instantly, the other half applauded nervously.
The judges recovered quickly.
Inazuma: "Dramatic, but dangerous."
Ivankov: "Lethal chic!"
Megakshi, now upright again, just stared, unmoved.
After the main event came the real chaos—Newkama Land Crew.
Bentham—Mr. 2 Bon Clay—burst onto the stage in full Swan Ballet attire, striking the Emperor Pose mid-spin, finishing with jazz hands and a pirouette.
The audience went wild, roses flying, Bentham blowing kisses to everyone and everything.
A troupe followed:
One Newkama attempted the pose while balancing a teacup on their head, which promptly toppled and shattered, prompting gales of laughter.
Another brought in a living peacock, which ignored the crowd, nibbled Megakshi's feathers, a gesture similar to kissing the back of the hand, and strutted imperiously offstage.
A rapid-fire montage followed:
Marines in drag.
Prisoners doing handstands.
Ivankov's "Divinity Tapdance" (performed in seven-inch heels).
Even Buggy the Clown tried, slipping on a banana peel and landing in a perfect accidental Emperor Pose—sparking wild cheers.
Backstage, the admirals watched, arms crossed, pretending not to care.
Borsalino whispered, "Maybe we should try that jazz hands thing."
Sakazuki glared. "Over my dead body."
Kuzan, eyes closed, grinned. "Chill, Sakazuki. Maybe next year."
The final act: Ivankov the Showstopper
Ivankov stormed the stage, glitter cannon in each hand, and fused the Emperor Pose with a thunderous musical number, "I am Divinity, Darling!" echoed off the cavern walls as spotlights spun and confetti rained down.
The cardboard Krishna—tipped by the wind—toppled slowly, face-first.
A hush fell.
Everyone—admirals, Magellan, Newkama, marines, prisoners—froze in a single, reverent beat.
Then, as if on cue, the entire crowd, judges and all, bowed instinctively toward the fallen cutout.
For just a second, even the admirals' faces betrayed awe.
It didn't matter that Krishna wasn't present—the myth was heavier than any person.
The scores:
Three Admirals: 9.5/10. ("For power, presence, and nostalgia!")
Magellan: "Most Intense. Try less poison next time."
Bentham: "Spirit of the Emperor."
Ivankov: "Queen of the Storm."
Buggy: "Best Accidental Emperor."
The living peacock: "Best Supporting Role."
But when the Den Den Mushi hosts asked, "So, who truly won tonight?" the judges conferred, then announced,
"No one can out-pose the real thing. The title remains with Kurohane—the Black Feather."
News Den Den Mushi sent clips worldwide:
Marines and pirates everywhere started the #EmperorPoseChallenge.
Recruiters tried to teach new marines "proper pose etiquette."
Merchants sold cardboard Krishna cutouts, which promptly became banned in Mariejois for "disturbing the balance of power."
Krishna, somewhere in Marineford, wandered into a common room, saw a dozen marines awkwardly striking his pose for a photo, and walked away wordlessly, Medha snickering in his mind.
Megakshi, for her part, became a meme—the "unimpressed peacock judge" on every poster.
As the night in Newkama Land drew to a close, Ivankov raised a final toast,
"To the Emperor who taught us that silence is sometimes the loudest thunder! Now, let's party like the world government isn't watching!"
The music soared, laughter echoed through the stone corridors, and somewhere, deep in Impel Down, the legend of Kurohane—the boy who sat like a god and made everyone else pretend—grew just a little wilder.
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
If you thought Marineford's office drama was wild, just wait until you see what happens when you drop a myth-class intern into the world's most infamous prison. This chapter took us from propaganda posters to the pit of Impel Down—and if you're feeling uneasy, good. So is Krishna.
Watching him walk through the machine of "justice" is like watching a storm realize it's trapped inside a bottle: beautiful, but a little dangerous for anyone standing too close. The deeper he goes, the more he questions the cost of order—and the more the system starts to crack around him.
Next up: secrets, rebels, and the kind of alliances that only grow in the dark. Krishna's first encounter with Newkama Land is only the beginning. The world thinks it can script his legend, but even the most careful censors can't keep the storm from leaking in.
Keep your eyes on the black feather—there's thunder on the horizon.
—Author out