[A/N:
Sorry for not uploading these past few days! The idea of integrating songs into key scenes hit me like a Conqueror's Haki-infused truck-kun—awesome, but damn exhausting (It took me like a whole day to select the appropriate song, and another to modify it to suit the situation.).
And then Father's Day rolled around (I know, I'm late—but happy belated Father's Day anyway! Make sure to wish your father, or someone who is like a father to you.).
But we're back on track now. Please check out the previous chapter 23, Kuma vs Krishna fight, i have updated the fight scene and integrated a modified version of Imagine Dragons song "Warriors".
Thanks for waiting, you legends. Let's dive back in.]
...
The wind shifted as the Den Den Mushi blinked once more.
Its eyes were open now. Wide. Awake. Alert.
Krishna stood beneath the stars, coat brushing his ankles, the wind flattening the grass around his boots. And into the hush of the night, he said softly—
"Hello, Dragon."
Silence followed. Heavy. Not hostile.
Not uncertain.
Just… still.
The kind of stillness that came before something irreversible.
The silence between them stretched long — not as hesitation, but as calculation. The kind that only men of burden shared. A silence that asked: Do you understand what you've done by calling me?
Krishna held the snail with both hands. It twitched gently under his palms, as if it too knew the weight of what was happening.
Then the voice came. Rough. Calm. Unhurried. It sounded like it belonged to someone who carried nations on his back and stopped pretending they weren't heavy.
"You intercepted a Revolutionary signal."
Krishna didn't answer.
"You found Kuma. You broke the sequence. You released what the World tried to bury."
Still, Krishna said nothing.
But the pause between them was no longer empty.
It was agreement.
And then Dragon's tone shifted—slightly.
"You found Sabo."
A pause.
Then Krishna spoke.
"I found proof."
"And?"
"He's alive."
Dragon's breath changed. Not sharp—not dramatic. Just a breath someone hadn't let out in months.
"Yes," he said simply. "He is."
Krishna stared out over the sea. The stars hadn't moved — but the air felt more awake than ever before. As if the planet itself had stopped to hear what this moment would become.
"Is Sabo safe?"
A beat.
Then, "Yes."
Krishna closed his eyes and exhaled. He didn't realize he'd been holding it. In the distance, a sea king breached under moonlight. The only thing that moved.
There were no words for the storm that had been bottled up for so long. The guilt. The helplessness. The way Luffy still looked at the sky when he thought no one was watching, and the way Ace still looked at the spot Sabo used to read, reminiscing about the times he called him a librarian just to annoy him.
Krishna closed his eyes.
"Thank you. I owe you." Krishna said.
"No," Dragon replied. "We both protect what we refuse to lose."
The voice on the other end was gentler now. It didn't lose its edge, but it lowered its blade.
"You've always watched over him."
Krishna nodded.
"I was too late once. I won't be again."
The air between them changed.
Not softened.
Tightened.
Not because of distrust.
Because they understood each other.
Dragon didn't need Krishna to explain. He already knew.
You didn't need to raise someone to love them like a brother. You didn't need to share blood to burn the world down if they were hurt.
And Krishna?
He already understood why Dragon had vanished from Luffy's life.
Some roles are too big to walk while carrying love openly.
Some wars demand silence — and a distance wide enough to keep the enemy blind.
...
The silence that followed wasn't empty.
It was recognition.
Two men standing in different storms, holding up the sky for boys who didn't ask for it.
...
"I didn't think you'd call," Dragon said at last.
"I wasn't going to," Krishna admitted. "But then I saw what they did to Kuma."
Krishna's fingers tightened around the Den Den Mushi.
"And I realized something."
"What?"
"The world doesn't break people by crushing them."
Dragon waited.
"It breaks them by rewriting them into things that look peaceful."
Another silence passed.
Then Krishna asked quietly.
"Why did you save him?"
"Sabo?"
"Yes.", Krishna nodded once, though he knew Dragon couldn't see it.
"Because he reminded me of someone."
A pause.
Then, in a breath,
"Myself."
"He was angry. Brave. Stupid."
"Someone who would die for the right reason—but hadn't yet learned to live for it."
Krishna looked out at the moon.
"He hated being powerless."
Dragon responded almost fondly.
"He learned quickly."
...
Another silence passed.
But this one... this one was different.
It was mutual respect.
Not forged from meetings.
Forged fromactions.
Krishna had stood between the fire and Luffy.
Dragon had pulled Sabo from the grave and given him breath.
Neither owed the other.
But they both understood thecostof that kind of protection.
They stood like that for a long time.
Two shadows connected by a wire.
Nothing else in the world had moved.
...
The conversation slowed again — not dead, but leaning forward.
Then Krishna dropped his voice further.
"The Celestial Dragons. They're the rot. You know it."
"I do."
"You want them gone."
"I do."
"Then so do I."
The line buzzed for a second — not from interference. From weight.
"You're Garp's son," Krishna said quietly. "But that doesn't mean you're my family."
"I wouldn't ask you to call me that," Dragon replied.
"But you saved my brother."
"And you saved my son."
Krishna didn't respond.
Dragon said nothing. But Krishna knew.
That silence?
That was trust.
"You don't believe in saviors," Krishna finally said.
"No," Dragon agreed. "I believe in storm fronts."
Krishna looked down at the Den Den Mushi, still humming faintly.
"They've started to notice me," he said. "But they don't understand what they're looking at."
"They see myth," Dragon said.
"They see restraint," Krishna corrected. "And it scares them."
Dragon didn't laugh. But the approval in his voice, the smugness, was almost audible.
"Good."
...
The call held a rare stillness again.
And then—softly, as if from the other side of a wave—
"I'm not here to join you."
"I didn't expect you to," Dragon said.
Krishna looked up at the stars.
"But I have a proposal."
"Go on."
Krishna exhaled slowly. And then began.
"I will [REDACTED]—"
The rest never came.
What followed next wasn't heard by the readers.
Not spoken on-page.
Not written in words.
Not narrated.
Only silence.
And then—
Dragon's breath caught.
Kuma's eyes widened—slightly. A mechanical flicker, but human.
The Den Den Mushi twitched like it had just heard something it shouldn't.
Dragon didn't respond right away.
When he did, his voice was different.
Measured. But shaken.
"...You're serious."
"I am."
"Do you understand what that would mean? Not just to you, but the whole World."
"I do."
A pause.
"Are you certain?"
Krishna's voice was cold steel.
"I didn't come here to ask permission."
Dragon finally spoke again.
"You're not trying to end the war."
"No," Krishna said.
"I'm trying to change what itmeansto fight one."
Kuma lowered his massive head slightly, as if burdened by a memory not fully deleted.
The ocean wind picked up behind him.
Carried his coat like a banner not yet raised.
The stars did not move—but it felt like they had.
"I'm not here to make peace," Krishna said quietly.
"I'm here to change the terms."
...
The snail blinked twice.
Then powered down.
No last words.
No name exchanged.
Just silence.
And the sense that a storm had just agreed to begin.
...
The forest stood still after the call ended.
Not quiet. Still.
The difference mattered.
The Den Den Mushi had gone dormant in Krishna's palm, the light in its eyes fading as if even it understood that something irreversible had just taken place. He closed his fingers around the shell gently.
Krishna stood beneath the ridge where the forest thinned and the last hints of moonlight fell through broken branches. Behind him, the world lay unchanged.
But within him, the ripple had already begun.
...
Kuma waited in the clearing like a statue forgotten by history. Arms at his side, shoulders wide, hat shadowing most of his face — and yet there was something unmistakably human in his stillness now. Not mechanical. Not hollow.
Present.
Awake.
Krishna approached with measured steps. No blade drawn. No tension in his shoulders. Just presence — and the exhaustion that came from navigating a world that mistook silence for submission.
"You heard it all," he said.
Kuma's mechanical jaw shifted slightly, and a voice, deeper than thunder but softer than most would expect, answered.
"I did."
There was no judgment in it.
No accusation.
Just the tired resonance of someone who understood far too much for his own good.
The two stood in stillness, eye to eye in spirit, if not in scale.
"You stayed," Krishna said softly, again.
Kuma lifted his chin — a mechanical gesture that somehow still felt human.
"You gave me back what little I had left."
There was no gratitude in it.
No obligation.
Just truth.
...
Medha's voice crackled faintly into Krishna's ear.
"Override pulse ended thirty seconds ago. His body is rebooting. Central system intact."
Krishna nodded once, barely visible.
Kuma remained silent. But his head turned ever so slightly, as if listening not to her, but to the echo she left behind.
"You can still think for yourself," Krishna said.
"Fragments," Kuma replied. "Enough to walk. Not enough to choose the road."
"That's more than they intended."
Kuma's mouth quirked — maybe a grimace. Maybe the ghost of a smile. It was hard to tell on a face carved from obedience.
"I was built to stand still," he said.
Krishna looked up at him.
"You were built to be a message."
"And I never got to choose what it said."
...
A breeze stirred the leaves. Not wind. Not movement. Just memory.
Krishna stepped closer, close enough now that Kuma could see his face clearly — the tired midnight eyes, the wind-touched hair, the faint dust clinging to the hem of his coat.
"You knew who I was before I spoke," Krishna said.
Kuma did not answer directly, instead questioned him.
"Do you know what they told me I'd become?" Kuma asked.
Krishna didn't answer.
Kuma reached up slowly — the servos in his arm clicking faintly — and touched his own chest, just above the heart.
"A wall. Between revolution and order. A monument to compliance."
He paused.
"They said it would make me immortal."
Krishna's voice barely rose above the wind.
"But it made you forget your name."
Kuma looked up at the stars.
"And yet... something in me still remembered to come here."
...
The moonlight caught on Kuma's glasses.
"Do you regret helping me?" he asked.
Krishna shook his head.
"No."
"Even if it puts you on their list?"
"I was always on their list."
Kuma didn't press further.
He didn't need to.
The silence between them stretched again, but it wasn't hollow.
It was... tired.
Like two soldiers who had fought on different sides, but shared the same wounds.
Krishna finally broke the quiet.
"Why didn't you attack me?"
Kuma blinked once — a slow, almost deliberate motion.
"Because when I looked at you, I saw something that didn't move to destroy."
"Then what did you see?"
"A reflection."
Krishna tilted his head.
"Of what?"
Kuma's voice lowered.
"A weapon that never asked to be lifted."
...
Krishna said nothing for a long time.
Then finally asked,
"What did they take first?"
Kuma looked down at his own hands — the size of oars, the skin marred by cybernetic stitching and grafted seams.
"My ability to ask why."
Krishna didn't flinch.
"And second?"
"My hesitation."
...
Medha's tone lowered in his comm.
"Override did not restore full identity. This is all willpower. Passive. Fading."
Krishna didn't respond.
Instead, he stepped forward and placed a hand gently against Kuma's chest.
No power surge. No healing burst.
Just contact.
Physical. Human.
The gesture of someone who knew what it meant to be touched last as a command — and now wanted to rewrite the meaning.
Krishna kept his hand there a moment longer.
He didn't inject anything.
Didn't alter code.
He simply reminded the man that he was still there.
And Kuma… let him.
For a moment, the two stood in stillness.
A martyr and a myth.
A weapon that refused to be erased, and another who feared he was becoming one.
...
Kuma closed his eyes for a second.
Not in shutdown.
In memory.
"I volunteered," he said. "That's what they forget. I thought it would protect them. I thought giving them a symbol would spare others from war."
Krishna didn't pull away.
"But you didn't become a symbol."
Kuma opened his eyes.
"I became proof that loyalty has a price."
Krishna looked at Kuma — really looked.
The seams in his flesh.
The paneling around his shoulders.
The bolts where breath once sat.
"I'm not like you," Krishna said quietly.
"I can still feel every part of myself. Still say no." he continued.
Kuma nodded.
"But your silence is becoming heavier."
Krishna didn't respond.
Kuma lowered his massive head.
"They're already calling you savior."
Krishna looked away.
"I didn't ask them to."
"They don't care."
Krishna dropped his hand.
They stood in silence.
Birds called from somewhere distant.
A stream murmured beneath the slope.
Nothing human moved for a while.
...
Kuma looked out into the woods.
"Do you believe the world can change?"
Krishna didn't answer right away.
Instead, he walked a few steps away. Turned his back. Stared into the trees as though they'd whisper a better answer than his own mouth could give.
"I believe change doesn't come gently."
Kuma said nothing.
"I believe mercy is misread. That people want saviors — but not salvation."
Krishna exhaled.
"I believe they love the idea of you, until it's time to remember what made you necessary."
He turned around again.
Faced Kuma.
"I don't know what I believe about the world anymore."
Kuma's voice was quiet.
"But you believe in them."
Krishna didn't need to ask who.
"Yes."
"Then you still have something to lose."
...
Another long pause.
Kuma began to fade.
Not visibly.
But Krishna could feel it — a slackening in presence. Like a candle reaching the final stretch of its wick.
Medha's voice whispered in his ear.
"He has minutes left. Maybe less. Neural degradation resumed."
Krishna took a breath.
Lowered his gaze.
"I can hold the override again—"
"No."
Kuma's voice was firm now.
"No more puppeteering. Let me choose how I disappear."
...
Krishna stepped back.
Gave him space.
Kuma looked to the sky. A sliver of moonlight cut across his cheek. It looked strange — divine, almost — resting on something built by men who had no gods.
"Tell Luffy…" he started.
Krishna waited.
Kuma shook his head once.
"No. He doesn't need a message from someone half-alive."
Krishna nodded.
"He remembers you anyway."
Kuma's voice softened, distorted slightly as the system began to reclaim him.
"You are not what they think you are."
"I know."
"You are not what you think you are either."
"I know that too."
A pause.
"Do you know what you are becoming?"
Krishna looked down at his palm.
"No."
"Are you afraid?"
"I don't know."
...
Kuma's arm trembled once. Barely. A ghost of resistance.
Then it stilled.
"I thought I had more time."
"You lasted longer than most."
"And you gave me five more minutes."
Krishna's voice was low.
"I'm sorry I couldn't give more."
Kuma's final sentence came in a hush.
"You gave me choice. That was more than enough."
And then his eyes dimmed again.
Not violently.
Just gently — like sleep, returned to someone who had forgotten how to dream.
...
Medha whispered through Krishna's comm.
"Override concluded. Original personality fragment retreating."
Krishna didn't speak.
He stepped away.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And as he turned, Kuma's voice rumbled one last time—softer than before.
"Do not let them choose what you become."
Krishna didn't answer.
But the silence he left behind said everything.
It was not empty.
It was a vow.
...
The trees didn't rustle as he passed through them.
The wind didn't move.
The night seemed to hold its breath.
And behind him, the once-holy weapon of the World Government stood alone in the dark — not as a cyborg, not as a tyrant, not as a ghost.
Just as a man.
Who remembered for five minutes.
What freedom felt like.
...
Krishna stopped walking and stood alone beneath the moon, silent and determined, Kuma nowhere to be seen.
Sheshika moved for the first time in an hour. Her tail flicked nervously, sensing something primal in him shift again — deeper now.
No rage.
No triumph.
Just decision.
And once made, his decisions never unraveled.
Medha didn't say anything. Not this time.
Whatever had been spoken into that call… it echoed now between dimensions of strategy and prophecy.
And even she didn't know what came next.
Krishna turned.
And walked back toward Foosha — toward firelight, toward the family that would finally learn…
Sabo is alive.
...
The porch was lit with a soft, golden glow by the time Krishna stepped onto it.
The smell of fried rice, burnt curry edges, and something suspiciously overcooked wafted through the door. It was comforting — not because it was perfect, but because it was home.
Inside, he could hear the usual noise, Ace and Luffy already bickering, Dadan yelling about someone about not washing their hands, Makino trying to mediate with patient exhaustion.
Krishna took one slow breath, absorbing the warmth, the chaos, the pulse of a life he hadn't been sure he could come back to.
The door creaked open before he could knock.
Makino stood there, apron still on, a soup spoon in her hand.
She smiled — the kind that always made it feel like the sun had stepped down from the sky to greet you.
"You're late."
Krishna nodded once.
"I had to finish something."
She stepped aside without another word.
Inside, the table was already full. Plates piled with rice, battered fish, chopped sea cucumbers. Luffy was mid-air trying to steal from Ace's plate, while Ace held his spoon like a sword.
Luffy's face lit up with his usual chaos-beamed grin the moment he saw Krishna.
"KRISHNAAA! HURRY UP, FOOD'S GETTING COLD!"
"Only your plate," Makino called from inside, stirring the soup. "You picked at it before dinner again!"
"Because I was hungry!" Luffy shouted back, pointing at his stomach as if it were a medical condition.
"Because you're a stomach with limbs," Ace added from the table.
Krishna stepped inside without a word.
The warmth of the room wrapped around him immediately. Not just from the hearth. From the people.
Ace was leaned back on his chair, balancing it on two legs — only to be swatted back down by Dadan.
Makino had her sleeves rolled up, her hair tied loosely as she poured soup into bowls. Her eyes flicked to Krishna with quiet relief, but she said nothing yet.
Dadan gave him a once-over from her seat near the window.
"You look like you just went and stared down the damn moon."
"I did," Krishna said calmly.
"And?" she raised an eyebrow.
"It blinked first."
Luffy gasped. "Okay, that was cool."
Krishna removed his coat and hung it on the hook beside the door.
"You were waiting," he said softly, glancing toward the table.
Makino smiled.
"Of course."
Dadan grumbled from her seat, her cigarette unlit but chewing anyway.
"Took you long enough," she muttered, not looking at him. "We were about to start without you."
"No we weren't!" Luffy shouted, mouth already full. "I said we had to wait! He's the Feather Guy!"
"The what?"
Krishna blinked once.
Ace shrugged.
"People started calling you that."
He leaned forward, arms on the table.
"Now that Mr. Feather Guy is back, can we eat before Luffy actually chews on the table?"
"I wasn't gonna chew the table," Luffy said with a bread roll already in his mouth.
"You were licking it."
"That's different."
Krishna's expression didn't change, but something inside him tightened.
Not shame.
Not pride.
Just the weight of being named before you could decide who you were.
...
He took his seat at the far corner, where the firelight just touched his profile. Just close enough to feel the warmth.
They ate for a few minutes — noisy, messy, joyful.
Just food passed, laughter spilling between mouthfuls, and elbows bumping as Luffy reached too far and Ace retaliated by stealing a bite from his plate.
Dadan lit a fresh lantern above the hearth, muttering something about wild animals being easier to raise than brothers.
Makino refilled everyone's bowls.
Luffy spilled half of his onto the floor and declared it "pre-marinated."
Dadan groaned and passed him a rag.
Krishna said nothing.
He just watched them.
Laughed softly when Luffy used the rag to clean his face instead of the floor.
Makino passing extra rice to Ace without being asked.
Dadan grumbling under her breath while refilling Luffy's soup.
Luffy leaning back with his mouth open like a baby bird until Makino swatted his head.
And in all of it — a rhythm.
A belonging.
And let the peace of the room settle into his shoulders — just for a second.
...
Makino glanced over.
"You're too quiet," she said softly.
Krishna looked up.
Everyone else paused.
"What?" Luffy blinked.
"I thought this was a food zone," Ace muttered, still chewing.
Krishna set down his spoon.
Wiped his fingers with a napkin.
Then raised his eyes — those midnight eyes, unreadable even when full of emotion.
"I confirmed something," he said.
Everyone stared.
He looked at Luffy. At Ace. At Dadan and Makino.
Krishna swallowed.
Then spoke.
"Sabo is alive."
...
The room froze.
Literally.
Even the crackling of the fire seemed to pause for a moment.
Luffy's bowl dropped with a clatter.
It hit the floor and rolled.
He didn't move.
He just stared at Krishna, unmoving.
Makino's eyes widened. Her breath hitched. She covered her mouth with one hand.
Dadan blinked like someone who had been punched in the heart.
Ace… didn't breathe.
Then—
Luffy screamed.
"WHAT?!"
His voice cracked like thunder, ripping across the room with all the force of a storm that had been waiting for a single word.
He stood so fast he knocked his chair into the firewood pile.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN ALIVE?!"
Makino dropped her spoon. Her eyes were already glistening.
Dadan grabbed the edge of the table as if the ground had shifted beneath her, and slowly slid down into her chair.
Krishna held steady.
"He's alive."
Ace's hand went to his mouth.
He didn't cry.
Not yet.
But his knuckles went white against the wood of the table.
Makino was already crying. Silent tears streaming down her cheeks, her body frozen as if afraid to move and shatter the moment.
Dadan stood up slowly — not to speak, not to yell.
Just to feel it better.
Krishna continued.
"He was saved. He is safe now, in the first half of the Grand Line. I traced an encoded signal. It confirmed everything."
Luffy took a stumbling step forward.
Tears were already pouring.
He reached Krishna, fists balled at his sides.
And then — without permission or warning — he hugged him.
Hard.
Buried his face in Krishna's chest like he was trying to disappear into it.
Krishna froze.
Then wrapped his arms around him.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if hugging something fragile.
"I knew it," Luffy sobbed. "I knew he wouldn't die like that."
Ace rose next.
Walked around the table slowly.
Krishna looked up just as Ace's hand grabbed the front of his robe.
It felt like someone clinging to breath.
"You bastard," Ace muttered, voice cracked. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Krishna let him.
"I didn't want to give you hope before I was sure."
Ace laughed, almost angrily.
"Since when do you care about being sure?!"
"Since I lost him the first time."
Ace didn't let go.
But his chin began to tremble.
And then — with a single exhale — he cracked.
Tears slid down his face like betrayal and forgiveness all in one.
"I missed him," he whispered.
Krishna nodded.
"I know."
"I thought he was gone."
"So did I."
Ace collapsed into the same hug. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Luffy.
Neither let go.
Neither wanted to.
Luffy was crying now.
Not sobbing.
Just leaking, unblinking tears while he tried to smile, and asked, "He's really alive?"
Krishna looked him straight in the eye.
"Yes."
Luffy wiped his nose with his sleeve, still in the brother hug.
Makino, still trembling slightly, wrapped her arms around herself.
Dadan looked away.
Her hands were clenched on her thighs — white-knuckled.
Krishna reached for her silently.
Placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I had to be sure," he said again.
Dadan's head dropped.
"I get it," she said, voice rough. "I just… I thought I buried him in my heart."
Makino smiled sadly.
"Guess he dug his way out."
Dadan sat back down slowly.
She didn't cry.
She just picked up her cigarette.
Lit it.
And said quietly, "Damn kid... couldn't even stay dead right."
Makino laughed.
Half-broken.
And wiped her eyes.
"You kept this to yourself for how long?" she asked Krishna.
"Since I was certain," he said softly.
She crossed the room and touched his cheek with one hand.
And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime — she looked straight into his eyes and saw it.
Moisture.
No tears.
But just enough shimmer to make him human again.
Just enough to say — without words:
He needed this too.
...
They just sat there, surrounded by warm food and hotter emotions.
Eventually, Ace dropped on to the floor, bringing Luffy and Krishna with him.
He was still blinking too fast. Still breathing too hard.
"Okay," he said finally. "That's it."
"That's what?" Luffy sniffled.
"I'm becoming ten times stronger. No—a hundred times. If he's alive, I'm not gonna let him catch up."
"You think he can beat you?" Luffy smirked shakily.
"I think he can kick your ass."
"Oh yeah?!"
"Yeah!"
"I'll beat you first!"
"Try it, monkey brain!"
Krishna leaned back and let the noise drown the weight.
...
They didn't talk much for a while after that.
They just sat on the floor.
Held each other.
Let the soup grow cold and the lamps burn low.
And finally, when Ace and Luffy were asleep on either side of him, Krishna looked down at their tangled limbs.
He reached forward.
Pulled a blanket across them both.
And whispered, "I'm sorry it took this long."
...
Outside, the wind shifted.
And a single feather landed on the windowsill.
It didn't blow away.
It just stayed there.
As if choosing this house.
This family.
This night.
To rest.
...
The fire crackled in the stone hearth, its light softening into a slow rhythm that bathed the room in orange and gold. Outside, the wind murmured through the forest canopy, brushing past Dadan's cottage with the same hush that had settled over those inside.
They weren't speaking now—not out of silence, but something more sacred.
Stillness.
Luffy was the first to doze off. It happened mid-laugh, slumped across Ace's shoulder, mouth half-open, blanket only barely covering one leg. He twitched occasionally, muttering words like "Meat King" and "No, that's my banana, you stupid monkey," earning an occasional snort from Dadan.
Ace woke up a while back, tossing and turning in his sleep. He hadn't moved from his spot near the fire. His eyes were distant—looking not into the flames, but behind them, where memory lived.
He hadn't spoken since the news. Not because there was nothing to say.
Because there was too much.
Makino sat beside him, weaving another scarf, her hands moving on instinct more than intention. She wasn't smiling. But her eyes had stopped glistening. That was enough.
Dadan stood near the door, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. The cigarette in her hand had burned halfway without ever being puffed.
And Krishna?
He sat cross-legged across from the hearth. One leg folded, one arm resting on his knee, cloak gathered around him like a pool of darkened dusk. The light didn't touch his face evenly. One half in firelight, the other in shadow—his usual symmetry. A god to some. A ghost to himself.
Silent.
Again.
But not distant.
Not entirely.
...
No one said a word for a long time.
And then Ace spoke.
Low. Like he was afraid of breaking something.
"So you knew all along?"
Krishna didn't look up. "That he was alive? Yes. I've always known."
"Then why now?"
"I didn't know if knowing would help you. Or hurt you."
Ace's mouth twisted. "You don't get to make that call for me."
Krishna nodded. "That's why I made sure. And then I told you. I didn't know if telling you would comfort... or mislead."
He looked into the fire.
"And I've misled enough people already."
That silenced them.
But not in the heavy way.
More in the real way.
The kind that comes when someone lays down a truth and doesn't ask to be forgiven for it.
...
Ace leaned back, hands laced behind his head.
"He's probably stirring up shit somewhere. Writing essays about freedom on some island full of flags."
Makino laughed.
"He always did talk too much when he was excited."
Luffy snorted in his sleep. Rolled over. Mumbled, "I am the pineapple... king..."
They all turned to stare.
Even Krishna tilted his head.
Ace deadpanned, "We need to start feeding him less before bed."
A long pause followed.
The fire shifted.
Outside, a wind moved through the trees.
The world turned softly beneath them.
...
The fire cracked again.
Makino finally set the blanket aside and leaned forward, her voice softer than even the flames. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and realize you were just trying to give us peace. That it was a story you made up."
"I wouldn't lie to you," Krishna said.
"Not even to protect us?"
Krishna hesitated.
Not because he doubted the answer—but because he'd already done it. Many times.
"If it's peace you want," he said, "I'll never take that from you. But I'll never build it on lies, either."
Makino nodded, just once.
Dadan lit a cigarette and stood near the door, where the smoke wouldn't hang too long over their heads. She blew a long stream into the night before speaking.
"I always hated this part," she said.
"What part?" Ace asked.
"The part where you get what you hoped for… and it still aches."
Ace leaned forward, arms on knees. "I don't care if it aches. He's alive."
Dadan exhaled again. "Good. Then let it ache."
There was no lecture in her tone. No bark. Just the tiredness of someone who'd loved too much and buried too many.
Luffy mumbled again in his sleep and rolled over, tugging the blanket tighter.
Makino smiled. "He's going to talk Sabo's ears off if we ever find him."
"Correction," Ace muttered. "He's going to bite Sabo's ears off."
They all laughed.
Even Krishna, softly.
The kind of laugh that barely escaped his chest, but warmed the air anyway.
Dadan didn't laugh.
But she walked over and flicked Ash from her cigarette into the fire.
Then she looked at Krishna.
"You've done a lot, haven't you?"
Krishna didn't answer.
"You've saved people," she went on. "Fought off pirates. Protected villages. Found truths no one wanted you to know. And still came home with barely a scar."
Krishna's voice was quiet. "There are scars. Just not where you can see them."
Dadan nodded. "Yeah. I figured."
The fire popped, and everyone flinched. Luffy snorted in his sleep and drooled on his pillow.
"Classy," Ace muttered.
"I think that's my pillow," Makino whispered, looking like someone drooled on her pillow, which... Luffy did.
They chuckled again.
Another silence.
Then Ace broke it—this time not bitter, just thoughtful.
"I thought about him a lot, you know."
Krishna looked up.
"Sabo?"
"Yeah."
Ace stared into the flames.
"I'd imagine what he'd say about stuff. When Luffy did something stupid. When Garp yelled at us. When Dadan made that awful stew—"
"Hey," Dadan grunted.
"—I'd hear his voice in my head. Like he was still talking to me."
Makino rubbed her arm. "He was always the calm one."
"Yeah," Ace said. "Calm, and smarter than me. Always trying to stop us from setting the island on fire."
"You set the island on fire?" Dadan snapped.
"Only once!" Ace defended. "And it was Luffy's fault."
"Hey!" Luffy yelled mid-dream sitting upright for a moment, then immediately passed out again, flopping onto the ground.
Krishna smiled again.
More visible this time.
Makino turned to him.
"You're smiling."
"I'm allowed," he said.
"Good. You need to do it more."
He didn't answer that.
But his smile lingered.
Ace leaned back and looked toward Krishna.
"How did you find out where he was? You said you traced a signal?"
Krishna hesitated.
Then, "Yes, I did intercept a signal. Heard his name. Traced it back through a source I trust."
"You trust anyone?"
Krishna didn't smile this time.
"I trust the ones who don't ask to be trusted."
Ace stared for a moment.
Then let it go.
Makino pulled her legs in closer and looked around the room.
"I forgot what this felt like."
"What?" Dadan asked.
Makino glanced at the firelight playing off their faces.
"To be full. Not just from food. But from hope."
Dadan said nothing.
Just nodded once and looked down.
Krishna looked toward Luffy.
Then at Ace.
Then at the fire.
"I don't know when we'll see him," he said quietly.
"But I know we will."
"Yeah?" Ace asked.
"How can you be sure?"
Krishna exhaled through his nose.
"Because we've already waited this long."
Makino leaned against the wall. "Then we'll wait a little longer."
They all watched the fire for a while.
No more questions.
No more explanations.
Just peace.
Temporary. Fragile. But real.
And when it came time for sleep, Krishna didn't leave the fire like he usually did.
He stayed.
Not for warmth.
Not for protection.
Just to stay.
Because sometimes, being present was the only promise he could offer.
And tonight—he would keep it.
...
Makino set the scarf down in her lap.
"Do you think he'll ever come back?"
Krishna didn't answer.
Because he wasn't sure.
Not yet.
Not until the fire inside him quieted enough to believe in reunion without fear.
Ace stood up and walked toward the door.
Then stopped and turned.
"Krishna."
"Yes."
"Thanks."
He didn't wait for a reply.
He didn't need one.
Krishna just nodded once.
The kind of nod people give when words wouldn't improve anything.
...
The room began to empty.
Slowly.
Luffy was carried off like luggage. Dadan barking orders. Makino smiling through it.
Ace gave Krishna one more look before vanishing into the hallway.
Then it was just Krishna and the fire.
And even then, he didn't speak.
Not to the room.
Not to himself.
Only when the last echo of a footstep faded... did Sheshika stir from her perch near the window.
"So," she said quietly. "You gave them peace."
Krishna didn't look at her.
"I gave them the truth."
"Which, for once," Medha added, her voice materializing beside the bookshelf, "wasn't the same thing as violence."
Krishna glanced at her.
Medha shrugged.
"Just saying."
Silence again.
Then Krishna whispered,
"They cried."
"You cry too," Sheshika said.
"I didn't."
"You did. Just not enough to be seen."
He didn't argue.
Because it wasn't a debate.
It was truth.
Medha flickered closer.
"Do you feel lighter?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Krishna looked into the fire.
"Because joy is heavier than grief."
Neither replied to that.
Because they knew he wasn't wrong.
...
The logs shifted.
A plume of orange flickered higher.
The heat brushed his cheek, but it didn't chase away the chill in his chest.
Not fully.
Sheshika circled loosely behind him, then settled down in a coil by the wall.
"I wonder how the world will respond when the myth starts to weep."
Krishna didn't flinch.
"I hope they don't see it."
Medha crossed her arms.
"You afraid to be seen?"
"I'm afraid of what I'll become if I don't hold something back."
The three of them sat like that.
Not in fear.
Not in pain.
Just... in the middle of something that wasn't done becoming yet.
...
Outside, the feather on the windowsill drifted into the night.
As if it too understood that peace, like flight, wasn't always meant to last.
...
The fire had long since died by the time Krishna stepped out into the cold.
The sky had emptied itself of clouds, leaving behind a stretch of stars so clean it looked scraped raw. The moon wasn't full, but it was enough — silver light catching on the edges of leaves, on the breath misting from his lips.
He walked quietly through the undergrowth. The others were asleep. Garp hadn't returned yet. Medha remained silent in the back of his mind. Sheshika trailed behind in half-coiled silence, low to the ground.
Neither asked where he was going.
They already knew.
The peacock waited by the edge of the stream, just where the water bent into shadow. Her feathers, once ragged from the wound and travel, now shimmered faintly — soft twilight blue touched by silver and emerald. She did not move when he approached.
She never did.
He crouched beside her.
Neither spoke.
Not at first.
The stream whispered beside them, and the breeze moved through the tall grass like someone exhaling a prayer they weren't sure they believed.
Krishna reached out.
Ran a hand lightly down the soft curvature of her neck. She closed her eyes — not in trust, but in understanding.
They were alike in that way.
Neither of them fully trusted the world.
But both had stayed.
That was enough.
...
Krishna sat beside her, the grass cold beneath his robes, his fingers still wet from the brush of the stream.
"You've followed me for a long time now," he said softly.
The peacock didn't respond.
But her head tilted just enough to let the light catch her eyes.
Clear. Reflective. Watchful.
Eyes that had seen too much.
He looked into the stream.
The moon stared back.
And so did his own face.
Not divine.
Not terrible.
Just tired.
Like the sky itself had learned to wear human features.
"I've met people who looked at me and saw salvation," he murmured.
"I've met others who looked and saw judgment."
He dipped a hand in the stream.
Watched the ripples stretch outward, then return.
"But not many have looked at me... and seen me."
The peacock shifted, tail feathers rustling softly like silk over stone.
Krishna looked at her again.
"You did."
A pause.
The wind shifted.
Something passed through him — like memory and prophecy meeting for the first time.
He touched her feathers gently, then let his hand fall away.
"I never named you," he whispered. "Not because you didn't deserve one."
He looked down.
"But because I didn't think I deserved to give it you."
Krishna turned his head slightly toward the stream. The moon danced in its surface — so clear, so cold.
His own face stared back.
Not terrible.
Not divine.
Just… unreadable.
And tired.
Tired of being unreadable.
...
A silence fell.
Not empty — but whole.
Like something waiting to be filled, but never rushed.
Krishna placed one palm on the ground beside him.
"I've been called many things," he said softly. "Savior. Monster. God. Anomaly. Son. Brother. Ghost. Weapon."
His voice caught on the last one.
Weapon.
He looked down at his hands. Flexed the fingers slightly. The streamlight played along his knuckles like blood that had been washed off too many times.
"I've carried feathers across oceans. Left them behind like offerings."
He breathed in, slow.
"I've become the myth they whisper about."
His voice lowered.
"And in doing so... I've forgotten how to speak for myself."
The peacock turned her gaze to him.
"I thought naming you would make you heavier to carry. Like all the other things I've named."
The peacock tilted her head.
"But maybe," Krishna murmured, "you're the only thing I don't have to carry."
...
A silence settled again.
Not empty — never empty — but full of questions that hadn't yet turned into words.
Sheshika emerged from the brush without a sound, coiling near the stream. Medha pulsed gently into view, floating a meter above the water like moonlight made curious.
Neither spoke yet.
They didn't need to.
This moment didn't belong to them.
...
Krishna finally looked at the peacock.
Eyes meeting.
Not like predator and prey.
Not like master and beast.
Like two fragments of the same wound.
"You walked beside me," he said. "Not because I asked. Not because you were told. You simply… stayed."
She blinked once.
That was all.
But it was more than he'd gotten from most people who said they loved him.
...
"I've always feared naming things," Krishna admitted. "Because once you name something… it becomes real. Becomes yours. Becomes another mirror you might have to break one day."
Medha tilted her head slightly. Her voice entered his mind like silk laid over steel.
"You didn't want to love anything you might have to bury."
He nodded.
Still staring at the peacock.
"Because I've buried enough."
...
The stream murmured beside them.
Krishna dipped his fingers into the water.
Watched the ripple.
Then stared into the distortion of his reflection.
"My face," he murmured. "Looks like peace. But peace… isn't what I feel."
A pause.
Then, softly, "I don't know what I feel anymore."
And Krishna turned back.
Not with regret.
But with something closer to truth.
"I'll name you now."
The peacock moved slightly closer.
Just an inch.
It was enough.
Krishna looked at her again.
And this time — slowly, like unwinding a knot that had been too tight for too long — he said the word.
A syllable not of power, but of presence.
"Meghākṣī."
Eyes that see the clouds.
The storm before it arrives.
The omen before the rain.
The knowing before the fear.
The clarity before the lightning.
...
The peacock ruffled her feathers gently, like the name had landed on her bones — and settled in.
No screech.
No bow.
Just presence.
And stillness.
Krishna looked at her and felt something tighten in his chest. Not pain. Not anger.
Gratitude.
Grief.
Relief.
A name given wasn't just a bond. It was a confession.
He had been walking with silence for too long.
Krishna placed a hand on her neck.
"Why now?" he asked aloud, as if she could answer.
"Why wait this long?"
Sheshika finally spoke, her voice low, winding beside him.
"Because you weren't ready to give a name to the part of you you're still afraid of."
Krishna didn't flinch.
Medha's voice followed, softer, thoughtful.
"She's the only witness who never needed you to be anything more than what you are."
Krishna reached out again, touched the tip of one feather with careful reverence.
"She never feared me."
"Not even when you did," Medha whispered.
He closed his eyes.
"I still do."
The stream bubbled beside them.
The wind moved again.
And Krishna breathed.
In.
And out.
...
That silence returned again.
Different this time.
Thicker.
Krishna looked at his reflection again.
He studied the eyes.
Not godlike. Not glowing.
Just... human.
But not soft.
Something inside them coiled like a fist.
Like a storm just learning how to scream.
...
"I want to protect them," he said suddenly.
His voice was firmer now.
"I want to feed them, guide them, stand between them and whatever this world throws."
Sheshika's coils tensed faintly.
Medha said nothing.
"But…"
Krishna's jaw tightened.
"There's a part of me… that doesn't just want to protect."
He paused.
A wind swept across the clearing.
His cloak fluttered.
"There's a part of me that wants to burn."
...
Meghākṣī watched him with those deep, ancient eyes.
Neither frightened.
Nor reassuring.
Just… present.
Like the sky.
Always watching.
Always waiting.
...
Krishna's breath hitched once.
"I can feel it. This thing inside me. This... furnace."
He looked down at his own palms.
"It's not vengeance. It's what vengeance looks like before it gets a name."
Sheshika moved slightly closer.
"You're not wrong to fear it."
"I don't fear it," he said.
"I fear that I might welcome it."
A longer silence now.
Not because no one had anything to say.
But because the truth had finally shown its face — and truth, like mirrors, often needed time to settle.
...
He looked back at Meghākṣī.
At the divine beast who never bowed.
At the one soul who had walked beside him, uninvited and unafraid.
"I will carry you with me," he said.
"Not as a symbol."
"Not as a weapon."
"But as the only thing I named when I was honest with myself."
She let out a soft cry.
Not loud.
But clear.
And Krishna felt something shift in his chest.
As if the weight had adjusted itself.
Not lifted.
But balanced.
For the first time in what felt like years.
...
Medha hovered closer. Her tone was quiet now.
"You named her tonight," she said.
"But what will you name yourself?"
Krishna didn't answer.
Because he didn't know yet.
But something in his gaze — in the calm fury of it — said he was closer to it than he'd ever been.
...
He rose slowly.
Dusting his palms on his robes, he looked up at the stars once more.
"I don't know what's coming next," he said.
"But I know I won't face it alone."
Sheshika slithered quietly beside him.
Medha re-synced.
Meghākṣī stepped forward, brushing her neck gently against his hip.
They stood like that — storm and stillness, wind and witness.
Krishna, the boy who refused the name of god.
Meghākṣī, the storm-eyed silence who followed without needing to ask why.
...
And the world — for just a moment — felt ready.
...
"Sabo is alive."
The words broke the stillness, not loud but total. Krishna stood near the cliff's edge, facing the ocean, cloak fluttering lightly in the highland wind.
Behind him, Garp did not move for a long moment.
Then, gruffly, with the weight of one man shouldering a thousand untold stories—
"I know."
Krishna turned slightly.
"You knew?"
"I suspected." Garp took a step forward, boots pressing into the dirt with slow weight. "Dragon wouldn't lose a boy like that."
Krishna gave a shallow nod.
"And he's safe?"
"As safe as you or I can make him."
They stood side by side, staring out over the trees that whispered and sighed below them. The sea shimmered far beyond.
"You didn't tell Ace or Luffy earlier?" Garp asked.
"I didn't know for sure until today," Krishna answered. "Until I heard it from a voice that never lies."
"Dragon."
Krishna nodded.
Garp exhaled, as if something loosened in his ribs.
"He'll come back someday," Garp said. "Or maybe he won't. That's his choice."
Krishna's voice dropped.
"They missed him."
"I know."
"They broke."
"They'll heal."
"And if they don't?"
Garp looked at him now.
Really looked.
"I'm more worried about you."
Krishna said nothing.
Not because he was avoiding the question — but because he didn't know the answer.
He hadn't known it since the day that village looked at him with fear instead of gratitude. Since the boy who painted his face as a monster, not a man. Since every word of thanks began to sound like silence before judgment.
"You're burning, kid," Garp said softly. "Anyone can see it."
Krishna didn't flinch.
"You're still calm," Garp continued, "still quiet. But there's something… inside you now. I can feel it."
Krishna looked down at his open palm.
"You're not wrong."
"What is it?"
Krishna closed his hand.
"I'm not sure it has a name yet."
...
The ocean wind stirred their cloaks.
Krishna looked down at his hands.
"Do you think I'm dangerous?"
Garp raised an eyebrow.
"You want the truth?"
Krishna nodded.
"Yes."
"Good. Because I wasn't going to lie." Garp shifted slightly. "Yes. You're dangerous. So is a blade. So is fire. So is hope."
He paused.
"But danger's not the question. The question is: Are you aiming it? Or are you waiting for it to aim itself?"
Another pause.
Garp studied him.
Then, bluntly, "You're angry."
Krishna nodded. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I gave them everything I could. And it wasn't enough. Or it was too much."
Garp frowned.
"They feared you?"
"Not all," Krishna said. "But enough."
He inhaled. Slowly. Eyes dark as midnight.
"One boy painted me as a monster with no face. Another cried in my arms and called me god. The same hands. Same voice. Different eyes."
Garp crossed his arms. "You don't like being worshipped."
"I despise it."
More silence.
Longer this time.
"I thought about becoming a Marine once," Krishna said.
Garp arched an eyebrow.
"You? In that uniform?"
Krishna smiled faintly.
"I thought… maybe if I became the thing they recognized, they'd stop fearing the parts they couldn't explain."
Garp exhaled.
"You're not made for uniforms."
"No."
"You're made for the things that come after."
...
The breeze shifted again. Sharper this time. The air carried weight, as if the forest itself leaned in.
"You think you're becoming something else," Garp said.
Krishna didn't speak right away.
"I don't know what I am," he said. "But I know what I've been forced to be."
"And what's that?"
Krishna turned fully, staring directly at the man who once lifted warlords by their throats.
"A promise no one asked me to make. A myth no one gave me permission to deny. A warning they carved into whispers."
He exhaled.
"And now... a blade I never forged."
Garp didn't speak.
Because he could feel it too — the shift.
The silent unraveling of restraint into something older. Sharper.
...
Krishna's voice was quiet now.
But laced with steel.
"I protected them. I healed them. I stood between monsters and their homes. And when they saw me... they saw the next monster."
His hands tightened at his sides.
Garp frowned. "You're not a monster."
Krishna's lips didn't move.
"But you believe I could become one."
Another silence.
Then Garp said, "I believe you're choosing who to become."
Garp looked at the boy in front of him. This Myth that made the CP bit their own tails for more than two years.
The boy — no, the being beside him — was finally speaking not from his role.
But from the crack underneath it.
...
"I don't want to be feared," Krishna said.
"But you are."
"I don't want to become the thing they invented."
"But you might."
"And I don't want to become…"
He trailed off.
Medha's voice stirred faintly in his mind.
"Say it."
Krishna closed his eyes.
"I don't want to become my own silence."
The wind picked up again.
A sudden gust.
Salt carried across the edge of the world.
...
Garp stepped closer.
"And yet…"
Krishna turned to him slowly.
"...you're already walking that road."
Krishna nodded once.
Firm.
Unapologetic.
Garp looked down at the sea.
"You've done more in a year than most people do in a lifetime. You've healed. You've fought. You've saved."
He looked back up.
"And it hasn't been enough."
Krishna said nothing.
"But maybe," Garp continued, "that's not the world's fault."
Krishna looked over.
"Then whose is it?"
Garp turned toward him fully.
"It's yours."
Krishna blinked.
"Because you wanted to be everything at once."
...
A pause.
Then Krishna stepped forward, to the very lip of the cliff.
The wind hit his cloak like a slow tide.
His voice dropped again.
"I wanted to be more."
"I know."
"I wanted to be good."
"You are."
"I wanted to be a light."
"You still are."
Krishna turned his face to the stars.
"But all I am… is what the dark left behind."
...
The silence was absolute now.
Even the wind held its breath.
Krishna looked down.
Eyes unreadable.
Then said quietly, "I wanted peace."
Garp nodded.
"And now?"
Krishna's hands tightened.
His jaw clenched.
And his voice, for the first time in days, filled with something beyond calm.
"Now I want balance."
Garp didn't ask what that meant.
He didn't have to.
Because Krishna stepped forward, one step past the edge of the old myths, and whispered:
"I gave them hope."
Another step.
"I gave them silence."
Another.
"I gave them mercy."
His voice trembled now.
But not from pain.
From the heat that could no longer be held inside the mountain.
"And they gave me fear. They painted me into something I never agreed to become."
...
Medha stirred in his mind.
Sheshika stirred below.
And the world, somewhere out there, began to shift.
Because it felt what he was about to say.
Garp asked the final question.
"Then what are you now?"
...
The sea below seemed to still.
And then Krishna spoke.
Once.
Clear.
Final.
A name, not of peace.
But of purpose.
"I am vengeance."
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
This chapter is heavy. Not with action. But with weight—the kind that doesn't lift, only settles deeper.
Krishna has reached a point where silence is no longer peace. Where restraint is no longer balance. He's not exploding. He's forming something darker. Sharper. Something even he doesn't fully understand yet.
There's no one moment of transformation. It's been happening in fragments—each glare, each hesitation, each time he's seen what the world truly makes of his kindness. And finally, tonight… he names it.
This wasn't about myth or power. This was about acceptance.
He is still kind. Still silent. Still protective.
But now—he's also something else.
And he won't deny it anymore.
Thanks for walking this path with him.
Until the storm breaks,
—Author out.
...
Omake – The Feather. The Myth. The Disappointment.
The air over Foosha Village had grown dramatic.
Too dramatic.
Clouds lingered overhead like stage curtains. The wind didn't blow — it paced. Birds passed overhead but didn't chirp. They flapped once, saw what was happening below, and changed direction with the urgency of tax evasion.
In the middle of it all, framed perfectly between two trees like a painting someone had commissioned without color, sat Krishna.
Still.
Immaculate.
Cloaked in black, legs crossed, back perfectly straight. His hair swayed just slightly, the strands flowing like a tragic poem nobody wanted to read aloud in class. He wasn't moving, not even blinking.
He was waiting.
For what?
Unclear.
But definitely something with a soundtrack.
...
A lone squirrel crept up near the bench, eyeing a peanut left on the ground.
It inched forward.
Paused.
Looked up.
Made eye contact with Krishna.
And immediately moonwalked away — backwards, eyes wide, paws trembling — like it had just seen a cutscene trigger and wanted no part of the upcoming boss fight.
Krishna exhaled, slow and steady.
Then, barely above a whisper, but with the weight of all his ancestors behind it, he murmured:
"I am vengeance."
The squirrel tripped over a leaf and fled into the bushes with a squeak.
...
From behind a hedge, three heads popped up in a cartoonish triangle.
Ace. Luffy. Garp.
Ace looked like he hadn't slept in three days and had given up trying to understand life.
Luffy was chewing on a stick with the bliss of someone who didn't know what a mortgage was.
Garp just stood there with the patience of a man who once dropkicked a mountain but now had to emotionally babysit his myth-tier grandson.
Ace squinted at the bench.
"He's still doing it."
Luffy nodded. "Hasn't moved since breakfast."
"That was four hours ago."
Garp sighed. "He's been like this since Makino used mushrooms in the soup."
"It was one mushroom!" Ace hissed. "ONE! And she didn't even know!"
Luffy mumbled, "He does hate mushrooms."
"He took one bite and looked Makino dead in the eye and said—"
Garp rolled his eyes. "'The gods have turned their backs on me. I must now turn my back on peace.'"
Ace pointed violently. "EXACTLY."
Krishna moved.
Slowly.
Dramatically.
As if his body had been carved from wind and divine restraint.
He stood up from the bench and picked up the peanut — with the solemnity of someone retrieving the last relic of a fallen civilization.
He stared at it.
Hard.
"I could have been kindness," he whispered, holding the peanut gently. "But the world asked for vengeance."
Ace blinked. "Bro's monologuing to legumes."
"Can I eat it?" Luffy asked, drooling slightly.
"Let him finish," Garp said. "This is how he digests emotions."
...
Krishna turned.
His eyes found them immediately.
They'd failed the stealth check. Miserably.
His gaze locked.
He raised a hand.
Slow.
Pointed toward the sky like he was commanding a lightning bolt.
Then spoke,
"I am vengeance."
...
Ace walked out from the bush like a man who had already filed his resignation.
"Krishna, bro. You've said that twelve times today."
"Twelve times," Luffy echoed, still gnawing on the same stick.
Garp adjusted his cap. "More like seventeen, actually."
Krishna said nothing. The clouds behind him grumbled faintly, despite it being a clear, sunny day. The local weather report promptly burst into flames somewhere in the distance.
Luffy glanced up. "There's not even weather today."
Ace pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can we have one normal emotional breakdown in this family? Just one? You're not a monster. You're just… dramatic."
Krishna's voice dropped to a low, haunting tone.
"I gave them peace. They offered fear."
"You gave them breadsticks," Ace countered.
"And they whispered my name in terror."
"They whispered it because you burnt the breadsticks and tried to serve it with curry!"
Krishna looked away. "A necessary sacrifice."
...
Luffy leaned closer, frowning slightly. "Did you eat today?"
Krishna, eyes focused on the horizon, said flatly—
"Vengeance does not require sustenance."
Ace facepalmed. Garp choked on his rice cracker.
Luffy pulled something out of his pocket. A crinkled, slightly dented, but still intact foil wrapper.
He held it out like a priest offering holy relics.
"You want a 5 Star?"
Krishna blinked. "...A what?"
"A 5 Star," Luffy repeated. "You eat one… and then you do nothing."
Krishna stared at the wrapper like it contained forbidden knowledge from the lost archives of Raftel.
"Do nothing?"
Luffy nodded sagely. "Yeah. Eat chocolate. Forget vengeance. Do nothing"
...
A pause.
Krishna reached out.
Took the chocolate with both hands. Reverently.
He unwrapped it with the precision of someone defusing a bomb.
Bit into it.
Chewed.
The nougat hit.
The caramel whispered.
The chocolate embraced him like a forgotten memory of peace.
Somewhere deep inside, myth broke.
And nougat healed.
...
Krishna sat down.
Not cross-legged. Not poised.
Just… sat.
And stared into the void of nothingness with a distant gaze.
Existentially defeated.
Then, as if summoned by fate, Dadan's voice echoed from the other side of the village — sharp, furious, and spiritually louder than any divine monologue.
"KRISHNA! IF YOU DON'T GET BACK HERE AND WASH THESE DAMN DISHES—!"
Krishna didn't flinch.
He just turned back to the ocean slowly and whispered:
"They chained my heart with porcelain burdens."
Ace groaned and sat beside him.
"This is your dramatic arc, huh?"
Garp took out a rice cracker and crunched it loudly.
Luffy patted Krishna on the back.
"You can still be vengeance. But maybe you should also be laundry."
Krishna didn't look up.
His voice was soft.
Final.
Resigned.
"I am… vengeance who folds."
...