Disclaimer:I don't ownOne Piece.
If I did, I'd be legally obligated to brag that I own peak.
All rights belong to Eiichiro Oda — I'm just a humble sinner writing mythic fanfiction in his shadow.
Support the official release. Always.
This story may contain:
Mild existential crises.
Unexpected mythological breakdowns.
Bikes faster than your GPA recovery speed.
Flutes played with more emotion than your last breakup.
And one suspiciously silent protagonist who absolutely, definitely, is not smiling.
All emotional damage is self-inflicted. All enlightenment is optional.
Side effects include spontaneous philosophy, violent brotherly love, and sudden cravings for justice.
You've been warned.
Enter at your own karma.
...
The Dog-Head warship departed Loguetown under a sky smeared with streaks of sunrise — violet bruising into gold. The masts groaned, seagulls circled lazily overhead, and the wind tugged playfully at the sails like a younger sibling desperate to keep pace.
Krishna stood silently at the prow, arms folded, gaze locked forward. His bare feet rested against the sun-warmed wood, and his white overshirt fluttered gently in the ocean wind, unbuttoned and loosely tucked into the black combat trousers shaped by nanomachines. Around him, the hum of life resumed its rhythm — marines shouting orders, ropes tightening, sails flaring.
Behind him, Garp approached, a heavy mug of morning coffee in one hand and a half-eaten rice ball in the other.
"Last stop before everything changes," the Vice Admiral said with casual gravity.
Krishna didn't respond right away. His eyes were on the horizon — where the edge of the East Blue vanished into seafoam and mystery.
Garp tilted his head, chewing noisily.
"You're thinkin' about her, aren't you?"
Krishna blinked slowly. "Who?"
"The sea, obviously," Garp said, half-chuckling. "You look at her like she's about to tell you a secret."
"She's told me plenty already," Krishna murmured. "But I think she's saving the best ones for later."
...
By midday, the sky had cleared into a brilliant tapestry of blue, and the clouds hung like lazy ghosts. The Dog-Head warship sliced through the water, swift and steady — until the wind stopped.
Dead halt.
The sails dropped limp. The water turned glassy.
Calm Belt.
The marines collectively straightened. Even the newer recruits sensed something had changed. The air wasn't heavier — it was emptier. As though the very sea refused to breathe.
Garp stood at the helm, squinting out into the unnerving stillness.
"Calm Belt. No currents. No winds. Sea King breeding grounds. And absolutely no room for error," he announced, scratching his chin.
"Then why do we travel through it?" a junior marine asked, barely keeping the tremor out of his voice.
"Because I'm not afraid of monsters," Garp replied, tossing back his coffee.
Krishna, standing quietly beside him, tilted his head. "They don't attack us. Why?" he asked, even though he already knew.
Garp pointed a thumb downward. "Seastone plating. Makes the ship invisible to the Sea Kings. Clever tech, from back in Vegapunk's early days. We're ghosts to them."
Krishna nodded slowly, filing the information away. But then — without ceremony — he began to remove his shirt.
Garp raised an eyebrow. "Going for a swim, intern?"
"I want to see them," Krishna replied, stepping out of his footwear and flexing his arms. "Up close."
"No techniques?" Garp asked.
Krishna's gaze didn't waver. "Just me."
He dove into the water.
A perfect arc through still air — not a splash disturbed the surface. His body slipped into the water like silk through shadow, vanishing instantly into the depths.
The marines crowded the railing.
"He swam into the Calm Belt?!"
"No Geppo?"
"He just vanished—"
"Like a fish!"
...
Underwater, Krishna moved like a spear tipped in intent.
No bubbles. No turbulence. Every motion mathematically simulated, biologically optimized. His limbs cut through resistance with the precision of a school of swordfish. His eyes adjusted automatically, lenses darkening, light-filtering to compensate for the abyssal sun.
His strokes weren't hurried — they were graceful. Intentional.
"Temperature… stable," Medha reported in his mind. "Marine life detected — thirty-seven large-scale beings, twenty-five are one to two hundred meters in length, nine are four to five hundred meters in length, and two are almost a kilometer in length. Sea Kings."
Krishna smiled softly.
"Time to meet the neighbors."
...
The surface exploded.
Sheshika burst forth first — an enormous, sinuous figure of divine scale. Her body unfurled like a shadow given breath, and with a gleeful hiss, she twisted mid-air and dove again — this time bigger. She grew meter by meter, her glistening scales darkening with size. The marines screamed in terror as her tail thrashed the water beside the warship.
"THAT GIANT SNAKE CAN GET BIGGER?!"
Garp chuckled. "She's just getting warmed up."
A moment later, a Sea King screamed — a sound like a collapsing cathedral — and Sheshika rose, triumphant, a smaller Sea King dangling from her jaws like a guilty fish. She landed with grace, coiling around the rear of the warship and presenting the kill with feline elegance.
Garp gave a slow clap.
"Elegant catch, I'll admit."
...
Then Garp dove.
There was no grace.
Just violence.
He cannonballed into the sea with enough force to send a wave surging over the deck, sending marines scrambling. In moments, the water shook. Exploded. Cracked. A massive Sea King — four times larger than Sheshika's — was yeeted out of the ocean like a ragdoll and landed with a thud against the side of the warship, utterly unconscious, eyes rolled back, teeth missing.
Garp popped out of the water, grinning.
"Mine's bigger."
...
Krishna emerged last.
He glided upward on a wave he summoned through his own momentum, no technique required — simply refined hydrodynamics and body rhythm from Kāya Kalpa Sūtra— The Scripture Of The Eternal Body Refinement.
In his left hand?
A Sea King.
Still alive. Still aware.
Cradled gently — as though being held, not captured.
He released it with a whisper.
"Go."
And it did.
The creature vanished into the depths without a ripple.
The marines watched in stunned silence.
"I don't… I don't know what just happened," one recruit whispered.
"Was that divine?" another asked.
"No," muttered a third. "That was restraint."
A sudden screech broke the reverent silence.
Meghakshi — still in her shimmering peacock disguise — had terrified a group of new recruits by puffing up her plumage and producing a blood-curdling hiss.
Three marines fainted.
Another began praying.
Garp roared with laughter. "Now that's marine training!"
...
Krishna returned to the deck, droplets gliding off his skin like they were reluctant to leave. He nodded once to Sheshika, who flicked her tail proudly. Meghakshi strutted in circles, victorious.
Garp flung a towel at Krishna's head.
"Hell of a show, intern. But don't think I'll let you outdo me next time."
Krishna wiped his face. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Medha piped into his ear, sardonic.
"He would. And he will."
...
Night fell slow and deep.
The Calm Belt grew quiet again — as though amused by the day's disruptions.
Krishna stood at the railing, arms crossed, eyes closed. The sea whispered around him.
Behind him, Garp approached.
"Why all this?"
Krishna opened his eyes, just a little. "To say goodbye."
Garp leaned against the wood beside him.
"To the East Blue?"
"To what I was in it."
The silence lingered between them.
Not awkward.
Just understood.
The warship sailed on.
Toward the next gate.
Toward what waited.
...
The waters of the Calm Belt shimmered in their wake as the warship emerged into more navigable currents, leaving behind the hushed, monstrous silence of the sea kings. Spray still clung to the deck like the echo of distant roars. But now — now the sea was tame again. Predictable. A comfort to those aboard who weren't used to watching demigods and serpents brawl with the ocean's apex predators for sport.
Garp stood at the bow, arms folded over his chest, letting the wind comb through his white cloak. Behind him, his marines moved with the sharpness of men who had just seen gods play tag in the deep.
"Next stop," Garp announced, voice loud over the wind, "Marine Base G-2."
"Sir!" came the chorus of voices, trying not to tremble.
Krishna emerged from below deck without a sound. Not a single bootstep registered. No shift in aura. No weight on the world. He might as well have been air moving through air. He'd used Trikāla Līlā — Three-Times Play — with such perfection that even the ship itself didn't creak when he walked across it. The same man who had arm-wrestled a sea king into unconsciousness now seemed so unthreatening that the junior recruits barely noticed him.
And those who did… blinked. "Where did he—?"
"Wasn't he below deck just now?"
"I swear he was on the stern."
Medha, invisible to most, adjusted her visual projection from Krishna's collar. "You're being unnecessarily humble again."
Krishna didn't respond. He just watched the horizon where the G-2 base came into view, nestled against the southern isles of the Lulusia Kingdom — a kingdom mostly known for its moderate politics, elegant architecture, and a population more interested in silk exports than piracy.
Sheshika slithered lazily in her reduced form along the mast, curling like a ribbon of gold and black. Megakshi, perched high on the crow's nest, preened her feathers with deliberate poise — and once or twice leaned forward dramatically just to scare a passing recruit who looked up.
"Ah!" yelped one. "It—she looked right at me!"
"She does that," muttered another. "Like she knows things…"
"Peacocks don't know things!"
"You tell her that."
"Absolutely not! You do it!"
...
As they docked, Vice Admiral Comil himself stood at the pier, flanked by a small honor guard of marine officers. The man was tall and big with a bald head, a formal navy coat slung perfectly over one shoulder, and a permanent look of mild caffeine deprivation.
"Monkey D. Garp," he said dryly, saluting.
"Comil!" Garp grinned and clapped him on the shoulder like they were old classmates, ignoring the slightly startled flinch. "Still not dead, huh?"
"You say that every time you visit."
"Means you're consistent!"
"And who's this?" Comil asked, eyeing Krishna beside Garp. He didn't feel anything from the young man. No threatening presence. No flex of strength. No... nothing.
Yet something in Comil's instincts — the instincts trained through decades of swordplay and battlefield survival — twitched. There was something off about this one. Too still.
Garp gestured with one thumb. "Intern."
Comil blinked.
"Intern?" he repeated.
"First in history," Garp added proudly, as if he were talking about a particularly impressive catch of the day from his fishing trip. "Name's Krishna."
Comil gave a skeptical once-over. "He's quiet."
"That's because he knows how to listen," Garp said. Then louder, for everyone to hear, "Which most of you lot should try once in a while!"
A few marines nearby straightened quickly. Krishna gave a polite bow to Comil, who nodded back, still not sure if he was dealing with a sword or a flower.
The G-2 base was busy, functional, and less glamorous than the headquarters at Marineford, but what it lacked in grandeur it made up for in efficiency. Krishna wandered the barracks and training fields quietly, observing everything — not out of idle curiosity, but the same way an engineer studies a machine. Structure. Movement. Rhythm. Even the way boots were worn gave away culture. Discipline. Leadership.
At one point, a junior recruit bumped into him — and blinked, stunned, as if he'd walked into a wall of mist.
"Sorry, sir—I mean, sorry—wait, who—?"
Krishna had already moved on.
Medha, speaking in his mind alone, quipped, "You're terrifying when you try not to be."
"I prefer this," Krishna replied mentally.
"To be underestimated?"
"To be unseen."
...
Later that afternoon, Garp and Comil met in the officer's quarters for shared tea and rations. Krishna stood to the side, quiet.
"So," Comil said, sipping. "What's your intern's deal?"
Garp shrugged. "Strong. Smarter than me."
"That's not difficult."
"Shut up."
Comil leaned back. "He's not a devil fruit user?"
"Nope."
"Not haki dominant?"
Garp hesitated, then grunted. "He has haki. The kind that makes people reconsider their life choices. But no, not the usual type."
Comil raised a brow.
Garp waved a hand. "Look. He's an intern. That's all."
Krishna gave the faintest smile.
...
Outside the base, the Lulusia Kingdom shimmered like a watercolor painting — spires and arching bridges, small shops selling silk and spices, canals full of boats poled lazily by fishermen. Krishna explored it with Trikāla Līlā still active, suppressing his presence, slipping through streets unnoticed. He watched a street performer juggle fruit with flair. He stood near the arch of a bridge and listened to a noblewoman chastising her child in the soft Lulusia dialect. He crouched beside a group of orphans trading marbles for fish.
He didn't interfere. Not once.
He simply absorbed.
Near one of the temples, a preacher stood with his arms raised, shouting about celestial dragons and divine right. Krishna watched him too, eyes unreadable.
Medha, faint and private, murmured, "You're cataloguing everything."
"Every place is a lesson," Krishna replied.
"You don't seem impressed."
"Every place has its truth. I just haven't seen this one yet."
...
That night, as the warship prepared to depart again, Garp stood beside Krishna on the upper deck, watching the lights of Lulusia dim into the sea.
"Quiet place," Garp muttered. "Not bad. Good food. The kind of kingdom the World Government likes."
Krishna nodded. "It's a place that survives."
"Yeah. For now." Garp stared ahead. "Everything changes when the sea shifts. You'll see it."
Krishna's eyes were unreadable again. "I intend to."
...
Back below deck, Sheshika coiled around one of the pillars in her compact form, head lifted like a cat that smelled thunder.
"Still keeping it all quiet, are we?" she asked in a low voice only Krishna and Medha could hear.
Krishna nodded once.
"Even Garp doesn't know the full picture."
"Neither do I," he replied.
Megakshi fluttered to his shoulder, rubbing her beak against his jaw. A small comfort.
"I liked the silk shop," Medha added randomly.
"Noted," Krishna said.
There was a beat of silence as the wind combed through the sails again, brushing past him like a whisper from the city.
"…I mean it," she insisted. "We could get some. Just a few light cloaks, or tunics, or maybe a scarf. Silk adapts to temperature, and you like comfort. Or at least, your nervous system does."
Krishna blinked. "You do realize you are a digital construct, right? You don't even have nerve endings."
"I have taste," she replied flatly. "Besides, you like things soft. You don't admit it, but you do. Maybe buy something that doesn't scream 'silent warrior monk who doesn't know how to accessorize'."
He shook his head slightly, amused. "Buy some digital clothes for yourself then."
"Digital clothes are soulless."
"And your argument isn't?"
"…Go. Get. The. Silk."
"Fine."
He leapt down lightly from the railing, cloak flaring like a whisper of dusk, and walked toward the edge of the dock where a few late-night stalls still operated by lantern-light. One in particular caught his eye — rich, purple drapery hanging over wooden poles, with rolls of fabric neatly stacked and folded on lacquered tables.
Inside stood a middle-aged woman, perhaps mid-thirties, her posture graceful and firm like someone who had once trained in dance but now measured threads instead of tempo. Her hair was drawn into a tidy bun, and her sari glimmered faintly with gold threading. She glanced up at his approach — and paused.
Krishna dipped his head politely. "I'm looking for travel wear. Breathable. Resilient."
"Of course," she said with a smile that carried the weight of both welcome and curiosity. Her voice was low, melodic. "You're… from the ship, yes?"
"Yes."
"No rank?"
"No."
She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. He had no badge. No title. And yet he walked like a storm in stillness. Elegant. Not trying to be. Just... was. She'd served admirals, ministers, and diplomats. None of them made the room feel like this.
"This way," she said softly.
She guided him to a row of robes and tunics, fingers dancing across silk bolts with the fluency of decades. "These breathe well. Hand-dyed in the southern hills. This one repels mild salt. That one wicks heat."
Her hand brushed his shoulder as she adjusted a fabric against his collarbone. Her fingers lingered a touch longer than necessary when she straightened the fall of his hair. Her voice remained professional — but her heartbeat (he could hear it) betrayed her.
"Elegant cut," she murmured. "You wear it well."
Sheshika, now coiled lazily around his neck like a living stole, flicked her tongue once toward the woman. A soft, amused purr rumbled against Krishna's collar.
"Try this one," the woman said, holding up a deep cerulean sash. "It matches your eyes."
He accepted it silently and turned toward the small fitting screen. From the corner of his vision, he noticed her watching — not lecherously, not possessively. But like someone admiring a very, very rare creature they didn't know if they were allowed to touch.
Medha whispered in his head with wicked glee.
"She thinks you're a very cute puppy."
"…I am not a puppy."
"She's feeling the same kind of affection people do when they see puppies. Calm awe. Slight desire to hug. Complicated urges that confuse them."
"She's being professional."
"Her eyes just lingered on your abdominal symmetry for 0.9 seconds longer than etiquette demands."
"I didn't ask for a report."
"And yet you got one."
...
When Krishna stepped out, wearing a light tunic layered with deep ocean blue silks and a bronze-threaded mantle, the woman actually tilted her head a little, appraising.
"You look…" she paused, searching. "Very refined."
"Thank you."
He paid generously — too generously — and as he stepped out of the tent, Sheshika raised her head again and purred in amusement.
"I won't become like Megakshi," she whispered innocently.
"You just stared at her and radiated territorial smugness the whole time," Medha replied dryly.
"I was decorative," Sheshika said with faux innocence.
"No. You were judging."
Back on the ship, Megakshi flared her feathers at a group of marine recruits who had gathered too close to the quarterdeck. One of them nearly fell backward off the rail. Another whispered a prayer, the seventh one this day.
Krishna returned to the warship with a few folded garments in hand. He saw one of the younger marines kneeling in a corner, eyes wide.
"What happened?"
"Peacock stared into my soul."
Krishna sighed. "Megakshi…"
She chirped sweetly from the crow's nest.
He looked at Sheshika. "If you ever turn out like her, I'll cry."
"I am purity incarnate," she lied with full sincerity.
Medha snorted.
Krishna said nothing — only watched the horizon as it folded beneath the darkening sky, holding silk in one hand and the future in the other.
And then the ship sailed once more — away from G-2, away from Lulusia's spires, towards the greatest shipbuilding city in the whole world: Water 7.
...
They reached Water 7 just before dawn, the ship drifting into the gentle tides of the famed city of craftsmanship. Lanterns glowed beneath a pink-blue sky—boats, scaffolding, and shipwrights already stirring. Meanwhile, most of the Marines on Garp's warship slept. Garp himself had retreated belowdecks hours ago. But Krishna remained on deck, watching the city approach as if merely a backdrop for his thoughts. That was enough for him—he needed little sleep. His divine body and Medha's nano-machines formed a quiet system that required only minimal rest.
Sheshika curled tightly around his shoulders as he watched rows of canals greet the ship. He breathed slowly. Even without Haki or technique, he moved through stillness with intention.
At some point—after the ship moored—he didn't notice the young shipwright sneaking aboard. Franky. He always called him Franky. Or "SUPEERRRRRRR!" That voice echoed dimly down the gangplank. Then, a clang. Another. The chaotic energy of a workshop gone airborne.
Krishna was already standing there when Franky emerged, silhouetted under a lantern near the engine bay, tinkering. The man worked fast, trying to pry off a mechanical part. The sound of metal against metal didn't matter,it echoed too perfectly against the wood. Krishna walked quietly toward him.
Franky jumped. "Supeeeerrrrr… who the—" He froze the moment he recognized who had spoken. "Who are you? You—not wearing uniform… a new guy?" His eyes widened. "You look like you could sneeze the warship out of existence!"
Krishna didn't budge. Sheshika flicked her tongue, unfazed.
Medha whispered to Krishna, "He's taken a fancy to you already."
Krishna ignored it.
Franky tried to pocket a small metal gear just out of Krishna's reach. That ticked Krishna. Franky shifted, almost casually watching—the amateur move showing.
"And that snake…" Franky nodded toward Sheshika. "What's that for? Looks… super stylish." He smiled cockily.
Krishna answered crisply, "It bites people trying to flirt with her." His tone made it crystal clear: he meant it.
Franky stopped, hesitation flickering on his face. Not because of the snake—but because of Krishna's voice. There was calm steel in it. They said he could destroy a ship with a sneeze. Franky had heard rumors.
He froze.
Then something in his mind triggered him,the adrenaline of the stolen part. Suddenly, he leapt toward Krishna with a wild cry,
"SUPEEEEEERRRRRR PUNCH!"
The momentum crackled in the air. Franky's mechanical arm swung, full of rage and bravado. But Krishna didn't dodge. He simply caught the blow, muscles absorbing the impact. Then—and just as calmly—Krishna slammed the boy face-first into the wooden deck. A soft thud, armor plating clicking once.
Franky spat out a bit of sarcasm mixed with pain. He tried to shift, to scramble away. But Krishna's arm gripped him in place, steady and unyielding.
Krishna knelt beside him. "Why are you stealing?" He scanned the boy silently—His vision data warmed by Medha's scanning protocols.
Franky glared, half-smile betraying pride. His lip quivered. But there was defiance—or was it fear?
Quietly, Krishna extended a hand, fixing Franky by the eyes. Then they both froze, the ceremony of scanning happened. In a reflex, his nano-machines mapped Franky's body architecture—cybernetic enhancements, cola-powered hydraulics. Then paused. Because: the blueprints. The legendary blueprints for the ancient weapon, Pluton, nested deep inside Franky's internal storage loop (aka stomach). The microfilm slipped through the connectors and into Krishna's awareness.
Medha reported softly, "Blue‑print detected: PLUTON. Scanning complete. Storing for integration reference for for Project Vāhana."
Krishna nodded — quietly to himself. His eyes shifted to Franky.
"You will not do this again," Krishna said, gently releasing his grip.
Franky slid out, pushing himself up. He looked at Krishna's hand, then his face. Surprised. No shaming. No rage. Simple calm. Warning.
Slowly, he straightened. Then his voice echoed in the stillness,
"Supeeeeeerrrrrr… you are the coolest Marine intern I've ever met."
Krishna didn't smile. He replied merely, "I am the only intern."
Franky's grin split wider, despite the bruise on his cheek. He gave a soft nod—like he'd just found hidden treasure. Then he vanished into the shadows with a final, distant echo, "SUPEERRRRRRR!"
Krishna lifted the small gear Franky had tried to steal, turning it in his hand. It was a minor part—but to Franky, probably precious. Krishna sighed, touched the side of his head quietly.
Medha whispered, "He won't try it again. That reaction… flaw in arrogance detected. Flare dissipated within minutes. He's smart."
Sheshika uncurled and slid to the deck, flicking her tongue as if testing the night air. She coiled herself around Krishna's ankle.
Krishna gazed up at the Water 7 skyline—wooden towers, steel plates, raging canals. The blueprints in his mind now. The Promised blueprints.
...
The next morning, the warship woke up—the first marine runner stepping onto deck. Garp's steps. A voice behind Krishna—gruff, concerned, "Everything alright?"
Krishna didn't turn. He said quietly, "Yeah."
"Good. But why were you up?"
Krishna looked out after Franky's disappearance. "Water 7 is… different."
Garp sighed. "These shipwrights… they're talented. Watch your step. They play no games."
Krishna nodded, lips tight. The warship's engines hummed beside them, but in his mind, gears of possibility turned.
Dock1 lay before them,a ballet of hammers striking steel, syurging sparks dancing. Iceburg and his lead craftsmen—canoed in overalls—began inspecting the hull. Krishna studied the motion, the torque, the sound. At a station crowded with foremen, he slightly nudged Garp's arm.
"See this weld? No, the lip is too sharp—" he pointed. The master shipwright paused mid-file, glance flickering to Krishna's direction. Garp inclined his head, engineers listened.
"Can you… repeat that?" one asked him. Krishna explained,a reinforcing curve added near the keel flange would reduce stress fractures, a taper on the edge would slow water flow and reduce drag. No poetic flourish. Just precision.
Steel-metaled eyes widened. Iceburg nodded, motioning for extra joints to be welded. "Good catch," he said. The engineers rearranged tools, guided by Krishna, they deepened a cavity, added a tiny structural brace.
Further inspection of the hull revealed minor corrosion behind rivets. Krishna proposed a fix. Garp relayed it. Iceburg blinked, "That's exactly where a microfracture would begin. Where'd you learn that?"
Krishna didn't answer. Garp did. He shrugged. "Our intern did."
...
Krishna watched. He whispered to Medha—to himself,
"We integrate Vāhana ship frame… fold in Platinum motor matrices aligned with Pluton blueprint. Pressure distribution enhanced… structural dampeners as designed in the earpiece helm code. We can match pressure statics with warp curve."
Medha's voice sparkled in his mind. "Confirmed. Proposed integration into all Vāhana units: bike, car, ship. Structural framework will increase durability by 47percent. Propulsion efficiency improved by 33percent. And these are only the initial simulations and frameworks, further improvements can be made in future."
Krishna nodded to himself. He remained silent as technicians fired welders, sanded plating. He absorbed patterns of repair, rotation torque charts, weld layer angles.
Meanwhile, Iceburg gestured for Krishna to handle a vise-grip wrench. Krishna accepted it. A moment later, he was demonstrating proper angle. He stepping without explanation between wrenches, torque precision invisible. The young engineers watched, awed.
...
As repairs continued, Krishna saw Franky sneaking near the hull, pausing and peeking from behind the boxes to watch. Krishna nodded slightly. Franky returned it with a grin and a thumbs-up that said he'd learned something. He would have given his signature 'SUPEERRRRRRR'if not for the fact that marines are roaming around continuously and there are a great number of them, and he does not want to get caught, especially by Vice Admiral Garp.
At midday, the ship stowed for lunch. Krishna stood alone—hearing tools clatter in imagination. Medha reported feeling stabilizer resonance after welds.
Sheshika coiled beside his boot. Meghākṣī watched from a guard rail on the warship, gleaming feathers faintly shimmering.
Garp approached again. "You're learning fast. You're more than I expected in an "intern.""
Krishna closed his eyes. "I'm learning… not to break the ship, but to keep it whole."
Garp nodded. "A fine lesson."
They paused—Iceburg approached. "Mr. Krishna… I appreciate the suggestion. That structural support will save years in repairs."
Krishna inclined his head. "Thank you."
Garp rested a hand on Krishna's shoulder. Quiet. And proud.
Later, Krishna walked apart, retrieving his notes. Medha projected diagrams—lines, angles, gene-coded weld curves—from within his mind's UI.
They looked together at the cross-section of the Vāhana ship, bike, and car frames, overlaid with Pluton blueprint nodes.
Krishna spoke softly, "We will integrate discreet neural sync systems, dynamic dampeners, liquid tension fields."
Medha paused. "Integration will require privilege code. Vegapunk will need to encrypt homologous signal."
Krishna nodded once. He stored the plans in memory.
He glanced at Garp, heading back toward the crew. Their path lay forward: Water7 to the Grand Line—The New World—and promises to come.
In the lull before the storm, the sounds of welding receded—replaced by the low hum of possibility.
...
Krishna followed Garp off the dock, quiet as the steel beams beneath their boots. Shipwrights called greetings. Marines saluted. Garp nodded in return. Krishna gave nothing more, but inside, calculation flickered.
He'd sensed something before—three radiating presences, concealed yet palpable. He'd studied them since Water7 began to unfurl, two foremen supervising docking—strong, swift, cultured—and a secretary efficiently reading logistics charts. Last night, when those presences brushed against his mind, he'd inhaled sharply, counted pulses in his veins.
At lunch, he recognized patterns, convergent focus. The first, tall and square-jawed with dogged eyes—that had to be Kaku. The other, lean and swift—that could only be Rob Lucci. Beneath their clothes pulsed latent force. Still, they pretended normalcy among drills and rivets. He said nothing to Garp—yet.
Now, as they crossed a narrow walkway bridging ship and city, Krishna spotted on the corner a man in a bar's doorway. Broad shoulders, faint mustache, eyes that flicked like a watchtower. Blueno—he'd been the fourth presence. He smiled politely as a mariner stumbled into the post. Nothing more. But Krishna's Haki knew.
Garp paused by a bustle of supplies. Krishna said, "Those three craftsmen… more powerful than instructors should be."
Garp glanced at the building where Kaku and Lucci oversaw welding—unaware. "Hm?"
"I feel a strong energy flow. Too strong for their roles." Krishna's tone flat. Garp considered it.
"Keep that to yourself." Garp lowered eyes. "We don't need rumors. I'll check quietly."
Krishna nodded. The air tasted tight—like old ropes pulled taut. He hid nothing, but said nothing.
Krishna hovered at the ship's edge. Meghākṣī perched serenely nearby, casting rippling reflections into the canal. She offered no illusions—not good for strong-willed eyes. Marines watched, uncertain. To them, Krishna was mystery—usually calm, sometimes unsettling. He watched instead.
...
Later that evening, Krishna heard the clang of laughter and shouting below deck. Curious, he descended. In the crew mess, Franky was in a heated argument—a family scuffle. His brothers and sisters plotted to sneak aboard. Franky stood firm, arms wide.
"You're not takin' that warship's fuel!" he roared, voice rattling plates. "Even for cola money."
Krishna recognized distant echo of loyalty. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Franky's shoulder. The surroundings fell quiet.
Franky turned. The heat in his eyes softened.
Krishna said softly, "Thank you."
The Franky family broke grim—each person sighed. Laughter followed. Creature of habit, they patted Krishna on back and shuffled out.
Garp, turning from the door, nodded. "You're good for morale. Keep it up."
Krishna didn't respond. Meghākṣī hopped to his shoulder, Krishna tucked her plumage gently.
They exited back topside. Garp paused, gaze on Lucci's back. "Let's go."
They walked in silence. Krishna's mind parsed plans—Vāhana integration, CP9 presence, weapon blueprints locked in memory.
He thought, these three are more than shipwrights—he knows it. Maybe he needs to warn Garp later. But for now they pass. The closer they get to Marineford, the more his pieces align.
They stepped onto the gangplank. Ships creak. Water swayed.
Krishna breathed in the lantern-lit canals of Water7. The city hummed. Peace sat lingering—yet undercurrent of something darker moved.
He thought of that drawing he carried—kid's sketch of a demon without face, eyes blazing in darkness. He fingered the paper's corner—same paper where Dadan wrote about swearing. Curiously mundane. Just another reminder that perception is all. The line between myth and man is in the eyes of beholder.
Krishna motioned forward.
Water7 faded behind them. The warship slipped free.
Ahead lay the sea train tracks, the thought tangled with systems, engineering, whispers of blueprints.
Garp placed a hand on his shoulder. "Next stop, Enies Lobby, Impel Down, then Marineford."
Krishna nodded, the canal city's lights twinkling in his memory.
Medha whispered, "Systems synced. Soul steady."
Sheshika exhaled softly.
Meghākṣī fluffed a feather quietly.
Ahead, the ship hummed with intent. Ahead, krishna's steps felt lighter than before—he wasn't mythical, but deliberate. The world ahead required no myth,it needed someone who could walk as calm as he could fight.
...
The warship pulled away from Water 7, metal and wood creaking in the morning mist. The city faded, receding into a wash of blues and greys and the lingering scent of tar and salt. Krishna stood near the prow, gaze fixed on the horizon. Sheshika curled at his feet, silent. Medha flickered quietly beside him, her presence as gentle as it was unremarkable to any eyes but his. Meghākṣī preened her emerald feathers, sunlight gleaming off her back, and eyed the departing city with the faintest tinge of nostalgia.
Garp stood behind, arms folded, watching the city vanish—his jaw set, his eyes somewhere else entirely. After a while, the marine hero spoke, voice carrying over the hush of the waves.
"Ever meet a man so good, it made the world feel like it could change?"
Krishna didn't answer with words. He just listened, leaning into the salt breeze, letting Garp's memories fill the space.
Garp began, his tone rough, almost gruff—but weighted with reverence. "Long before these new monsters… before these kids started dreaming of kings and gods… there was a shipwright. Tom. Tom the Fishman. Built the Pirate King's ship—Oro Jackson. And Water 7? He gave it a future."
The air seemed to grow heavier, drawn in by memory.
Garp could still see the shipyard, crowded with hammer and song, the great Tom looming over workers, laughter echoing across timber and steel. "He was a giant, even among Fishmen. Bigger than a bear, hands the size of anchors. But the heart—damn, the heart was even bigger. He smiled at every man, beast, child, pirate, or Marine. Didn't care who you were. Treated you fair. Treated you right."
Krishna pictured it—he could see the memory shaping itself behind Garp's eyes. He didn't intrude,he let it stand, a small island in the ocean of time.
"First time I met him," Garp rumbled, "was right after Roger's crew finished their ship. Marines were already sniffing around, looking for trouble. I was younger—cockier. Thought I knew what justice was. Tom saw me for what I was. Gave me tea, told me to keep my boots off his blueprints, and then—just like that—he let me walk his docks. Watched his crew work. Taught 'em all with patience. Never shouted. Never hit."
The warship's deck was quiet but for the wind.
"He had a dream," Garp said, voice softer now. "He wanted to build a train. Not just any train—a sea train. Said it'd connect the islands, bring people together. Lessen the pain. End the isolation. I thought he was mad. But I admired it. Even asked Sengoku to let him be, just for a few more years. Said the world would benefit more from his train than from his death."
Krishna nodded, only half-hearing. In his mind, blueprints flickered—engine diagrams, couplings, impossible tracks curving over stormy seas. Medha caught his stray thought and projected the completed image of a sea train, iron and vision fused. For a moment, Krishna let himself imagine a world with more men like Tom—builders, not destroyers.
Garp continued, "He was a Fishman, so the World Government never really saw him as a man. Just as a problem. After Roger died, they wanted to punish anyone who'd helped the Pirate King. Tom was guilty. He admitted it with pride. But he bargained. Promised to finish his train. They agreed. For a while, I thought maybe things could be different. Maybe justice didn't have to be blind."
Sheshika lifted her head, tongue flicking the sea air, as if tasting old wounds. Meghākṣī stilled, feathers pressed close.
"Then that snake Spandam showed up. You know the type—hides behind rules, twists words into weapons. Faked an attack, pinned it on Tom's apprentices. Whole trial was a farce. Didn't matter what Tom did, didn't matter how much the city loved him. They took him to Enies Lobby, and…" Garp paused, the memory catching in his throat. "I should've stopped them. I could've. Sengoku told me to let it go, to think about the bigger picture. But Tom… he just smiled. Said, 'I'm proud of what I built. Proud of my apprentices. Don't let the train stop.' And then he walked to his execution with his head held high, with a smile on his face, just like Roger."
Krishna's silence was a river—quiet, but deep. In that silence, Garp heard an understanding he didn't have to explain.
Medha whispered, "He was a true craftsman. The type who leaves more behind than blueprints."
Krishna thought, A man who forges a future, is worth a thousand who only guard it.
Garp gazed at Water 7's receding skyline. "Franky was his apprentice. The cyborg. Kid's got spirit, but he's hurt. Never saw him cry, not even after they dragged Tom away. Never forgave himself. He built his body up so nothing could break it again, I guess. That's the kind of pain that makes a man—or ruins him."
Krishna considered Franky's wild grin, the odd dignity in the way he defended his family. He realized, suddenly, that beneath all the bravado and 'SUPER's, there was a seam of grief too fine for most to see.
"And Iceburg?" Garp continued. "Smartest man in the city. Reminds me a bit of you. Calm, calculating, always watching. He protected that city even after Tom was gone. Built the company up. Never let the dream die, even when half the world wanted it drowned."
The ship rolled on, cutting the waves toward the horizon. The air was full of ghosts. Tom, his dream, his apprentices, all stitched into the fabric of Water 7. All part of the same story.
"I see pieces of Tom in you," Garp said quietly, "whether you know it or not. That stubbornness. The refusal to break, even when they call you a criminal for doing what's right. The way you keep looking ahead, building instead of just fighting."
Krishna blinked, surprised by the honesty. He didn't respond—words would have cheapened it.
Sheshika nudged his leg, a silent agreement.
Meghākṣī gave a low, melodic hum—her version of comfort.
Medha flickered, "The future is built on the hands that refuse to stop."
The sun began its slow descent, casting the ocean in golden light. The warship rolled onward, bound for places with fewer memories and heavier consequences.
Krishna closed his eyes and let the salt wind brush his face. In the hush, he found a sliver of peace—a reminder that not every battle was won with fists. Some were fought with blueprints, with kindness, with dreams too stubborn to die.
And as the last glimmer of Water 7 slipped beneath the horizon, Garp spoke one final time—almost to himself.
"Here's to the men who build trains across the sea. And to the ones who never let the dream end."
Krishna's only answer was the silence of respect, and the promise—unspoken—to build something better wherever his own path led next.
...
The horizon was a blade, drawn sharp with promise and memory as the dog-headed warship cut westward. Water 7 dwindled behind them, a fading mirage of lights and hammer-song, drowned beneath the endless hush of the Grand Line. The world ahead felt different—stripped of comfort, brighter, harsher. Krishna stood at the prow with Sheshika loosely coiled about his shoulders, Medha silent beside him, Meghākṣī perched on the rail, her head cocked at the wind.
The deck was quiet for hours. Garp sat nearby, hunched and thoughtful, his gaze lost in the whitecaps. The recruits, exhausted from days of travel and awed into silence by recent events, kept to themselves. Only the engines and the sound of water broke the stillness.
A bell rang at noon as the warship passed into the stretch of sea that was neither here nor there—a corridor known as the "Judiciary Current," where the tides twisted by government hands. The sky darkened with clouds, a shadow cast not by weather, but by power.
At the first sight of the stone archway of Enies Lobby, Krishna felt a sense of unease. The island loomed on its circle of water, forever day, sunlight forced by unknown artifice. Towers gleamed, marbled and perfect,bridges swept wide over churning whirlpools. Even at this distance, the gateway radiated authority—a place where justice was a mask, and truth a blade.
Garp slowed the ship. His jaw was clenched, his knuckles white on the rail. "I hate this place," he muttered, barely above the wind. "Not the justice. The people who pretend they own it."
Krishna watched as the Marines at the gates waved them through, lowering the giant drawbridge. They saluted, respectful but wary, some recognized Garp, even fewer noticed Krishna, whose presence was carefully veiled by Trikaḷa Līlā. The world passed over him like water over stone.
They didn't disembark. Garp had no intention of lingering, nor of letting anyone else set foot in the "Judiciary Island." The warship simply skirted the bay, engines humming low. Meghākṣī flared her tail in silent protest—a storm of color against the sterile white.
Sheshika, perched around Krishna's shoulders, whispered in a voice only he could hear, "This is a place that devours itself. All order, no heart."
Krishna nodded. He watched as Enies Lobby's perfect facade blurred into mist behind them, the stone justice towers already forgotten by the sea.
The channel bent south, and the mists thickened, rolling heavy as death. The current pulled them faster, as if hurrying to their next trial.
And then, from the haze, rose the black walls and spiked towers of Impel Down.
A fortress built on despair, a monument to the world's nightmares. Black stone, gleaming with rain, ringed by steel and salt. Kraken shadows twisted beneath the waves, and the screams that drifted over the water were not always carried by wind.
Garp watched it with hard eyes. "Hell," he said flatly. "If you ever find yourself in there, boy, you'd best hope you die quick. Not even the sea kings come too close."
Krishna didn't flinch. He let his senses touch the walls, feel the fear and agony locked inside. For a moment, it felt as though the world itself held its breath, waiting to see if he'd dare step foot onto that black stone.
He didn't.
The ship did not stop. Garp gave a perfunctory wave to the guards at the sea gates, who saluted back, unnerved by the sight of the hero of the Marines—and his silent, unknown companion.
Medha murmured, "There are fates worse than death in that place."
Krishna replied, quietly, "No prison is perfect. Not even this one."
Sheshika hummed in agreement. Meghākṣī turned her face from the fortress, feathers ruffling with unease.
The sea opened wide again. Sunlight broke the clouds in strips, like hope torn to ribbons. For a long while, no one spoke. The tension of Enies Lobby and Impel Down clung to them, a shadow hard to shake.
And then, as afternoon faded, the sea stilled.
Krishna felt it before he saw it—the hush, the weight, the unyielding certainty.
The Marineford base rose ahead.
Not an island, but a fortress—white walls gleaming, golden light catching on iron and pride. Hundreds of warships floated in orderly ranks, a testament to order and to power. The headquarters of the world's most powerful military—the place where myths came to die or be reborn.
Garp stood up, stretching his back until it popped. "Home, such as it is," he said, voice rough with something like fondness and regret at once.
Krishna studied the city's profile—the sloped ramparts, the seagull banner snapping atop the highest tower, the endless bustle of marines and officials moving like ants. He felt no fear. Only a readiness, and a certain weary anticipation.
Medha flickered beside him. "This is where the world's gaze sharpens. Where history happens."
Krishna nodded. "And where it can be changed."
Sheshika's golden eyes gleamed. "Many strong ones here. More than most places."
Meghākṣī dipped her head, feathers shining like gems in the last light, as if to convey a meaning, "Be wary."
As the warship slipped through the outer gate, a squadron of marines fell into escort position. Orders barked from the flagship—salutes were snapped. Garp's name was shouted from a dozen decks, voices ringing with relief, admiration, or barely-hidden fear.
Krishna felt them watching him. Some tried to sense his power, but he kept his presence veiled—just a shadow among giants. A ripple of rumor followed in his wake, but nothing more.
They docked at the main pier, beneath the great seagull crest. Garp turned to Krishna, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Welcome to Marineford, intern. Don't get yourself lost."
Krishna quirked an eyebrow. "I rarely do."
Garp grinned, flashing white teeth. "First time for everything."
He strode down the gangplank, cloak billowing, shouting orders at startled officers, already setting the warship's business in motion.
Krishna lingered a moment longer, letting the sea wind play across his face, the scents of iron, salt, and ambition mingling in the air. This was no longer the calm of Foosha Village, nor the haunted tides of Water 7. Here, every step would be watched. Every word weighed. Here, he would be measured by his enemies and allies alike.
Medha spoke softly. "The real game begins now."
Sheshika slithered from his shoulders to the deck, looping protectively around his feet.
Meghākṣī fluttered to his side, her voice a shimmer of colors in his mind—We are here. And you are not alone.
Krishna nodded once, not needing words.
The last rays of the sun set Marineford ablaze—white stone gone to gold, banners to flame, the world itself pausing on the edge of something vast.
Behind him, the ship's bell tolled, marking the end of one journey.
Ahead, the fortress waited, silent and immense.
Krishna squared his shoulders, stepped onto the pier, and began to walk into history.
...
The night swept in, and the world changed.
...
Omake: CP9's Worst Recon Ever.
The rain fell in lazy sheets over Water 7, washing the city's rooftops with silver, but inside Dock 1's bustling restaurant, three of Cipher Pol's finest sat with the nervous energy of cats in a dog show.
They'd picked the corner booth, under the shadow of a leaky potted plant. Kaku's nose poked out over the menu, twitching like a radar. Lucci sat with his arms folded, pigeon on his hat, eyes flickering with deadly calculation. Kalifa polished her glasses for the fifth time in two minutes. Their mission was clear: observe the Marine hero Garp, and the… whatever-he-is, Krishna.
Simple. Clean. Professional.
Except they'd been here for hours, and so far all they'd gotten was—
"It's catfish, I'm telling you. Sea kings have too much sinew for proper stew."
Garp's voice boomed from the next table, where he was vigorously arguing with Krishna, who appeared unbothered and deeply focused on a cup of tea.
Krishna, entirely straight-faced, replied, "Sea kings, when marinated correctly, surpass even o-toro. The depth of flavor is… transcendent."
Medha, perched as an invisible digital avatar on Krishna's shoulder, piped up in his ear, "Technically, sea king protein is more complex. But catfish are easier to digest."
Lucci scowled, straining to listen. "Why are they discussing… stew?"
Kaku, scribbling furiously in his notebook, whispered, "Possible code. 'Catfish' could refer to underground resistance. Or secret routes. Or… an actual stew. I'm writing all possibilities."
Kalifa, eyes narrowed, was less impressed. "It's a test. No one is this calm. No one."
At the bar, Blueno kept a steady hand pouring drinks—occasionally sliding one to himself. He'd spent all week watching these three "blending in." In all his years with CP9, he'd never seen agents stand out so badly.
Lucci's pigeon—Hattori—gave a judgy coo, "Is this really what the World Government pays for?"
...
Garp, meanwhile, was on a roll. "Listen here, you cheeky brat—catfish stew built the Marines! When I was your age, all I ate was catfish and hardtack. Put hair on your chest. Put steel in your fists!"
Krishna nodded sagely and replied, "That explains the bald spot."
Garp's jaw dropped. The marines at the next table tried very, very hard not to laugh.
Kalifa choked on her water. Kaku looked up, awestruck. "Is… is that a joke?"
Lucci, refusing to be distracted by bants, focused on Krishna's hands. "Did you see his grip? When he lifted the teapot? That's not normal. That's… at least CP5 level. Maybe CP7 on a good day."
Kalifa adjusted her glasses. "Or maybe he just works out, Rob."
Kaku scribbled furiously, "Teapot = possible hidden weapon. Must investigate."
...
Suddenly, Medha—still unseen by all but Krishna and Sheshika—beamed a private message, "Two tables to your left. Three agents, one pigeon, zero stealth. Should I hack their notepad for fun?"
Krishna, sipping his tea, sent back, "Let them cook."
...
At this point, Meghākṣī entered—disguised as a particularly judgmental pigeon, strutting with exaggerated arrogance atop a wooden railing behind the CP9 trio. Her feathers shimmered in the lamplight. She glared with such intensity that even Lucci's Hattori looked away.
Kaku caught sight of Meghākṣī and gasped. "Lucci. Lucci, is it just me, or is that pigeon… flexing?"
Lucci squinted. "Hattori, you have competition."
Hattori stared at Meghākṣī. Meghākṣī stared back. The tension was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.
Without warning, Meghākṣī unfurled her tail in a burst of color, glimmering with illusionary eyes. The effect was… hypnotic.
Lucci's pupils dilated.
Kalifa blinked rapidly. "I think… I think I just saw god."
Kaku scribbled, "Possible devil fruit: Model—Judgement Bird. Ability: Causes existential crisis in other birds."
Blueno, pouring a drink for himself, whispered, "You three are hopeless."
...
Meanwhile, Garp and Krishna's culinary debate had only escalated.
Garp roared, "You can't even chew a sea king steak without breaking a tooth!"
Krishna shot back, "That is why you tenderize with haki, grandpa."
"Are you saying I need to soften up?!"
"No, only your dinner."
From the shadows, Kalifa found herself admiring Krishna's hair, which—despite the humidity and Garp's arguments—remained flawless.
She muttered, "He must use conditioner."
Kaku, not missing a beat, added to his notes, "Secret: Possibly Yakuza Hair Ritual. Will investigate."
...
Meghākṣī, not satisfied with out-pigeoning Hattori, hopped to the CP9 booth. She fixed Lucci with a glare so withering that, for one split second, the World Government's deadliest assassin felt the urge to apologize. For what, he didn't know. But Meghākṣī would remember.
Kalifa, emboldened by the drama, suddenly leaned over as Krishna walked by on his way to the door. "Excuse me, but… what's your hair care routine?"
Krishna, pausing only a moment, replied, "Forgiveness, cold water, and occasionally… divine intervention."
Lucci choked on his water.
Garp boomed, "Don't encourage him! Next thing you know he'll be making hair masks for the marines!"
Krishna bowed politely and walked out, Medha's quiet laughter ringing in his ear.
Blueno, finally giving up on professionalism, clinked glasses with the bartender and sighed, "I get paid either way."
...
As the rain outside turned from drizzle to downpour, CP9's finest sat defeated by a debate on stew, a pigeon with attitude, and the world's most enigmatic shampoo.
Somewhere, at the edge of Water 7, Meghākṣī preened her feathers, basking in victory.
And Kaku wrote in his notebook:
"Mission Status: Failed successfully." he crossed it off in the notebook a second later.
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
If you're reading this, congratulations: you've survived the most unhinged Water 7 omake ever unleashed upon the digital seas. CP9's "stealth" operation ended up as a culinary disaster, a pigeon beauty pageant, and what I can only describe as the world's most passive-aggressive debate on stew.
I'd like to apologize to Oda for what just happened to his spies. I'd also like to apologize to every actual pigeon, catfish, and hair care professional who may have taken psychic damage from this chapter. Meghākṣī was too powerful, Kaku's notepad needs to be classified as a national threat, and yes—Krishna's hair remains undefeated. Even divine justice can't touch those locks.
Let's face it: sometimes the real secret agents aren't in CP9. They're the friends we made along the way. Or the birds who judge us from rooftops. Or that one random old man at the bar who's seen too much and drinks to forget.
Question for the crowd:
Would you rather take on Garp in a catfish stew-eating contest… or face Meghākṣī in a staring competition?
Choose wisely. Only one of those ends with emotional scars.
Until next time, when the gods of stealth inevitably get out-stealthed by a peacock—
—Author out.
...