Kira stood on the roof of her shelter, arms crossed, eyes locked on the horizon.
Skypiea stretched in every direction — cloud forests, scattered shrines, floating islets drifting lazily on white seafoam. Angel Island shimmered in the distance, a quiet silhouette under the early morning sky. Beautiful, peaceful, useless.
She had outgrown this place.
Not because of arrogance. Because of facts.
Skypiea had nothing else to offer her. She had trained, tested, studied, mapped the terrain, harvested every bit of knowledge worth having. She had the fruit now. She had control.
There was only one thing left to do.
Leave.
Get down to the Blue Sea.
And start her real journey.
She'd known this moment would come eventually. Maybe even from the moment she woke up on that first cloud, dazed and cold. It had been half a year since then. A quiet, calculated half year. Survival first. Then power. Then training.
Now, it was time to move.
The Blue Sea was where everything happened. The Grand Line. The World Government. The Marines. The Yonko. Nico Robin. Boa Hancock.
The people that mattered were down there.
And she wasn't going to wait six and a half years for the Straw Hats to randomly stumble across her. She would start her own legend. First. Quietly. On her terms.
But getting down wasn't simple.
Sky Islands floated nearly ten thousand meters above sea level. Falling meant death — unless you had a ship built for descent, a Waver stabilized by dials, or… one specific alternative.
She closed her eyes and recalled it clearly. The Straw Hats' descent from Skypiea. No ship dials. No precise science.
A giant bird.
The Southbird of the Upper Realm. Huge. Smart. Calm. Its wingspan had dwarfed the Going Merry. It had lifted the ship with its talons and carried them to the sea.
Kira didn't have a ship.
But she had herself — and she barely weighed fifty-five kilos.
If the bird had done it once, it could do it again.
She just had to find one.
The rest of the day was for prep.
She stripped her gear down to travel-light status. Cloak, climbing spikes, reinforced gloves, rope, rations, and two custom-fitted lightning anchors — weighted rods she could channel her powers through if needed. Not for attack. For movement. Control.
Next, she opened her maps. She had hand-sketched much of Skypiea from aerial observations and careful exploration. The Southbirds were not common in the areas near Angel Island or the Upper Yard. Too much noise. Too many people.
But northwest of Skypiea, beyond the Spiral Plateau, was an unstable cloud formation called Mist Crown Ridge.
She had seen something there once — a massive black silhouette, gliding low through the mist like it owned the sky.
It hadn't flapped. Just soared.
That had to be it.
That's where she would go.
She set out the next morning before sunrise.
The route was difficult — narrow stone paths, brittle cloud ledges, and unstable airflows. She had to use short lightning dashes at times to cross broken spans, pushing jolts through her legs to launch herself forward.
Every time she used her powers, the familiar hum and crackle returned. Her skin buzzed softly. Sparks danced at her heels, dissipating before she landed.
By midday, she reached the edge of Mist Crown Ridge.
The clouds here were thick and cold, tinted grey instead of white. Visibility dropped. Sound echoed strangely.
She crouched low, hood up, and waited.
Watching.
Listening.
For two days, she stayed hidden among the upper cliffs.
She spotted it on the second morning — gliding along the lower edge of the cloud field.
Massive.
Long neck. Sharp eyes. Feathers black as night with a bluish shimmer where the sun touched them.
It circled once. Then twice. Then landed on a far ridge, claws curling around a craggy platform of rock.
Kira's heartbeat didn't spike. She just breathed slower. Controlled.
This was her ride.
Now she had to make it agree.
On the third day, she approached.
Not directly.
She used ridgelines and cloud cover, moving slowly, always downhill from its perch.
When she got within thirty meters, the bird raised its head — not alarmed, but aware.
She paused. Lowered her hood.
Then knelt.
Slowly, she reached into her pack and pulled out dried skyfish — salted and cleaned, their scent sharp in the air.
She didn't throw it.
She just placed it on the ground and stepped back.
The bird watched.
Minutes passed.
Then it moved.
One step. Then another. Silent despite its size.
It stopped before the offering. Lowered its beak. Ate.
Then looked at her again.
Still no fear.
Still no aggression.
Just calm, curious intelligence.
She didn't smile. Didn't reach for it.
She waited.
The bird turned and walked back to its ledge.
Kira stayed the rest of the day, watching.
That night, she didn't sleep.
She planned.
Over the next week, she repeated the routine.
Arrive early. Leave offerings. Sit. Watch. Withdraw.
The bird began expecting her.
By day five, it didn't retreat when she stepped within ten meters.
By day eight, it let her sit beside its perch.
On day ten, she spoke.
Not in a soft, cooing tone. Just words.
"You're strong," she said. "Calm."
The bird didn't respond — but it looked at her longer.
She nodded once.
"I need you to take me down."
Stillness.
Then a low grunt. Not quite a call. But not rejection.
Progress.
Day eleven, she brought out the harness.
Just a simple strap system with lightweight anchors. Nothing aggressive. No tight buckles.
The bird sniffed it. Nudged it once with its beak. Then ignored it.
She tested it on a stone ledge nearby, rigging it up as if she were mounting.
No complaints from the bird.
By now, she'd named it. Not aloud, but in her head.
Veyra.
Not for sentiment.
Just for precision.
On day fourteen, a storm rolled in from the east.
Lightning cracked through the clouds.
The bird took flight and vanished for hours.
Kira didn't leave.
She sat through the storm, cloak soaked, boots frozen, watching the horizon for a return silhouette.
It came just before nightfall — descending like a shadow on the mist.
She stood when it landed.
Veyra stared.
Then approached.
That was the moment Kira knew she could do it.
She gave herself two more days to prep.
Final rations. Emergency flares. Wind correction dials she salvaged from wreckage. She modified a small metal shell to carry a scribbled note about her time in Skypiea — not for sentiment, just recordkeeping.
When she woke on the sixteenth day, skies were clear.
She made the climb one last time to Mist Crown Ridge.
The bird was already waiting.
She stepped forward. Fitted the straps. Checked tension.
Veyra didn't flinch.
Kira climbed into position — sitting between the upper wing joints, tightly secured, one hand braced against the harness pole.
No goodbye. No second thoughts.
She tapped the side of the bird's neck twice.
Veyra launched forward.
Wings extended.
And together, they flew.
The wind tore at her hood. The clouds rushed by like rivers. Her cloak whipped behind her like a tattered sail.
And beneath them — far, far below — the endless blue sea waited.
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