Zhang Zhiwei forced himself upright on trembling legs, every muscle in his body screaming protest. The battle had pushed him beyond his limits—farther than he'd gone since achieving the rank of Heavenly Master. But Gustave's condition was his immediate priority.
The French chef lay motionless in a crater of fused glass, his clothes little more than charred rags. Burns covered exposed skin in angry red welts, and his breathing came in shallow, pained gasps. But he was alive—Zhang Zhiwei could sense his aura, weakened but steady.
"Stubborn as always," the Heavenly Master murmured with fond exasperation. Drawing upon his last reserves of spiritual energy, he employed the Shukuchi technique to traverse the distance instantly.
Carefully, he lifted Gustave's unconscious form. The chef was heavier than he looked—all that enhanced muscle density from his Devil Fruit adaptation—but Zhang Zhiwei managed. A brief focusing of will, and the two vanished from the ruined battlefield, reappearing on the third floor of the Bamboo Staff.
Luffy looked up from where he'd been sprawled on the floor, a hastily hidden gaming controller sliding under a nearby cushion. His eyes went wide at the sight of them.
"Uncle Gustave!" The boy shot to his feet, taking in the chef's battered condition. "What happened? Is he okay?"
"He will recover," Zhang Zhiwei assured him, though privately he wasn't entirely certain. Some of those burns looked severe even by One Piece standards. "Quickly now—fetch Tom. Gustave requires immediate medical attention."
"Right away!" Luffy bolted for the stairs, his voice echoing through the ship. "Tom! Emergency! Uncle Gustave is hurt real bad!"
The response was immediate. Tom's distinctive sound—something between a yowl and a screech—echoed from the lower decks, followed by the rapid patter of feet moving at impossible speed. Within seconds, the cat appeared on the third floor, his usual mischievous expression replaced by sharp professional focus.
Without pause, Tom produced a stethoscope from thin air and began his examination. His cartoon physics allowed for medical knowledge that defied explanation—one moment listening to Gustave's heartbeat, the next checking pupil dilation with a tiny flashlight that materialized in his paws.
Zhang Zhiwei watched in fascination as Tom's assessment continued. The cat's methods might be unconventional, but there was undeniable competence in his movements. When Tom nodded to himself and reached into his miracle bag, the Heavenly Master allowed himself a moment of relief.
Various bottles and vials emerged from the bag—some filled with clearly identifiable medicines, others containing substances that glowed with their own inner light or defied the laws of physics entirely. Tom mixed them with the precision of a master alchemist, his whiskers twitching as he calculated dosages.
The resulting concoction was a swirling mixture of colors that should not have existed in nature. Tom carefully administered it to the unconscious Gustave, drop by precious drop.
Almost immediately, the chef's breathing steadied. The angry red of his burns faded to healthier pink. Most tellingly, the tension lines around his eyes smoothed out as pain receded.
"Incredible," Zhang Zhiwei breathed. "Your medical knowledge rivals that of legendary physicians."
Tom's response was characteristically modest—a brief tip of an invisible cap before he produced a roll of bandages that seemed far too large to have fit in his bag. With practiced efficiency, he began wrapping Gustave's injuries, leaving only the chef's nostrils exposed for breathing.
By the time he finished, Gustave resembled nothing so much as an ancient mummy, but the professional competence displayed throughout the process reassured everyone present.
Chu Zihang arrived as Tom was putting the finishing touches on his work, followed closely by Ace. Both took in the scene with wide eyes.
"What happened?" Chu Zihang asked quietly. "We felt the ship shaking, but..."
"Later," Zhang Zhiwei replied. "Help us move him to his quarters."
They formed an impromptu stretcher team, carefully lifting Gustave and making their way to the fourth floor. As they passed the Moral Lord's room, the door opened and the ancient sage peered out, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to understanding as he took in the scene.
"Ah," he said simply. "The demon child sought revenge, I take it?"
Zhang Zhiwei paused in his explanation of the battle, surprised. "You calculated the outcome already?"
"The threads of cause and effect are clear to those who know how to read them." The Moral Lord's expression grew thoughtful. "Place young Gustave in his room and tend to his recovery. I shall handle the... aftermath."
Before anyone could ask what he meant, the Moral Lord had vanished—not with any dramatic display of power, but simply ceasing to be present in one location and existing somewhere else instead.
Back on the ruined plateau, father and son materialized with significantly more drama than the Moral Lord's departure had involved.
"Dad! Dad, look! It was that guy!" The Fat Doll pointed accusingly at Zhang Zhiwei's lingering aura signature. "Him and his friend beat me up something awful! I demand vengeance!"
The Western Demon God was considerably more imposing than his child—a towering figure wreathed in shadows and flame, with eyes like burning coals and a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. When he spoke, the very air seemed to recoil.
"Few dare to lay hands on my son," he growled, power radiating from his form in visible waves. "Even the old immortals of the Celestial Realm show proper respect for—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
There, standing calmly on the glass-fused battlefield, was a figure in simple robes. The newcomer appeared unremarkable at first glance—an elderly man with a kind face and twinkling eyes, looking for all the world like someone's favorite grandfather.
But the Western Demon God's supernatural senses painted a very different picture. The old man's presence pressed against reality itself, and power beyond comprehension flowed around him like a gentle breeze that could level mountains if it chose to.
"Ah," the Moral Lord said pleasantly, as if encountering old friends at a tea party. "You must be the concerned parent. How lovely—family bonds are so important, don't you think?"
The Western Demon God took an instinctive step backward. In all his eons of existence, he had never encountered an aura quite like this. It felt... fundamental. As if this being had been present when the universe learned how to exist.
"I... who..." he stammered, then collected himself with visible effort. "I am the Western Demon God! My son was grievously injured by mortals, and I demand—"
"Satisfaction, yes, I quite understand." The Moral Lord nodded sympathetically. "Children can be so sensitive about these things. However, I'm afraid I must respectfully decline your request."
With that, he waved his hand in a gesture so casual it might have been shooing away a troublesome fly.
The Western Demon God and his son vanished instantly—not destroyed or banished, but simply elsewhere. Specifically, they found themselves back in their home dimension, standing in what appeared to be a comfortable sitting room decorated with demonic artifacts and family portraits.
"Dad?" the Fat Doll asked in confusion. "Why are we home? Weren't we about to show those mean people who's boss?"
The Western Demon God was staring at his hands as if he'd never seen them before. The casual ease with which they'd been displaced spoke to power levels that made his own impressive abilities look like party tricks.
"Son," he said slowly, "what have I told you about checking an opponent's background before picking fights?"
"But Dad, you said there was nobody in the Three Realms you were afraid of!"
"Well, that's still technically true." The Western Demon God sat heavily in his favorite armchair. "That being wasn't from the Three Realms. He was... something else entirely. Something older."
"How much older?"
"The kind of older that was around when the Three Realms were being constructed." He fixed his son with a stern look. "Promise me—promise me—that if you ever encounter that aura again, you will apologize politely and leave immediately."
"Aww, but—"
"No buts!" The Western Demon God's voice carried paternal authority that brooked no argument. "Some beings are beyond our ability to challenge, and that was definitely one of them. Now, I think some disciplinary action is in order for getting us into this mess in the first place."
He grabbed his son and proceeded to deliver a thorough spanking that echoed throughout their dimensional home. The Fat Doll's wails of indignation would have been audible from several realms away, had anyone been listening.
Back in the mortal realm, the Moral Lord surveyed the devastated battlefield with mild disapproval. The landscape looked like it had been used for target practice by very large, very destructive entities. Which, come to think of it, was exactly what had happened.
"Young people these days," he murmured to himself. "No consideration for property values."
Another casual gesture, this one involving a slight rotation of his whisk. Reality rippled like disturbed water, then settled back into a new configuration. The blasted plateau returned to its original state—grass growing in neat patterns, rock formations exactly as they had been, even the night-blooming flowers restored to their previous beauty.
The only sign that anything unusual had occurred was a slight lingering taste in the air—like the moments after lightning strikes, but sweeter.
In Renjia Town, families who had been mourning destroyed homes and lost loved ones suddenly found themselves whole again. Buildings stood intact, treasured possessions returned to their proper places, and even the elderly grandmother who had suffered a heart attack during the battle discovered herself in perfect health.
The townspeople looked around in bewilderment, pinching themselves and checking with neighbors to confirm that yes, everything was exactly as it should be. Unable to explain the miraculous restoration, they did the only thing that made sense—knelt in their streets and courtyards to offer prayers of gratitude to whatever divine power had intervened on their behalf.
Satisfied with his work, the Moral Lord returned to the Bamboo Staff, where he found Zhang Zhiwei waiting for him in the common area.
"The matter has been resolved," the ancient sage announced. "Though I do recommend that young Gustave exercise more caution in future encounters. His generous nature does him credit, but some opponents require... different approaches."
Zhang Zhiwei bowed deeply. "This humble Taoist offers profound thanks for the intervention, Saint."
"Think nothing of it. Gustave is my disciple, after all—even if only a registered one. Besides," the Moral Lord's eyes twinkled with amusement, "that demon child reminded me of some of my own students in their more... spirited moments. Sometimes a firm hand is what's needed to restore proper perspective."
He paused, then added thoughtfully, "Though I should probably check on that new racing game Gustave purchased. The graphics in these modern entertainment systems are quite remarkable, don't you think?"
And with that profound observation, one of the most powerful beings in existence padded off to resume his gaming session, leaving Zhang Zhiwei to shake his head in bemused respect.
Some things, apparently, transcended even cosmic power levels.
In his room, Gustave slept peacefully beneath Tom's expert bandaging, his body already beginning the accelerated healing process that would have him back on his feet within days. His dreams were filled with the scent of perfectly prepared dishes and the satisfaction of a job well done—even if the job in question had involved battling interdimensional demons.