Disclaimer:I don't own One Piece.
If I did, I'd be legally obligated to brag that I own peak.
All rights belong to Eiichiro Oda — I'm just a humble sinner writing mythic fanfiction in his shadow.
Support the official release. Always.
This story may contain:
Mild existential crises.
Unexpected mythological breakdowns.
Bikes faster than your GPA recovery speed.
Flutes played with more emotion than your last breakup.
And one suspiciously silent protagonist who absolutely, definitely, is not smiling.
All emotional damage is self-inflicted. All enlightenment is optional.
Side effects include spontaneous philosophy, violent brotherly love, and sudden cravings for justice.
You've been warned.
Enter at your own karma.
...
The sea had quieted itself.
Morning mist curled across the surface like threads of incense smoke, thin and reverent, as if the ocean too knew it was ferrying something heavier than bodies—something that breathed of silence and legacy and the ticking weight of time. Garp's dog-headed warship cut through East Blue with grim purpose, the wood groaning softly with the memories of a thousand journeys and the tension of one more.
Krishna stood at the bow, robes loose, hair tied half-back in a low knot. He hadn't moved for half an hour. The salt winds caressed his face. Behind him, sailors watched with restrained awe. Most didn't know what to make of him. The stories clashed—hero, monster, monk, warrior, ghost. To the seasoned officers, he was something worse: unreadable.
But he didn't notice them.
He was already walking.
And then—
He disappeared.
A blur. A ripple in air. No wind. No step.
Only—
Vyomagaṅgā — Heaven-Step Stream. The evolved Geppō. He moved not by kicking the air, but through altering its memory. Through harmonizing with its path. Where others forced ascent with brute bursts, Krishna simply asked space to remember where he had been—and where he wished to be.
From the warship, Garp squinted into the distance, arms folded.
"Cheeky brat," he muttered with something bordering admiration. "Moves better than Kizaru in air. At least that bastard sparkles when he's zipping."
...
He landed outside Cocoyashi Village like dew.
No crater. No noise. No presence.
His sandals whispered against the earth as he stepped past familiar groves. Orange trees thick with summer fruit swayed lightly. He walked past them slowly, one hand brushing a low-hanging branch. The scent of citrus and wet bark lingered. His gaze found the figure in the distance.
Nami.
She was laughing.
Helping Genzo carry baskets of produce, sleeves rolled, forehead streaked with sweat and sunlight. A world rebuilt from pain. Krishna didn't move forward. He stood beneath the tree and simply watched, cloaked in suppressed haki. No one saw him. Not the girl he saved. Not the villagers who once bled.
It was better this way.
He bowed—hands together, a silent Namaskar—and turned away.
...
Back on the warship, no one had noticed his absence.
Only Sheshika, curled on a sunlit coil atop the mast, opened one lazy eye as he stepped aboard again.
No comment.
No announcement.
He stood at the railing again.
The sea continued forward.
...
Two days later.
Another ripple.
Another flicker of air memory.
And Krishna was gone again.
He landed at the edge of a hill—one overgrown with moss and disciplined fury. Every breath of wind carried the sound of wood slicing air. Zoro's katanas blurred in clean arcs. Shirt off. Scars proud. Muscles working like the jaws of a divine clock.
Krishna stayed in the tree line.
He didn't want to interrupt.
Not this.
Zoro was training where Kuina had died. The same cliffside slope. The same stone. The same silence.
The grave had been cleaned. Flowers changed daily. A small shrine built beside it.
Krishna stepped forward quietly.
He reached into his satchel.
And placed a single white lotus beside the stone.
Its petals shimmered faintly in morning light—gathered earlier that dawn from the riverbanks of Dawn Island.
The flower of remembrance.
And rebirth.
Zoro never turned around.
But he paused. Briefly.
Then continued training.
Krishna said nothing. Offered nothing more.
He turned again—and vanished.
...
Back on the warship, Garp was waiting on the deck with a piece of jerky stuck between his teeth.
"You went again," he said.
Krishna joined him at the rail. The sea glinted like tempered metal. Waves rolled slow.
"Yes."
"You gonna tell me why?"
"Goodbyes."
Garp raised an eyebrow. "You already left, didn't you?"
"I did. But they didn't."
"Hmph." The Vice-Admiral scratched his beard. "Tch. You always this dramatic or is this just puberty part two?"
Krishna's lips twitched faintly.
Garp chuckled. "Don't get me wrong. I get it. Even I took a last walk before heading into the Grand Line the first time. Just didn't wear fancy robes and vanish like a damn ghost."
"I don't vanish."
"Tell that to the rookies. One of 'em thought you turned into wind last time. Been praying to you daily since."
Krishna folded his arms. "Tell him to stop."
"I tried. Kid's convinced you're the East Blue's guardian spirit now."
A beat.
Then both men lapsed into silence, watching the sun crest the east.
...
A few hours later, Krishna stood again at the edge of the deck.
The winds had picked up. The scent of storm was far off, but not threatening. He looked out toward the faint horizon—a line that curved subtly upward like the breath of the world.
Behind him, a marine whispered, "He's gonna jump again, isn't he?"
Krishna took one step—
And disappeared.
The visits were silent. Sacred. Memory rituals more than anything else.
He carried no gifts.
Left no messages.
Only presence.
Only absence.
Only the knowing that he had been there, and that was enough.
...
That night, as the ship bobbed beneath a swath of stars and gulls coasted on distant winds, Garp sat beside the mast, staring up.
Krishna joined him, cross-legged.
No words passed for several minutes.
Then—
"You think they'll remember you?" Garp asked, chewing slowly.
"No."
"That a problem?"
"No."
Garp studied him, half-lidded eyes squinting through the smoke of thought. "You care too much for someone who claims not to."
Krishna looked toward the stars. "I care enough to leave."
The old man laughed softly. "And here I thought I was cryptic."
...
The moon tilted above them.
The ship glided on.
The quiet, for once, felt earned.
...
The sea broke gently against the hull.
Sheshika lay half-asleep near the foremast, tail lazily curled. Meghākṣi dozed beside her in a bundle of pale feathers and illusion-light. Below, the marines kept their voices low, their movements slower than usual. The crew had learned a kind of reverent rhythm—like monks navigating a temple too vast to understand.
Krishna stood on the upper deck again.
But this time, he didn't vanish with speed.
He vanished with memory, suppressing his presence entirely.
Trikāla Līlā—Three-Times Play.
He moved not through distance, but through time's permission. His steps followed shadows not yet cast. Past, present, and potential folded into each other like sheets of silk. The wind didn't shift. The boards didn't creak. No ripple touched the air.
He was gone. Not detectable even to the most advanced Observation Haki users.
...
The Baratie rocked gently on still waters.
Inside, clinks of cutlery, bursts of laughter, and the smell of oil and salt and old battles filled the floating restaurant like perfume. Customers roared over drinks. Cooks barked at each other. And in the corner of the dining hall, between one breath and the next—Krishna appeared.
No one noticed.
Not even Zeff.
The old pirate-chef was slamming a ladle against a frypan, berating a younger cook for over-salting the squid.
Krishna leaned silently against a beam.
His gaze swept the room. He didn't linger on faces—only energy. Heat signatures. Breath. Posture. A table of fishermen drinking off the day's failures. A bounty hunter pretending to be a merchant. A child stealing fries off her father's plate.
He didn't belong here.
But for a heartbeat—he allowed himself to feel like he did.
Then he turned and stepped back into silence.
Gone.
...
A few miles east, past the rusted wreck of a forgotten patrol boat, nestled at the edge of a quiet estuary—sat a village.
The one that had feared him.
The one whose rumors had spun into ghost stories.
Where marines once found a crumpled drawing clutched in a child's hand—a drawing so dark it gave even seasoned CP agents pause.
Krishna stood at the tree line now, unseen.
He watched.
Children played near the well, their laughter nervous but real. Men repaired netting. Women shared gossip under shaded awnings. It was peaceful. Small. Human.
But as he looked closer—he saw the signs.
The wary glances toward the woods.
The way a mother clutched her child tighter when the breeze grew too quiet.
The whisper that had been passed down: The demon came from the river. Black eyes. No face. He burned pirates and vanished.
It was never said with hatred.
But with fear.
Krishna reached into the folds of his satchel.
Unrolled the old drawing.
It was childlike—yet disturbingly precise.
A tall figure with long limbs, body wreathed in shadow. The eyes were glowing pinpricks of white rage. The mouth was missing. No features—just blank, horrid stillness.
He remembered the moment it had been drawn.
The child had seen him after a skirmish—bloody, cloaked in ash and haki, standing in a field of unconscious raiders. He had saved them. He had burned the pirate flag with his palm. He hadn't spoken a word.
And then he left.
He hadn't considered the image he left behind.
Now he did.
A soft wind picked up. Leaves whispered above.
Medha's voice crackled in his mind.
"You've kept that drawing for three years."
"I did."
"Why?"
He didn't answer.
He folded the paper again.
Gently.
Like it still mattered.
He didn't approach the village.
Didn't let them see him.
He wasn't here to correct their memory.
He was here to carry it.
To accept it.
...
The sun tilted downward.
Another moment. Another ghost.
He turned—and vanished again.
...
Back on the warship, Garp was cracking open a bag of roasted nuts.
"You took longer this time," the old man said without looking up.
Krishna sat beside the coil of rope, eyes on the horizon. "Had to check something."
"Yeah? Find it?"
"Yes."
Garp snorted. "And you wonder why people think you're a goddamn ghost."
Krishna didn't reply.
The waves rocked beneath them.
...
Night came slow.
The stars began their watch.
And Krishna stood at the railing once more, watching the reflection of himself in the sea—not distorted, but uncertain.
Not the face in the drawing.
But not entirely separate from it either.
...
The night sea gleamed beneath the moon like a blade sheathed in quiet.
Krishna stood at the ship's prow again, unmoving.
He watched the water curl against the hull, the starlight dancing in ripples. Sheshika had wound herself loosely around the mast above him, silent and still. Meghākṣi lay curled beside a pile of folded cloth, her feathers shimmering subtly in the moonlight, the illusion of an ordinary peacock still intact.
The marines below whispered as they passed by, careful not to disturb him.
But footsteps soon approached from behind—heavier, deliberate, familiar.
Garp.
He didn't say anything at first.
Just stood beside Krishna and folded his arms over his broad chest, eyes fixed on the horizon.
"...You've been quiet," Garp said finally, voice gravelled by the wind. "Quieter than usual."
Krishna didn't respond right away. The silence stretched a few seconds too long, before he spoke.
"There's nothing left to say to the sea."
That earned a snort from Garp. "Hmph. Philosophical types. Always talking like the ocean's got ears."
"It listens more than people do."
"And yet it don't punch back."
Krishna turned slightly, just enough to glimpse Garp from the corner of his eye. "Not every fight needs fists."
Garp raised a brow, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Is that right?"
"Yes."
"...You really believe that?"
"I do."
Garp shook his head, looking out again. "I like you, kid. I respect you. But sometimes, strength ain't about walking away."
Krishna tilted his head, just slightly. "Then what is it?"
Garp's eyes hardened. "It's getting hit. Over and over. Until your bones ache, your breath's gone, your vision's dancing—and still getting up."
"Then what?"
"Then you hit back. Harder. Again and again."
Krishna was quiet again, watching the faint crest of a wave break beneath them.
He spoke softer now, almost to himself. "I think strength is knowing you could destroy someone… and choosing not to."
"That ain't always an option."
"Maybe not. But when it is—restraint is the harder path."
Garp's grin faded slightly. "You sound like Sengoku when he's had too much sake."
Krishna didn't smile, but there was a flicker of warmth behind his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Don't."
They stood there in silence.
The stars drifted above like forgotten gods, too old to meddle now.
Garp leaned back against the railing. "Y'know, back when I was younger—stronger—there was this admiral. Bastard was built like a damn wall. Thought justice was law and law was everything. Never bent. Never hesitated. Thought that was strength."
Krishna listened.
"But he never smiled," Garp said, voice quieter now. "Never made a friend. Never saved someone unless they had a government number attached to 'em. That's not strength. That's obedience."
"You think I'm obedient?"
Garp scoffed. "Hell no. You're about as obedient as a thunderstorm. But you've got something else. You walk like you're carrying everyone's sins on your back."
"I'm not."
"But you feel them anyway."
Krishna nodded once.
Then said, "And you hit like you're trying to make the world simpler."
"Damn right I do. Every punch makes sense to me."
"Even if it doesn't solve anything?"
Garp's gaze darkened, just for a moment.
"It solves something."
Krishna turned fully now, resting his hand on the cool metal rail. "We're not the same."
"No. But we're not too different, either."
"How?"
Garp smiled, but there was a hint of tiredness in it. "You want to fix the world with restraint. I want to break it until it makes sense. But deep down—we're both just trying to protect the ones who can't protect themselves."
Krishna let that sit.
Then he nodded.
They stood together again.
Not in agreement.
But in understanding.
...
The dawn began to burn in the east, painting the clouds in bruised orange and lavender. The sea changed its skin again—from steel to sapphire.
A shape emerged in the distance.
A small island village, tucked beneath trees and morning mist.
Krishna's breath caught.
He remembered the last time he'd seen it—smoke in the sky, screams rising through shattered windows, pirates leering with torches.
He had burned their flag.
He had shattered their captain's spine.
He had walked away.
And in doing so, had become the story parents told to keep their children close at night.
He stepped off the ship before Garp could speak.
A single motion.
No wind. No sound.
Just disappearance.
...
The same path.
The same forest trail.
The same well.
The same nervous mother clutching her child when the wind shifted.
But this time—he didn't stay hidden.
He walked forward, slow, visible.
A boy spotted him first—eyes going wide. The apple he held dropped from his hands.
A woman followed the gaze.
And then the murmurs began.
"It's him…"
"He came back…"
"Don't look—"
Krishna stopped near the center of the square.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
He only bowed.
A single, respectful motion.
Then turned and walked away.
No one stopped him.
But they remembered.
...
Back aboard the ship, Garp watched him return, silent.
The marines gave him space.
Krishna walked past them without meeting their eyes.
Garp cracked another peanut between his teeth. "That one of the villages you saved?"
"Yes."
"They still scared of you?"
"They will be. For a while longer."
"You okay with that?"
Krishna closed his eyes briefly. "I'm not here to be remembered. Just… to remember."
Garp stared at him.
Then chuckled softly. "You say the weirdest shit."
Krishna allowed a flicker of amusement to cross his face.
...
The ship turned.
The course set again.
Loguetown loomed ahead like a memory that hadn't happened yet.
...
Krishna returned to the deck with the hush of dawn still clinging to his robes. The sea smelled of brine and beginnings. Garp watched him with an inscrutable look, half-asleep in his spot on the railing, peanut shell balanced precariously between his fingers.
"Back already?" Garp grunted, popping the peanut into his mouth.
Krishna gave no reply.
Instead, he stepped beside him, let the silence carry the weight. Garp didn't press. The island they just left was nothing but a bruise in the past. Not every wound needed salt.
But the next one would not be so quiet.
...
The warship approached a nameless island, unmarked on most maps, small enough to be ignored by trade routes, and yet strangely populated—at least, according to the tremors Krishna felt.
He stood at the railing again, brow furrowed.
Negative emotion ran across his senses like heat off black stone. Rage. Desperation. The flicker of steel against flesh. A scream that hadn't yet reached the surface.
Krishna turned to Garp.
"There's something wrong."
The old marine's eyes narrowed.
"Yeah. I feel it too."
Seconds later, Krishna stepped off the ship and vanished once again into the sky, propelled by a single silent Vyomagaṅgā—Heaven-Step Stream —the evolved form of Geppo. The marines barely reacted now, but they whispered anyway, unsure whether to bow or salute or simply blink harder.
Garp leapt after him with his usual thunderous grace, landing on the far shore with a quake and a sneeze.
"Damn pollen," he muttered, dusting himself off.
...
What they found was a camp.
Ramshackle.
Poorly guarded.
Pirate flags that looked as though they'd been drawn by drunk children flapped weakly against the wind. And in the center—
A woman.
Large. Loud. Covered in gaudy feathers and wielding a club the size of a full-grown boar.
Krishna landed silently between two trees, just within sight.
Her voice carried.
"Get the supplies! Burn what you can't carry! And if anyone resists—feed 'em to the fish!"
The pirate crew scrambled around her, more noise than talent. Several carried stolen crates; others were chasing a goat for reasons unknown.
Then she turned.
Sensed something.
And her eyes locked with Krishna's.
They narrowed.
"Who the hell are you?" she barked, striding forward with her club resting on her shoulder.
Krishna didn't answer.
Didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just stared.
The pirates stopped.
The goat stopped.
Even the wind slowed.
Alvida scowled. "Oh, we got a quiet one. You think you're scary, huh? Think you can come in here, all mysterious and brooding?"
Still nothing. Alvida started to have a sense of unease, as if she was staring at something she cannot fathom, something vast, something indescribable. What unnerved her the most is his eyes, twin pools of midnight, like he was capturing the darkness itself within his eyes. Vast. Deep. Endless. Inevitable.
She raised her club, a shiver travelling down her spine, those eyes penetrating her very soul, like unravelling her, layer by layer, as if she were nothing compared to the being in front of her.
"I don't care if you're mute, boy—I'm gonna crush you flat."
She swung.
The club came down with the force of a falling mountain.
Krishna didn't flinch.
He raised one hand.
And tapped the side of the club with two fingers.
Crack.
The club shattered like glass under a hammer. Splinters flew backward, knocking two pirates off their feet.
Alvida blinked.
"What—"
She stared at her now-handle-shaped weapon.
"You broke my club."
Krishna remained unmoved.
Alvida realized she had no way to defend herself, and decided to use what she thought was the charm of the 'Most Beautiful Woman On The Seas'.
"You wouldn't hit a defenseless woman, would you?" she added quickly, batting her eyelashes at him, eyes flitting around and searching for a second weapon.
Krishna's voice dropped like dusk.
"Sorry. But the fists of justice are unisex."
And then he slapped her.
Not a punch.
A clean, elegant, divine palm strike across the cheek. Because Krishna would never bring himself to hit a woman with his fist, only slap them. As slapping a woman is more appropriate than punching her.
A tooth flew.
Alvida spun, landed on her backside with a yelp.
From the trees, Garp let out a proud holler.
"HELL YEAH, JUSTICE IS UNISEX! GO KRISHNA! BEAT HER ASS!"
He clapped loudly and cheered, grinning from ear to ear.
Krishna took a step forward.
The pirates backed away.
All of them.
Their knees began to shake. One of them dropped a bottle. Another began murmuring prayers.
Krishna's eyes shimmered.
Not with light.
With presence.
Sovereign's Will.
A ripple exploded from him—soundless, but undeniable.
A pressure more immense than gravity washed over the clearing. The birds fled. The goat screamed and ran into a barrel. Several pirates collapsed to their knees, gasping.
One of them began to cry.
Alvida blinked rapidly, her pupils dilating.
"What... what is this?"
She gripped her head. "Why do I feel like I'm dreaming?"
Tears slipped down her cheeks. Not pain. Not fear. Something stranger.
Clarity.
Krishna stepped closer.
"You are not seeing a dream," he said calmly.
"You're seeing the world as it is."
She sobbed.
It wasn't a performance.
It was confession torn from a locked chest.
"What am I?" she whispered. "What have I done?"
Krishna knelt before her—not as a savior, not as a judge.
Just a witness.
"You knew," he said. "Somewhere deep down, you always knew."
And then it passed.
The ripple faded.
The pressure withdrew.
Krishna rose.
The pirates sat slumped in silence, some whispering apologies to the air.
Garp approached with slow steps.
He glanced at Alvida.
Then at Krishna.
"...You slapped her pretty hard."
Krishna gave a faint nod. "I did."
Garp scratched his beard. "Still, not bad. The whole 'justice is unisex' thing? That was gold."
He elbowed Krishna lightly. "Write that down."
"I don't write slogans."
"You should."
Garp grinned, before signaling the Marines behind him, who finally caught up to them after the fight was over, to arrest and detain the downed Alvida Pirates.
...
Back on the ship, the marines had already seen the flare of presence from afar.
Medha's voice crackled in Krishna's mind as he stepped aboard.
"That was excessive."
Sheshika's tail tapped lightly against the railing. "You showed her too much. You forced it."
Krishna sighed as he watched the Marines shifting the Pirates into the prisons built in the Dogheaded Warship.
"I didn't want to force anything."
"But you did."
"I simply let her see."
"Through your eyes," Medha said. "That's not the same as truth."
Krishna's hand rested on the edge of the warship, knuckles white for a breath.
"Maybe not," he murmured. "But the world lied to her for too long."
...
Garp watched him quietly.
Didn't speak.
But the thought circled in his mind.
That's no Conqueror's Haki.
That's something more.
He didn't know what it was.
Didn't like that he couldn't name it.
But he respected it.
And feared it a little.
...
Krishna leaned against the mast, eyes heavy with things no one could see.
And as the ship sailed again into the horizon, the island behind them lay quiet for the first time in years.
...
The sea swelled with the memory of what had just passed.
Krishna stood at the bow, cloak rustling like whispers in a cathedral, his fingers gripping the wooden railing not from tension but stillness. A kind of anchoring. The wind kissed his face but couldn't move his eyes, which remained fixed ahead.
The island faded behind them, silent now. Not cleansed. Not saved. But quieter.
Garp hadn't spoken since they boarded. Not out of anger. Not confusion either.
It was something subtler.
Like when a man sees lightning strike and finds no words to explain why it didn't make a sound.
He stood a few paces behind Krishna now, arms folded, face in its usual scowl but lacking its usual heat.
"She changed. She's far too quiet in her cell, still crying, you know." he finally said.
Krishna didn't look back. "I know."
Garp's fingers tapped against his bicep once. "That was more than Haki."
A pause. The gulls above circled slowly, and somewhere on deck, a marine dropped a crate and cursed softly.
Krishna didn't answer.
Didn't deny it.
Didn't explain.
Garp's jaw twitched. "I've fought Roger. I've been around Whitebeard when he got mad. I've stood on ships that cracked under the pressure of a single will."
He stepped forward, voice lowering slightly. "But that wasn't just 'will.' That felt like... like a world folded in on itself."
Krishna turned slightly. "It's not something I use lightly."
Garp grunted. "Yeah, I noticed. The tooth flying off was subtle."
That earned the faintest hint of a smile from Krishna.
"She cried," Garp added after a moment. "You didn't make her scream. You made her cry."
"She remembered who she was."
Garp shook his head and leaned beside him. "Is that your job now? To make people see what they've forgotten?"
"It's not a job," Krishna said softly. "It's a choice."
They stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder. Garp's presence was like stone—unmovable, grounded. Krishna's was water—calm, deep, hiding something vast beneath the surface.
Garp scratched the back of his neck.
"I don't get it, kid. I mean—I get the slap. That was good. Very solid form. But the... the rest of it. That pressure."
He tilted his head. "That wasn't Conqueror's. Or if it was, it's not the same one I know."
Krishna didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped away from the bow, making for the stairs that led to the main deck.
"You ever gonna tell me what that is?" Garp called after him.
"No."
Garp blinked. "No?"
"No."
"Well, shit." Garp cursed softly.
"Won't you tell your Grandpa?" Krishna didn't bat an eye at Garp's pathetic attempts at the puppy dog eyes.
"You dare use my own powers against me? And no. I will not tell you."
"COME ON!" Garp shouted, making all the nearby marines jump in fright.
...
Time passed, and down below, in the warship's cargo hold, Sheshika coiled along one of the support beams, her eyes half-lidded.
Medha's voice stirred again in Krishna's mind.
"That wasn't dharma. You know that, don't you?"
"I know."
"You showed her too much. You didn't even test her resolve."
"She wasn't ready for a test."
Sheshika's head tilted. "Then what was the point?"
Krishna knelt beside a crate, setting down the broken remnant of Alvida's shattered club.
"The point was this," he said. "If she becomes better, the world gains something. If she doesn't, then it was a wasted moment."
Medha was quiet for a beat.
"That's not the most efficient use of force."
"I'm not trying to be efficient."
"You never are."
...
Back above, the sun was beginning its slow slide into orange.
Garp stood watching the horizon, lips pursed.
Behind him, one of the marines—Dogra, Krishna thought—approached cautiously.
"Sir?"
Garp raised an eyebrow.
"We're nearing Loguetown."
"Good."
"Should we set anchor?"
"No."
The marine hesitated. "But the captain—"
"I said no."
The young soldier paused, saluted, and scampered off.
Krishna returned beside him, silent once more.
They watched the town appear, brick by brick, smoke plume by smoke plume.
Loguetown. Where it ended. Where it began.
Garp cracked his knuckles once. Then sighed.
"You ever heard of a man who smiled at death?"
Krishna turned slightly. "Yes. The Pirate King."
"Gol D. Roger," Garp nodded and continued. "That bastard stood on that platform and smiled. Smiled like he was watching the sunrise. Smiled like dying was just another joke."
He looked toward the skyline.
"He knew he'd die. He was sick. Hell, he could barely walk the week before. But he made sure he died his way."
Krishna remained silent.
Garp's voice dropped.
"He was a good man."
Then, "But he was a pirate."
That landed with more weight than expected.
"He broke the law. Caused chaos. And he smiled through it all."
Krishna finally asked, "Do you hate him?"
Garp didn't reply immediately.
"No," he said after a while. "But I don't forgive him either."
They walked in silence for a time. No footfalls. Just shadows stretching long.
"Justice isn't a straight road," Garp said.
Krishna glanced at him.
"And you're starting to walk sideways."
"Not sideways," Krishna replied. "Just not where the map says to."
Garp chuckled. "Kid, I think you threw away the map a long time ago."
...
By the time the ship anchored just shy of Loguetown's main port, the sky had begun bleeding into gold and blood-red.
Krishna stepped ashore alone.
This time, no aerial entry.
No flickering vanish.
Just a quiet walk.
Through the stalls.
Through the market.
Through the streets that buzzed with laughter and danger.
No one noticed him.
He didn't want them to.
When he arrived at the plaza, the gallows loomed above like a sleeping god.
He stood at the base and looked up.
Garp joined him a minute later.
"I stood right there," he said, pointing at a corner post.
Krishna didn't respond.
He looked at the wood.
The way the sun hit it.
The way no one around it dared step too close, like the place itself held memory.
"Was he afraid?" Krishna asked.
Garp shook his head.
"Not even for a second."
Krishna's eyes narrowed.
"But he died."
"Everyone does."
"That's not what I meant."
Garp rubbed his face.
"I know."
A long pause.
Then Krishna asked,
"What do you think I'll become?"
Garp raised his eyebrows. "That's a heavy question for sunset." he snorted.
Krishna didn't break his gaze from the horizon.
Garp looked at him.
"Whatever you choose," he said. "Just make sure it's worth watching."
Krishna nodded.
Then turned.
And left the platform behind.
The sun dipped low.
The warship waited.
And beyond the horizon—
The Grand Line stirred.
...
Omake: Mission Failed Successfully.
It began as a noble idea, as many disasters do.
"Teach me that thing you do," Garp had declared one morning, pointing at Krishna with the earnestness of a man who once punched a mountain for scuffing his boot.
Krishna blinked. "Which thing?"
Garp waved vaguely. "The... zipping. The blink-blink-step thing. You vanish, reappear, punch a Pirate, drink tea. That thing."
"You mean Vyomagaṅga," Krishna said slowly. "My evolved version of Geppo."
Garp nodded, already doing squats. "Exactly. Teach me. So I can be more terrifying."
"You already are terrifying."
"Yeah, but I wanna zip while beingterrifying."
Krishna sighed. Somewhere in the distance, Medha muttered, "This is going to go beautifully wrong."
...
The training began on a flat stretch of the island, with Sheshika curled nearby and Navy recruits watching from a respectful (read: terrified) distance.
"First, focus your internal energy through your legs—"
"Done," Garp interrupted.
"You haven't even—"
"I focused so hard I made my knees younger."
Krishna gave a look that could curdle milk, but continued anyway. "Fine. Now, leap, but don't just jump—control the flow of force through the air, redirect with precise pressure—"
But Garp had already leapt.
Like a cannonball fired from God's own catapult.
He flew. He soared.
He screamed.
"I AM THE SKY GOD—"
And then crashed into a tree.
A very old tree.
A very sacred tree.
It exploded on impact, its remains scattering like confetti at a chaos-themed wedding.
Krishna didn't blink.
Garp rose from the crater, dazed, leaves stuck to his mustache. "How was that?"
"Impressive," Krishna said truthfully. "Incorrect. But impressive."
"Mission failed?"
"Successfully."
...
Undeterred, Garp tried again.
This time, Krishna attempted to teach him Trikaḷa Līlā—the Three-Times Play,evolved from Kami-e.
"Read the flow of time. Dodge not just based on movement, but on memory—past, present, potential."
Garp squinted. "That sounds like cheating."
"It's not. It's awareness."
Garp nodded sagely. Then stepped forward. "Alright. Hit me."
"Excuse me?"
"Hit me! I'll dodge with the power of past-future-now!"
"...This is not a training method. This is masochism."
But Garp had already assumed a stance. It looked suspiciously like someone holding in a sneeze while squatting, and Krishna remembered seeing that same expression in the fight between Enel and Luffy on Skypiea.
Krishna flicked a pebble.
It bounced off Garp's forehead.
Garp staggered. "The memory... it lied."
"That's not how this works."
"I saw the pebble in my mind's eye!"
"That was a leaf."
"LIAR!" Garp shouted and pointed a finger at Krishna accusingly, making Krishna sigh.
...
Elsewhere, recruits had gathered, taking bets.
One of the senior Marine whispered to a junior Marine, "I think the Vice Admiral's winning."
"Winning what?" the junior Marine asked.
"The battle against logic."
...
Later, Krishna tried to teach Vajrāṅga Kāya—Diamond-Body Principle.
Garp flexed.
The air rippled.
Muscles bulged.
Somewhere, a crab exploded in fear.
Krishna instructed calmly, "Don't harden your body. Harmonize it. Become like divine metal. Reflect impact through spiritual redirection—"
But Garp had already turned to a boulder and suplexed it.
It shattered.
"Was that spiritual redirection?"
"No," Krishna said flatly. "That was spiritual destruction."
"I feel very directed spiritually."
Krishna inhaled deeply. "I will kill you."
"Too late. Already spiritually redirected."
...
Medha, watching from the distance, sipped data-tea. "This is either a training arc or the prelude to a divine lawsuit."
Sheshika hiss-laughed.
...
Finally, they reached Sovereign's Will.
"Absolutely not," Krishna said immediately.
"But I wanna make people cry with truth!"
"You already do that. With your voice."
"Hey!"
Krishna folded his arms. "Sovereign's Will isn't something you teach. It's something you become."
Garp gave him a deadpan look. Then pointed at his chest.
"I have grandpa energy. I am Will."
"...You named your own aura?"
"Yes. It's named Will."
"I hate this."
...
Eventually, Krishna conceded and let Garp try.
He stood before a boulder.
Garp concentrated. "Feel the truth. Show the world who I am—"
The boulder exploded.
Garp grinned. "Did it work?"
Krishna stared at the remains, an expression reminiscent to shell—shocked veterans on his face.
"...You made it cry. I'll give you that."
...
Later, on the warship—
Krishna sat cross-legged, trying to meditate.
Garp limped past with two bandages, three tree branches stuck to his back, and a crab latched to his shoulder.
"Did I level up?" he asked casually.
"You transcended stupidity," Krishna murmured.
"Neat."
"Mission failed."
"But successfully."
"...Go away, old man"
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
This one was short. But not small.
Because silence, as we all know, is just the drumbeat the storm listens to before it roars.
Krishna walked through East Blue like a whisper this chapter. No fights. No grand declarations. Just footsteps, memories, and eyes that see more than they show. This wasn't about action — it was about intention. About goodbyes that don't need words. About flowers left on graves. About justice without violence.
Cocoyashi, Shimotsuki, Baratie — not just islands. Echoes. Places that will remember he passed through, even if they never knew his name.
And then... that village.
The one that feared him.
He didn't shout. He didn't explain.
He watched.
And he left.
Because sometimes, dharma is not in the doing — it's in the choosing not to.
Garp? Man's trying to figure out how Krishna zips around faster than Kizaru. He won't admit he's impressed. But he's very impressed.
The seas are still calm.
But you can feel it too, right?
That weight on the horizon?
It's coming.
The Grand Line looms.
So hold your breath.
Hold your ideals.
And maybe... hold a frying pan. You never know when Makino might show up again.
Until the truths scream and justice dances—
—Author out.