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 dawn was so gentle it almost didn't seem real.
On the highest rooftop of Marineford—where the wind came straight from the sea and even the seagulls seemed to hesitate before breaking the silence—Krishna sat cross-legged, spine straight, eyes closed. A faint mist clung to the stone, softening the world's hardest fortress. The ocean was a sheet of hammered gold. Clouds drifted low, slow, and unhurried, as if Marineford itself held back the day for just a few more moments of peace.
A thin, dark shape curled around Krishna's shoulder, scales cool against his skin—Sheshika, his oldest companion, was still and observant, her tongue flicking out from time to time as if she, too, meditated. On his other side, balanced with practiced delicacy, was Megakshi: resplendent, proud, a living peacock whose feathers caught every ray of gold and spun them into emerald and indigo. Occasionally, she preened, feathers rustling with the regal patience of a queen at court.
Between them, barely visible but insistent, Medha's projection hovered—today it was a tiny blue digital flower, its petals flickering like pixels in the dawn. She sat atop Krishna's knee, invisible to all but those who understood code and will.
"System scan complete," Medha whispered, voice like a bell in his mind. "All is quiet in the domain."
Krishna let out a long, silent breath, feeling the world's worries dissolve. For once, there was nothing to do but breathe. For once, Marineford felt less like a citadel and more like a home.
Below him, the fortress stretched and yawned awake. Bells clanged, gates creaked, and the day's first marine patrols jogged through the corridors, boots pounding in practiced rhythm. White seagulls circled, looking for scraps. Krishna watched them through half-lidded eyes—white uniforms and white wings, both symbols of protection, both clumsy and beautiful.
He would have liked to stay there forever, unmoving, just a boy among his friends, unburdened by history or prophecy.
But peace, in Marineford, was always borrowed time.
...
It began with a single voice.
"Krishna-senpai! Krishna-senpai—are you up there?"
He didn't move. Maybe if he stayed absolutely still, he'd become one with the roof tiles. Maybe they'd give up.
But the voice grew closer, and then another chimed in, and another—like sparrows at a dawn feast.
A flustered face poked up from the stairwell. Then another, and another. A half-dozen marines—most of them barely out of their teens, eyes wide, uniforms still a little too clean—popped into view, crowding around like he was a particularly rare species of bird.
"Senpai, can you show us that move you did against Vice Admiral Gion again?"
"Krishna-senpai, is it true you never lose your balance, even in your sleep?"
"Senpai, can I…um…touch the feather? Just for luck?"
Megakshi gave the most imperious side-eye any peacock had ever given. The marines all recoiled at once.
Krishna smiled sheepishly. "I—I-uh—I'm just meditating, actually."
This did not deter them. In fact, it made things worse. Within moments, the rooftop became a small festival—requests for advice, rumors of "storm style" training, hopeful hands reaching for his sleeve. One recruit, clearly having drawn the short straw, handed him a stack of letters: "From your fan club, senpai. There's…a lot of them now."
Medha's flower flickered, digital laughter in his mind. "You're becoming a legend, you know. Marineford's most eligible intern."
Sheshika hissed, both amused and vaguely protective. "You attract trouble like thunder attracts the rain."
"I don't want a fan club," Krishna murmured, voice barely above a breath. "I just want to help."
A tall, serious recruit approached, eyes shining. "Senpai, do you think even someone like me can get stronger?"
Krishna met his gaze without hesitation. "Anyone can grow. It's not about where you start. It's what you choose to keep moving toward."
The recruit stood a little taller, the hope real and raw in his face.
A chorus of "Thank you, senpai!" echoed around the roof.
Krishna tried, very politely, to leave. He managed three steps before a junior officer intercepted him, sheepish and stammering, with a Den Den Mushi that wouldn't stop screeching. Krishna adjusted a single wire, patted the snail gently, and handed it back—"Try it now." The officer blinked as the Den Den Mushi chirped a perfect "Good morning!" for the first time in weeks.
Sheshika whispered, "You're the storm, and their umbrella."
...
He finally escaped to the corridor, only to be stopped by a flustered retired Vice Admiral, arms full of paperwork. The papers wobbled, threatening to avalanche.
"Ah, Intern Krishna—could you…?"
Krishna nodded, balanced the entire stack with one hand, and calmly led the vice admiral down the hallway. By the time they reached the office, the man was humming with relief.
"Thank you. I never thought the day would come when a Vice Admiral would rely on an intern for paperwork rescue, even if I am retired."
Krishna shrugged, half-smiling. "Even storms have quiet days, Vice Admiral."
The older man grinned, tousling Krishna's hair. "Don't get too humble, boy. It's infectious."
...
Later, he found a rare moment alone on a quiet balcony overlooking the bay.
A steaming cup of tea balanced on the railing beside him, steam curling up like spirit. The water beyond the walls was glassy, the ships moored in the harbor like toys set aside by a careful child. Krishna breathed in the salt, the calm, the potential.
For once, the weight of expectations seemed distant. He felt—if not at peace, then something very close. He sipped his tea, closed his eyes, and let the gentle breeze stir his hair.
Sheshika coiled more tightly, her scales a living necklace. "You're their storm, Krishna. But here, you can be their umbrella too."
He smiled quietly. "For once, peace doesn't feel like loneliness."
Megakshi hopped onto the balcony, fluffed up in satisfaction. She brushed her feathers against his arm, wordless but deeply affectionate—a sign of favor and pride. Krishna stroked her gently, feeling her emotions through the feather she'd left with him. It was warmth, approval, and a promise of strength if he ever needed it.
A ripple of laughter from the courtyard below made him glance down. A group of recruits—fanclub members, by the look of them—had organized a "Krishna Appreciation Society" and were doing synchronized warm-ups in his honor. Medha's digital flower flickered with amusement, "Should I print them t-shirts?"
He shook his head, fighting back a laugh.
...
The day moved as all days did in Marineford—by the hour, by the bell, by the rhythm of duty. Krishna spent the morning moving through the logistics department, offering suggestions for more efficient supply routes. In medical, he quietly fixed a faulty sterilizer that had stumped two engineers. In communications, he tweaked a signal amplifier, restoring range to a vital outpost.
Marines of every rank greeted him with nods, respectful smiles, even quiet bows. The propaganda may have started as myth, but Krishna's presence—gentle, persistent, kind—had made it real.
By late afternoon, he'd finally found a moment for himself, sitting at the edge of the training field, toes dug into warm grass. He watched Megakshi teach a cluster of recruits the "correct" way to salute—a pageant of preening, posturing, and occasional accidental pecking. Sheshika, meanwhile, had curled around the hilt of Krishna's practice sword, pretending to be a dragon guarding its treasure.
Medha's voice returned, as soft as a lullaby, "Enjoy this, storm boy. They'll remember your kindness longer than your strength."
He let the sun warm his face, watching the sky slowly melt from gold to amber.
...
As dusk crept over the bay, Krishna found himself on the rooftop again. This time, he wasn't alone. Sheshika and Megakshi, silent sentinels. Medha, a flicker of light.
He watched as the sun dipped below the edge of the world, turning the clouds to fire. The peace in his chest was a living thing now—steady, gentle, patient.
He didn't know how long it would last. He didn't expect it to.
But for now, he let it fill him.
Medha's voice, low and warning, brushed the edge of his consciousness, "This calm will not last."
Krishna opened his eyes, stared into the coming night, and nodded.
Whatever storm was coming, he would meet it whole.
And as the first star blinked awake in the twilight, Krishna whispered to himself:
"Let it come."
...
The Marineford morning was as crisp as a starched uniform, the air thick with possibility and the scent of brewing chaos. Krishna strolled down the main administrative corridor with hands in his pockets and mischief in his eyes, slipping between patrols and junior secretaries with all the sound and presence of a feather drifting on the wind. There was an almost criminal satisfaction in how easily the world's strongest military fortress let him wander its veins—a boy, a prodigy, a storm hiding in plain sight.
Medha's voice, in his mind, was playful. "You know, if you keep sneaking around like this, they'll start a new rumor. 'The Ghost of Marineford'—haunting the upper brass."
Krishna grinned, suppressing a chuckle. "Let them. I'm just here to see the show."
He paused outside the grand doors of Fleet Admiral Sengoku's office—white marble, gold inlay, a sanctum of bureaucracy and iron will. Through the thick door, he could already sense the mood inside: Sengoku's rumbling irritation, Tsuru's calm sarcasm, and somewhere in the mix, Garp's utterly unbothered presence. He let his aura shrink usingTrikaḷa Līlā—Three-Times Play—his Kami-e upgrade, becoming a shadow on the wall, and slipped inside as another officer was leaving with a trembling stack of files.
The scene that greeted him was a painting of power and pettiness.
Sengoku sat at his desk, beard bristling, already in mid-sigh. Beside him, Tsuru was perched with the composure of an executioner on tea break, eyes sharp, lips set in a line that promised trouble. Garp, slouching in a battered chair by the window, was systematically demolishing a bag of rice crackers, crumbs everywhere, looking the picture of innocence—if innocence ever came with biceps that could crater mountains.
For a moment, Krishna stood there, perfectly invisible. Then, he let go.
The Fleet Admiral's head jerked up, a lifetime of danger-sense triggered by the faintest shift in air pressure. Sengoku's eyes narrowed.
"Who's there?"
Krishna stepped forward, a smile blooming—more playful than arrogant, but with just enough of Doflamingo's puppetmaster mischief to make it unsettling. "Sorry, sir. Just a little birdie, dropping in."
Tsuru's eyebrow twitched, a tiny crack in her armor. "Birds don't sneak, they squawk. Unless you mean a certain feathered Vice Admiral, perhaps?"
Garp froze, a rice cracker halfway to his mouth, trying for nonchalance. "Eh? What's all this about birds?"
Sengoku fixed Krishna with a withering look. "Explain. Now."
Krishna shrugged, the picture of innocence. "I heard—somewhere—that a world-famous scientist was coming today. I couldn't miss the chance to see a genius at work. After all… I'm something of a scientist myself." He deadpanned the line, eyes glinting—a perfect Norman Osborn callback that would have made a certain wall-crawler proud.
Medha, in Krishna's mind, flashed a digital scoreboard above Garp, Tsuru, and Sengoku's heads:
Garp: 0 Tsuru: 0 Sengoku: 0 Krishna: 1.
A notification: "Petty Brawl, Round One—Fight!"
Tsuru snapped her fan open with a crack with an exaggerated sigh. "Sengoku, I told you the rumor mill would get us. You should've just posted the visitor's list in the break room."
Sengoku's beard bristled. "We don't post classified visits! Especially not Vegapunk's. Garp, you bastard, was this you?"
Garp looked deeply offended and clutched his heart like it was wounded. "Me? Accused without evidence! You wound me, Sengoku!"
Krishna—smiling a little wider, hands in his pockets—nodded almost imperceptibly at Garp.
Sengoku's eyes narrowed. "Garp, don't act innocent. You're the only 'little bird' who'd blab secrets for rice crackers."
Tsuru rolled her eyes. "Honestly, at your age, Garp, shouldn't you be hiding your snacks, not classified information?"
Garp puffed up, mouth full of crumbs. "I do not 'blab'! I negotiated. Krishna wanted to meet Vegapunk, so I made a deal—an internship for one meet-and-greet. Perfectly reasonable."
Medha's scoreboard updated:
Garp: 2 Tsuru: 1 (sarcasm bonus) Sengoku: -1 Krishna: 1 (instigator)
Sengoku massaged his temples. "You made a deal with a sixteen-year-old for a classified visit? Without telling me?"
Garp grinned, wiping his hands on his pants just like kids. "What's the problem? He's the best intern we've ever had. Maybe the only intern we ever had. And he fixed my coffee machine."
Tsuru interjected, voice glacial. "That was my coffee machine, Garp."
Krishna, who had been inching toward the far side of the room, tried to hide a snort.
Medha flashed a "CAUTION: Incoming Roast" icon in his mind.
Sengoku glared at the lot of them, then pointed at Krishna. "And you—how did you even get in here without the guard seeing you?"
Krishna shrugged. "I'm good with doors."
Tsuru snorted at the resemblance she saw between Garp in Krishna. "He's good with people, Sengoku. The fan club says he can walk through walls."
Garp winked at his grandson proudly. "Like grandfather, like grandson."
Sengoku, voice rising, pointed at Garp accusingly. "You see? This is the problem! You're corrupting the youth!"
Tsuru deadpanned, "Worse, he's making them effective."
Garp looked affronted, putting on his best shocked expression. "You'd rather they be weak?"
Sengoku threw his hands up in frustration. "I'd rather they be sane!"
Krishna watched them, amusement threatening to bubble over. He had seen great battles, gods and monsters, but nothing so ridiculous as three of the world's most dangerous people arguing about snacks and secrets.
Medha's scoreboard flashed "Bonus Round: Insult Combo!"
Garp tried (and failed) to look shocked when Sengoku demanded to know, again, who spilled the beans. Krishna, with Doflamingo's infamous grin, just pointed at Garp—no words needed.
Tsuru's eyes narrowed at Garp. "You're as subtle as a bazooka, Garp."
Sengoku sighed, slumping into his chair while running his hand through his graying afro. "I swear, this place is a circus."
Just then, a polite knock on the door cut through the chaos. A marine guard poked his head in, eyes wide.
"Fleet Admiral Sengoku, Dr. Vegapunk, and his security detail are here."
The effect was immediate: the entire room snapped to professional attention, all traces of childish squabbling erased in a heartbeat. Tsuru shut her fan, Sengoku straightened, Garp tucked away the last of his rice crackers, and tried to look innocent.
Krishna stifled a laugh, shifting his expression to neutral calm.
The doors swung open. In strode Dr. Vegapunk, the legend himself—long coat swishing, hair wild, spectacles glinting with the weight of genius. Behind him, a pair of CP0 agents flanked the doorway, their masks featureless, their presence screaming "do not approach."
Vegapunk's eyes roved the room, amused. "Still alive, Garp? I expected you to punch a volcano and retire by now."
Garp barked a laugh, clapping Vegapunk on the back. "You're still ugly, old friend. Good to see you haven't blown yourself up—yet."
Sengoku cleared his throat, all stern professionalism. "Dr. Vegapunk, thank you for coming. The arrangements—"
Vegapunk waved a hand. "All in order, Fleet Admiral. CP0's got the perimeter tighter than a drum. Pity Borsalino isn't here, I brought a new light-based game to annoy him."
Tsuru smiled thinly. "Kizaru is on assignment in the New World, I'm afraid."
Vegapunk sighed dramatically. "Always running from his rivals, that one."
Kuzan, slouched in a corner, lifted one eye. "Did I hear something about a new sleep bed?"
Vegapunk perked up at the Admiral. "Ah, Admiral Aokiji. I have a prototype in my lab. You're welcome to try it—once you finish the paperwork."
Kuzan's face fell at the word 'paperwork'. "Cruel world."
Medha's scoreboard blinked again: "NPC dialogue: 10 points."
One of the CP0 agents, ever-alert, cut the banter short. He glanced at Krishna, sensing… nothing. No aura. No intent. Just a blank. The agent's hand drifted toward his sword out of instinct.
Sengoku noticed the gesture and fixed a hardened gaze on the CP0 agent. "Relax, Agent. This is our intern, Krishna. Marineford's pride."
The agent hesitated, then nodded. "Strange presence," he muttered, but said nothing more.
Vegapunk turned, eyebrows rising as he took in Krishna for the first time. There was curiosity, even a flicker of recognition. Krishna bowed politely. "Dr. Vegapunk, it's an honor. If I may—I have a few invention blueprints I'd love your opinion on."
Vegapunk took the papers, glancing over them with the quick, hungry eyes of a man who had already built half the future. A smile played on his lips. He took the young man's hands and shook them enthusiastically.
"Intriguing. We'll talk more in the Science Division. I like a mind that doesn't sit still."
Krishna nodded, folding his hands behind his back. As he left the office, he let the Doflamingo-esque smile slip onto his face—subtle, unsettling, all puppeteer and no strings.
Medha flashed a final scoreboard as the doors closed:
Krishna: "Puppetmaster, 100"
Garp: "Old Fool, 10"
Sengoku: "Long-Suffering, -20"
Tsuru: "Sarcasm Queen, 50"
Outside, the fortress buzzed, oblivious to the storm of genius and idiocy swirling at its heart.
And somewhere inside, Krishna was still grinning, the storm's mischief never far behind.
...
The path to the Science Division of Marineford was like crossing a border into another world—a place where genius ruled, and the laws of reality bent around the will of invention.
Krishna walked the corridor alone, the rhythm of his footsteps muffled by plush, sealed floors that seemed to drink up sound. At the security checkpoint, two CP0 agents—masked, anonymous, unsettling—intercepted him. One held a clipboard. The other watched Krishna with blank, white eyes, their body language taut.
"State your name and business."
"Krishna. Marine Intern, invited by Dr. Vegapunk. You can confirm it with Fleet Admiral Sengoku." His voice was even, his expression mild.
The agent studied him, eyes searching for some flicker of intent, some pulse of malice or ambition. But Krishna's presence was a void—no threat, no signature. The CP0 agent shifted, unsettled, before waving him through with a clipped gesture after a transmission from the earpiece Den Den Mushi.
As Krishna stepped past the threshold, the change was immediate. Gone was the military rigor, the fortress walls, the heavy weight of Marineford's ancient justice. In its place: a world humming with energy, light, and impossible possibility.
The Science Division was alive.
A lattice of suspended walkways spiraled around a central shaft that glowed with artificial sunlight—filtered gold, soft as dawn. Walls were rimmed with luminescent blue pipes that pulsed in time to some deep, invisible current. Plasma globes hummed and flickered in glass cases, their electric veins dancing like dragons beneath the surface.
Floating holo-screens drifted by, each displaying schematics or scrolling equations—sometimes in languages Krishna didn't recognize. Researchers—white-coated, wild-haired, exhausted but electric with curiosity—hurried between workstations, trailed by little clouds of robotic assistants that beeped and chirped in cheerful tones.
Somewhere overhead, a bolt of artificial lightning leaped between rods, casting branching shadows across the floor. Prototype robots—some shaped like spiders, others like miniature tanks—scurried along tracks in the walls, ferrying parts and tools at a dizzying pace.
Medha's voice, always private in Krishna's mind, was tinged with admiration and a hint of envy. "This man is five centuries ahead of his age—truly impressive. But still, so much potential left untapped…"
Krishna let himself marvel. His eyes drank in the chaos and creativity. He wondered—if the world stopped fearing genius, stopped demanding that every invention serve only war or power, what would happen? This was a glimpse. A taste of humanity unshackled from its worst instincts.
Whispers followed him. A researcher paused, glasses slipping down his nose, staring at the boy with the black feather on his collar. Another elbowed her colleague. "That's him, right? The intern… the one who—"
"Yeah. They say he fixed the Admiral's old Den Den Mushi with a pencil and a paperclip. A pencil!"
"Impossible."
"So's this place," Krishna thought, and allowed himself a small smile.
At the heart of the division, Dr. Vegapunk awaited.
He was bent over a table, hands buried in the guts of a device that looked equal parts gramophone, typewriter, and jet engine: a bizarre combination, but a thumbs up from Krishna at the sheer absurdity of it.
As Krishna approached, Vegapunk looked up, a glint of excitement in his eyes.
"Ah, the intern arrives! Sit, sit. I hope you brought your best questions."
Krishna nodded respectfully and took a seat across the worktable. His eyes lingered on the machine before them—a tangle of copper wires and microcrystal panels, faintly humming with potential.
Vegapunk's lab was less pristine than the public spaces—there were tools everywhere, books stacked in haphazard towers, and a half-eaten bowl of noodles perched atop a server. The air was alive with the faint aroma of ozone and green tea.
"Your designs," Vegapunk said, holding up the blueprints Krishna had submitted earlier, "are… ambitious. Tell me about the atmospheric moisture device."
Krishna leaned forward, the confidence of creation burning quietly in his chest. "It's meant for places like Alabasta. Filters and condenses water from the air, even in extreme drought. It runs on sunlight, wind, or any kinetic input—no rare materials needed."
Vegapunk studied the schematic, nodding slowly. "The principle is sound. With the right filter matrices… it could save millions. And the maintenance would be simple enough for a village child."
He tapped the paper with a stylus. "Elegant."
Krishna's heart fluttered with pride, no ego. "It should be accessible, not just for Marines or the World Government. Anyone who needs water should have water."
Vegapunk's eyes glimmered—there was something deeply human in his fascination, the kind of hunger for solutions that knew no borders. "Next—the portable desalinator?"
Krishna spread another blueprint. "For sailors, refugees, anyone on the move. Draw seawater in, push drinkable water out. Solar-powered, with a backup hand crank. Lightweight, indestructible shell. It could ride in a fishing boat or be dropped from an airship."
Vegapunk whistled low at the creativity. "You've solved the logistics of distribution with this, not just the science."
Medha's private commentary was already running in his mind, "Humanity will always need water and hope. Give them both, and the world will change."
Vegapunk looked up. "What about this 'Nano-Med-Kit'? The material specs are… unusual."
Krishna hesitated, careful never to mention Medha. "I adapted some concepts from bioengineering journals and old field medic kits. Microcapsules that detect blood chemistry and deploy targeted agents. It can close wounds, stop bleeding, disinfect, and even restart a heart for a few seconds. It's no substitute for a doctor, but for soldiers or civilians in crisis…"
Vegapunk was silent for a moment, reading the notes, calculating. "With a few tweaks—yes. Mass-producible. You're designing for the future, not just the war." He set the paper aside, almost reverently.
They moved on.
"All-Weather Crop Generator?" Vegapunk prompted.
Krishna described it earnestly, "A miniature greenhouse, sealed and modular. Uses sunlight, but can convert ambient electricity or even a small Haki core if the user has it. The soil is synthesized to regenerate itself. One could feed a small family for months, even on a barren rock."
Vegapunk's laugh was pure delight. "You're making food out of thin air. Next, you'll have us growing rice on the moon."
Krishna smiled, just a touch shy. "Why not?"
Vegapunk's eyes twinkled, but there was sharpness behind the humor. "And this last one—the encrypted Den Den Mushi?"
Krishna's tone grew more serious. "There are people who need privacy, safety, freedom from… certain eyes and ears. This Den Den Mushi can scramble its own signal, resist standard taps, and even self-destruct if compromised. I thought it might be useful for both marines and those… resisting oppression."
For a moment, the air between them was heavy with unspoken truths. Vegapunk's gaze searched Krishna's, something knowing passing between two men who had both chosen—quietly, stubbornly—to serve more than just the world's most powerful.
Vegapunk nodded, folding the blueprints and setting them aside. "You have a mind I would kill to have at my side. Or at least, in my lab for as long as possible."
Krishna felt the warmth of that praise. "I would be honored, Doctor. I want to help. For everyone, not just the ones in power."
Vegapunk gestured to the room at large. "The Science Division is yours. Explore. Build. Break things, if you must. Genius is wasted if it fears mistakes."
Medha whispered in Krishna's mind, pride and hope mingled together, "He's offering you the keys to the future. Use them well, my storm."
Krishna stood and bowed, deeply grateful. He took one last look around—a world of light, invention, and the promise of better tomorrows. He imagined Alabasta green with life, refugees sailing with hope, a world where children no longer feared the night.
He walked out of the lab, energy thrumming in his veins, ideas racing faster than his feet.
As he left the Science Division, Krishna paused at the threshold, staring back at the illuminated corridors, the sparks of creation that seemed to float in the air.
"Genius can change the world," he murmured to himself, "but only if it remembers mercy."
He slipped back into the halls of Marineford, not as an intern, not as a demigod, but as something simpler, purer—a boy with too many dreams, and just enough power to see them through.
And somewhere, high above the fortress, the sun broke through the clouds, shining on a future not yet written, but waiting, eager, trembling, full of hope.
...
Krishna barely made it three steps out of the Science Division's labyrinth before a Seagull-hatted courier caught him by the sleeve. "Fleet Admiral Sengoku wants to see you. Immediately."
He sighed, already sensing the storm brewing behind those grand office doors.
When Krishna entered, the sight was almost worth sneaking in for.
Sengoku and Tsuru stood behind the desk, rubbing their knuckles as if weighing a pair of invisible hammers. Garp, legendary hero of the Marines and equal-opportunity menace to both pirates and paperwork, lay sprawled on a futon in the corner, twitching with every new pang of justice delivered by Sengoku's fists. Each convulsion made his cap bounce, rice crackers spilling like confetti.
Krishna coughed, trying to hide a smirk. He felt a flicker of shame, but it quickly faded as he remembered all those "special training sessions" Garp had inflicted on him and his brothers back in Foosha. Old debts, after all, could be settled in laughs as well as bruises and blood.
"Krishna," Sengoku said, voice as level as the granite desk, "report to Instructor Zephyr on the southern grounds. Introduce yourself properly. You'll be joining his unit for joint training and a joint mission later on."
Tsuru adjusted her glasses and fixed Krishna with a glare that would have stripped bark off a tree. "Try not to start a riot, will you? That last stunt was more chaos than we needed."
He nodded with what dignity he could muster, eyes sliding toward Garp, who spasmed dramatically, clutching at the air, as if asking the very air to save him since none of the people he trusted saved him.
Krishna let a sly smirk curl the edge of his mouth. "Of course, ma'am. Thank you, Fleet Admiral."
As he left, Tsuru huffed, folding her arms, still feeling numb in her arms. "That boy instigated this whole farce."
Sengoku, wincing and flexing his bruised knuckles, replied, "Oh, I knew the moment I came to my senses after walloping Garp. Still—at least we got one good outcome from this circus."
Behind them, Kuzan continued to snore on the battered sofa, blissfully unaware of the carnage. Sengoku's eyebrow twitched. Without a word, he strode over and delivered a single, well-placed kick, sending Kuzan, still half asleep, sailing out the open window with a crash and a yelp.
Krishna, passing by the window, caught the flash of blue and the sleepy "Ehh?" as the admiral tumbled toward the parade grounds.
He smiled to himself. Marineford never truly rested—not when the real chaos wore uniforms.
And with that, Krishna made his way toward Zephyr's domain—ready for whatever challenge the legendary "Black Arm" had in store.
...
The clang of wooden swords rang out across Marineford's southern training yard, mingling with the barking orders of instructors and the shuffle of hundreds of feet on battered sand. The sun had climbed halfway up the sky, slanting through the salt haze and glinting on the white-and-blue uniforms that swarmed the parade grounds.
At the center of it all—unmistakable, unyielding, untouchable—stood the man they called "Black Arm": Zephyr. Even in his late fifties, the former admiral's frame was formidable—broad-shouldered, jaw square as an anvil, skin tanned and marked with old scars, his mechanical right arm catching the sunlight. His voice—deep, rumbling, impossible to ignore—carried across the whole field.
"Eyes forward! Backs straight! If I see one more sloppy stance, you're all running laps until your legs fall off!"
The recruits snapped to attention. Sweat beaded on brows. A few older marines—those who remembered Zephyr in his glory days—smiled quietly, nostalgia and dread mingled.
On the outskirts, Krishna paused, taking it in. The yard was alive with the raw will of training, the kind of place where hope and failure danced side by side. He felt an echo of his earliest days—harder, lonelier—when Garp's fists and wisdom had been his only teachers.
A small voice chimed in his mind. "Remember, storm boy: humility beats hype, but don't let them trample you." Medha's digital projection fluttered on his shoulder, tiny and unseen.
He drew a slow breath and approached, his steps soundless on the trampled earth. Sheshika rode his collarbone, her tiny scales warm against his neck; Megakshi, today, was off managing the junior marines, far from the chaos of Zephyr's boot camp.
As Krishna reached the cordon of senior instructors, Zephyr's gaze snapped to him with the precision of a hawk.
The yard hushed. Even the trainees stilled, curiosity crackling in the air.
Krishna stopped three paces away, standing at polite attention. His voice was even, his eyes calm. "Marine Admiral 'Black Arm' Zephyr."
Zephyr didn't blink. "It's former admiral now, kid." His gaze lingered on the intern insignia, then on the black feather at Krishna's collar. "So you're the intern all the propaganda's about? The one who can tank Garp's punches?"
A ripple of whispers passed through the crowd. Krishna could sense their eyes—admiration, envy, and open skepticism.
He shook his head, lips quirking. "The propaganda's not my idea, sir."
Zephyr barked a laugh—sharp, genuine. "Good answer. Never trust your own press. That's the first rule of survival in this madhouse." His face softened, just a hair. "But don't get soft, either. The marines need more than prodigies—they need rocks."
Krishna nodded, quietly grateful for the candor. "Understood. I came to learn."
Zephyr grunted, approving. "And maybe teach, if you've got the stones for it." He waved a hand, calling over a handful of his top students.
Ain bounced up first—a flash of teal hair, bright blue eyes, and an irrepressible grin. Her uniform was immaculate, her salute textbook perfect. "Good morning, sir! Are you really Krishna? Can you show us the move you used to dodge Vice Admiral Momonga's sword? Everyone's talking about it!"
Krishna blinked, caught off guard by her earnestness. "Uh—good morning. I… suppose I could, if it helps."
Ain's smile widened. "Thank you! I want to see if I can copy it!"
Binz, taller and more reserved, stepped forward and nodded. "Welcome, Krishna. It's an honor to meet you in person." There was no envy, just genuine respect—a rock of a man, steady as a tree.
Shuzo, standing half a step behind, regarded Krishna with thinly veiled skepticism. His arms were crossed, his eyes narrow and appraising. "They say you're strong. I'll believe it when I see it." His voice was flat, but not cruel—more the challenge of a competitor than a rival.
Medha snickered in Krishna's ear. "Careful, that one's not buying your act yet."
Ain elbowed Shuzo, muttering, "Don't be a grump! He just got here."
Shuzo didn't budge. "Hype makes people soft. He's got to prove himself like the rest of us."
Krishna didn't bristle; he just smiled, accepting the challenge with quiet composure. "I'm not here to skip the line."
Before Zephyr could reply, a voice burst from the ranks—a young marine, all nervous energy and stammering hero-worship. "Krishna-senpai! Can I—can I shake your hand? You're my idol!"
Krishna blinked in surprise. The recruit—short, wild-haired, maybe twenty at most—was practically vibrating with excitement. He wore his uniform slightly crooked, and his boots looked freshly polished but already scuffed. Krishna offered his hand, and the young marine seized it with both hands, grinning from ear to ear.
"You're amazing! I read every report! I want to be just like you—well, maybe not as strong, but you know, almost! You're so cool!"
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Ain covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. Binz shook his head, amused. Shuzo rolled his eyes, but even he couldn't hide a smirk.
Zephyr gave Krishna a look—half amused, half exasperated. Krishna managed a gentle smile. "What's your name?"
"Mako, sir! I mean—just Mako, Krishna-senpai!"
Krishna nodded. "Glad to meet you, Mako. Keep working hard."
Zephyr watched, arms folded, a twinkle in his gaze. "Alright, that's enough hero worship. Let's see what the legend can do."
He beckoned Krishna to the center of the yard, the circle of trainees opening to give them space.
Zephyr barked, "Ain, Binz, Shuzo—join him. Let's run a basic sequence. Dodging, counter, break. Intern leads."
Krishna, despite a flicker of nervousness, stepped forward. He faced Ain first, who grinned and rushed him with speed, her steps light as wind, her intent clear as glass.
Krishna moved with gentle precision—sidestep, pivot, hand guiding Ain's shoulder past him, the motion so fluid it felt like a dance. He let her momentum carry her, then caught her elbow and spun her gently to a stop.
Ain gasped, delighted. "How did you—? That was amazing!"
"Your center of gravity was too high," Krishna explained softly, "but your intent was perfect."
Binz came next, heavier and slower, but solid as a wall. Krishna waited, reading the energy, then used Binz's own weight, sidestepping, then redirecting the attack with a guiding palm, grounding his feet like roots.
"Good foundation," Krishna said quietly. "But you commit too early. Let the opponent reveal themselves first."
Binz nodded, thoughtful, clearly impressed.
Shuzo's turn. He didn't hesitate—his attack was quick, no wasted movement, eyes narrowed, testing.
Krishna met the challenge with minimal force—parrying, then feinting, never pushing back harder than he had to. The dance was quick, sharp, and respectful. Finally, Krishna stepped back, bowing slightly.
Shuzo met his gaze, lips tightening—then, after a moment, nodded. "Not bad. For an intern."
A ripple of laughter swept the yard. Ain cheered, and Binz clapped him on the shoulder. Even Zephyr cracked a smile.
Mako bounced on his toes, eyes shining. "Did you see that? That was the coolest thing I've ever seen!"
Medha buzzed in Krishna's mind, her tone triumphant. "You've got a following, storm boy. Don't let it get to your head."
Zephyr called the marines to attention. "That's enough for today. I want you all to remember—strength isn't just in muscle. It's in how you lift up those around you. Dismissed!"
The crowd broke, laughter and chatter rolling through the yard as the marines scattered. Krishna lingered, exhaling softly, the tension easing from his frame.
Zephyr approached, his face more thoughtful than stern. "You handled that well. Didn't let the praise swell your head or the doubt get under your skin."
Krishna smiled, tired but content. "I learned from the best."
Zephyr grunted, half-amused. "Just don't go thinking humility means letting the world walk over you. Soft hearts need hard shields."
There was a beat of silence—unspoken understanding passing between mentor and student, a thread of respect that needed no words.
Zephyr jerked his chin toward the barracks. "Get settled. Tomorrow we start real training. Bring that humility, but leave the doubt."
Krishna nodded, bowing in gratitude. "Thank you, sir."
As he turned to leave, Mako caught up, breathless. "Krishna-senpai! Will you be here tomorrow? Could you maybe teach me some tips? I really want to improve my Shigan!"
Krishna smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. "Of course. Come early—I'll show you everything I know."
The recruit beamed, running off to brag to his friends. Krishna laughed softly, the warmth lingering long after Mako had dashed off.
Medha's giggle sparkled in Krishna's thoughts. "You're a storm, but you make roots wherever you go."
Sheshika squeezed his shoulder, her coils a silent benediction.
Krishna watched the sun sink lower over Marineford, feeling—if only for a moment—a part of something bigger than himself.
The yard echoed with possibility and the promise of tomorrow's storm.
...
The Science Division was a palace of glass and silence at midnight. Hallways that buzzed with engineers and recruits by day now felt as hollow as cathedral aisles, lit only by strips of blue-white light. Machines slumbered; data screens shimmered with idle patterns. Even the Den Den Mushi on the security consoles blinked drowsily, eyelids half-shut.
Krishna moved like a shadow through these halls, his footfalls soundless on the polished floor. Megakshi and Sheshika were elsewhere tonight—Krishna had insisted they rest; this business was his alone. Only Medha, the silent mind at his core, hummed with alertness, her presence a barely-there pulse.
In the deepest lab, the air smelled faintly of ozone and paper. On a desk, stacked in deliberate neatness, were Krishna's invention blueprints—each annotated in a clean, unhurried hand. There were no guards here, just a single lamp burning above the cluttered workspace.
Vegapunk sat at the far end of the table, scribbling formulas into a battered journal. The old man's hair, shock-white and unkempt, cast wild shadows on the wall. His apple-shaped brain was, at this hour, entirely exposed—no lab coat or pretense, just a sleeveless undershirt and an intensity that belonged more to a revolutionary than a scientist.
Krishna approached quietly, a Den Den Mushi the size of a teacup nestled in his palm. As he entered the light, Medha's voice whispered in his mind.
"All CP0 lines disabled. Visuals looped, audio scrubbed. You're clear."
Vegapunk didn't look up. "Most people knock before entering, you know."
Krishna smiled. "You'd have known if I wasn't supposed to be here."
At that, the scientist glanced up, eyes sharp behind his cracked spectacles. "You move quietly for an intern."
"I learn quickly," Krishna replied, placing the Den Den Mushi gently on the table. "And I have friends who prefer not to be noticed."
Vegapunk snorted. "That's a dangerous thing to say in Marineford, boy."
Krishna nodded, his tone measured. "But sometimes danger is the price of trust. I'm here to build that, Dr. Vegapunk—not just between us, but for the sake of the world."
There was a pause—long enough for the hum of a cooling fan to fill the silence. Krishna could sense Vegapunk's wariness, the years of betrayal and caution layered like sediment behind those tired eyes.
He gestured to the Den Den Mushi, a strange model—its shell polished obsidian, its gaze calm, almost wise. "Kuma gave me this. Not just as a messenger, but as a symbol of trust. He said it would only work for those who understood what it meant to be both weapon and protector."
Vegapunk's hands stilled. "Kuma, you say." He peered closer. "How do I know you're not just name-dropping?"
Krishna shrugged, unconcerned about the accusation. "You know of Dragon, the Revolutionaries. You know their allies. You know what it means to trust someone with your life—especially someone like Bartholomew Kuma."
A beat passed. Vegapunk's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And what would you know of Dragon?"
Krishna's answer was soft, but precise.
"I know he's Luffy's father. I know Sabo is with him, saved and raised when the world thought him dead. I know that Kuma sacrificed everything for their dream—a dream that isn't conquest, but a future without chains."
He let those words hang in the air, watching the old man's reaction.
For the first time, Vegapunk looked genuinely rattled. The lines on his face deepened, and the pen in his hand tapped a slow, uncertain rhythm.
"You… know more than an intern should," he said quietly.
Krishna smiled, a little weary. "There's a story behind every mask, Dr. Vegapunk. You wear yours for science. I wear mine for peace."
They studied each other—two minds shaped by loss, conviction, and a stubborn refusal to bow to fate.
Krishna reached into his satchel and pulled out a sheaf of blueprints, sliding them across the desk. "These are for you. Inventions for water, medicine, and food. Not weapons—tools. If you want to build a world worth living in, we need more than armies. We need hope. We need to become that hope."
Vegapunk flicked through the pages, his face shifting from suspicion to fascination to something almost like relief. "You want to change the world… with science."
"And compassion," Krishna corrected gently. "Power without kindness is just cruelty in another form."
For a long time, neither spoke. The quiet felt sacred, almost fragile. Outside, a wind rattled the laboratory's tall glass, whispering of storms to come.
Vegapunk finally set the blueprints down, hands trembling with something close to excitement. "You're different. Not just strong—you actually care. That makes you dangerous in ways the world isn't ready for."
"I'm used to that," Krishna said, not unkindly. "But genius deserves time to think. I won't ask for answers tonight."
Vegapunk grinned, all wolfish teeth and wild hair. "A scientist who believes in patience? Now I've seen everything."
Krishna stood, bowing slightly. "Review them. I'll have more to discuss tomorrow—bigger ideas, stranger dreams. You'll want your wits with you."
As he turned to leave, Vegapunk's voice stopped him.
"Tell me one thing—if you had all the power in the world, what would you do?"
Krishna paused in the doorway, the moonlight painting his face in silver and shadow.
"I'd build a world where children don't learn to be afraid of their own dreams," he said. "And then I'd let it belong to them."
He slipped out, vanishing into the labyrinth of corridors, Medha's presence a faint smile in the back of his mind.
In the quiet, Vegapunk sat alone, staring at blueprints that were more hope than metal, more mercy than science. For the first time in years, the old genius felt the prickling thrill of dangerous possibility—a partnership that might one day change the world, if it didn't destroy them both first.
And far above, the storm clouds gathered, promising that dawn would bring more than just sunlight.
...
Krishna lingered just outside the Science Division's main corridor, the late afternoon light glancing off polished floors and the endless maze of glass partitions. Sheshika napped lightly beneath his collar, but Medha's digital form hovered in his peripheral vision—an ethereal blue-green sparkle only he could see.
"You noticed, right?" Medha's voice tickled his thoughts, all faux-innocence. "Vegapunk's not just five centuries ahead—he's eaten the Nomi Nomi no Mi. That brain isn't natural."
Krishna smirked slightly, something he had been doing quite often these days, leaning casually against the wall as a technician hurried past with a stack of data tablets. "I figured the moment I saw the apple head in the Fleet Admiral's office," he murmured back. "And when I shook his hand, your scan confirmed it. There's neural latticework I've never seen, and the energy signature matches what I know about devil fruit users."
Medha projected a tiny hologram above his wrist: a cartoon apple with circuits for veins, the core pulsing with digital light. "He's using nearly 50% more of his brain at any moment than the normal human limit. His neural networks branch like fractals—enabling simultaneous computation, recall, and pattern-building. Honestly, storm-boy, if you implemented even half of these circuits…"
Krishna cut her off with a deadpan tone. "I'm not giving myself a giant apple forehead, Medha. No offense. I already have enough trouble blending in."
Medha's digital avatar snorted, a static-glitch echo of laughter. "Come on, it'd be a good look! 'Kurohane the Brainstorm.' The Marines would never forget you."
He rolled his eyes, amused despite himself. "Yeah, and I'd have to invent a new helmet just to hide it." Krishna paused, then let the moment slip into seriousness. "Still…log the patterns, run simulations. Only after long observation and absolute certainty. Devil fruits are desires made real, twisted by the world's spiritual energy. What they give, they always take away in some other form."
Medha's tone softened. "You're right to be cautious. The nomi nomi effect isn't just physical—it's soul-level. And your body's already adapted to pyroblin, sea stone, all that spiritual interference…"
Krishna nodded, watching a pair of engineers laugh as they wheeled a sparking Den Den Mushi past the door. "Yeah. I don't need confirmation. Anyone with that head and that kind of life signature is a devil fruit user. But for now, we watch, we learn, and we wait for certainty. That's what separates us from the chaos."
Medha flickered in his vision, offering a little digital salute. "Copy that, storm-boy. Science first, giant forehead never."
Krishna smiled quietly, gathering his notes. Soon, he'd be stepping into a midnight alliance with the world's greatest genius. But for now, even in the halls of Marineford, it felt good to be two steps ahead.
He squared his shoulders, set his thoughts in order, and slipped off toward his next rendezvous—confident, at least for now, that his brain would stay blissfully average-sized.
...
The sun was just cresting the horizon when Krishna rose. The sky above Marineford was streaked with pink and gold, the ocean's distant roar a reminder that even the greatest fortress was only a guest in the world's storm. Krishna liked these moments best: before the drills, before the world demanded its price.
He wrapped himself in a simple gi—no uniform, no insignia, no feather for now—and padded quietly up the outer stairwell to the highest roof. Sheshika, always the earliest riser, was already waiting, coiled loosely around the railing, her head swaying in rhythm to the breeze. Megakshi perched nearby, brilliant feathers damp with dew, preening and sending faint pulses of affection through the black feather tucked beneath Krishna's shirt.
He sat cross-legged, spine straight, and closed his eyes. The morning air was cool, tinged with salt. Medha projected a faint blue flower onto his knee—a tradition now, the only digital thing permitted to share his silent ritual.
In this stillness, Krishna found clarity. He let his mind empty, inviting the world in without judgment or plan. Thoughts flickered—scenes from the previous days, the faces of the marines, the laughter and challenges and worries of a world at uneasy peace. He breathed, slow and deep, feeling every strand of aura in the fortress—his, Sheshika's, Megakshi's, even Medha's gentle current in the background.
When the first bell of the day rang through Marineford, he rose, dusted off his knees, and offered a quiet thank you to his companions. Megakshi chirped softly, sending a brief surge of pride and comfort through the feather—a morning greeting only Krishna and Sheshika could decipher.
"Today," Sheshika hissed, her voice dry with mischief, "let's see if you can make it through breakfast without someone asking for your autograph."
Krishna rolled his eyes, but smiled. "That's your fault for making me look good."
Sheshika's tongue flickered, amusement dancing in her bright eyes. "You make yourself look good, storm-bringer. I'm just here for the drama."
Medha's voice pinged quietly in his mind, "And I'm here for the data. Twelve requests for personal advice yesterday, three gifts of sweets, and two failed marriage proposals. At this rate, we'll need a secretary."
Krishna flushed till his ears were red. "It's not that bad."
Megakshi preened harder, sending a pointed pulse: You are too easily embarrassed.
But also: You are safe here. For now.
Krishna descended to the mess hall, joining the early crowd. Marines called out greetings—some boisterous, some shy, a few simply nodding with the quiet respect reserved for legends-in-the-making. Krishna accepted a tray, filled it with modest portions, and took a seat by the window, watching the bay glimmer in the morning sun.
He had just taken a sip of tea when Ain plopped into the seat opposite him, grinning widely. "Morning, Krishna! You're up early—again. I swear, do you ever sleep in?"
He nearly choked. "Habit," he managed, smiling awkwardly. "I like to watch the sunrise."
Ain's eyes sparkled. "So poetic! No wonder the girls are always talking about you."
He nearly dropped his tea. "They… what?"
She leaned in, elbows on the table, clearly delighted and revelling in his discomfort. "Oh, come on! The whole barracks is buzzing. 'Did you see Krishna spar with Zephyr-sensei yesterday?' 'Did you hear he fixed the comms unit in under five minutes?' Some of the new recruits want to start a fan club—again. I think they're voting on the name as we speak."
He could feel Sheshika and Medha laughing—one outside, one inside his mind. Even Megakshi's feather sent a teasing flicker of smugness.
Krishna cleared his throat, desperately seeking a lifeline. "I… I'm just doing my job. Nothing special."
Binz, carrying a tower of food balanced with preternatural grace, joined them and slid into the seat beside Ain. "You know, Krishna, it's not often the senior marines come to the training grounds just to watch an intern. Yesterday, Vice Admiral Onigumo sat in the stands for an hour."
Ain nudged Krishna. "See? You're a star. You just don't know it yet."
He tried to focus on his rice. "I'd rather just… be helpful. If they learn something, that's enough."
Binz exchanged a glance with Ain, both of them smiling in that way friends do when someone's too earnest for their own good.
They ate together, the conversation drifting from rumors of upcoming missions, to which admiral could eat the most dumplings (Garp, obviously), to the best strategy for organizing supply runs. Ain was animated, flitting between topics, occasionally teasing Krishna about his "serious face" or his disastrous attempt at making a unique brand of tea ("You nearly blew up the kettle, remember?"). He knows how to make the damn tea, just didn't know that this particular brand would blow up in his face.
Krishna was hyper-aware of her nearness, the gentle brush of her sleeve as she gestured, the faint scent of cherry blossoms in her hair. He stumbled over his words more than once, wishing desperately for some of Zephyr's stoic composure—or Medha's ability to mute all embarrassment. But every time he tried to regain his cool, Ain's laughter or a stray knowing glance from Binz would derail him completely.
Even Medha couldn't help tease him, "Your pulse just spiked. That's a new record, Krishna. Maybe I should take notes for the medics."
Sheshika was just as merciless. "Just breathe, boy. She's not a sea king."
Megakshi sent a bolt of pure annoyance through the feather, clearly unimpressed by all the attention Ain was getting.
After breakfast, Krishna joined the others at the training ground. Zephyr was already there, looming over a squad of recruits like a thundercloud in human form. His voice boomed across the yard: "Stance! If your balance is off, your enemy will know before you do. Binz—demonstrate."
Binz, ever the professional, glided forward and executed a flawless sequence of moves. The recruits tried to mimic him, some more successfully than others. Krishna moved among them, offering quiet advice—a tilt of the shoulder here, a correction of the grip there. He never raised his voice, but somehow his words cut through the noise.
Zephyr watched, arms crossed, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've got a teacher's patience, kid. That's rarer than strength."
Krishna bowed his head. "Thank you, Zephyr-sensei. I learned from the best."
Ain and Binz flanked Krishna as they led the group through a set of drills. Ain cheered the recruits on, her energy infectious. Binz kept everyone on task, never missing a beat. Even Shuzo, sullen and competitive, threw himself into the exercises, always trying to outdo Krishna—but always falling just short.
As the morning drills got underway, Krishna found himself moving among the marines, correcting stances and offering encouragement. It wasn't long before he spotted a familiar face—Mako, the earnest recruit from the day before, was already waiting at the edge of the training ground, practicing with an almost comic intensity.
Krishna approached quietly. Mako was struggling with a particularly tricky maneuver, his brow furrowed in concentration, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Krishna knelt beside him. "You're leaning too far forward. Try shifting your weight back—like this."
Mako's eyes widened, recognition lighting up his face. "Krishna-senpai! You remembered! Like… this?"
"Exactly." Krishna smiled, and Mako beamed, the hero-worship from the day before now tinged with genuine gratitude.
They worked through the drill together. Mako's determination was contagious, and as the morning went on, Krishna realized just how much these small moments mattered—not only to Mako, but to himself.
Ain, watching from the sidelines, gave Krishna a thumbs-up. "See? Mentor of the year."
As the day wore on, the training ground filled with laughter and shouts. Krishna found himself drawn into friendly sparring matches—sometimes with Ain, who was faster than she looked, sometimes with Binz, who was stronger than anyone gave him credit for. Even Shuzo, grudgingly, accepted Krishna's advice when it helped him win a bout.
Lunch was a noisy affair. Ain and Binz dragged Krishna to a sunny patch of grass near the mess hall, insisting he take a break. Ain launched into stories about her hometown, her dreams of traveling the world, and the latest gossip from the barracks. Binz added dry commentary, occasionally poking fun at Krishna's obliviousness.
At one point, Ain asked, "Krishna, do you ever get nervous before a big fight?"
He nearly choked on his rice ball. "All the time."
She laughed. "You hide it well. I always thought you were fearless."
He glanced away, sheepish. "It's easier when you have people you trust."
There was a pause—a comfortable, sunlit silence. Then Ain grinned. "Well, you can trust us."
Binz nodded with confidence. "We've got your back."
Krishna felt something warm settle in his chest—a sense of belonging he'd never quite known before.
The afternoon passed in a blur of drills, strategy discussions, and the quiet satisfaction of seeing recruits grow stronger, more confident. Zephyr pulled Krishna aside for a quick chat over tea as the sun dipped low.
They sat beneath the shade of a great oak, the world quiet for once.
Zephyr poured the tea, his hands steady. "You're good with them. They listen because you care—not just about winning, but about who they become."
Krishna sipped his tea, the taste grounding him. "I was alone, once. I know what it means to be overlooked."
Zephyr's eyes softened. "That's the burden of strength. You see the world's cracks, and you try to fill them. But don't forget to take care of yourself, too."
Krishna nodded, thoughtful. "Thank you, Zephyr-sensei."
As dusk settled over Marineford, Krishna wandered to the edge of the training field, Sheshika draped around his shoulders, Megakshi perched above, sending gentle pulses of approval.
Medha murmured in his mind, "Enjoy this peace while it lasts. The world has a way of stealing quiet moments."
Krishna gazed up at the stars—distant, silent, endless. For now, at least, he let himself believe in this fragile peace.
But beneath it, he could feel the storm gathering, a tension in the air that promised change.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the night, and made a silent vow:
Whatever came next, he would face it not as a weapon, but as a guardian. Not as a storm, but as the calm at its center.
...
The Science Division was different at sunrise. Most of the lab lights were dim, but the air thrummed with anticipation—a charged quiet, as if something huge waited just behind the silence.
Vegapunk's private office was less a room and more a nest of possibility: a wall of moving diagrams, mechanical arms reconfiguring themselves, half-built ideas glinting under lazy beams of morning light. Krishna stood at the threshold for a moment, watching his own breath fog the glass. The security was tighter today—CP0 stood at the corners, silent and wary, but gave way as soon as Krishna's presence registered. The night before, he'd made himself invisible to every camera, every sensor, every eye except Medha's. Now, he walked openly, the boy-who-was-storm, here by invitation.
Vegapunk was waiting, hunched over a holographic display. He glanced up, a thin smile twitching across his lips—equal parts curiosity, wariness, and that childlike glee only the truly brilliant possessed. On the table was a cup of untouched tea, steam curling in delicate lines. Even geniuses forget the world sometimes.
"Ah, Krishna. Right on time," Vegapunk said. "Did you sleep?"
Krishna only smiled, sliding the sheaf of hand-drawn blueprints from inside his jacket. The paper was thick, the edges uneven, ink sometimes smudged where his hand had lingered too long—signs of work done late into the night, after even the world's most advanced AI had gone dormant.
He sat, placed the papers between them. With a single motion, he fanned the topmost sheets out just enough for the titles to catch the light:
Tārakā (Divine Warbike)
Vāhana One (Divine Supercar)
Vāhana Ark (Divine Warship)
He said nothing at first. The silence between them was companionable—two minds in the charged quiet before lightning.
Vegapunk reached for the first blueprint, hands careful, almost reverent. For a moment, he just traced the lines—fluid, precise, somehow both impossibly ambitious and grounded in practical genius. It was the work of someone who not only dreamed in impossibilities but also built the bridges to reach them.
Vegapunk murmured with awe, "You drew these by hand?"
Krishna nodded with pride. "Machines are too clean. I needed the mess."
Vegapunk's gaze flicked to Krishna's face, searching, measuring. Krishna didn't look away.
A memory ghosted through him—a faint, silent echo of another world, another life. The boy, alone in a small room, stacks of failed sketches and notebooks, and textbooks, always feeling like a ghost haunting his own family's happiness. The weight that had never quite left, even now. That final night, when he'd believed—wrongly, desperately—that his absence might bring peace to those he loved.
Nobody here would ever guess. Nobody here could ever know that the storm in the room was once a quiet, broken kid, a boy who didn't believe in futures. That to create something now, to be seen, to risk giving these dreams to another human being—it was its own, quieter kind of courage.
Vegapunk turned a page, his eyes going wide at the modular engine schematics, the wild adaptations, the dimensional storage annotations. "These designs… they're centuries ahead of what even I've considered. And you want to build them—here? With me?"
Krishna smiled, soft but unyielding. "What's the point of genius if you don't share it? I want these to be more than tools. I want them to be hope. Mobility for people who can't walk. Food for those who can't grow. A ship that can cross any storm and never leave anyone behind."
Vegapunk's voice was half a whisper. "You think like a revolutionary."
Krishna shrugged. "Call it… learning from my mistakes. Call it mercy. Or just—call it living for something bigger."
He left the blueprints there, just enough revealed to spark a hundred questions, just enough concealed to promise more. The warbike—a thunderbolt on wheels, at home in any terrain. The supercar—sleek, brutal, quietly divine. The ship—only a name, but the name itself enough to send shivers through history.
Vegapunk ran a hand over the titles. "Tārakā… Vāhana One… Vāhana Ark. You're not just thinking about power, are you?"
Krishna shook his head. "Power is only sacred when it serves. These are meant for anyone brave enough to move forward. Anyone—"
He paused. There were things he could never say aloud. That every day here was still colored by that old, invisible bruise: survivor's guilt. That he was a god by accident, by mistake—a boy who'd stepped into a myth because he couldn't find meaning in being human. That even now, every triumph was haunted by the fear that it would all be taken away, that somehow, he'd fail again.
But he was learning. He was building. He was moving forward, and for once, not alone.
Vegapunk's hands shook with excitement as he lifted another page. The office was silent except for the soft rustle of paper and the low hum of the lab's arc-lights.
Krishna sat back, letting the genius in front of him absorb the storm. His eyes were clear.
"What do you say, Doctor?" Krishna asked, voice low but unwavering.
"Shall we build a storm together?"
For a moment, time seemed to stop.
Vegapunk didn't answer. He just stared, caught between awe and terror, between the thrill of invention and the burden of legacy. For all his genius, he'd never seen blueprints like these. For all his years, he'd never been invited to build a myth.
Outside, the dawn brightened—the first true sunbeam catching on the names scrawled in ink.
Tārakā. Vāhana One. Vāhana Ark.
The world's next storm was already rising.
And in the electric hush of that office, a legend was being born—not out of invincibility, but out of a courage that was, at its core, heartbreakingly human.
...
Omake: Tea, Training, and the Unreadable Storm
The breakroom of Vegapunk's lab was a haven of organized chaos—beakers and blueprints on one end, odd teacups and a still-steaming kettle on the other. Morning light filtered through reinforced glass. At the center, a mismatched gathering of legends sat—some awake, some…less so.
Krishna had been invited for "scientific tea." In theory, this was an honor—a private chat with the world's greatest genius. In practice, it was more like wrangling a parade of chaos.
Vegapunk, wild-haired and sharp-eyed, poured out cups with the care of a chemist handling explosives. "Try the green blend, Krishna-kun. Supposed to stimulate synapses. Theoretically."
Krishna reached for his cup just as a familiar rumble shook the air.
The door banged open. Garp barreled in, a mountain of marine bravado. "Vegapunk! You got any snacks? All this science must make a man hungry. Bring out the brain food!" He dropped a tin of rice crackers on the table with a thud. "These—these are what built my legend! And this boy's too!" Garp's massive arm clamped over Krishna's shoulders, pinning him like a bear trap.
Krishna tried not to wince. "I don't think rice crackers are scientifically—"
"Nonsense!" Garp roared. "Eat! Genius needs calories!"
At the far end of the table, Kuzan lay sprawled atop a bizarre contraption—Vegapunk's new "sleep optimization bed." Half his body was encased in soft blue gel, half still half-frozen, a string of drool threatening to reach the floor. He snored in slow, icy intervals, blissful and oblivious.
Vegapunk glanced at Krishna with a deadpan. "He's been testing that bed for an hour. Might be impossible to wake him."
Before Krishna could reply, the door slid open again.
Tsuru entered with the inexorable calm of a warship. "I see you're all hydrating. Good." She set down a steaming pot. "My own blend. It'll put hair on your chest—or take it off, if you don't have any."
Vegapunk eyed it warily. "Last time I sampled your health tea, I hallucinated the Navy budget dancing."
"It's for your digestion," Tsuru said sweetly, pouring everyone a cup without waiting for acceptance.
Garp sniffed it, made a face, then bravely downed it in one go. "Blergh! That's…character, alright."
Vegapunk held his nose and drank. Even Krishna, out of sheer politeness (and a bit of peer pressure, Garp's arm still like a vise), took a cautious sip. The flavor was…medicinal. The aftertaste lingered, and not in a good way. He made a face and chewed on his own tongue to get the aftertaste off.
At that moment, Medha projected a tiny scoreboard in Krishna's vision:
Tsuru: 10 points (for sheer intimidation)
Garp: 8 (for creative snacking)
Vegapunk: 7 (for style under fire)
Kuzan: zzzzzz
Krishna stifled a laugh.
Tsuru slid into a seat. "So, Kurohane, any new ideas?"
Krishna started, "Well, I was thinking—"
But Garp cut in, waving a cracker. "This boy could teach you all a thing or two! Tell 'em about your rocket boots! Or the self-heating rice balls! Those'll be a hit, I tell you!"
Vegapunk's eyes lit up. "Rocket boots? Do they explode?"
"Only if you overfill the tank," Krishna admitted, as Tsuru's eyes narrowed with professional suspicion.
"Did you file the safety report?" she asked.
Krishna smiled weakly. "I was just—uh—working on the prototype."
Vegapunk clapped his hands. "Excellent! Science is about failure as much as success!"
Garp shoved another cracker at Krishna. "Eat! You'll need your strength for the paperwork!"
Krishna attempted a polite escape. "I should really—"
Too late. Garp's arm, Vegapunk's curiosity, and Tsuru's "drink your tea!" mantra conspired to keep him exactly where he was, pinned between genius and chaos.
...
Elsewhere, in the instructor's quarters, Zephyr dozed on his break, cap pulled over his eyes. The world of dreams opened—and became a horror show.
He found himself on the training field. But instead of marines, he saw a glittering mass: hundreds—no, thousands-of recruits and officers, all chanting in unison:
"Kri-shna-sen-pai! Kri-shna-sen-pai!"
In the front row, Binz, Ain, and even a squad of Vice Admirals waved handmade banners. Shuzo was holding up a sign, albeit reluctantly. Even Zephyr himself—wait, why was he holding a sparkly autograph book?
Krishna, beaming, was at the center, apparently unaware that he was somehow leading the entire Marineford in synchronized yoga.
Zephyr jolted upright, a cold sweat prickling his brow. "Not again…"
Shaking his head, he peered outside.
There, on the lawn, Krishna stood calmly, surrounded by a small group of eager recruits, leading them through morning stretches. The scene was peaceful, orderly, utterly benign.
Zephyr watched for a moment, then groaned, rubbing his temples. "I need stronger coffee."
Medha's voice (from nowhere, everywhere): "Or maybe just a little more storm in your schedule, old man."
Zephyr grumbled, but couldn't help the faint smile tugging at his lips.
Sometimes, even in the Navy's greatest fortress, chaos and peace were just two sides of the same coin.
...
The breakroom's strange energy refused to fade, even after Tsuru's tea had been (mostly) choked down and Garp's rice cracker supply mysteriously vanished. But outside, a new commotion was brewing—quite literally at the door.
A small crowd of marines, mostly from Krishna's ever-growing fan club, clustered by the frosted glass, whispering furiously.
"Do you think he's really sleeping?"
"That's Admiral Aokiji—he can sleep through a battle, I heard!"
"Senpai Krishna's in there too! If we wait, maybe we can get a photo with both!"
Inside, Kuzan remained the picture of blissful ignorance—sprawled over Vegapunk's "Ultimate Sleep Bed" face half-buried in a pillow, gentle snores rising and falling like waves on a sleepy shore. A contented smile played at his lips. Even as Garp and Vegapunk debated cracker economics and Tsuru refilled mugs with suspicious efficiency, Kuzan's dreams were undisturbed.
Vegapunk, catching the looks from the door, adjusted his lab coat with pride. "I present to you: the Ultimate Sleep Bed! Designed to optimize REM cycles, minimize back strain, and even auto-regulate temperature. If you can wake him up, I'll call it a failure!"
Garp snorted. "You sure that isn't just an excuse for this icicle to nap all day?"
Tsuru, never missing a beat, sipped her herbal brew. "At least he's not causing trouble. Maybe you should invent a Snore Silencer next, Vegapunk."
Krishna, feeling the curious eyes from outside, tried to hide behind his tea, but Medha's digital overlay cheerfully pointed out the growing mob at the window: "Popularity 10, Storm-boy."
Kuzan, of course, missed all of it—dreaming his own dreams, the world's commotion a distant, icy lullaby.
...
The door slid open again—this time, without chaos. Ain stepped in, a neat folder of paperwork in hand, her turquoise hair shining in the morning light. "Krishna, you missed a few forms after the last training session. I thought I'd bring them by before lunch."
Krishna, a little startled, stood up. He glanced at the papers, then at Ain, offering an earnest smile. "You always make things run smoother around here. Thank you."
Ain paused, a faint but unmistakable blush coloring her cheeks. But she was as composed as ever, just a small, appreciative smile as she handed over the folder. "Thank you, Krishna. I appreciate that."
There was a gentle stillness in the room. No fluster, no wild reactions—just two colleagues, sharing a simple moment of respect. If anything, the fan club marines outside seemed disappointed the interaction wasn't juicier.
Medha, ever the instigator, flickered across Krishna's internal view. "Oh look, she didn't even melt—maybe you should try a joke next time, storm boy."
Sheshika, lazily circling Krishna's wrist, sent a dry pulse. "He'd trip over his own tongue trying."
From Krishna's pocket, the black feather pulsed—a flicker of mild curiosity, and a brief, amused hmph from Megakshi. Nothing jealous, just entertained by the humans' endless social games.
Krishna, for his part, just felt relief. The warmth of camaraderie, the kind that didn't demand anything more than a simple thank you. He returned Ain's nod, setting the paperwork on the table with renewed confidence.
The rest of the breakroom went about its business—Garp now deep in an argument about "training snacks" with Tsuru, Vegapunk furiously scribbling notes about "Group Sleep Studies," and Kuzan undisturbed in his frozen cocoon.
Medha and Sheshika exchanged a knowing look—one that said more about Krishna's slow-but-steady growth than any romantic subplot.
Sometimes, peace was just…peace.
...
Elsewhere, in the bowels of Marineford…
A single lamp burned over a battered desk. The CP0 agent—face blank beneath his mask, pen trembling—opened a fresh page of his classified notebook.
Dear Diary,
Subject: Kurohane Krishna.
Day 3 of surveillance. Cannot be sensed.
Appears/disappears at will.
Possibly a ghost. Possibly a divine phenomenon.
Avoid direct engagement. (Survival priority: HIGH.)
He paused, struggling to find words that wouldn't get him sent for psychological evaluation. As he debated whether "possible ghost" needed three or four exclamation marks, a humming broke the silence.
Krishna strolled past in the hallway, mug of tea in one hand, sandwich in the other, eyes fixed dreamily on the ceiling. He paused to nod cheerfully at the agent, who instantly dropped his pen, snapped his notebook shut, and stared in mute terror.
Krishna vanished around the corner. The agent, hands shaking, added a final line:
Further observation not recommended.
...
Meanwhile, in the main courtyard…
Krishna strolled through the sunshine, balancing a plate of sweet rice cakes. On his right arm, Sheshika curled in effortless grace—her golden scales glimmering, eyes narrowed with serpentine composure. On his shoulder, Megakshi stood tall, every feather preened, her iridescent tail fanned to perfection.
A passing marine, carrying a hot cup of coffee, took one look at the parade of mythical companions and promptly lost all coordination—coffee launching skyward, landing with a soft splat in the grass. He could only gape as Krishna, unfazed, paused and offered a bite of a snack to both his companions.
Sheshika accepted her portion with imperial dignity; Megakshi snatched hers, fluffing up even bigger.
Medha's digital scoreboard appeared over Krishna's head:
"Regal-Off: TIE."
Krishna, oblivious, patted them both and continued on, leaving chaos and spilled caffeine in his wake.
...
Finally, at last, a rooftop retreat…
Krishna leaned back against the tiles, breathing in the evening air—at peace, at last.
Until—
From his vantage, he caught sight of the training yard below. Zephyr, legendary "Black Arm," stood at the head of a makeshift class… of marines all stretching in perfect, synchronized unison, following the "Krishna-senpai Yoga Flow."
Zephyr's eye twitched. He muttered to himself, gaze far away:
"The real storm wasn't in the sea… it was in HR all along."
Krishna sighed, almost fondly. There was no escaping the storm—he just had to learn to dance in the rain.
...
Author's Note
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
This chapter was all about finding lightness in the eye of the storm. We saw Krishna finally settle into the rhythm of Marineford life, balancing invention, chaos, a little reluctant fame, and new bonds with legends like Vegapunk and Zephyr. The dynamic between these powerhouses was a blast to write, and I hope you enjoyed the moments of pure slice-of-life as much as the brewing sense of myth on the horizon.
Quick clarification for the shippers out there: Ain will not be a romantic interest for Krishna. Their bond is purely platonic—think mutual respect, friendship, and soul-level camaraderie. Krishna's heart (and harem chaos) are already complicated enough!
Next time: the pace will pick up, the stakes will rise, and Krishna's world is about to collide with a whole new level of danger and growth. Stay tuned—this is just the calm before the real storm.
—Author out.