The canyon was empty.
Just how Kira wanted it.
She stood at the edge of a jagged ledge, high above the stone basin below. The rock around her was bone-white and smooth, curved like waves frozen mid-motion. Clouds drifted in lazy streams through the gap far beneath her, soft and quiet.
Perfect isolation.
It had taken her nearly two hours to reach this place — down narrow ridges, across suspended roots, through the steepest terrain Skypiea had to offer. Few people ever came here. There was no reason to.
And that made it ideal.
She dropped her pack beside a flat slab of stone, rolled her shoulders, and slowly stretched both arms.
Today, she'd test the fruit. Quietly. Without flair.
Just results.
She began simple.
One breath in. One breath out.
Right hand forward, fingers spread, palm steady.
Nothing.
She waited a moment. Curled her hand into a fist. Opened it again.
Still nothing.
No sparks. No pressure. No heat.
She wasn't surprised.
Devil Fruits didn't respond to simple thoughts. You had to will them. Envision effect, not theory. Want outcome, not spectacle.
She tried again.
Slower now.
She didn't think "lightning." She thought force.
She pictured electricity not as light, but as current. Flow. Control.
Not chaos. Command.
"Go," she whispered.
A faint twitch pulsed beneath her ribs — low, subtle, internal. It wasn't muscle.
Her hand jerked slightly. A hairline spark leapt from her fingertips.
A snap of white-blue light danced across her palm. Fast. Sharp.
Gone.
She blinked.
Then smiled.
Ten minutes passed before she tried again.
She sat cross-legged now, breathing evenly.
She summoned it again. One more flicker across her palm, this time lasting just half a second longer.
She rotated her wrist. Focused it into her thumb.
But this time, a faint buzz hummed under her skin — like static wrapping around her bones. And as she pushed the current outward, her skin lit in faint pulses of blue light, dancing from elbow to wrist.
It didn't hurt.
It felt natural.
Power obeying.
She stood and moved back to the open space, clearing a circle of loose rock with her boot.
Next test: output.
She held her hand out, imagined pushing instead of summoning.
The crackle came again — longer, this time. She shaped it as best she could and aimed at a small pile of stones.
The bolt leapt forward like a whip.
One flash. One strike.
It smashed through the rocks with a sharp crack and scorched the surface.
As the light faded, her arm glowed for a second longer. Wisps of electricity danced off her fingertips, crackling against the dry air.
She nodded.
That was good.
By midday, she had recorded:
Arcs between both hands
Directed strikes
Spark bursts from her palm
Current strong enough to knock over a medium boulder
Each time she pushed harder, her body shimmered faintly. Humming grew in her ears. Her arms glowed with electric veins.
It never overwhelmed her.
It bent.
Obeyed.
It was hers.
She tested movement next.
She grounded her stance and focused the current into her legs. Slowly. Carefully.
The hum deepened.
She felt power coil in her calves, then surge.
She leapt.
Not far — just enough to skim across the stone in a blink. The air behind her sizzled.
When she landed, her cloak fluttered with static discharge.
She exhaled through her nose.
Again.
By late afternoon, her list of techniques had grown to ten.
She had controlled bursts. Direct impact. Short-distance movement. Electrical projection.
No misfires. No loss of control.
And each time, she buzzed louder.
Her body shone with lightning when she struck.
She looked down at her hand. It crackled — softly, smoothly — waiting for the next order.
And she felt nothing but satisfaction.
The sun dipped low behind the clouds.
She packed her gear, checked her steps, and left the canyon without a trace.
Her body still hummed faintly for another hour.
By the time she returned to the shelter, it had faded.
But she knew it would come again — stronger, sharper, faster.
Because she was just getting started.
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