Chapter 92

"Mom, why can't I spend time with my siblings?" asked a young, starlit child, his eyes wide, voice small and tone soaked in innocent longing. "Why do I have to look after the Sun all alone?"

The Sea sighed, her waves curling against the shore like tired fingers, brushing his glow with all the gentleness she could muster without hurting him.

"There is a reason, my precious one," the waves responded softly, her voice echoing from every droplet and current, warm like lullabies sung in whirlpools, soothing the young child. "Would you like to know why?" she asked, her voice hinting at sadness.

"Yes!" the child beamed, his face lightning up and his glow becoming brighter and warmer with childlike joy. "Please tell me! I wanna know!"

And so the Mother Sea began. Not with a lecture, which the child had already forgotten, but with a story older than time itself—older than light, older than warmth, older than sorrow.

"It all started a long, long ago…

Back when nothing existed. Not even silence, because silence needs something to be compared to. There was no up, no down. Everywhere was dark with no sign of life present. It was empty. It was infinite.

And wandering through that endless dark was a lonely entity, the only one in that nothingness. The one you know as the Creator God. Your father.

He drifted for eternity through the void, until the ache of loneliness and solitude grew unbearable and he decided to fill the empty silence with something more. With something like purpose. With life. With ambitions and dreams.

And so, he reached into the void and pulled together the cosmic dust—fragments of nothing yet everything, trying to be something. He molded it into a swirling, molten sphere, which later he named as the Earth.

But it was too hot. Too wild. Too volatile. Too chaotic to even hold. So he bled into it. So he used his divine blood to cool the surface and from that gift of pain and sacrifice, the Sea, your mother, was born.

His marvellous blood, its purity and divinity, gave the sea consciousness. It gave me the ability to be me.

Time passed. Maybe thousands of years. Maybe millions or eons. But who's counting when the days intermingled with each other and there was only darkness.

I was happy at first, playing with the hot molten surface, cooling it. Playing with the cosmic force, swirling against the shores. But I was alone. No one was there, except for us—the sea and the creator. So one day, I reached out to the one who made me.

And he listened like always.

Together, we decided to birth something new. Something more alive. Something more spontaneous. Something more curious than even us. And so, from my depths, life began to stir. Small, microscopic, barely visible, yet alive. Alive in a way we had never seen.

I was overjoyed. They were different from me and the creator, yet ours. They were small, yet capable of things I wasn't. They swam, they split, they danced in the currents, adapting and evolving. They even dreamed—even if they didn't know it.

But they wanted more. They needed something more. Some tried to reach the surface, leaving the safety of the waters. Some wanted to see the stars. But the surface was cruel and the beings were not prepared for it. The air was unbreathable. The land was nonexistent. There wasn't a place for them yet. Hence, they died before they even reached the light. Without the Sea, without the waters, they crumpled and cried. Under the stars and light which they so wanted to see.

The Sea was heartbroken. Hence, she turned to the Creator God once again, and once more, he listened.

The Creator God took pieces of his flesh and shaped the land above, to make it rich with nutrients, where those tiny beings could crawl and grow. And they did. Adapting to the land above. Thriving with life once again. With joy and excitement.

But that didn't stay for long. Many died. Some crumbled and shivered. This time it was cold. The dark. No warmth, no guidance. Some scurried back to the sea's embrace, scared of the dark above and finding no proper way to proliferate on the surface.

The Creator and the Sea tried once again, pondering on ways, until the God had a brilliant idea.

He pulled together even more cosmic dust and compressed it until it was hotter than the Earth. Until it ignited. Until it roared. But he didn't scuff it. He didn't cool it. He let it burn its fire. He let it blister. Thus, leading to the creation of the Sun.

The heat warmed the land and the light lit the paths.

The Sea and Creator God were ecstatic, believing that the issues were solved and the creatures would now flourish and live.

The creatures began to walk. They began to run. They began to live.

But it was once again not perfect.

The Earth didn't spin. The Earth wasn't perfect. One side was burning while the other was freezing. So the creator took on the responsibility of moving the Sun himself. A tireless, eternal dance, which he rejoiced at a constant pace. For centuries, he continued, keeping the very Sun moving. A rhythm that gave birth to seasons, balance and life.

But there were consequences too.

The Sun's heat was too hot. It's warmth, cruel and unforgiving, burning the Sea's surface, evaporating the waters into water vapor, forming clouds in turn. These clouds grew and spread, growing heavy with the vapors it continued to consume, soon breaking into rain and storm.

The surface was already chaotic but with the roared winds, the raging storms, it turned the world nurtured by the sea and the god wild and violent. Creatures screamed in terror. They once again died. Unable to adapt. Unable to survive. Some fled once again to the sea's embrace, accepting the gentle darkness instead of light combined with tragedy.

And so, the Creator God and the sea pondered once again. It was time to give the chaos a structure.

The Sea came up with lush forests and various plains that would protect the evolving creatures from the outside forces. And God gave her idea, life. He plucked some of his hairs and planted them on the surface, soon leading the land to grow abundant with trees, bushes and herbs. They provided food and shelter to all who would live on the surface.

The two ancient beings gazed upon their blossoming world, and though it pulsed with promise, it too throbbed with chaos. The harmony they once had envisioned was slipping from their grasp.

The rains raged without reason, and the winds, untamed and wrathful, carved their path across the land in violent tantrums. Tornadoes spun as if chaos itself possessed it. Lightning struck as if in fury. Snowstorms whispered cruel lullabies to the creatures shivering below. Nature itself had become a cruel mistress—growing, dying, evolving too fast or not at all. The fauna withered before they bloomed. Beasts were born into lands that turned against them. Too toxic. Too violent.

The Earth groaned under its own fury, erupting into volcanoes and shivering with earthquakes, as though mourning a pain too ancient to name.

The Sea, in her boundless love, couldn't see it all. She cried. She begged the Creator for an answer.

Hence, from the breath of the storm, the first Biolenta god was born—Halad, the Lord of Skies and Tempest.

Halad was the breath of the winds and the roar of thunder, swift in thought and swifter in rage. His emotions rippled across the heavens, for he was the weather. When he laughed, the rain sang soft lullabies, the cool winds glided through scorched deserts and the clouds parted in joy revealing skies so blue it felt like the heavens were smiling. But when he wept, hurricanes howled, winds turned wild sobbing through canyons, thunder clapping like a shattered heart begging to be heard. And when he was angered—oh, when the fury took hold—the skies darkened with storm-born wrath, the air turned sharp with static, and the world below cowered. Tornadoes tore through mountains, the clouds turned violent, and even time itself seemed to pause, afraid to provoke the storm god's wrath.

From the first heartbeat of the forest, the second Biolenta god rose Artebel, the Spirit of the Forest and Beast.

Where Halad roared with the storms, she ruled in silence, calm yet cunning, as she was the very soul of all flora and fauna. Her eyes held the wisdom of countless cycles, her touch coaxed life from the soil and her clam voice whispered courage into the hearts of prey. But her love was not blind—it was fierce. She did not shield her children from death, she did not shield them from their suffering, but taught them to outwit them. She gave all creatures a chance, but never second chances. "Survive," she would declare to the crawling, running, flying things. "If you cannot, evolve."

To rule the Earth, the third Biolenta god was created—the one beneath all things, the weight of silence and stone, known as Aramai. The Warden of Stone and Silence. For he carried the weight of souls along with the earth. For he was the end and the after, the Ruler of the Underworld.

He was born not from wind or water, but from the deepest pressure of the world's crust, forged in silence and buried wrath. His body was a mountain, his veins molten, and his breath carried the scent of old bones and forgotten names. He was not loud like Halad, nor nurturing like the Forest Goddess; he was endless, carved in patience, and unbending in will, yet playful in his own ways. He was the deep rumble before a quake, the slow shifting of tectonic plates, the patient judge of the dead who walked the endless halls of the underworld. Yet within his solemnity lay playful cruelty like the Earth itself. He would let flowers bloom on cliffs where none should, and let volcanoes erupt just to paint the sky red. He liked to test the living as much as he guided the dead, not out of malice, but mischief.

The Sea cradled the Biolentas as her beloved children, her hands gentle and warm as she nurtured them through the wild, untamed chaos of existence, and taught them everything she knew. Each wave she caressed them with, each breath she exhaled, was a promise of protection, a bond forged in the deepest trenches of her waters.

Eons passed once again in a restless dance of creation and destruction, a world alive yet frenzied, flourishing but ever on the edge of the chaos. It was a world of storms and seasons, of beasts and blooms, of eruptions and souls, a balance that the Sea and the Creator longed for and cherished. It was everything they had dreamed and more. Yet.. it was not meant to last again.

For even the gods grow weary. The Creator, who had once moved the Sun with tireless hands, began to tire of its weight. The world, in its eternal spin, no longer held his gaze. He was bored and his mind, vast and hungry, yearned for more. New worlds, new stars, fresh restarts, glamorous visions to brith from the void. The Earth beneath him and all that had flourished in its light, faded in his attention.

Centuries passed in cold, unbroken silence. The Sun was cast adrift, leaving the world in darkness as the warmth faded with each passing day. The Earth groaned beneath the icy weight of abandonment. The Forest shrunk, caught wildfires, left in the chaos. Creatures huddled together. The fauna withered, the flora perished under the veil that fell upon the land.

An age of silence gripped the Earth and hence the Ice Age was born. The Sea screamed in agony, unable to thaw her waters. The gods watched as life they nurtured dimmed, nearly extinguished.

It was a reflection of the Creator's neglect to his once-prized possession. And so when he returned from the void of his new creations, he beheld a graveyard of his mistakes. Regret tore through him, sharper than any celestial blade that dared harm him. His failure lay bare before him like a wound that refused to heal.

He could not leave it this way. He could not be the cause of the ending of his own creation. No. One last spark of life had to be breathed into the world. A torchbearer who would keep the Sun moving, keep the dance alive, keep the world alight, before he could leave the cradle of Earth and resume building the tapestry of galaxies and stardust.

And so, from the depths of his sorrow and desire to restore, from the core of stars, he brought to life the final Biolenta God: Nika, the Eternal Heir of Light and Shadow.

Nika's existence, though born from the Creator's neglect, carried with it a unique brilliance. Untamed, radiant and full of wonder. The void he was born to fill was not just the absence of light but the absence of joy itself. His laughter echoed across the universe, filling the spaces left silent by forgotten dreams. He was a paradox: created from necessity, yet so pure, so untouched by the scars of the world that he became the embodiment of what the universe longed for—light, warmth, and life. His heart was a sun that burned with a joy that could not be extinguished, even when the darkness crept in.

Beloved, yet distant, he carried the weight of his divine duty, of a protector, on his shoulders with an innocence that could not comprehend the burden. His eyes, full of wonder, beheld the world with curiosity, and yet the beauty of it often evaded his grasp. For, despite being the one to carry the Sun, he was a child of isolation.

The Sea, though she longed to cradle him, could only watch from afar, unable to even embrace her beloved child, unable to nurture him as she had with the others. He was not hers to love. As her love could hurt him and herself. Whenever she would reach out to hold her youngest son, the heat of his soul turned her touch to mist and left them both in tears. She wept quietly, watching from the edge of the world as he continued with dried tears running from his brilliant red eyes that itself held loneliness and longing.

So this is how the world was made whole—not perfect, but living. A world born from divine yearning and sustained by cosmic love. A world where gods walked in wind, forest, souls and sunlight. A world forever dancing to the pulse of its youngest child, who spun the heavens with laughter trailing behind him.

And that, my shining one, is why you must look after the Sun. Because you are not just its keeper. You are its soul."

.

It began with silence. Not the ordinary hush of a base into the sea's cradle, but a silence that suffocated sound itself. The kind that made men stop mid-step and glance up, as if expecting the sky to speak or something terrible to descend in the next moment.

At G-8 Marine Base, the night was always serene. Predictable. Never raising a problem. And the night shift among the marines moved like clockwork. Routines, precise and boring. Patrol rotations always changed with yawns and tired salutes, boots clinking against the polished pathways and oil lamps flaring weakly against the darkness. Even the men there never expected anything out of the ordinary. Not during the day. Not especially during the night.

But tonight, the sea, usually calm within the cratered fortress, sat still as glass. Too still. Too unmoving. Too moody.

The veteran seafarers, who had seen too much to speak too soon, didn't speak of it, but they could feel it, even within their confined cabins. The kind of tension that made animals flee. The kind of quiet that came before storms. The kind that whispered like a bad omen. The wind wasn't blowing. Not a single seagull was crying. Even the little insects had gone quiet.

It was only moments later when it happened. It almost felt as if nature itself had cracked. As if the world split open.

The still waters were stirring—slowly at first—before gentle ripples turned into waves. The ever-calm sea inside the base, untouched by storms and the raging ocean of the Grand Line, was trashing and churning like a beast in chains, demanding absolute control and freedom. Winds howled out of nowhere, rattling shutters and blowing out torches, leading to bursts of sudden darkness. Even the ever-present moon bid goodbye, the stars mourning a farewell, leaving a pitch-black sky in its wake.

A flash in the sky, followed by a monstrous streak of thunder, shattered the eerie night. Something was falling. But there was no time to register what, as the thunder and lightning crackled in the sky ominously. Whispering of judgement as a shape hurtled downwards with an unimaginable force.

A scream was heard. It didn't feel human. Incomparable to even that of a beast. Or the raging storms of the Grand Line.

It was raw. Shredded. Agonizing. A scream of pain so sharp and otherworldly that it froze blood in veins and stopped hearts mid-beat. With soldiers clutching their ears. Some even dropped to their knees, eyes wide, hearts in frenzy. While others were too stunned to even react as the sound rattled the iron fences and cracked glass.

SPLASH!

The sea exploded. Water rose like a geyser, and the already rippling waves became a crashing maelstrom as a ship smashed into its heart, its hull screeching as it scraped the inner cliffs. The saltwater drenched the watch towers, and flooded torches hissed and went out.

It was chaos that had knocked on the door of the G-8 Marine Base.

The marines had a hard time even processing the impossible: a ship falling from the sky.

"..S-SOUND THE ALARM!" Only seconds later, a marine got hold of his sanity and shouted out, freeing the others of the horror.

"Was it a ghost…? I-Is the base h-haunted?" A terrified marine squeaked, but it was no time for that.

"VICE ADMIRAL JONATHAN MUST BE INFORMED IMMEDIATELY! INTRUDERS AT THE BASE!"

"CAPTURE THE INTRUDERS! FIND THE SOURCE OF THAT DAMN SCREAM—NOW!"

Boots thundered against the stone, braving the storm which had announced its presence. Lights flickered on, fighting against the frenzied winds that wanted nothing more than to lead the way to darkness. Shutters were slammed open, even though they were broken. Rifles raised in the hands of marines, ready to chase after the anomaly that scared them. Orders were barked like war drums, ready to fight.

But far below them, in the landlocked sea waters, the Going Merry rocked quietly, ghostlike in the sudden lull with the water trickling off its sides like tears. The ship almost looked abandoned, crying and groaning like an old soldier trying to stand again.

The residents of the ship had vanished. Before even a single spark of light dared to touch the ship. They had scattered like shadows slipping into the cracks of the base, moving with practiced precision and urgency. One sharp nod between them in the silence was all that was required. No words, just understanding.

Stay together—but if chaos hits, survive.

But chaos didn't just hit them, it screamed with the storms and the ghostly winds. Ripping them all apart.

Hence, somewhere between the shattered peace and the shouts of approaching marines, Zoro had taken the lead, with Sanji right behind him and the others lost in directions unknown to them. They ran, boots slamming against stone, soaked in saltwater and adrenaline, both of them ducking into shadowed corners.

Zoro's arms were full. Heavy. But not the kind of heavy that came from muscle or weight. It was the weight of Luffy.

"Dammit," Zoro muttered under his breath, rounding another corner, his heart pounding loud. "Why're you always like this, Luffy.."

Sanji had been beside him—yelling something, boots splashing in the puddles—until one turn, one split-second glance, and the cook was gone. Lost in the crumbling maze of chaos. Separated from him like the others. But Zoro didn't stop to look. He couldn't. Not with Luffy in his arms.

Luffy, who was limp. Unmoving. Unresponsive. Waves of pain were ghosting across his face like waves across a drying shore. And that face—

"What the hell.." Zoro uttered, looking at the little bundle in his arms—looking properly this time— after ducking beneath a shattered window as the storms tried to tear the base apart around them, with his brows furrowed.

Zoro knew Luffy was way too small for his age. Always had been slender and wild like a sunbeam with too much energy but this—this wasn't right.

Luffy wasn't just small. He was tiny in his arms, which looked giant compared to the little body. He was shrunken into what looked like the body of a child barely three—or maybe five—years old. His red t-shirt was drooping over shoulders far too tiny, slipping to expose the delicate collarbones that shouldn't have looked so fragile. His shorts had bunched up around his legs that were barely thicker than Zoro's wrist. Even his hat's string dangled loose around a neck too small to fit.

"What the hell happened to you…" Zoro whispered, his voice cracking low with something dangerously close to fear.

The oversized clothes were clinging to him, waterlogged and heavy, and Zoro absolutely didn't like how cold and hot Luffy's skin felt at the same time. He hated how light his captain suddenly was. Like he might just disappear in the wind. He hated the tremors of pain that racked the small frame of his captain.

Zoro slid into a side corridor, sheltered briefly from the wind, and adjusted his grip—cradling Luffy closer, more careful now. His heartbeat was rising, in panic and fear, which Zoro hated to acknowledge.

His captain's small face was repetitively crunched with pain, brows scrunched, his nose wrinkling, and his small teeth gritting like he was trying to choke back cries that threatened to turn into screams. But even then, he whimpered softly, like a wounded baby. Even his black hair was no longer just messy. It was dirty white at the tips—streaked like burnt clouds. And his face was pale. Ghostly pale. Paler than the Nika form of his.

Zoro's heart lurched. In a way, he absolutely hated.

"Tch.. what the hell is this now," Zoro muttered, trying to keep his voice gruff—a part of him knowing that he can't be weak right now in face of his captain's suffering. "You shrinkin' yourself for stealth missions now, Captain Dumbass?" He didn't mean it. Not really, but jokes were easier to say than what he felt—fear, despair, dread.

Carefully, he adjusted Luffy in his arms. One arm under Luffy's legs and the other cradling his head gently, making sure that he didn't feel any discomfort. But that's when he felt it. Something wet and warm. Sticky.

Zoro's fingers hesitated for a moment as his eyes flicked down. The shadows and the frenzied wind parted just enough to reveal strands of Luffy's hair sticking to his skin—and blood. With a very little portion of red in the golden, glowing blood. Flowing sluggishly from a deep gash on the side of Luffy's head.

His head was matted, the white-tinged ends clinging to his cheeks, with his features contorted in a pain he wasn't even conscious enough to express.

For a second Zoro didn't move. He froze, before his fingers moved gently—too gently for a man known for splitting boulders—to brush Luffy's hair aside to check the wound.

The storm didn't matter. The alarms didn't matter. Nor did the marines running in a frenzy to search for them. All that mattered for this. This tiny, small form in his arms bleeding from the skull.

A thousand memories flashed through Zoro's mind. Of laughter, of meat fights, of cherry plays and dances of Luffy like a goofy little kid high on sugar on the Sunny, grinning at monsters as if they were nothing. That idiot grin. That stupid sunshine smile. That unkillable light. The joyous flight.

But now—this. The sight of Luffy crying in pain, the sight of him bleeding, the sound of his cries, the heat and cold radiating off his body at the same time. It was shattering. It was troubling.

"D-Dammit, Luffy." Zoro murmured, his voice shaking and cracking at the end as he yanked his bandana off his upper arm, the same one he usually tied to his head when things got serious and wrapped it tightly around Luffy's skull. The cloth stained instantly with the divine blood, glowing—but Zoro didn't care. "You're supposed to bounce back, idiot… That's your thing. Y-You get hurt, and you laugh it off. You don't.." His fingers trembled. "You don't look like this."

Zoro pressed the fabric against the wound firmly yet gently, careful not to jostle the kid too much. The kid god he babysits. His little moron. His captain.

Zoro took a breath. Then another. "Hang in there," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "We have been through worse, right? I'll get you fixed up. Promise."

One hand cradling the tiny wrapped head, the other locking Luffy's tiny securely against his chest before hiding him using his jacket, like he was the only treasure in his world, Zoro stood, back straightening.

"I'll get you out of here." Zoro promised, his eyes already looking around, scanning for any sign of Sanji or the others, for any damn sign of where to go. But what he saw instead was the wave of approaching lanterns, of boots slamming stone and voices shouting.

Marines.

And beyond them, their destination was the waters.

"Zoro! Can you sneak Luffy to the sea? Cause she heals him!"

Sabo had told when Luffy had fallen severely ill and when they had rushed towards Drum Island but ended up getting saved by Luffy instead.

Zoro gritted his teeth.

The sea was cut off. The ocean was where the Marines were heading. The Base was waking up in full fury. With rifles, cannons and spotlights. Hell, maybe the Vice Admiral himself was on his way.

Zoro glanced down at Luffy, the kid's face pale as ash, his lips parted as if he was stuck in a nightmare. Zoro clenched his jaw. He could fight. He could cut every damn Marine in the base down if he had to. He wanted to. But even as he said it aloud, even as he growled under his breath at the sight of the marines entering the Merry, he hesitated.

Because Luffy flinched. Because his captain was trembling in his arms. Not from pain. But from the weight of his own body being jostled. From the discomfort.

Zoro stared at Luffy. At the kid he swore to follow into hell with no hesitation. At the tiny kid who laughed with the sun in his veins. And now, he looked like he'd been crushed by the sky and the sun itself. By the very powers which ran in his little body.

Zoro lowered his head, leaning slightly on the tiny head of his captain, whispering to him. "I'll get you to water, Captain," he promised, voice hoarse. "I swear on my blade. You just.. Don't die on me, okay?"

.

This was not the plan. Not the plan at all!

"Shitty mosshead!" Sanji groaned, kicking a broken piece of marine architecture like it personally offended him. "Can't he even keep running on a straight path for five damn minutes?!"

His boots were cracking through the tile, the echo swallowed instantly by the roaring winds and distant raging seas. The base was still alive, with marines searching for them everywhere. On top of that, it seemed like the sky was weeping thunder, the walls bleeding shadows and somewhere, far too far for Sanji's liking, Zoro had disappeared.

"I told him to follow me, that one track directional disaster!" Sanji raged to the empty hallways, jabbing a finger at nothing like he was still talking to the moronic swordsman. "One time! One time I ask him not to take a wrong turn and he vanishes into the walls like a fool!"

It wasn't even half an hour ago that they'd been together—Zoro running, Sanji beside him, both soaked to the bone and dripping with rain and tension that came with the crew scattered and their captain in an unknown mess. They had no time to lose.

Sanji had stuck close. Not just because Zoro was carrying Luffy but because Sanji needed to make sure they didn't walk straight into a pit trap or worse, a room full of marines. But even then—even then, they got separated. Even then, Zoro couldn't follow him.

On top of that, when Sanji realized that he was all alone, with no Zoro nearby, it was too late. His nose was already twitching and picking up the scent of salt, searing butter and meat. Sanji had all, but intended to slip in, grab a few energy rich food for Luffy and bolt.

"But of course, I got distracted!" Sanji groaned, running a hand through his hair, and sighed in exasperation, but a little smile curled at the edges of his lips. Because honestly, he had gotten distracted. By a lovely lady marine chef who had stared at him with wide, strict eyes as he'd burst into the kitchen like a mess, dripping rain and menace and elegance in every stride.

"Can I help you?" She had started.

"No. But I can help you, mademoiselle," He'd purred with a bow, already reaching for her ladle. "Step aside before you insult food ever again." He'd meant to grab something, maybe steal a few packs of preserved seaweed in the midst of confusion, but the moment he saw the kitchen's state, the amount of food waste of ingredients, Sanji snapped. He could not disregard the crimes against cuisine, mountains of wasted broth and a complete disregard for proper slicing technique.

Ten minutes later, he found himself elbows deep in fish guts and soup correction with the attention of every damn chef present in the large kitchen. Teaching. Lecturing. After all, the ocean doesn't hand out freebies and food is scarce as it is. He had demonstrated how even scraps—ever scale, every bone, everything—could be transformed into gourmet dishes, leaving the Marine chefs both humbled and impressed.

Proud of his impromptu culinary lessons and the marines actually listening and taking notes, Sanji had grabbed what he could. Dried seaweed, nutrient bars, protein rolls, the softest rice balls he could pack in wax paper. All of this for Luffy who was suffering. He'd stashed them all carefully inside his jacket, triple layered and sealed tight, even through the wetness and made an escape to find the dumbass directionally challenged moron and his idiot captain.

Now, navigating through the marine base, escaping the eyes of the marines, Sanji sighed, "That moss-headed idiot better not have gotten himself lost."

He attempted to use his Observation Haki, still in its beginning stages, to locate Zoro and Luffy but the results were inconclusive as a gust of wind cut him off. Not random, not wild. But soft and purposeful as if it was trying to guide him.

Sanji blinked, breath catching for just a second, as he recognized the familiarity of it. It was the sentient winds which Luffy—Nika—carried himself with in Skypiea, gently wrapping around them when he laughed too hard or when he wanted to do some mischief. And now, it seemed to be calling him.

Sanji didn't hesitate. He didn't think. He just followed down a flight of stairs. Across a broken archway. Left, right, right again, left. And there, in the heart of the dead corridor, beneath a collapsed wooden frame, soaked in rain, pride, exhaustion, and worry, was Zoro.

"I finally found you, you dumbass." Sanji exhaled, the word filled with slight laughter and relief.

Zoro jerked his head up, looking more messed up than usual. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, and his coat was draped strangely around his torso.

"What took you so long?" Zoro grunted, trying to sound nonchalant, but Sanji didn't miss the tension in his shoulders.

"I was babysitting the kitchen staff, thanks very much," Sanji shot back, stepping closer. "Unlike someone, I don't just walk off in the wrong direction because a shadow looks familiar."

Zoro opened his mouth, clearly ready to retort, but then Sanji saw it. The bulge. Near Zoro's stomach, where his hands were cradling something, something wrapped inside the inner folds of his jacket like a delicate treasure.

"What the hell..?" Sanji whispered, creeping closer, his eyes narrowing. "Is that—"

The coat shifted—it freaking trembled. Then, a tiny, pale hand slipped out, followed by the faintest, painful whimper.

Zoro shifted the jacket, allowing Sanji to see the small face pressed weakly against Zoro's chest. And Sanji went still.

It was Luffy.. but at the same time wasn't. This.. this was a child. No older than four or five. Fragile-looking, with his hair tinged with white at the ends, and face pale like the moon with remnants of golden blood bleeding, only staunched by the bandana—Zoro's bandana—wrapped around his head.

Sanji's eyes widened, a mix of concern and disbelief washing over him. "What.. happened?" He whispered. He wouldn't have believed that it was Luffy, if not for the familiar white strands of hair tugging at the ends, or the strawhat which was hanging loosely near his neck, or the oversized clothes which hung loosely on his small body.

Zoro looked down at the bundle like he was holding a live bomb. "He shrank.. after the crash. I don't know how or why. But he's bleeding and cold and warm. So I wrapped him up and.. Figured the jacket would keep him warm."

Sanji's eyes twitched. "You wrapped a toddler in your sweaty-rain soaked jacket?! That's your solution?!"

Zoro frowned, defensive. "That was all I had at that moment."

"But that isn't sanitary, moron! Not for a toddler!" Sanji retorted, his eyes already searching for something to keep Luffy warm.

"It's better than leaving him naked in these freezing hallways, curlybrow! And I'm warm!" Zoro argued back.

"Better idea: you try finding something that is actually dry or shout out for help to me!"

Zoro grumbled something that sounded like 'drama queen', but Sanji ignored him. His heart was still thundering in his chest, eyes locked on the tiny form now curled tighter into Zoro's chest, breathing shallow but steady. Sanji reached into his jacket and pulled out one of the seaweed bars, unwrapping it quietly.

Zoro looked over. "You think he can eat?"

Sanji didn't answer at first. Just gently held the bar near the small face, making Luffy stir, just slightly, his lips parting. And then—miraculously—he bit. Weak. Pathetic little nibbles. But he chewed. Eyes fluttering—golden irises peeking. Barely conscious. But eating.

Sanji exhaled, voice trembling. "That's our captain," he whispered in slight relief, glad to know that now Luffy would have at least some energy.