Chapter 16: "The Year The Sun Forgot Us"

The waterfall had never roared this loud before.

Not in the way that demanded attention—but in the way grief made noise when no one else dared to. The cascade struck down in sheets of cold silver, crashing over stone with relentless fury.

Beneath it, Ace sat with fists clenched, shirtless, soaked, and motionless. Legs crossed, posture rigid. He didn't blink. Didn't twitch. The waterfall struck like hammers across the boy's shoulders.

Each drop smashed into him, cascading from the cliffside above with weight meant for stone—not flesh. He accepted it.

Not out of penance.

Out of refusal.

Refusal to move until the ache became numb.

Refusal to forget the warmth of a third voice now gone silent.

Refusal to cry—not because it made him weak, but because it made things real.

His cracked knuckles rested in his lap, bruises like old bruises on top of new ones. Blood threaded down his fingers but vanished as quickly as it came, swallowed by the stream circling him like an unwelcome ritual. His eyes were open, bloodshot, focused on the tremble in his own hands.

The cold was meant to numb him.

It didn't.

His shoulders tensed. Not from the cold.

From the memory.

"ACE! SABO!"

Laughter. That awful, too-loud Sabo laugh that always came before someone got punched in the face with a muddy glove.

The forest had rung with it.

Now it was gone.

Ace grit his teeth harder. A drop of water clung to his lip like a tear.

He hadn't cried. Not once. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

He just trained.

He punched.

He bled.

And he broke.

Not loudly. Not publicly. Just enough to notice it in the way he hit harder when no one was watching. Or the way his fists shook when they stopped moving.

Just beyond the brush, crouched beneath a broad fig tree, Luffy sat clutching his straw hat like a prayer he didn't know how to speak. His arms were looped tightly around his knees, chin tucked in, shoulders small. A breeze stirred his hair. He didn't look up.

He didn't say anything. He didn't move.

He just watched his brother get drenched by the mountain's grief.

He didn't understand how to help. Every time he tried to joke, Ace ignored him. Every time he offered food, Ace turned away. So Luffy stopped offering. He just sat and watched and whispered to himself sometimes:

"Sabo's not gone."

But he didn't believe it.

Not really.

The water kept falling.

And Ace kept enduring it like a vow.

And above them both—sitting still as stone on the thickest branch of a sakura tree—Krishna had returned.

His legs were drawn up, nano machine mask receding back into his face, midnight-black eyes observing without blinking.

Eyes so still they didn't shimmer.

So deep they didn't reflect.

He had arrived in Foosha just that morning. A full week after disappearing to face Arlong. Tamed a sea king with nothing but a look and a pulse of Conqueror's Haki—a cow-like behemoth that had once terrorized an East Blue route—and ridden it across the sea like a stormchild returning to earth.

He hadn't announced his return yet. Not to Makino. Not to Luffy. Not even to Ace.

He hadn't gone home.

stormchild returning to earth.

He'd stepped onto Foosha's soil quietly. No declaration. No parade. No acknowledgment. And followed the pull of grief—grief that rolled like thunder through the trees, down the rivers, into the hearts of two boys that once laughed louder than the forest ever could.

Ace twitched.

The water hit harder. Or maybe his shoulders sank an inch.

His breathing sharpened. His body jerked forward suddenly, fists slamming into the rocks beside him.

A single, bone-deep strike into the shallow rock in front of him. 

Then another. And another. 

Again. Again.

Blood bloomed anew, splashing into the mist around his legs.

"I should've protected him!"

"I should've seen it!"

"I should've been there!"

The scream tore from his throat like gravel.

The birds in the trees scattered.

Luffy flinched.

Krishna didn't move.

The waterfall drowned the words out—but Krishna heard every syllable through the quake in Ace's aura. He didn't need sound.

Ace's hands pounded the stone, over and over, until the skin on his knuckles peeled again, blood mixing into the stream. Water roared around him, uncaring. It didn't pause. Didn't flinch.

Neither did Krishna.

But his eyes narrowed—softened.

His right hand lowered to his side, fingertips brushing the bark. He could feel Ace's emotions clearer than ever. Not with Observation Haki alone—but with knowing. With memory.

"They were more than brothers," he thought.

"They were pieces of each other."

The pain was loud enough.

Luffy stood slowly, barefoot, toes curling into the earth.

"Ace…"

His voice was hoarse from underuse. "Stop…"

No response.

"You're hurting yourself."

Ace didn't turn. Didn't stop.

Another strike. Blood.

Luffy stepped into the water. The cold hit his skin like knives. He didn't care.

"You'll break your hands…"

"I don't care!" Ace's voice cracked—raw and hollow. "I'd break my whole body if it brought him back!"

Luffy stood in silence, waist-deep in water. His hands trembled.

The water kept falling.

Krishna's fists clenched slightly on the branch above—but he didn't move.

Not yet.

Because some grief had to finish burning before it could be tended.

But he clenched the branch harder.

Flashback – One Week Ago

Cocoyashi burned with tension.

Krishna stood atop Arlong's corpse—expression unreadable, cloak dripping. The villagers, the wind, the world itself stood still as he turned and walked into the trees, bloodless but undeniable.

Krishna looked down at the Fishman warlord's corpse, then at the wounded villagers huddled near Bell-mère's porch. His heart didn't race. His breathing didn't change. He just turned and walked into the trees.

Behind him, fear had ended.

Ahead of him, memory waited.

That night, the stars followed his path across the sea.

The next morning, the sea king broke the surface, lowing like a cow at thunder.

Krishna rode it.

No fanfare. No announcement.

Just a silent return across the tides.

Now, he stood again in the canopy above his brothers. The same distance. The same quiet strength.

But something in his chest—just behind the sternum—ached.

He wanted to leap down.

To hold them.

To say it would be okay.

But he didn't know if it would be.

Krishna exhaled slowly. The mist swirled around his face.

He didn't need to look any closer. He could feel the fracture in Ace's soul. The wound in Luffy's.

The absence of Sabo had left a crater where fire once lived.

And the worst part?

He knew Sabo wasn't gone.

He could still sense that lingering flame. That thread of spirit in their bond—like a heartbeat just beyond the veil. But not clear enough to chase. Not strong enough to follow.

He didn't even know if the Revolutionaries had him.

Didn't know if this world—the one cracking beneath his every footstep—had warped Sabo's fate too far off course. If his presence had fractured canon too far.

If saying anything now would help—or make it worse.

He couldn't offer hope yet.

So he didn't.

Luffy's voice wavered.

"I miss him…"

He reached for Ace—but stopped halfway. His hand fell to his side.

Krishna closed his eyes.

He'd seen wars. He'd cracked open worlds.

But this?

This was grief that didn't scream. It just sat beside you and waited until you forgot how to breathe.

And so Krishna sat in the tree, unmoving.

But later—when the time was right—he would descend.

And say nothing.

And wrap both brothers in the silence only family could understand.

The scent of morning broth drifted through Dadan's home like a ghost that didn't know where it belonged.

Makino moved in quiet loops through the kitchen. There was no humming today. No clatter. Just the measured, almost meditative rhythm of someone doing something not to serve a purpose—but to feel something familiar. There was no rhythm to it today. The clatter of chopsticks, the warmth of her usual humming — all of it was absent.

The room was half-lit. Smoke from the hearth hung low, curling into old corners. One window creaked open in the wind.

Makino laid two bowls on the table.

She stared at the space beside them for a long time. Her hand hovered over the cupboard again.

Finally, slowly, she reached for a third.

She placed it down as if setting a grave marker.

The front door creaked.

She didn't glance at the door.

She didn't have to.

Her hands stopped. Then slowly, deliberately, she reached for another bowl.

Three, now.

Like it used to be.

She turned and placed them on the table without a word.

She did not turn until the faintest gust of cold sea wind swept in—carrying with it a presence that made the hair on Luffy's arms rise. He turned his head, eyes wide — not in surprise, but in recognition. As if he'd felt Krishna's presence before he'd seen him.

And then he stood there.

Krishna.

Still half-shadowed, soaked cloak trailing droplets on the floor, face bare of his lower mask, his hair wind-tangled.

But his midnight black eyes — deep and unblinking — shimmered softly at the edges, betraying weariness, restraint… and something Makino hadn't seen in years,

Sorrow.

He looked older.

Not in body—but in weight.

The kind of weight that gods carry when they've walked too far alone.

Luffy stood without thinking.

"Krishna…"

The name escaped like breath after a long underwater dream.

His legs moved as if they were chasing the light.

Then Luffy was up, crossing the room in uneven, childlike steps. He didn't run. He just… moved. And when he reached Krishna, he pressed his small frame against him like a raft clinging to shore—arms wrapping around his waist, face pressed into his chest.

No words. No hesitation. No permission.

Just need.

Krishna froze for a second.

Then his arms lowered. One curled protectively around Luffy's back, the other rested gently on the boy's head.

Gentle. Steady.

It was quiet.

Luffy didn't sob. He didn't speak.

But Krishna felt the tremble. The breath that caught in his throat. The way the boy was holding onto him like a lifeline.

"He's gone," Luffy whispered, voice muffled.

It hit Krishna like a blade he couldn't block.

Not because he believed it.

But because they did.

And that mattered more than what was true.

His eyes closed, and the faintest hitch caught in his breath.

He felt it all. Every pulse of Luffy's grief. Every ache vibrating through those thin shoulders. Every unshed tear crushed into fabric.

Luffy didn't move. Didn't cry loudly. Just held on.

Makino turned away and stirred the pot again, pretending she hadn't seen the flicker of tears behind Krishna's eyes.

Behind them, boots scuffed the wood.

Ace stood in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes like flint.

He was dry now, mostly. A faint bandage wrapped around one knuckle. His stare cut through the air. His shoulders were tight, fists tight.

"You came back late." he said.

It wasn't an accusation. Not quite. Just a fracture in the wall.

Not angry. Not cold. Just... dulled.

Krishna didn't let go of Luffy, but he looked over his shoulder, eyes calm.

"I had to finish something," Krishna replied evenly.

Ace scoffed. "Yeah? You finish bringing him back?"

Krishna didn't flinch.

Luffy pressed closer against his chest, trembling lightly.

"No," Krishna said. "No one can."

That hurt more than it helped. But it was the truth.

"You missed the fire," Ace said.

"I didn't need to see it," Krishna replied, voice low. "I could feel it across the sea."

They stared at each other.

Then Ace sighed, stepped in, and sat at the table without another word.

Makino moved around them quietly, setting chopsticks beside each bowl. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if placing ritual offerings.

When she finished, she sat. Hands in her lap. Back straight.

Dadan arrived shortly after, carrying a fresh bandage roll and muttering to herself about "damn wolves trying to chew on the fence again." She paused in the doorway when she saw Krishna.

She blinked at Him, frowned, and muttered, "Finally decided to show your face, huh?"

"I never left for long," Krishna replied softly.

"Tch. Took your sweet time."

Krishna nodded.

"I brought dumplings," he offered, pulling a small, tied cloth from his side pouch.

Dadan perked up, and snatched them without ceremony. "You didn't poison these, did you?"

For a moment, the air shifted — not into laughter, but into something adjacent. Something that might become it again someday.

Dadan shoved one into her mouth. "Hmph. Still too spicy."

Makino smirked faintly. "I missed your terrible sense of seasoning."

Krishna gave the smallest shrug. It didn't reach his lips.

But it reached his eyes.

And they all felt it.

Makino, without comment, served rice into each bowl.

Three bowls.

No one questioned it.

No one moved the third.

They ate in silence.

Luffy didn't let go. He stayed pressed to Krishna's side, chewing slowly when fed. Like a bird learning how to eat again after falling out of the sky.

Ace ate with one hand and kept his other clenched beneath the table.

Makino's eyes shimmered once. Just once.

Dadan ate three dumplings in a row and scowled at nothing in particular.

Krishna didn't remove his mask. He ate slowly, politely, methodically—never drawing attention.

But his eyes smiled once—barely.

Just enough for Makino to see it.

And she did.

And she said nothing.

Because sometimes a flicker of warmth from someone that never shows it… is enough to thaw the whole table.

Later, after dinner, the bowls were cleared.

The sky above Foosha was soft gray. No moon. No storm. Just that eternal, aching stillness that always follows a wound no one can clean.

Luffy had fallen asleep with his head on Krishna's shoulder. Ace leaned against the post beside him. Silent. Arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling as if it owed him answers.

Krishna didn't look at him.

Ace didn't either.

But they sat there. Together.

The weight didn't feel lighter.

But it no longer felt unbearable.

Inside, Makino rinsed the dishes.

She paused over the third bowl.

The one no one touched.

The one everyone looked at.

Then, wordlessly, she dried it… and placed it back on the shelf.

Not out of forgetting.

But out of love.

Because someday—if that seat was ever filled again—

She wanted it ready.

Timeskip — A three days later.

The fire pit behind Dadan's house had always been their arena. It was no longer just a patch of dirt.

It was memory. Scar. Altar.

The earth bore grooves from two years of sweat and bruises. Trees still stood scarred from missed strikes and wild kicks. And the worn stumps that once served as seats were now polished by routine into thrones of defiance.

Today, it bore witness again.

Krishna stood in the center now, barefoot.

Loose white shirt tugged by the breeze. Hair a touch longer than before. No mask—he hadn't worn it since stepping back onto Foosha soil. His midnight-black eyes shimmered beneath the rising dusk.

His arms were folded, but his stance wasn't closed.

It was waiting.

Ace stood across from him, shirt tossed over his shoulder, fists wrapped. Luffy bounced on the balls of his feet nearby, eyes wide, excited—but cautious.

"You're not gonna go easy, are you?" Ace asked, squinting.

Krishna smiled.

It was the kind that didn't reach his mouth.

But it shone in his eyes.

"No," he said softly. "But I won't go hard either. Let's meet in the middle."

Luffy grinned. "I like the middle!"

Ace cracked his neck. "Tch. You would."

A crackle—small and sharp—snapped between Ace's fingertips.

A fine black sheen shimmered briefly across his knuckles.

Krishna raised an eyebrow.

"Solid," he noted, nodding.

Ace smirked. "Basic hardening. Took me long enough."

Behind him, Luffy grinned. "Mine too!"

He stretched out a hand—and with a tiny, shaky fizzle, the same black coating formed unevenly over his palm.

Krishna's eyes sharpened.

"Observation?"

"Solid range," Ace answered. "About thirty meters. Consistent."

"I can hear bird heartbeats!" Luffy grinned wide. "Ace said it's creepy, but I think it's cool."

"Very creepy," Ace muttered.

Krishna chuckled.

It was quiet. Barely a breath. But it was there.

And they felt it.

They began slow.

Just steps, footwork, feints. Krishna was a rhythm they remembered—but couldn't predict. He moved like memory rewritten, familiar yet impossibly refined.

Krishna danced around Ace's jabs with flowing Soru steps—measured, efficient. Ace switched stances mid-combo and released a burst of pressure that knocked a few leaves from the trees.

Krishna stopped.

Mid-step.

His eyes fixed on Ace.

"You controlled that?"

Ace's mouth twitched. "Mostly."

"You used to lose control when you flared it."

"I don't flare anymore," Ace said. "I command."

Krishna smiled again. A little wider this time.

Then turned to Luffy.

"Your turn."

Luffy sprinted forward—uncoordinated grace, instinct and chaos bundled into a boy with no brakes.

He leapt. Twisted midair.

His foot came crashing down.

Krishna raised one arm lazily to block—

And paused.

Because as Luffy's strike connected, the air cracked.

A pulse.

Small.

But impossible to mistake.

It shimmered out in a wave of raw, barely-controlled presence.

Conqueror's Haki.

Not overwhelming. Not refined.

But born.

"I did it!", Luffy cheered with a happy smile, something he did after a long time.

Krishna stared at him, then ruffled his hair.

"You just got a little louder."

Ace whistled. "Took you long enough."

"Hey!"

Flashback — Just a day ago.

It didn't happen during training.

It didn't happen during laughter.

It happened when Luffy couldn't hold the silence anymore.

They were sparring. Ace against Krishna. Controlled bursts of Haki colliding, stirring dust into the air.

Luffy was supposed to watch.

But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Not from fear.

From ache.

From emptiness.

He stood there with wide eyes and a clenched jaw as Krishna and Ace moved like flames locked in a dance.

And suddenly—

It was too much.

The image of the broken boat.

The third bowl on the table.

The absence in their trio.

The way Krishna looked at him—not with pity, but with understanding.

He screamed.

Not a battle cry.

A sob given shape.

"Sabo was ours!"

And then—the world flinched.

A pulse thundered from Luffy's chest.

A single breath of will—untamed, unrefined, divine.

It cracked the branches above.

It sent the birds scattering.

It dropped Dadan to one knee in the distance without knowing why.

Even Ace stumbled, blinking in disbelief.

And Krishna?

He stepped forward, silent, eyes soft.

Luffy was on his knees, breath shallow, eyes wet.

"…What… was that…?"

Krishna crouched before him.

And in a voice like the eye of a storm, he said:

"Your heart roared. And the world listened."

Luffy sniffled. "I didn't mean to…"

Krishna shook his head. "You didn't call it. You became it."

No sparks.

No lightning.

Just a boy in grief—

And the first taste of the sea trembling at his voice.

Back to the present.

Ace came in first with a jab. Krishna parried with two fingers.

Luffy ducked under Ace and aimed a spinning kick—Krishna bent, pivoted, and caught him by the ankle before setting him gently back down.

Luffy blinked.

"Did you get faster?"

Krishna tilted his head.

"No. You got slower."

"WHAT?!"

Ace barked a laugh, but it turned into a grunt as Krishna swept his leg and dropped him to the dirt.

Luffy joined him a second later.

Makino leaned out the window with a cup of tea in her hands, smiling quietly.

Inside, Dadan grumbled over a pot of stew while pretending not to be watching through the crack in the door.

And in the shade of the trees, the peacock—resting in the sun—stretched her wings, preened herself once, then curled up next to a quietly watchful Sheshika.

The boys sparred until the sweat dripped off them like rain.

Krishna didn't dominate the way he could have. He adapted, adjusted, let them learn.

When Ace launched a flurry of punches infused with solid, basic hardening Armament, Krishna let it connect just enough to test him. When Luffy activated his Haki mid-roll and aimed at Krishna's ribs, Krishna sidestepped—but praised the instinct.

"You're feeling the rhythm better," he told Luffy.

"You're letting me hit you," Luffy huffed.

"Am I?"

Luffy squinted. "…You're not."

Ace landed beside him, panting. "Showoff."

Krishna shrugged. "It's my job."

"To be annoying?"

"To be better."

Ace narrowed his eyes. "You're smiling."

Krishna blinked.

Then tilted his head slightly. "Am I?"

Makino's voice floated over the clearing like a breeze.

"You are," she said from the doorway. "You didn't used to."

Krishna looked down, one hand brushing hair from his face.

"I forgot what it felt like."

Makino smiled. "Then don't forget again."

Training turned to sparring. Sparring turned to play.

Luffy dodged using full Kami-e reflexes. Ace tested his Armament against Krishna's parries, even managing a light graze across his forearm. Luffy leapt between trees, his Observation flickering erratically but present.

Krishna flowed between them—sometimes guide, sometimes wall, sometimes mirror.

He didn't overpower.

He tempered them.

And though he could've ended every exchange in one move…

He chose not to.

Because the joy wasn't in winning.

It was in the way Luffy's laugh returned when he landed a hit.

It was in the way Ace's eyes burned not with rage—but purpose.

It was in the way their bodies moved without hesitation toward each other again.

They ended lying on their backs in the clearing, sweat drying, hearts slowing.

From the porch, Makino sipped her tea.

She didn't call out.

She didn't interrupt.

She just smiled and whispered to herself:

"They've come back to each other."

Dadan pretended to be asleep on the bench but peeked through one eye.

"Brats," she muttered. "All of 'em."

When the sun finally dipped and the stars blinked on overhead, they collapsed on the field like boys again.

The stars began to emerge in early ink-blue skies.

Krishna lay with his arms folded behind his head, eyes half-closed, silent, smiling softly.

Luffy lay curled beside him like a cat, head resting on Krishna's stomach.

Ace kicked his leg over Krishna's shin like a lazy brother staking territory.

None of them spoke for a while.

Then Ace muttered, "Do you think he would've liked this?"

Krishna didn't open his eyes.

"He did," he whispered.

Silence again.

Luffy murmured, "Sabo…"

Krishna's hand slowly settled on Luffy's head.

Then, for just a breath of time, his fingers curled.

Gentle. Present.

In the fading light, the three of them lay in the field where they once became brothers.

No words.

Just the comfort of being together.

Of not needing to fix anything for once.

Of simply being.

And when Makino brought out a pot of stew and dropped it between them, they didn't even wait for bowls.

They passed the ladle, burned their tongues, and argued over the last dumpling.

Like the world hadn't broken.

Like the sun hadn't vanished.

Like they still had time.

Because tonight, they did.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn't feel like they were pretending.

It felt like family again.

And somewhere beneath it all, a single line echoed in Krishna's heart,

"This is what gods forget when they look too far above."

The wind over the hill carried no weight. Just stillness.

Krishna sat cross-legged on the southern slope, the dark line of his silhouette merging with the trunk of a crooked tree. From this distance, the entire clearing below looked like a painting—Ace sparring against phantom opponents, Luffy bouncing on invisible springs, and Dadan yelling threats about cracked ribs from the porch.

He didn't join them today.

He just listened.

Beneath his skin, the nano-machines hummed low, powering the receiver rig Medha had woven into the shell of the Den Den Mushi cradled in his palm. Wires flickered with ghost-light. The shell clicked once, then paused.

"No frequencies from the Revolutionaries today," Medha said calmly. "But …there was a repeat ping on Cipher Pol frequencies two hours ago. North-East quadrant. Estimated origin: south of Loguetown."

"Same modulation from last week?"

"Similar. Code fragments from the marine relay echo one name."

Krishna closed his eyes.

"Say it."

A pause.

Then,

"Sabo."

His eyes didn't open.

He sat with his elbows on his knees, body still as stone. He let the wind move around him, but didn't let it touch his thoughts.

The name sat in the air like incense smoke—fragile, lingering, sacred.

"Is it real?" he asked finally.

"I believe so," Medha said. "But it wasn't a call. It was a mention. Code-fragment only."

"…Then he's moving."

"Or being moved."

Krishna looked toward the sea, where the sky met a horizon the world tried to forget.

He exhaled softly.

"How confident are you?"

"Eighty-three percent probability. I've rerun the lexicon protocol four times. It's not conclusive. But it's not an echo."

Another beat of silence.

"I can't chase shadows," he said. "Not yet."

Below, in the clearing, Luffy was mid-spin, attempting to fuse his Gomu Gomu no Fusen with a half-developed Soru technique. He misjudged his angle and slammed comically into a tree trunk.

Dadan snorted from the porch.

Ace groaned. "He's gonna break his neck."

"Already rubber," Dadan said, not even turning from her pot of stew. "Worst case, he just bounces funny."

Makino leaned beside her, arms folded, smiling faintly.

"I don't think I've seen Luffy this determined since…"

Her words faded before they reached the end.

Because they all knew since when.

Since the third bowl stopped being touched.

They were sparring now.

Luffy stood again, rubbing his bruised head, eyes locked on Ace who was now forming a rougher, more stable version of his Armament Haki shell.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

Luffy launched forward again. Ace dodged, flicked his forehead, and Luffy yelped like a kitten.

"You're still slow."

"I'm rubber, not lightning!"

"Then stop being predictable!"

"Predictable!?" Luffy snapped.

"Shut up and punch better!"

Luffy's foot slammed into a tree, sending a cascade of apples raining down on his head.

Ace pointed and laughed.

"You fight like a fruit merchant!"

"You shut up!" Luffy yelled, mouth full of apples.

Dadan threw a boot at both of them. "Save that energy for pirates, you morons!"

Krishna smiled. Just a little.

Not with triumph.

With relief.

Because they were arguing again. Laughing again. Living again.

Even if they didn't know how to say it, the grief had finally shifted from weight to wind.

"I don't want to give them false hope," he said finally, his voice soft as moss.

"I know," Medha replied. "That's why you haven't told them."

"I can feel him," Krishna whispered. "A thread. A heartbeat I once held in my palm. It's faint, but it hasn't stopped."

"But you don't know who holds it now."

He nodded slowly.

"Exactly."

Sheshika slithered up the hill and coiled beside him without a word. Her tail brushed his arm, grounding him.

He leaned back against her scales. She made no sound.

She didn't need to.

As time passed, Ace's fists shimmered faintly with black sheen—his Armament Haki more stable than ever. He threw a flurry of punches through the air, each strike slicing the wind in bursts of compressed force.

Luffy matched him step for step. His Gomu Gomu no Mi techniques had evolved; there was a loose control to his chaos now. The kind that spoke of discipline hidden beneath instinct.

He wasn't just reacting anymore.

He was reading.

Their Observation Haki had matured. Their bodies moved with familiarity. Their souls were beginning to speak in unison again.

Even without Sabo.

Especially because of Sabo.

Medha's voice returned, thoughtful.

"Do you want me to keep intercepting deeper revolutionary bandwidths?"

"Yes," Krishna said. "Every hour."

"And if I find him?"

Krishna didn't hesitate.

"Then we listen. We don't act. Not until we're sure."

"You're afraid of giving them false hope."

"No," he replied. "I'm afraid of giving myself too much."

He sighed. A long breath.

"This world wasn't meant to bear our presence this early. Everything we touch cracks canon."

"It was never your job to follow canon."

"I know," Krishna said. "But if I move too soon, I might rewrite things we were meant to heal."

He glanced toward the sky.

"They don't need a god right now."

Then, quieter, "They need time."

Makino stepped onto the porch, drying her hands with a cloth. She watched the boys. Her gaze drifted to the hill.

She didn't wave. Didn't call.

Just watched.

And whispered to herself:

"Don't lose yourself in waiting, Krishna."

The wind picked up.

Sheshika curled loosely around the base of the tree, her silver scales glimmering in moonlight. She didn't speak. She just listened, like she always did.

Below, Luffy launched another attack.

Ace caught him midair and slammed him to the ground in a headlock.

Dadan bellowed something unintelligible about broken ribs and soup.

And in the midst of it all—between starlight and static—

Krishna sat like a god carved from silence.

Watching.

Waiting.

The sun began its descent.

Dusk painted the trees with fire.

Ace and Luffy collapsed onto the training field, panting, sweaty, smiling.

Their laughter echoed up to Krishna like a distant bell.

He closed his eyes.

And for just a second—

He let himself believe they would all be whole again.

The letter had no name on the envelope.

Just the faint smudge of ink where Ace had pressed too hard on the first try.

He wrote them on bad days—usually after long training sessions, or when Luffy said something dumb and laughed too hard, and it felt like someone was missing from the echo.

He never sent them.

They were folded carefully and tucked beneath the loose floorboard under the boys' shared room. The same one Sabo used to keep his snacks in.

This one was short. Messy.

"We're still training, you know.

Luffy learned to dodge better, kinda.

Krishna says I'm controlling my Haki better.

He still won't let me fight him full out.

I think he's scared I'll win.

We're getting stronger.

But it sucks.

Come back.

Or I'll beat you up."

He folded it in half, then again, slower.

He didn't cry.

Not this time.

He just placed it with the others, then sat on the floor with his back to the wall, arms crossed.

Eyes closed.

Breathing through the ache.

In the far corner of the room, Luffy hunched over a paper, tongue sticking out slightly. His hands were stained with ink and dirt, and the crayons were more wax than color now.

He was drawing again.

The boy in the drawing had a crooked hat and a huge smile. The lines were jagged, and the arms too long. But the face—

It was unmistakably Sabo.

It had a kind of wild joy drawn into it that only someone who'd lived with him could've remembered.

Luffy tucked it under the floorboard beside the letter when Ace wasn't looking.

Then crawled into bed and faced the wall.

Krishna found them later.

He wasn't looking for them.

He was fixing the loose corner of the floorboard, reinforcing it with a new latch when his fingers brushed the folded paper.

He lifted the board—and found a bundle of letters tied with old twine, worn and frayed.

Beside them sat a stack of drawings. Some scribbled. Some folded. One half-burned.

All of them marked with that ache only children could express so truthfully—where the absence was the shape, not the silence.

He unfolded the top page. The drawing stared back at him.

Big smile. Straw hat. Three boys laughing.

The third one never faded.

Krishna smiled—barely—then set the paper down with a reverence he usually reserved for meditating over his Divine Paths.

From his coat, he took a single, long peacock feather—one he had kept tucked behind his collar since the day he found her.

He placed it atop the letter.

A vow.

A marker.

A presence.

Then, he lowered the board back into place.

That night, the forest was quiet.

Even the crickets seemed to respect the silence.

Krishna sat cross-legged atop the hill behind Dadan's home, the small Den Den Mushi receiver buzzing low in his lap. Sheshika curled loosely around him, humming under her breath.

Stars blinked overhead.

Medha's voice flickered into his mind, quiet and precise.

"No revolutionary frequency. Cipher Pol chatter is clean. Marine lines… hold on."

A tiny, high-pitched click.

Then a tone.

Not a message. Not a code.

Just an identifier.

Krishna straightened.

"…What was that?"

Medha didn't answer immediately.

Another crackle. Another flicker of digital breath.

Then,

"It's encrypted. But the source tag reads 'PX-000'. Alias protocol: Kuma."

Krishna didn't move.

His breath slowed. One eye narrowed.

"Confirm?"

"Confirmed."

He closed his eyes.

"Break it."

"I already started," Medha replied. "But it's buried deep. Not just ciphered—eclipsed."

"How long?"

Medha hesitated.

"…Soon."

Krishna opened his eyes.

Midnight black. Deep. Awake.

Below the hill, he could still hear the sound of Ace's breath through the open window.

Luffy murmuring in his sleep.

The creak of Makino closing the kitchen door gently so as not to wake anyone.

The world kept turning.

But the thread had moved.

He placed his palm to the earth and whispered—not as a brother, not as a god, but as both.

"Wait for us."

And somewhere, across the sea, a heartbeat stirred.

The next morning began with silence.

Not the mourning kind. Not the kind that begged to be filled.

Just the kind that sits on shoulders gently, like soft rain.

Garp stood at the edge of the trail near Dadan's house, arms crossed behind his back, staring at nothing in particular. His coat fluttered gently, the words "JUSTICE" faded at the edge. He wasn't chewing anything. Wasn't yelling.

His usual grin was missing—replaced by the kind of silence only warriors and grandfathers wore in private.

He just stood there longer than usual.

Makino walked up behind him with a packed bento box.

"I added the extra dumplings," she said softly.

He didn't turn, just grunted.

"…You really believe he's still alive?" she asked, quieter now.

Garp sighed.

"I believe in my grandsons. All four of 'em."

Then, he added, almost sheepishly,

"Even the one who keeps calling me grandpa like it's an insult."

Makino smiled.

"He means it like a prayer. You just don't hear it."

A pause.

Then Garp asked, almost too quiet,

"He doesn't talk about it, does he? About Sabo."

Makino shook her head.

"He carries it like you carry your coat. Quiet. Heavy. Always."

Garp nodded.

"…He asked me to send people. To look."

"And?"

"I did. No trace."

Another long breath.

"Still… I don't think Krishna believes he's dead."

Back at Dadan's, Luffy was sprawled across the porch, one leg twitching, mouth open in sleep. His straw hat was tilted just enough to block the light.

Ace sat next to him, arms crossed, jaw clenched—but not in anger. Just thought.

He hadn't written another letter last night.

But he kept glancing at the floorboard under his bed like it might answer him anyway.

Dadan barked something about "lazy brats" and "why do I keep feeding four monsters," but her voice was softer today. She only kicked the doorframe. Not the door.

Time passed slowly, with Krishna, Ace and Luffy training, today with more emotion, more energy.

Down by the field, Luffy and Ace were running drills in silence. No banter today. No laughter. Just movement.

Luffy's Gomu Gomu no Pistol snapped a boulder in half.

Ace shattered a tree trunk with one haki-laced punch.

Both paused.

Both turned at the same time, glancing toward the empty patch of earth where Sabo used to train.

They didn't say it aloud.

But they felt it in the way their fists tightened.

In the way they moved faster.

In the way they breathed harder.

Krishna sat beneath the old camphor tree, his eyes closed, face bare under the wind. The mask hadn't returned since the moment he stepped foot back into Foosha.

It was a silent vow, with family, he would not hide.

Makino knelt behind him, a small comb in her hand.

She didn't speak as she moved through his midnight hair—black and untamed as the void. It had grown longer over the past year. The wind tugged at it gently, like it remembered it from when he was smaller, softer.

"You've become…" Makino started, then paused. "I don't even know what."

Krishna tilted his head slightly.

"I've become quiet."

She smiled faintly.

"You were always quiet. But this… this is different."

He didn't answer.

She reached forward and gently tucked a strand behind his ear. Her fingers lingered.

"You still come to me like you did when you were six," she whispered. "Lie down in my lap. Say nothing. Let me fix your hair like it's the only thing that can be fixed."

"I still am," he replied.

She looked down, startled—until she saw the ghost of a smile just touching the edge of his eyes.

"Handsome too," she added teasingly, combing the final knot gently.

Krishna groaned softly. "My hair has structure, not style."

Makino chuckled, but the sound trembled.

He leaned back into her lap.

No words. Just warmth.

"You've grown into someone I'll never reach," she whispered. "But I'll still brush your hair until you forget how heavy your head feels."

He exhaled softly.

"…I remember everything," he murmured.

She smiled through the tears falling silently down her cheeks.

"You always do."

Another tear.

"I just didn't think… I'd still miss you even while you're here."

Krishna reached up, held her wrist gently.

"I'm not gone yet."

"You're already fading," she said.

He didn't argue.

That night, the boys sat around the fire.

The air was heavier. The stars quieter. Even the wood crackled like it knew not to speak too loud.

They didn't talk about Sabo.

They didn't need to.

Luffy stirred the pot. Ace sharpened a stick. Krishna sat with his eyes closed, back straight, listening not just to the forest—but to everything beneath it.

Makino brought out extra cups.

Three.

Then placed the fourth beside them.

She didn't explain it.

None of them asked her to.

Dadan appeared in the doorway, grumbling about how idiots don't eat enough to grow, and who keeps using my knives for training weights, but her voice didn't carry its usual bite.

She placed a hand on Ace's shoulder as she passed.

He didn't flinch this time.

Luffy reached across the fire and silently poured tea into the fourth cup.

He simply placed it beside them.

Just in case.

Steam rose. The scent of herbs drifted.

The seat remained empty.

But not unacknowledged.

Krishna sat a little farther away this time. Not distant—just aware.

His black eyes glimmered in the firelight, watching the way the flames danced between them.

Watching the threads still holding.

Above them, the stars moved on.

And on the hill above Foosha, in a makeshift den of wires and silence, Medha whispered inside Krishna's mind,

"The signal from Kuma… it's pulsing again."

Krishna didn't move.

"I'll be ready when it speaks."

And beneath the flicker of distant starlight, he spoke to no one in particular.

Not with desperation.

Not with longing.

Just a whisper wrapped in certainty.

"He's still alive."

He wasn't looking for a storm anymore.

He was waiting for the moment before it.

Because the world was holding its breath.

And gods, even young ones, know how to listen when the wind shifts.

Time passed, the boys exhausting themselves again, now sitting together.

Ace, Luffy, and Krishna sit in a triangle—back-to-back—to watch the stars.

One cup of tea untouched between them.

Luffy dozing against Ace's shoulder, the fourth cup still warm between them.

A single peacock feather tucked into the tree above their heads.

And the wind, gentle, carrying a name not spoken—but held,

Sabo.

Author's Note:

Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—

This one whispered.

Grief doesn't always roar. Sometimes it curls up at your doorstep and stays until even the sun forgets to rise. That's where we are.

Some of you said Krishna feels too emo for a harem. That he's a suicidal lad playing god.

Here's the truth:

Krishna doesn't want to die.

He just doesn't know how to live yet.

For a long time—long before the story began—he believed he was a burden to those who loved him. That his power, his presence, would break more than it could protect. He lives in that silence.

He trains inside that guilt.

So no, this isn't a harem in the usual sense.

These Nine Women—Navapriya—are not trophies.

They are reflections.

Each one is a piece of him. A wound he carries. A question he hasn't answered yet.

This is not conquest.

This is communion.

And no—he doesn't smile much.

But if you paid attention tonight…

You'll see it's starting to reach his eyes.

He's learning that being divine doesn't mean being untouchable.

It means sitting beside the people you love when they hurt, even if you don't have the words.

Even if you're hurting too.

Next chapter, Krishna walks the East Blue alone.

But solitude doesn't mean silence.

It means clarity.

Let's follow.

—Author out.

(P.S. Luffy tried to brew tea for "emotional balance." He called it "trauma soup."

Ace drank it. Said it tasted like grief, firewood, and crayons. He asked for seconds.)