The skies over Foosha were clear again. No feathers fell today. No storm followed Krishna's feet.
The morning wind curled lazily through the clearing, tugging at laundry lines and rattling open shutters like a child trying to wake a sleeping home. Somewhere in the trees, a bird chirped off-tempo from the usual melody. The air smelled of salt, pine, and stubborn peace.
Krishna knelt by the fence on the west side of Dadan's house, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, fingers dusted with splinters, one hand resting on a cracked post, the other holding a hammer. It was his third repair today. One of Dadan's wild pigs had knocked it loose during a chaotic run after Ace tried to ride it like a buffalo. He wasn't annoyed by the task—there was something meditative in the rhythm of repair. The quiet logic of wear and mending.
The hammer rested beside him now. A new nail, half-driven, glinted in the sun.
Behind him, Luffy's laugh echoed through the yard.
"KRISHNA! LOOK!"
He turned just enough to glance.
Luffy was balancing a mop on his nose, grinning wide-eyed as it tipped forward and thwacked him in the forehead. He collapsed into the dirt like a stunned beetle, arms and legs splayed.
"I call it... mop-style!" Luffy shouted, sprawled.
Ace groaned nearby. "You call everything you trip over 'style,' you fungus-brained idiot."
Krishna said nothing.
He just returned to the fence and measured the fracture in the wood. Splintered at the middle. The knot grain was weaker here — he'd warned Dadan about it three months ago, but she'd said, "Eh, let it break. That way we know what needs fixing."
He smiled faintly at the thought. Then hammered twice, clean and straight.
...
Footsteps crunched over dry grass. A shadow stretched beside his. Makino stood there with two metal cups, steam curling from each like the last breath of dawn.
She offered one silently.
Krishna accepted it without looking up.
"I saw you outside before the sun," she said gently.
"I slept early," he answered.
Makino sat on a wooden crate beside him. "That's not what I asked."
He didn't respond. He took a slow sip.
"Still too sweet," he said finally.
Makino smiled. "Good. Then it's working."
...
Behind them, Dadan's yell cracked through the air,
"ACE! I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU LIGHT THAT BARREL, I'LL STUFF YOU INTO IT!"
Krishna didn't turn. He just shifted slightly, hammer in hand.
Ace yelled back from somewhere near the chicken coop, "IT'S AN EXPERIMENT!"
Dadan's voice boomed, "YOU WANNA EXPERIMENT WITH A SPANKING NEXT?!"
Luffy added, "I WANNA SEE IT EXPLODE!"
Krishna took a long, silent sip of tea.
Makino didn't ask for an explanation. Just sipped alongside him.
...
They sat there a while, quiet, while Ace and Luffy were trying to light the barrel on fire, and it seems to have succeeded
based on the 'BOOM' they heard.
Ace came stomping past, carrying a bucket of wet ash and muttering, "Okay, maybe the explosion wasn't worth it." His hair was half-singed. Luffy chased him with a half-burnt stick like it was a trophy.
Dadan was yelling about ruined laundry.
Krishna didn't move. He hammered again.
"Your brothers missed you, you know," Makino said, her voice soft. "When you left. Even when they didn't say it."
"I know," he said.
She waited.
"But they kept walking forward."
She tilted her head. "And what about you?"
He didn't answer.
...
Down the road, two villagers passed on the dirt path behind the orchard. Their voices weren't loud—but they weren't careful either.
"You see him?"
"Yeah. Still fixing that fence."
"Gives me the chills, that one. Never talks. Never smiles."
"They say he healed someone just by touching them. "
"I heard he killed a sea beast barehanded," whispered the other. "The one with the feather. You saw it, didn't you?"
"No one saw it. That's the point. Things just happen when he's nearby."
A pause.
"I'm telling you — when he snaps, it won't be normal."
...
The nail bent in Krishna's grip.
He hadn't meant to squeeze it.
The hammer paused midair.
Makino looked at him sideways but said nothing. She took a sip.
"Another?" she offered.
"No," he said quietly.
He rose, walked to the fence's side beam, and struck the wood with a clean, surgical strike.
And again.
Crack.
Not just the nail. The wood beneath it split.
Too clean. Too fast. Not careless—just… sharper than necessary.
Makino frowned. "Krishna?"
He stared at the post for a long moment.
"I misjudged the grain."
She didn't believe him, but she didn't push.
...
Medha's voice flickered faintly inside his skull.
"Internal cortisol spike. 14%. Reaction inconsistent with surface stimuli. Emotional variance: unknown origin."
"Possible suppressing factor detected… rerouting analysis…"
He silenced her with a thought.
Not now.
Sheshika, silent until now, stirred around his neck. Her voice slid into his mind like silk on obsidian.
"You are holding something," she said.
"I am holding a hammer," Krishna replied flatly.
"You know that's not what I meant."
He didn't respond. Not with words.
...
Luffy bounded over the side fence with the grace of a drunken monkey.
"KRISHNA! Watch this!"
Krishna turned just in time to see Luffy jump into a backflip, fail halfway, land on his head, and bounce upright with a grin.
"That was called… Sky Bounce Attack!"
Krishna stared.
"Would you like me to explain why gravity disagrees?"
"Would you like to admit it was cool?"
Krishna turned back to the fence. "It was something."
...
Luffy fell in beside him, still holding his stick from earlier.
"I'm gonna fight like Zoro one day! But with four swords! One in my mouth and one in each hand and one tied to my leg!"
"That's not swordsmanship," Krishna said mildly.
"It's a metaphor!"
"...Do you even know what a metaphor is?"
"It's when something means something else!" Luffy beamed. "Like how your face always looks like that when you're happy."
Krishna blinked.
"I'm happy?"
Luffy nodded. "That's your happy face. You're smiling on the inside."
Ace, passing by, deadpanned, "Yeah, and sea kings have bedtime stories."
Luffy posed with the stick in his mouth and one between each hand, puffing his cheeks like a warrior.
Krishna stood, walked past him silently, and said, "Your center of balance is terrible."
Luffy blinked. "Huh?"
And promptly fell sideways into a bucket of rainwater.
...
Krishna leaned against the fence, eyes cast toward the village. His fingers tapped the hammer once, then stilled.
A part of him—small, distant, ignored—wanted to rip that post from the earth.
Not because it was broken.
Because of what was said. Because of what they thought.
Because after everything, after all the silence, the restraint, the control—
They still feared him.
They still whispered.
...
"I gave this world silence. It called it secrecy. I gave it mercy. It called it mystery."
"They fear what they don't understand."
"They fear silence, because they think it's waiting to explode."
"Maybe it is."
"Maybe I should've given it something to be afraid of."
...
But even he didn't realize it.
Not truly.
That something within him — unspoken, unformed — had begun to shift. It wasn't rage, not exactly. Not fire.
It was... pressure.
Like standing at the bottom of an ocean trench.
Or walking the ridgeline of a thunderstorm and forgetting whether to shout or pray.
He looked down.
His fingers were tight around the hammer. White-knuckled.
He hadn't even noticed.
He let go slowly.
Sheshika moved closer around his collarbone. Medha's voice was more distant now — as if filtered.
Neither of them said it.
But both were watching something they couldn't name yet.
Something shimmering beneath the skin.
Like lightning that refused to strike — but never left the sky.
...
Later, as Krishna walked toward the orchard, Luffy jogged beside him.
"Hey," the boy said suddenly, tugging at his coat. "You okay?"
Krishna looked at him. "Why do you ask?"
Luffy squinted. "Dunno. You're glaring at the ground like it did something wrong."
A pause.
Krishna gave the faintest smile — a sliver of breath in his features.
"Perhaps it did."
Luffy nodded solemnly. "I kicked it a few times when I stubbed my toe."
They walked in silence for a while.
...
Behind them, Ace hollered, "IF YOU TWO KEEP BONDING WITHOUT ME, I SWEAR I'LL THROW THIS POT AT YOU!"
Dadan yelled back, "THAT'S MY DAMN POT YOU SPARKPLUG!"
Makino called from the porch.
"Lunch is ready!"
"Is it curry?" Luffy shouted.
"No. It's the soup you hate."
Luffy wailed.
Krishna started walking toward the house. Luffy and Ace flanked him.
Ace elbowed him. "Don't brood so hard. You'll start growing roots."
Krishna replied with the same dry tone he uses when he tries to be humorous. "Then I'll water myself."
Luffy laughed so hard he tripped and fell face-first into a pile of laundry.
"ROOT KRISHNA!"
Dadan yelled from inside: "IF YOU GET DIRT ON THE SHEETS ONE MORE TIME, I'LL USE YOUR NOSE AS A MOP!"
...
Krishna exhaled slowly.
The world — ridiculous, noisy, infuriating — kept turning.
He didn't stop it.
He just walked beside it.
But the fire inside?
It flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And still... he said nothing.
And somehow, even with everything that simmered just beneath, even as something quietly shifted inside him like magma behind stone—
Krishna walked forward.
Still silent.
Still myth.
But less whole than before.
...
Foosha's tavern had never needed to be grand. It was small, with cracked stools and chairs of uneven legs, and a bar polished more by time than oil. The roof leaked in spring, the corner booth always creaked, and the whole place smelled faintly of citrus and salted wood.
It was also home.
Even when the world shifted.
Even when gods sat quietly in corners.
...
Luffy was currently lying upside down on one of the bar tables with a toothpick in his mouth and an orange balanced on his nose. He was whispering to it.
Ace sat beside him, legs propped on another chair, flipping a worn knife between his fingers and casually tossing peanuts into Luffy's open mouth.
Dadan was snoring against the wall with her arms crossed and one slipper dangling from her foot.
Makino worked behind the bar — but not like someone working. More like someone watching over her strange little temple, filled with chaos gremlins she loved.
Krishna sat near the end of the counter, back straight, quiet as ever, staring into a clay cup of warm lemon water, not because he needed the warmth — but because it made everyone else feel more normal when he held something.
"KRISHNA, CATCH!"
A peanut arced through the air and bonked him directly between the eyes.
Luffy blinked. "I missed your mouth."
Ace snorted. "Even when you're aiming, it's like a crime against physics."
Krishna blinked once, deadpan. "You've weaponized legumes. Impressive."
Luffy grinned and sprawled back onto the stools. "I'm a food fighter!"
Makino called from the kitchen, "If one peanut touches my stove, I'm locking the pantry."
...
The bell above the door rang. A little girl, no more than six or seven, stepped inside, gripping a folded piece of parchment in both hands.
She stood on tiptoe at the bar and tugged at Makino's sleeve.
Makino leaned over with a smile. "Do you want something, sweetheart?"
"No. But I made something," the girl said shyly. "For the feather man."
Makino took the paper gently and unfolded it.
A crayon drawing — rough, wide, bursting with color.
A tall figure with a long dark coat. A burning blue feather drawn above his head like a halo. A swirl of gold at his feet, and eyes too big for his face — filled with what only a child could think of as kindness.
The girl pointed. "That's him. He's like a giant with soft eyes."
Makino knelt beside her, adjusting the girl's collar. "You mean Krishna?"
The drawing was shaky. Disproportioned. A child's idea of a myth.
Luffy, hanging upside down, rolled off the table and landed with a grunt. "Did someone say drawing?! LEMME SEE!"
He scampered up to the bar and peeked. "Is that Krishna?! HAHA! His nose is HUGE."
"It's not huge!" the girl shouted defensively. "I just drew it so people know it's him!"
Ace joined, stretching his arms. "No, she's right. That's definitely him. Look at that expression. Pure 'I'm judging you but also fixing your problem' vibes."
Luffy tried mimicking the face, going stone still and widening his eyes. "Look! I'm Krishna! I will now silently measure your soul."
Krishna, still holding his cup, glanced toward them, mildly amused.
Makino smiled and said nothing. She walked to the back wall behind the bar — where an old feather that had fallen from Krishna's cloak the night he returned, was pinned above a simple shelf — and gently tacked the drawing beside it.
The wall behind her had become a quiet shrine of ordinary myth: A feather. A napkin with Sabo's handwriting. A scratched carving Luffy made when he was six that just said "KRISH IS NICE" in all capitals.
She gently smoothed the corners, then looked toward Krishna at the other end of the tavern.
"Hey," she called softly. "Come see this."
Krishna approached slowly. Not hesitant — just... uncertain.
He looked at the drawing. Didn't speak.
A corner of the paper folded slightly in the breeze.
He stared at it for a moment too long. His gaze moved from the feather to the face, to the oddly golden swirls at his feet.
The girl beamed. "That's you! I didn't know how to do feathers good. But I gave you magic lines so people know you're special!"
He looked at the scribbles over the shoulders — jagged golden rays.
"Power lines?" he asked.
"No! Those are your quiet beams! The ones that make bad people go away."
Luffy, eating another peanut, said with his mouth full, "He doesn't say thank you. He says thank you with his eyebrows."
Ace nodded solemnly. "Yeah. He eyebrow-thanks people. It's his thing."
Krishna said with a deadpan expression, "My apologies. I will issue a formal eyebrow letter of appreciation."
Makino laughed softly.
The girl tugged at Krishna's sleeve, hopeful.
"Do you like it?"
He looked at her. Paused.
Then said — soft, flat, but not cold, "I don't deserve it."
The girl tilted her head. "Why?"
"Because I'm not what you see."
The child looked deeply confused. "But you are."
Krishna blinked once.
Makino smiled. "She sees better than most people ever will."
The girl giggled, hugged his leg, and ran out the door with a wave.
Ace watched her go. "You really don't know how to take a compliment."
"I don't need them."
"That's not the same thing."
...
Krishna's fingers hovered over the paper, but he didn't touch it.
Not yet.
...
They were alone again — or nearly.
Dadan snored louder than a sea train engine. Luffy was now attempting to balance a chair on his chin. Ace had shifted to playing cards with himself.
Makino passed Krishna a warm cloth for his hand, noticing a small bruise from earlier work. He hadn't treated it.
"Let me see."
"It's fine."
"Show me."
He sighed and lifted his palm.
She pressed the cloth against it and held his wrist a moment longer than needed.
"You're good at making people feel safe," she said softly.
"But not at being safe," he replied.
Makino looked up. "You are safe. Here."
"Not to them," he murmured, voice almost lost in the air.
She didn't ask who. She didn't need to.
She just kept holding his wrist, warm and still.
...
Later, after the noise died down — after Luffy had passed out under a table with peanut dust on his cheeks, Ace left to spar with his reflection outside, and Dadan was asleep in a rocking chair mid-swear — Krishna stood in front of the drawing again.
It was late. Only Makino was still awake behind the bar, cleaning glasses.
The tavern was candlelit. The warmth was thick and still.
The drawing hadn't changed. But something inside him had.
He reached up slowly, fingers grazing the corner of the parchment.
The figure looked nothing like him.
And yet...
Those wide, dark eyes.
That feather — burning, vibrant, alive.
The golden swirl.
Was that what they saw?
Was that what they believed?
He stared at the drawing.
And something about it…
Something didn't sit right.
Not because it was bad.
Because it was kind.
Because it was... hopeful.
Because it thought he was still someone worth seeing as more than the storm.
He stepped back.
And thought of the villagers who whispered behind trees.
Who stared when they thought he couldn't see.
Who feared the sound of his silence more than they feared the thunder of violence.
...
He closed his eyes.
For a moment — brief, flickering — he remembered what it felt like to be small. To be the same size of Sabo, eating stolen apples, laughing with Luffy, building fire pits with Ace.
To believe the world could still be reshaped without burning.
Then the memory passed.
He opened his eyes again.
The drawing was still there.
...
"They look at that drawing… and see protection."
"I look at myself and see a warning."
...
Behind his ribs, something small and bitter pulsed.
A truth too sharp to touch.
Sheshika's voice stirred gently.
"You are loved. Why does that make you ache?"
Medha added, unusually gentle:
"Emotional signal flux increasing. Positive stimulus. But you're folding inwards."
"Is this... guilt?"
Krishna didn't answer.
He just stood there.
Because he didn't know what he would say.
...
Makino approached quietly with a warm cloth and a piece of bread.
"You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"I didn't say it was for your stomach."
He looked at the bread. Then took it.
They stood there.
The candlelight flickered. The feather glowed faintly above.
And the little child's drawing danced in the breeze — like it, too, was breathing.
...
"You scare them sometimes," Makino said gently. "But you also saved them."
"I didn't ask for gratitude."
"I know. But they don't know how to thank someone they can't understand."
He looked at her.
"Then maybe I should stop being what they don't understand."
Her hand brushed his shoulder.
"No. Then you wouldn't be you."
...
He didn't smile. But something in his chest twitched.
Small.
Painful.
Alive.
When he looked at the world now…
He didn't see a place to rest.
He saw a weight to carry.
...
The Cipher Pol field tent didn't belong in East Blue.
Its sides were carbon-insulated. Reinforced with kevlar-laced cloth. Too advanced, too sterile. It looked like a tumor against the grass.
Inside, the air was thick with the static of overused Den Den Mushi relays and the heat from too many half-charged transmission crystals.
Three agents sat at the central table, heads bowed over paperwork that wasn't paperwork — it was guesswork. The commander, a lean man with tired eyes and ink-stained gloves, stood in front of a corkboard covered in fragments.
Feathers. Witness reports. Children's crayon sketches. Torn wanted posters with no names.
At the top: a heading written in neat, unforgiving letters.
MYTH-CLASS VARIABLE
UNCONFIRMED IDENTITY
ACTIVE IN EAST BLUE
...
"I still don't get it," muttered the youngest agent. "No targets identified. No objectives stated. He didn't recruit. Didn't even speak."
The lead agent looked up from the files with sunken eyes. He'd been awake too long. Or perhaps, he hadn't truly rested since the Cocoyashi report came in.
"Give me the stats again."
The junior pulled up the data on a rustling clipboard.
"Forty-eight known sightings across East Blue."
"Confirmed?"
"No photos. No audio. Just feathers. And... rumors."
"Bodies?"
"None. Not a single civilian casualty across any recorded encounter."
"Property damage?"
"Minor. Repaired by locals. Often before we even arrive."
"Destruction level?"
"Subtle. Focused. Surgical. Like... like someone was trying not to leave a trace."
The commander spoke without turning. "That's what makes it worse."
Because they had no proof.
Just belief.
A pause.
...
The lead agent stood and walked to the corkboard at the far end of the tent. It was a patchwork of blurry sketches, witness statements, misaligned maps, and feathers. Always the feathers. None of them burned. None of them fake.
All real.
And every single one had been left behind after something unjust had been silenced.
A corrupt mayor.
A pirate crew with human trafficking connections.
A tax baron extorting from sea orphans.
Each one — stopped. Silently. Without witnesses. Without claim.
Just a feather.
...
The second agent hesitated. "Sir, respectfully... I don't follow."
The commander reached toward the corkboard. Pulled a thumbtack from the upper corner and let a sheet fall.
The room stilled.
It was a drawing.
Done in charcoal. Sloppy, but deliberate.
The lines were thick and heavy, layered over and over again. As if the child who drew it had pressed too hard in fear. The figure wore a cloak darker than the paper could hold. His face — half-shrouded, half-faded — had no features. Only glowing white slits for eyes. Feathers curled from the collar like shadowed fire. Around him, black lines — not auras, but pressure.
"Who drew that?" the younger agent whispered.
"Son of a villager in one of the towns," the commander said. "His mother saw the man walk into the forest and stop a pirate crew that had taken a villager by the throat. She said he didn't speak. Just appeared. Fixed what was broken. Then left."
The younger agent blinked. "So why does the drawing look like a horror story?"
"Because to that child, he wasn't a savior. He was... a boogeyman."
The room quieted again.
Another agent murmured, "Compare this to the Cocoyashi report... or the one from Shells Town. Those towns praised him."
"And others?" the commander asked.
A pause. Then, "Others were... silent."
"Exactly. Some call him hope. Others call him omen. We don't know which is true."
"Or if both are."
...
The commander pinned the dark drawing beside a photo of a peacock feather found on a cliff edge in Shimotsuki.
Then walked to his desk and tapped a button on the transmission snail.
"This is Cipher Pol Subsection 7. Logging Myth-Class Update.
Martial God-Class Variable — Codename: Black Feather — remains unconfirmed.
Threat assessment elevated to Black Tier — Unbounded Influence, Unknown Intent.
Profile incomplete. Psychological model fractured."
He let go of the button.
Even the Den Den Mushi curled quietly in their bowls, twitching less.
"Black Tier?" one agent whispered. "That's the level we used for Ohara before the Buster Call."
Someone else muttered, "He didn't destroy anything. He doesn't burn cities. He just... changes them."
The commander lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
"Exactly. That's why it's worse."
Then sat.
And whispered to himself,
"We're not chasing a man. We're chasing a belief system."
They didn't know what he wanted.
They didn't know what he was.
They only knew one thing:
Wherever he walked — things changed.
Without warning. Without announcement. Without permission.
...
Far above them — unseen, unfelt — Krishna stood at the cliff's edge, the ocean vast beneath him.
He had not moved for an hour.
He watched the wind carry salt toward the CP tent. Watched birds pass it in lazy arcs.
The wind stirred the edges of his coat, the peacock feather twitching gently over his shoulder.
He had heard it all.
He didn't need to be in the tent. Didn't need to be close. Medha had intercepted the transmission long before it was spoken aloud.
Now it echoed inside him.
A codename.
An analysis.
A portrait of him drawn by a frightened child.
...
One of the CP agents stepped out of the tent, pulling off his coat.
He stared toward the cliffside — directly toward Krishna's direction.
He couldn't see him.
But his eyes widened anyway.
A shiver passed down his spine for a reason beyond his control, a primal instinct rooted deep in his body and soul. He rubbed his arms, trying to dispel the cold that came with the sudden chill.
And turned away.
...
Sheshika coiled loosely around his shoulder, her tongue flicking out into the mist. Her voice came slow.
"That picture… doesn't fear your strength. It fears your stillness."
Medha's tone was clinical, but tinged with something she almost never let through — hesitation.
"New input pattern identified: dissonance between intention and perceived threat.
Recommendation: psychological diagnostic scan — deferred."
Krishna remained silent.
The child had drawn him like a curse.
Not like the drawing Makino had pinned to the tavern wall.
Not like the eyes of Luffy, who tackled him with joy.
Not like Ace, who mocked his silence but trusted it.
This child had drawnwhat they felt.
Not what he had done.
And it pierced something deeper than he expected.
...
"I gave them nothing."
"And they made me into everything they feared."
...
He wasn't angry.
Not yet.
But beneath the surface of his calm — a hairline fracture had formed.
The kind you don't notice until it splits the mountain.
...
Behind him, the forest sighed.
Birds passed overhead, unbothered.
The world didn't see it.
But Medha and Sheshika did.
They watched Krishna's fingers twitch — not violently, not dramatically.
Just once.
As if he had thought to reach for something… and stopped himself.
...
Krishna stood.
Sheshika uncoiled, coiling again beneath his collar.
Medha's voice was still soft.
"Why didn't you stop them from watching you?"
"Because fear," he said, "is quieter than anger."
A pause.
Then he added, "And more efficient."
The silence resumed.
Krishna spoke at last.
Not to them.
To the sea.
To no one.
"If they believe I am a god,
They will force me to become one.
And then...
They'll beg for silence again."
...
He turned, stepping into the shadow of the tree line.
His presence left the cliffside.
The silence stayed behind.
...
The forest beyond Foosha hadn't changed. It wasn't wild, not anymore.
Its mossy trails still curved with memory, still hummed with wind-chimes of cicadas and drifting leaves. Krishna's steps pressed no harder than a passing cloud, yet every tree seemed to lean slightly in his direction.
Its paths had been walked enough times by boys with sticks and too much energy to burn. Krishna had walked it many times too — first as a child, then as a brother, now as something else.
The light filtered through green branches, dappled and golden, and the birdsong was clean. There were no whispers here. No frightened glances. No children drawing shadows.
Just moss, soil, and space to breathe.
He said nothing.
He didn't have to.
The world around him already listened.
...
A glade opened gently ahead. It was small — no wider than a fallen oak's reach — and nestled between soft stones and a narrow stream that whispered along roots like it was telling secrets to the earth.
There, beneath the high tree where vines curled like ancient prayers, the peacock waited.
She heard him before he spoke, before his steps touched the leaf litter.
She stood near the stream, one foot tucked into her feathers, head bowed in preening. Her tail, though still recovering, shimmered faintly with a natural iridescence that didn't need the sun to glow.
She dipped her head toward the stream.
She didn't cry out. Didn't move as he approached. Just blinked at him.
...
Krishna sat beside the stream, crossing his legs as the water trickled past.
He said nothing.
She blinked slowly, one eye on him, one on the ripples beside her.
Then she turned back to the water.
That was her greeting.
That was enough.
...
He lowered himself beside the edge, fingers brushing the damp grass. Sheshika slid quietly from his collar to his lap, coiling around like a braided ribbon. Medha's projection pulsed in the back of his mind, lines of soft blue static flickering across his inner vision.
Medha's voice came through, soft but edged with something alert.
"Unusual interference. Signal crossing East Blue frequencies. Encryption pattern... Revolutionary cipher. Triangulating."
Krishna didn't respond immediately.
He dipped his hand into the stream. Cold. Clean.
"From whom?"
"Intercept unknown. Source... untagged. Passive transmission, not active tracking. Likely a message meant for... someone else."
Krishna tilted his head.
He knew who.
But he didn't want to say it yet.
Not yet.
His eyes drifted back to the stream.
...
And for a moment—he wasn't seeing water.
He saw himself.
Not clearly. The surface shimmered just enough to distort the image. But what he saw… wasn't one face.
It was two.
On one side: calm. Clean lines. Measured breath. A boy who had walked silently through war and fed villages with his own hands. A guardian.
On the other side: cracks. Faint fissures of something darker. The eyes — still his — burned brighter than they should've. The face was the same. But the stillness wasn't peace.
It was pressure.
Held in place.
One hairline fracture away from rupture.
He looked closer.
The two images weren't side by side.
They overlapped.
One bleeding into the other.
He shifted slightly — and the dark version rippled forward, overtaking the calm for a moment.
He shifted again — and it reversed.
But never at the same time.
Never at rest.
And somewhere in that shimmer — faint, almost imagined — a third shape lingered.
Not a face.
Not even a presence.
Just the suggestion of absence.
Hollow.
Watching the other two, but belonging to neither.
It didn't flinch. It didn't blink.
It simply… waited.
...
They say the dragon has three heads.
One to be a guardian — calm, kind, and terrifying in his mercy.
One to be a weapon — burning, relentless, a shadow masked in light.
And one to be hollow — the quiet one, whose silence will birth ideas the world is not ready to survive.
He is all three. And none. Not yet.
...
He blinked, and the surface broke.
Just water again.
Just him.
Sheshika looked up from his lap.
"Do you see what I see?"
Krishna's voice was almost too soft to hear.
"I don't know what I see anymore."
...
Medha's voice crackled.
"You are perceived differently in every village. Every town. Each one projects a face. A motive. A myth."
"Some see the savior."
"Some see the sword."
"Both draw from truth."
"But both are lies."
...
The peacock stepped closer, her talons pressing into soft mud. She didn't blink. Her iridescent feathers rustled with the faint breeze — no fear, no wariness, only attention.
She tilted her head toward him.
He didn't move.
He was still watching his reflection — watching both versions flicker, over and over again.
...
He thought of the child's drawing in Makino's tavern — bright crayon lines, feathers drawn like angel wings, a boy with soft eyes who made the ground "braver."
Then he thought of the other drawing.
Pinned to a Cipher Pol board.
Charcoal-black. Oppressive. No face. Just glowing eyes in the dark and a crown of burning silence.
Two visions.
Two children.
Two truths.
Neither fully wrong.
Neither fully right.
He whispered — not to Medha, not to Sheshika, not even to the peacock.
Just to the stream.
"They see what they need to."
"And what they fear."
He leaned closer to the reflection.
Let the dark version settle into place.
Let the light one fade.
And asked — not aloud, but with his presence,
If you are what they see… what does that make you?
...
The peacock stepped even closer.
Not cautiously.
Just thoughtfully.
She moved like clouds drift — deliberate, present, without apology. The long tips of her feathers trailed against the ground, collecting dew and light.
Krishna reached into the pouch at his side. Pulled out a handful of dried berries — the kind she liked.
He laid them gently on the stone beside him and did not look up.
She took them slowly. One at a time.
As she ate, she made a soft, low trill — not a song, but a presence.
A sound that said, I know you are here.
Krishna looked at her — not just her body, not just the iridescent plume or the healing wing.
He looked at what she meant.
A creature born somewhere deeper in the world. A being of colors and grace and breath that had followed him home with nothing asked in return. She didn't see the shadow, or the fear, or the myth.
She had seen a boy kneeling in the surf with blood on his hand — trying to save something that had no name.
And she had stayed.
Sheshika coiled tighter.
"She does not care who you are. Only how you are."
Medha said, quieter than before, "She is the only one who does not project."
"She simply stays."
Sheshika's voice cut into the quiet.
"You care for her more than you admit."
...
He touched the stream again. Cold. Steady.
He let the water run through his fingers and watched it smear his reflection into a blur.
The face disappeared.
No god.
No vengeance.
No guardian.
Just ripples.
...
Krishna stood slowly.
Mud clung to his boots like memory. The wind stirred again.
Far across the forest — almost too faint to hear — a subtle hum shivered through the trees.
Medha's voice returned, more defined.
"Kuma is within 200 meters. Emotional signal lock detected. Full memory dampening protocol engaged."
"He is not hostile yet. But… he is broken."
Krishna nodded once.
No change in expression.
But his fist clenched.
Just slightly.
The peacock looked up, sensing the shift in tension.
She stepped forward and gently pressed her head against his shoulder.
He froze.
Not because he feared her.
But because... something warm passed through him.
Something human.
Not divine.
Not mythic.
Just… quiet affection.
...
Sheshika whispered, "She is not afraid of you."
Medha added, almost puzzled, ,"Her heartbeat does not rise when near you. It lowers."
Krishna exhaled, finally, and touched the side of her neck.
Her feathers were softer than silk.
"I don't know if I deserve to name you yet," he murmured.
The peacock blinked slowly.
It didn't matter.
She already knew him.
...
He looked back at the peacock one last time.
She had returned to the edge of the water, wings tucked, gaze turned toward him — not expectant, not fearful. Just... aware.
He didn't speak to her.
Not this time.
He only inclined his head, barely a fraction.
Then turned away.
...
Sheshika asked, "Do you still see both faces?"
He didn't answer.
Not with words.
He just stepped into the shadow of the woods — and for a moment, as the sunlight caught his silhouette…
It looked like both stood there.
The god.
And the boy.
Watching each other.
Until one disappeared.
...
He didn't look back.
Not at the peacock.
Not at the stream.
But in his mind — deep where his memories tangled with myth — he heard the soft trill again.
Not a song.
Just a sound.
A reminder.
That something in the world had once leaned into him, not away.
...
The forest had gone silent.
The first sign was the pressure.
Not the kind you could see — but the kind that made animals scatter five minutes before the air actually changed. That made clouds slow and drag over treetops like they didn't want to be noticed.
Krishna stepped between two moss-covered trees.
The clearing yawned wide before him.
And at the center of it stood a giant.
Bartholomew Kuma towered above the stones. Not as a man — not anymore. But as a colossus of steel and silence, nearly seven meters tall. His presence didn't roar — it pressed. Like a mountain leaning forward in grief. The air bowed around him.
The book was still in his hands.
Closed.
Unread.
Held like a cross.
Krishna stopped ten steps away.
Neither moved.
Two shadows in the green.
One shaped by gears.
The other by restraint.
Both were made to vanish before anyone heard their voice.
...
["Warriors" – Imagine Dragons (Krishna x Kuma Remix)]
[As a boy you stood so still,
Eyes like dusk, hands built to kill.
They carved your name into the air,
But never once asked why you care.]
...
Medha's voice crackled softly in his mind, distant but sharp.
"The override signal is active. Conscious autonomy limited. Emotional suppression in place."
Sheshika coiled tighter around his collarbone.
"His heartbeat is fabricated. He's alive—but it's not his life anymore."
Krishna didn't blink.
His eyes held the weight of something unspoken — not horror, not pity.
Recognition.
Because what stood before him wasn't an enemy.
It was a possibility.
This is what they would turn him into.
Something silent, unmoving, unquestioned.
Praised in fear. Worshipped in silence.
But never spoken to.
Never understood.
A myth with no mouth.
He took one breath.
And the leaves around him lifted.
...
[They told you peace was just a phase,
They taught you war is how gods stay.
And now you stand—where angels break—
With bloodless hands, but none to save.]
...
Kuma's hand rose.
No intent. No hatred. Just execution.
The pressure wave released like a god's exhale — sudden, wide, flattening.
Soil tore. Bark split. Wind screamed before it struck.
Krishna didn't block it.
He walked into it.
He vanished in a flicker.
Padanyāsa Vidhi activated — three divine steps through pressure and air.
He crossed the blast without rippling a single leaf.
And reappeared behind Kuma's right shoulder.
Aura bloomed on his fingers — gold and black.
He touched steel.
Medha struck.
Override pulse injected.
"Neural relay 4R-Gamma activated. Delay... achieved."
...
[You stepped through wind, you moved through time,
No weapon drawn, but death in stride.
He stood above, all gears and steel,
But you were what he could not feel.]
...
Kuma flinched.
A glitch. A hiccup in divinity.
Then the swing.
His massive arm swept like a falling tower.
Krishna ducked under it. The force bent trees twenty meters away. Wind carved trenches behind him.
He flickered again.
To the left. Hand brushing a pressure bubble.
Another override.
"Signal delivered."
Krishna didn't fight to win.
He fought to reach.
His palm struck Kuma's chestplate — not to break — but to transmit presence.
To whisper:
"I know what they did to you."
...
[And when the pulse lit up his frame,
You whispered through his fire and shame—
"You are not just what they made."]
...
Kuma's hand dropped.
He didn't attack.
He didn't move.
For a second — one impossibly fragile moment — he looked.
Down.
At Krishna.
A gesture too small to notice.
But not to Krishna.
He saw the hesitation. The breath beneath the gears. The soldier beneath the code.
Something broke. Softly.
Kuma didn't speak.
But something human shimmered behind his eyes.
...
Krishna whispered with his stance:
"I remember you."
...
[Here we are, don't turn away now…
We are the ones they can't disown.
With fists of light, with hearts of stone—
We break, we fall, but not alone.]
...
But the leash yanked back.
The override surged again.
Kuma's body jerked — glitching — steam vented in white arcs.
He staggered backward.
Not as a warrior.
As a machine confused by memory.
Krishna didn't follow.
He stayed where he was, breathing slow.
He had reached the man inside.
Even if the world refused to leave him be.
...
[So hold the line, don't say your name…
Let the world keep calling you myth.
Let the war forget your face.
But never—let it change your will.]
...
The forest stilled.
Krishna didn't strike.
He stepped back.
Waited.
Kuma blinked.
Once.
Then again.
The light in his eyes dimmed — only slightly. But it was enough.
The giant turned. Slowly.
For the first time, his gaze met Krishna's with something resembling presence.
Not code.
Recognition.
Krishna spoke quietly.
"You remember."
Kuma's voice was dry, muted, like it had traveled too far through static.
"A little. Enough."
"You knew I would come."
"Not knew. Hoped."
Krishna watched his face — the little human pieces still untouched. The corners of the mouth. The faint twitch of the temple. All of it worn like someone else's memory.
"You're like me."
Kuma didn't answer.
"You once stood for peace. Then they turned that peace into silence. Used it like a leash."
Kuma breathed — a mechanical release of air, but somehow it still sounded tired.
"You offered mercy. And they called it myth."
Krishna's mouth tightened.
"You offered mercy. And they called it permission."
Kuma looked at him. It was a long, slow look. Not judgment. Not awe.
Just... weight.
"You fear what's next."
Krishna nodded.
"I'm afraid I'll forget how to speak."
"You haven't yet."
"No. But I don't speak often. Not like I used to. I wait until I'm expected. Until people beg the myth to say something profound. And if I stay quiet, they worship it anyway."
He exhaled.
"And I let them."
A pause.
Kuma stepped forward, the ground shifting beneath his feet with a gentle quake.
"I was remade. Piece by piece. Every part of me rewritten. Until only obedience remained."
Krishna tilted his head.
"And under it all...?"
Kuma's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Grief."
The word struck deeper than any fist.
Krishna lowered his gaze.
"Maybe that's what we both are. Grief that forgot how to die."
...
The wind passed between them like breath between giants.
Sheshika stirred.
"You are speaking to a mirror."
Krishna didn't blink. "I know."
A bird cried in the trees. Distant. Unaware of what passed beneath it.
...
A long silence stretched.
Then, Kuma reached into his coat.
Pulled out a small Den Den Mushi. It blinked slowly in his massive palm.
Kuma's lips moved.
"It always finds him."
His voice was dull. Hollow. But not empty.
Krishna stared at the snail.
Kuma held it out.
He looked at the Den Den Mushi.
Then at Kuma's massive hand.
And saw how steady it was.
Despite everything.
And for a moment, they looked like two statues in the forest — one towering, metal, broken.
The other young, quiet, not yet shattered.
Krishna didn't take it immediately.
He looked at Kuma's palm. At the scars where flesh became alloy. Where wires replaced bone.
He saw the future in it.
He saw himself.
Not because he would be a cyborg.
Because he, too, was being reprogrammed — not with metal, but with myth.
...
shna reached out — and pressed his palm to Kuma's instead.
Electricity passed between them — not violence, but data.
Medha triggered a pulse — a bypass protocol encoded through frequency and touch. For three seconds, she hijacked the override inside Kuma's cybernetic matrix.
Just enough to give him a window.
Just enough to remember who he was.
A deeper override. Not to control.
To release.
Kuma's breath changed.
Slowed.
For a heartbeat... he looked like a man again.
Not a machine.
...
"You're not a god," Kuma said softly.
Krishna's fingers curled.
"I don't know what I am."
He didn't mean it like an answer.
He meant it like a wound.
"I don't know what I am."
"A storm they blame for rain."
"A boy they pray to, but don't understand."
"A weapon trained by silence."
"A kindness misread as a threat."
He exhaled.
"Maybe that's the point."
"Maybe I'm not one thing."
"Maybe I'm just the echo of everything they've tried to silence."
Kuma nodded.
"You will burn," he said. "But you will burn with meaning."
...
Krishna looked at the snail on the giants palm.
He let go.
Stepped back.
"I see your future in front of me. I see mine behind your eyes. And I don't know which path I'm on anymore."
Kuma lowered the snail into Krishna's hands.
"Then find a new one."
Krishna turned it over in his palm.
Felt it hum against his skin.
"You said it always finds him," he asked.
Kuma nodded.
Krishna looked at the snail again.
Then at the forest.
Then back at Kuma.
"Then let it find him."
...
He stepped away.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just enough to say goodbye without saying it.
Kuma didn't follow.
But as Krishna walked into the trees, Kuma said one last thing.
"You'll be alone. Even when they love you."
Krishna didn't look back.
His voice was soft. Unshaken.
"Then I'll be alone. But I won't be forgotten."
Leaves closed around him.
The light dimmed.
And the snail pulsed once — like a heart beginning to beat.
...
Foosha slept.
The stars shimmered over the ocean like scattered grains of salt across black marble. The village breathed softly — wood creaked in old taverns, and distant waves whispered lullabies no one remembered the words to.
Somewhere near the dock, a child's laughter echoed in a dream.
And on the far ridge, just past where the trees stopped pretending to be wild, Krishna stood still as a shadow carved into the world.
...
The Den Den Mushi rested in his palm. Small. Unassuming. Its shell glowed faintly — not from any mechanical light, but from presence. It felt watched. It felt remembered.
He hadn't moved for almost an hour.
He hadn't moved.
Not since Kuma disappeared back into the dark.
Not since the moment he'd felt what it meant to be seen asuseful— and nothing more.
The wind curled around him like a question.
Sheshika was silent for once. She lay draped over his shoulder, tongue flicking every few minutes — more to remind herself she still existed than to sense anything.
Medha's presence flickered in the corner of his vision, but she didn't speak either.
Something hung too heavy in the air.
Even the birds had gone quiet.
...
Krishna looked out over the trees — not at the stars, not at the sky, but into them. As if searching for the place where light finally forgot how to reflect.
He turned the snail over in his hand.
Again.
And again.
It blinked sleepily.
Waiting.
Krishna stopped.
His thumb hovered near the activation shell.
He didn't press it.
Not yet.
...
The wind brushed through his coat, caught the feather near his shoulder, and twisted it slightly as if trying to whisper a warning.
He didn't flinch.
...
Below, Ace shifted in his sleep, grumbling about Luffy's elbow. Makino's tavern light flickered once, dim behind gauze curtains. Somewhere, a child laughed in their dream — probably still drawing feathers in the sand.
Peace, Krishna thought.
This is what peace looks like.
But peace was never given freely.
It was bought — and the receipt was always blood.
...
He stared out toward the ocean. Not at the horizon. But into the space behind it. The part only myth could reach.
A part of him wanted to stay.
To sit beside Makino and let her braid his hair again while Luffy laughed and Ace sulked and Dadan pretended not to cry.
To just... be a boy.
To forget the other world. The wider one. The one that whispered his name like a threat in Cipher Pol reports.
But he couldn't stay.
Because something was shifting.
Not just in him.
In everything.
Kuma had shown him that.
Not through battle.
But through absence.
Through stillness.
Through a body bent into purpose and a voice too quiet to matter.
He had looked at Kuma and seen his future.
Not a corpse.
Not a god.
A machine the world used to survive its own guilt.
And still, beneath the steel — Kuma had remembered enough to hand him this snail.
Enough to say it always finds him.
Enough to believe in something.
...
Krishna crouched near the stream that split the ridge.
Same water. Same reflection.
But something was different now.
When he looked down…
He didn't see two faces.
He saw three,just like the last time.
The calm.
The wrath.
And the hollow.
The version of himself that didn't choose.
That became what the world needed — not by design, but by inertia.
The most dangerous version of all.
The one that forgot it had the right to choose.
...
Is this who I am?
A mask they can fill with meaning?
A silence they can worship or fear, depending on how the wind shifts?
A kindness mistaken for strategy?
A vengeance mistaken for faith?
...
He dragged his fingers through the water.
The reflection broke.
And for a heartbeat — he felt relief.
Because if the image could be erased…
Maybe so could the myth.
...
But when the water stilled again, the face returned.
All three versions.
One forgiving.
One wrathful.
One hollow.
...
His chest felt tight — not in pain.
But in awareness.
He was walking a path carved by people's fear.
And every time he stepped forward without protest, they believed in it more.
Believed in him more.
But not him. Not the one who bled, laughed, stumbled, made Maggi, got embarrassed when women flirted, and didn't always know the right answer.
No.
They believed in the ghost he left behind.
The thing made of silence and feathers and clean justice.
He'd let it grow.
He'd let it become real.
Now it was too big to strangle.
...
The snail pulsed again.
Alive.
Waiting.
Not judging.
Just there.
Krishna touched it gently.
Closed his fingers around it.
His voice didn't crack.
But his heart did.
...
"I'm tired," he whispered. "But I can't stop walking."
"I'm not ready. But they already believe I am."
"I'm afraid of what comes next. But I'm more afraid of standing still."
...
Sheshika stirred lightly on his shoulder.
She didn't say anything.
Medha's projection blinked in his peripheral — one light, no diagnostics, no data.
She didn't interrupt either.
Even they understood.
This wasn't about answers.
This was about the moment before.
The moment the ripple began.
...
Krishna stood.
The stars tilted slightly, as if waiting.
The trees hushed.
The wind held its breath.
The world leaned forward.
...
He turned to face the sea.
The snail blinked slowly.
Krishna looked at it.
No dramatic flourish.
No announcement.
He pressed his thumb down.
The glow deepened.
And then…
A single ring.
...
Somewhere across the ocean — far beyond the reach of kings and marines and whispered names — a signal lit up like a flare in a sleeping revolution.
...
The ring echoed once.
Twice.
The Den Den Mushi's eyes opened slowly.
But it didn't speak.
It simply breathed.
And the breath was not mechanical.
It was waiting.
Alive.
Ancient.
Present.
...
Krishna didn't smile.
Didn't tense.
Didn't pose.
Didn't announce himself.
He just spoke.
One sentence.
No more.
No less.
And it hit like thunder after silence.
"Hello, Dragon."
...
Author's Note:
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
Krishna's been walking in silence for a long time now.
And in this chapter… that silence finally started to echo back.
He's not falling apart. Not yet.
But he's starting to feel the weight — the weight of what people think he is, and what he quietly knows he's not.
A protector? A stranger? A ghost? A stitched silhouette made of mercy, anger, and restraint?
He helped the peacock. He helped the village. He even reached Kuma.
But helping… doesn't always mean healing.
Especially not yourself.
That's where he is right now — not broken, not whole. Just walking.
Also — from this chapter onward, we're integrating modified songs into key scenes to elevate the emotional gravity. The Krishna vs. Kuma battle was updated post-release with a full "Warriors" remix, so if you're rereading — listen close between the lines.
Thanks for walking beside him.
— Author out.
...
OMAKE – Feather God Please Step On Me
It began — as most catastrophes do — with an innocent box on the tavern counter.
A small, beige rectangle, sealed with a wax emblem Krishna didn't recognize. It bore no return address. Just one word in curled gold ink:
To the Feather.
That was all.
No name.
No village.
Just... The Feather.
And it was only the first.
By the end of the week, there were twelve.
By the end of the month, over two hundred.
...
Luffy was the first to notice.
"Oi! Krishna! You're getting more letters than Garp gets arrest warrants!"
Ace peeked over Luffy's shoulder, flipping through a stack with the grace of a raccoon in heat. "Why are they all smelling like perfume?!"
Makino's brow twitched.
Dadan, who had been mid-drag on a bamboo pipe, spat out a full cloud of smoke. "Let me see that."
Krishna remained at the table, silently sipping tea.
"I didn't sign up for this," he muttered.
Sheshika coiled tighter around his neck. "You didn't sign anything, that's the problem."
Medha materialized beside him with a glitching giggle.
"Would you like me to auto-sort based on content, suggestive keywords, or mental instability?"
"No," Krishna said flatly.
"Too late," she beamed. "Sorting by high hormonal volatility."
Makino opened the first envelope.
She read two lines.
Paused.
Read a third.
Her hand trembled.
"...Who sent this?" she whispered.
Ace leaned closer.
Makino slowly held the letter to the flame of a nearby lantern.
It burned in silence.
"No one talks to my boy like that," she said sweetly.
Luffy blinked. "Was it bad?"
Makino turned to Krishna, eyes maternal but slightly deranged.
"You're not allowed to read any of these."
Dadan cracked her knuckles.
"Any that get past Makino get past me."
Ace, foolishly, tried to grab another envelope.
Makino's hand appeared from nowhere and slapped the back of his head.
"You don't need this kind of trauma."
Ace winced. "Come on, how bad could it—"
Makino opened another letter.
Read it.
Blink.
Blink.
Twitch.
She handed it silently to Dadan.
Dadan read the first paragraph.
She stood up, kicked the chair across the room, and bellowed—
"WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL IS A "DIVINE SPIRITUAL BONDAGE FANTASY"?!"
Krishna put his tea down.
"That's it. I'm leaving the planet."
Luffy looked up. "What's bondage?"
Dadan and Makino turned in synchronized horror.
"NOPE," Makino shouted.
Dadan picked up Luffy by the back of his shirt like a kitten. "You're grounded from curiosity!"
Luffy flailed. "WHAT DID I DO?!"
Ace tried to sneak a peek at the cursed letter. Makino backhanded him into a barrel of potatoes.
Medha lost structural integrity from laughter. Her projection glitched out like a corrupted GIF file.
"Ohhh," she wheezed, "I should've saved the phrase 'midnight deity of discipline' to your character profile—"
Krishna stood.
Took a deep breath.
"...I am considering rejoining Shanks just for the emotional distance."
...
The pile of letters kept growing.
Some were sweet — children's drawings, villagers thanking "The Feather" for saving their homes.
Some were harmless — romantic poems, terrible haikus, one that just said "Do u like birds yes or no?"
But others…
Others came with scented wax, lipstick marks, and phrases like "your silence makes me want to commit crimes."
Makino had to ban Luffy and Ace from the postbox.
Krishna started pretending to meditate just to avoid letter-opening time.
...
Then the worst one came.
Dadan opened it.
Read one line.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
Just walked outside.
And punched a tree so hard it split in half.
Makino, visibly sweating, put the letter in a steel box, locked it, and buried it behind the tavern.
Luffy tried to dig it up later.
Makino hit him with a ladle.
Twice.
...
At one point, Garp stopped by.
He watched the ritual — letters being opened, filtered, occasionally exorcised — with growing confusion.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Makino handed him one letter.
He read the first paragraph.
Stopped.
Read it again.
Very slowly folded it, tucked it into his coat, and said, "I'm going to find her."
Krishna frowned. "To arrest?"
Garp looked at him.
"To propose."
Makino threw a chair at him.
...
Eventually, the tavern had to designate a "Fanmail Quarantine Zone", which was just a wooden crate with a demonic-looking feather painted on the side and a warning:
"OPEN AT YOUR OWN HORMONAL RISK."
Krishna refused to acknowledge it.
Ace called it "The Lust Box."
Luffy tried to store snacks in it.
Makino emptied it into the sea.
...
But it didn't stop.
Even Zeff mailed in once — not a love letter, but a note that said,
"Tell the feather boy that one of my waitresses fainted after seeing his portrait. I lost two plates. Send reparations or your recipe for that damn butter chicken."
...
One particularly scandalous fanmail was intercepted mid-hand-off by Sheshika.
She hissed at the envelope so hard it disintegrated.
"Enough," she growled. "He is fifteen. Fifteen."
Medha, floating nearby, flickered a halo above Krishna's head.
"Yes, but let's not act like he doesn't look like he walked off a divine cologne commercial."
Krishna stared at her.
Deadpan.
"I hope your next system update bricks your speech module."
...
One evening, Krishna returned to the tavern porch.
Found a new pile.
He stared at it.
Didn't move.
Just sat down beside it, like someone facing down an avalanche of unwanted affection.
Luffy sat beside him.
"You got a lotta people who like you, huh?"
Krishna didn't answer.
Ace walked by, holding a squished envelope.
"Someone drew you shirtless on this one. With wings."
Medha materialized to whisper, "Statistically speaking, the shirtless winged drawings have tripled this month."
Krishna buried his face in his hands.
"I'm going to be the only war criminal in history whose bounty poster gets turned into a pin-up calendar."
Sheshika nodded solemnly.
"It's already happened. I saw one on a merchant ship."
Krishna whispered, horrified, "...Did it have sparkles?"
Makino, from inside, "Yes. And glitter. And… for some reason, feathers glued to it."
...
Ace shuffled through a few unopened envelopes, whistling.
Then he paused.
Eyebrow raised.
"Uh… Krishna?"
Krishna looked at him like he had lost himself somewhere he did not want to find himself lost in.
"Please don't read it out loud."
Ace ignored him.
He cleared his throat and began — dramatically,
"To the Feather God, whose silence breaks my soul—"
Krishna raised a hand. "Ace."
"Your eyes are galaxies where I lose myself, willingly—"
"Ace—"
"And if it pleases your divine shadow, please step on me—"
Krishna froze.
So did Luffy, who had just bitten into a mango.
"Step on you?" Luffy repeated, confused. "Like, with his feet?"
Ace burst out laughing. "Oh, it gets worse—"
Makino appeared in the doorway like a summoned spirit.
"Stop right there."
Ace spun. "It's fanmail!"
Makino snatched the letter like it had insulted her home cooking.
She read the rest.
Her smile was… strained.
Her voice trembled.
"I have enclosed a sketch of you in chains—"
She stopped.
Eyes flicked down to the attached illustration.
A slow, dawning horror etched across her face.
"Dadan."
Dadan entered, arms crossed. "What?"
Makino held out the paper.
Dadan looked.
A long pause.
"...What?"
"Exactly."
...
Krishna had turned away from them.
Face in his hands.
His voice came low, tired.
"Do I radiate 'step-on-me energy'?"
Sheshika coiled tighter.
"No. But you're silent. And silent people attract deranged imaginations."
Medha materialized.
She was glitching.
Openly.
Tears of pixelated laughter streamed down her face.
"Oh no, no no no—I am framing this one."
Krishna turned slowly.
"You wouldn't."
Her voice modulated three times as she doubled over.
"I'm making it your new lock screen."
"Medha—"
A holographic pop-up appeared beside her:
[NEW SYSTEM ALERT: "Feather God, Please Step On Me" – ADDED TO ARCHIVE]
Krishna stood up and walked into the ocean.
Luffy watched him go, scratching his head.
"Is he okay?"
Ace wiped tears from his eyes. "He's fine. This is just his divine shame ritual."
Makino, now burning the letter with a cooking torch, muttered,
"I'm gonna find whoever sent this and politely set their mailbox on fire."
Dadan grabbed the torch. "Move over. I'm bringing gasoline."
...
The next day, Luffy drew a stick figure of Krishna stomping on a heart.
He taped it to the wall above the fireplace and titled it,
"Feather God Crushes Weak Hearts"
Krishna didn't take it down.
But he did silently turn it upside down.
As an act of resistance.
...
The final straw came when someone mailed him a sculpture.
A hand-carved wooden statue of Krishna shirtless with a feather cape and a glowing heart.
Dadan opened the box.
Stared.
Then, very calmly, she turned to Krishna and said, "We're burning this. And possibly the forest."
Krishna didn't argue.
He just walked outside, picked up a shovel, and began digging the Fanmail Grave.
The entire family joined in.
By nightfall, there was a ten-foot hole behind the tavern.
They buried the statue, the cursed letters, and one of Ace's attempted haikus by accident.
Makino said a short prayer.
Luffy cried because they wouldn't let him keep the glitter.
...
The next morning, a new letter arrived.
This one said:
"Dear Feather, I know your silence hides untold passion. I dream of being the one to make you break it."
Krishna, without blinking, set it on fire with his tea still in hand.
"Absolutely not," he said.
Ace nodded.
"Progress."
...