The shores of Elbaf had never known such chaos. The roar of the sea was drowned beneath the thunder of giant voices, the grinding of wood against stone, and the frantic splash of enormous rescue vessels being pushed into the water. Far out at sea, the impossible sight still haunted every warrior's eyes.
The great branches of the Adam Tree, the sacred World Tree of Elbaf, had been torn from the heavens and hurled into the ocean. Massive limbs thicker than castles floated across the waves like drifting islands, their shattered bark still steaming where the violent impact had scarred them.
For the giants of Elbaf, the sight was nothing short of a nightmare made real. Generations had lived upon the colossal branches of the world tree. Entire villages had been built along its towering limbs. Families, warriors, children—thousands of giants had called those heights their home.
Now those homes had fallen into the sea. But the giants were not a people who froze in despair. Even as grief burned in their chests, action came first. All along the coastline, colossal rescue ships were being launched into the turbulent waters. Warriors pushed the vessels forward with brute strength while others leapt aboard with ropes, hooks, and massive nets meant to haul survivors from the wreckage.
The fall had been catastrophic. Yet there was hope. The World Tree itself had absorbed most of the impact when it struck the ocean. Its immense trunk had broken the force of the fall before the branches slammed into the sea. And because the crash had happened in water rather than against the cliffs of Elbaf, there was a real chance many had survived.
And that possibility alone was enough to drive the giants into a frenzy of rescue. Still… Even the most optimistic among them knew the truth. Thousands had likely died. The waves were already carrying splintered homes, broken weapons, and shattered pieces of the tree back toward the shoreline.
Amid this desperate effort, another sight had drawn the giants' attention. A ship. A massive black vessel drifting among the wreckage. Its hull was carved in dark lacquered wood, its sails bearing a symbol that made the blood of every warrior on the shore boil.
The sigil of the Donquixote Pirates. A furious roar spread across the shoreline as the giants recognized the mark. Their king had already spoken. The enemies responsible for the catastrophe had been named. And now their ship was floating helplessly within reach.
Dozens of giants immediately abandoned their rescue preparations, grabbing axes, spears, and massive swords forged from ancient steel. The sea churned violently as several warriors waded directly into the water, each step sending waves crashing outward.
"Board the ship!"
"Kill every human aboard!"
"They dare bring destruction to Elbaf?!"
The rage of the warrior nation surged like a storm. For giants, vengeance was not something delayed. It was something taken. Yet just as several warriors prepared to leap onto the black vessel—a single voice thundered across the shore.
"STOP." The word struck harder than any war drum. Every giant froze. At the center of the shoreline stood an ancient figure, leaning slightly on a colossal spear carved with ancient runes. Jarul. The elder warrior of Elbaf.
His beard flowed down like silver snow across his armor, and his weathered face and broken body bore the scars of the recent battle against an enemy these giants could never even fathom.
Yet despite his weakened state… The authority in his voice still carried the weight of a mountain. The warriors paused, their fury barely restrained.
"But Elder Jarul!" one giant protested. "That ship belongs to the Donquixote devils!" Another growled. "They are the ones responsible for this disaster!"
Jarul's ancient eyes slowly lifted toward the drifting vessel. The black ship rocked gently against the waves, its sails torn and hull scarred from the chaos that had shaken the sea. Then the elder turned his gaze back to his people.
"This is not the time… we have spilt enough blood already," he said slowly. His voice was calm. But every word carried iron because he could never allow any harm to come to these humans aboard the ship.
"Our kin are drowning in the sea." He gestured toward the wreckage of the World Tree scattered across the waves. "Thousands of our people need rescue." His grip tightened slightly on his spear. "Today… our duty is to save lives."
The furious murmurs among the giants quieted. Jarul's eyes narrowed as he looked again toward the black ship.
"As for those humans…" His voice hardened like stone. "No one is to touch them… they will have safe passage out of Elbaf."
Elder Jarul's command should have ended the matter. But among the giants of Elbaf, peace was never easily accepted. His words—calling for restraint and focusing on rescue—immediately stirred unrest among the warriors gathered along the shore. Many of them had grown up on the old sagas of conquest, tales of the era when giants were feared across the seas as the natural rulers of the world.
And now their king was dead. To some of them… this moment looked less like tragedy and more like an opportunity. A towering giant stepped forward, his armor dented and his beard still wet with sea spray from the rescue efforts. His eyes burned with rage.
"Elder Jarul!" His voice boomed across the shore like thunder. "Are you truly asking us to let these humans walk free?" He pointed toward the massive black vessel drifting beyond the wreckage—the ship bearing the sigil of the Donquixote Pirates.
"Those people killed our kin! Our brothers… our children!" The giant slammed the butt of his axe into the sand with a violent thud. "Did you not hear what our king said before he fell?!" The warriors around him began shouting in agreement.
"The Donquixote are our enemies!…We must slaughter every last one of them!" The giant raised his voice even higher, rage twisting his face. "We should set sail this very night! Find their homeland and wipe that island from existence!"
A chorus of furious roars followed. The shoreline trembled beneath the stomping of giant feet. The air smelled of salt, grief… and the rising heat of war.
"ENOUGH…!" The roar of Jarul exploded across the shoreline like a thunderclap. Every giant froze. Even the warriors who had been shouting moments earlier instinctively stepped back. The air itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of the elder's voice.
Before them stood not just the oldest living giant of Elbaf, but one of its fiercest warriors—an ancient veteran who had survived battles that had long since passed into legend. And now, with King Harald dead… Jarul was perhaps the highest authority left on the island.
"Don't…" he said, his voice heavy with restrained anger. Then it softened slightly. "…please, just don't." The giants watched in uneasy silence. "We have lost our king." His gaze drifted toward the shattered remains of the fallen world tree scattered across the ocean.
"And we have lost our kin." Thousands of giants still drifted somewhere among that wreckage. "Thousands upon thousands," Jarul continued quietly. His eyes hardened again as he looked toward the warriors stirring unrest. "Do not make a mockery of their deaths." The giants who had been shouting earlier lowered their heads slightly.
"Do not use this moment to push your petty ambitions." His voice grew colder. "Do not play your political games while our people are still drowning in the sea." The elder let out a long, weary breath. "If you cannot help rescue our brothers and sisters…then stand aside."
His gaze swept across them like a blade. "And do not distract those who are saving lives." Silence followed. Jarul himself felt the exhaustion settling deep into his bones. In truth, he didn't want to argue with them. Not today. Not when the air still carried the smell of death and salt.
But there was another reason he restrained himself. A truth far more dangerous than any argument. If he spoke openly about what Harald had truly done… about the choices the king had made before his fall… then the consequences might tear Elbaf apart from within.
So Jarul said nothing. For now, the truth would remain buried. He slowly turned toward the other warriors. "Resume the rescue efforts," he ordered. "Ignore the human ship." Several giants hesitated.
But Jarul continued speaking. "Those who wish to avenge our king can do so later." His voice left no room for argument. "Today, we save our people."
At the same time, he quietly gestured toward a handful of giants he trusted—seasoned warriors loyal to him alone.
"Keep watch on that vessel," he instructed in a low voice. "Make sure no one from our side provokes them."
The warriors nodded and moved to position themselves near the coastline. Jarul understood something many of the others did not. Right now, another conflict would only make things worse. His words still carried immense authority among the giants of Elbaf. And with the motives of the earlier agitator now exposed, the rest of the warriors gradually returned to the rescue effort.
Soon the shoreline was once again filled with activity. Rescue ships launched. But what Jarul did not know was that his decision had just saved the lives of thousands of giants. Because the ship floating beyond the wreckage was far from helpless.
It only looked vulnerable. Standing quietly on the deck of the Leviathan was the very monster who had brought ruin upon Elbaf. And he had heard everything. Through the silent reach of Observation Haki, the man had listened to every word spoken on the shore.
My eyes moved across the ship. The Leviathan had taken a beating from the chaos at sea, but the hull was still solid. The reinforced frame held strong. Only the sails were in ruins—torn to shreds by the violent winds and falling debris.
"How long will it take for us to set sail?" I asked. The old navigator stepped forward, adjusting the telescope hanging at his belt. "We've got spare sails stored below deck, Young Master," he replied quickly. "If the men move fast, we can rig them up within a few hours at best."
Then he hesitated. His weathered face tightened slightly. "Young Master…" he began carefully. "…where is Dora?"
For a moment, the deck fell completely silent. The men nearby stiffened. I didn't answer. I couldn't. The old navigator looked at my face for only a second before the truth dawned on him. His expression darkened, but he said nothing more. Instead, he suddenly turned and began shouting orders.
"Move, you lot! Get the spare canvas from the lower hold!"
"Rig the mast lines!"
"Patch whatever you can—this ship sails today!" The crew immediately sprang into action. But the atmosphere on deck had changed. No one asked the question again. They didn't need to. Most of them already knew.
The childish giantess who had once laughed and run across this deck… The one the entire crew had quietly grown fond of… Something had happened to her. After all, the Leviathan itself had been rebuilt for Dora's sake. And now… The giant girl the ship had been meant to protect was nowhere to be seen.
****
Inside the quiet house connected to Ida's Bar, the chaos of the outside world felt impossibly distant. The distant shouts of giants, the crashing waves, the frantic rescue efforts along the shores of Elbaf—all of it seemed muted within these walls.
Here, there was only stillness. At the center of the room lay a massive wooden bed. Upon it rested the carefully wrapped body of Ida. The cloth around her had been folded with surprising precision. Every layer had been secured neatly, almost ceremonially. It was the work of Loki. For a giant whose life had been forged in battle, the care with which he had wrapped the body spoke volumes.
Elder Jarul stood nearby, watching the young prince silently secure the final bindings. "Loki…" Jarul said gently. "You don't have to do this." The old giant's voice carried both authority and concern. "Elbaf needs you now more than ever."
But Loki did not look up. Instead, he slowly tied the final knot and rested his hand briefly over the cloth covering Ida's face. When he finally spoke, his voice was tired.
"Jarul… don't you hear them out there?" Outside the house, faint echoes of argument and anger still carried through the wind. "I am a traitor to the giant race." His tone was calm, but the bitterness beneath it was unmistakable.
"Half of them want my head." He rose to his feet and turned toward the wall where his weapons rested. "And the other half want to chain me to the roots of Yggdrasil as eternal punishment."
He lifted his massive hammer, Ragnir, securing the weapon across his back. Then he carefully picked up another wrapped bundle resting nearby. Inside it was the war axe that once belonged to Dora. He had already decided what to do with it. Before he left Elbaf, he would return it to Rosinante. It was the least he could do.
"Where will you go?" Jarul asked quietly. "What do you intend to do, Loki?" The elder's voice carried genuine worry. Despite the accusations spreading across the island, Loki was still the rightful heir to Elbaf's throne.
And if the truth about King Harald ever came to light—if the giants learned what had truly happened—then everything would change. Some of them had already begun asking questions. Why had Loki only crippled the warriors who tried to rush to Harald's side? Why had he spared their lives if he had truly betrayed them?
The answers were beginning to surface. But slowly, too slowly.
Loki clenched his fist. "I have my own path to walk." His gaze hardened. "But no matter which path I take…" His voice dropped into something darker. "…it will end with the destruction of the World Government."
His knuckles whitened. Because despite everything… Despite his arguments with Harald… Despite their disagreements… Loki knew his father. Harald had been flawed, stubborn, and dream-driven to the point of recklessness.
But he had never been a tyrant. Never a man who would enslave the giant race to serve another power as executioners. That wasn't the king Loki had grown up respecting. The truth was simple. Someone had taken advantage of Harald's dreams. His hopes. His vulnerabilities.
And unlike most of Elbaf… Loki knew exactly who their real enemies were. Jarul opened his mouth to speak again—but a new voice interrupted.
"Then… come with me." Both giants turned toward the doorway. I stepped inside slowly. My footsteps echoed softly against the wooden floor as I approached the massive bed where Ida's body rested. "If you truly want to bring ruin to the World Government…" I stopped beside the bed and looked up at Loki. "…then come with me."
The offer had come almost instinctively. But it wasn't without reason. Through Observation Haki, I could feel the storm raging inside Loki's heart. The anger…the grief. The hatred for the forces that had twisted his father's fate.
And perhaps… It was also because Dora had always spoken fondly of him. A brother she shared no blood with… Yet loved like family. Jarul and Loki stared at me in silence for a moment. Neither seemed certain how to respond. I turned my attention to the bed.
"Dora came here to be with her mother," I said quietly. My gaze rested on Ida's wrapped form.
"And like you said earlier… The pride of the giants will never allow her peace if she is buried here." I placed a hand on the cloth. "I will take her with me."
Neither of them mistook my tone. I wasn't asking. And I certainly wasn't seeking permission.
"...This…" Jarul began hesitantly. He wanted to object. That much was clear. But the words never came. Because deep down… He knew Loki and I were right. The factions forming within Elbaf were already beginning to clash. With Harald dead, the race for the throne had begun.
And when news of Loki's departure spread… The conflict would only explode further. Some of the giants might even turn on one another in their scramble for power. Forgetting entirely about the catastrophe that had just befallen their people. Loki's voice broke the silence.
"Where will you bury her?" There was no suspicion in his tone. Only a need for certainty.
"If Ida were Dora's family..." I looked directly at him. "…then she is my family as well."
"She will be laid to rest where the dead of the Donquixote Family sleep." My mind had already made the decision. "A place close to Dora's real home."
Green Bit. Loki studied my face for several long seconds. Then he spoke again.
"If I come with you…" His voice lowered. "…can you promise me that I will get my vengeance?"
But before I could answer—he stopped mid-sentence.
Ragnir, strapped to Loki's back a moment ago, vanished in a soft poof. In its place appeared a tiny squirrel, no bigger than my head. Before I could react, the little creature dropped from high above and darted across the ground toward me with astonishing speed. It scrambled up my boots, its claws pricking lightly through the fabric as it climbed my legs with frantic determination.
In seconds it reached my shoulder and attempted to perch atop my head as if it belonged there. I caught it by the scruff of its neck before it could settle. The squirrel squirmed in protest, tiny paws flailing and tail flicking indignantly. It squeaked in irritation, clearly displeased with being stopped.
Then its attention shifted.
The squirrel twisted in my grip and looked upward, toward Loki standing above us. Its tiny body stiffened with purpose as it began chattering rapidly, sharp squeaks spilling out in an almost furious stream. To anyone else it might have sounded like meaningless animal noise.
But it wasn't. Loki understood. His bond with Ragnir allowed him to hear the spirit within the weapon, to grasp the intent behind those frantic sounds. And strangely… so did I through the voice of all things.
Perhaps it was the fragment of divinity that lingered within me, whispering through the veins of the world. Or perhaps fate itself had already woven Loki's thread into the tapestry of the Donquixote family. Whatever the reason, the meaning behind those squeaks was unmistakable.
The little squirrel was practically demanding that Loki accept the offer. It squeaked louder, its tiny voice sharp with urgency, as if making the decision on his behalf. For a long moment, Loki said nothing.
He simply stood there, the wind brushing through his hair, his expression shadowed by thoughts that ran deeper than the moment. Slowly, he exhaled, the breath leaving him like the release of something heavy that had long been weighing on his chest.
"…Fine." The word was quiet but final. He shifted his grip on the bundle wrapped tightly in cloth—the one that carried Dora's axe within it. His fingers tightened around it as though drawing strength from the weight of it.
His eyes hardened. "As long as I can have my vengeance…" he said, his voice low, each word measured and deliberate. Then his tone turned cold—iron wrapped in resolve. "…I am willing to lay down my life."
****
Deep within the cargo hold of the Leviathan, far below the deck where waves thundered against the hull, darkness gathered thick and heavy. The lanterns that hung from the beams above had long since burned low, leaving only faint amber glows that barely reached the far corners of the massive chamber.
Stacks of wooden crates filled the hold like crooked towers, lashed together with thick rope to keep them from sliding as the ship cut through the restless sea. The air smelled strongly of salt, damp wood, and the sweet ripeness of fruit packed tightly within the boxes.
Oranges. Bananas. Pomegranates. Dozens of varieties harvested from distant islands. The ship creaked slowly as the Leviathan rolled with the tide, the soft thump of waves echoing faintly through the hull.
For a long while, nothing stirred. Then, in the deepest shadow of the hold, something changed. Inside one of the crates—buried beneath layers of ordinary fruit—a single apple began to tremble ever so slightly.
At first it seemed like nothing more than the subtle shifting of cargo caused by the ship's motion. But the movement did not stop. The apple's smooth red skin quivered again.
A faint ripple passed across its surface, like a drop of ink spreading through water. The color darkened, the natural sheen fading as strange patterns slowly began to creep across its flesh.
Thin lines twisted outward, curling and spiraling.
The fruit pulsed once. Then again. The transformation spread rapidly now. The once-simple apple warped as the spirals deepened, carving unnatural swirls into the skin as if an invisible hand were sculpting it. Its color shifted into something more sinister—an otherworldly hue that seemed to drink in the dim lantern light rather than reflect it.
The air around the crate felt strangely still. Heavy. As if the world itself held its breath. Within seconds the ordinary fruit had become something else entirely. A Devil Fruit.