Three months had passed since Enel's defeat by that straw-hatted boy.
Three months of drifting in space aboard his ship, the Ark Maxim. Hunger gnawed at his body. Thirst burned his throat. And the defeat—that defeat—ate at his soul from within.
But what exhausted him more than anything was the ascent. Before reaching space, he had to climb through Earth's atmospheric layers. At high altitudes, where the air was thin, where the atmospheric pressure differed from what his body was accustomed to, Enel felt a weakness he had never known before. The lightning within him dimmed, his body groaned, his lungs gasped. He was not prepared for this. No one had told him that escaping Earth was harder than reaching the moon.
When he finally reached space, he had expended most of his power. He could barely stand. He could barely think.
The three girls who accompanied him dared not speak. They watched him in silence, waiting for orders that never came.
But he clung to the manuscripts. Those ancient manuscripts he found in Skypiea, speaking of a great civilization on the moon, of a treasure beyond value, of power beyond imagination.
This was his only hope.
After weeks of drifting in the cold darkness, he saw the moon. It was large. Close. And after hours, the ship shook. It landed.
He put on his helmet. Stepped out of his ship. Walked on the lunar surface. His body was light—lighter than on Earth. Gravity here was much weaker. He could jump great distances, move easily.
But his helmet would not last long. The air inside was limited. He had to find an entrance into the moon quickly, a place where there might be air, or at least a safe place where he could replenish his helmet.
He ran. His weak body barely carried him. He searched for an opening, a crack, anything. He saw an opening leading down—a large cave, a natural passage that might lead inside.
He entered the cave. Kept walking. The air in his helmet was running out. His heart pounded. His mind panicked.
Then he saw a massive door of white metal.
He pushed it. Entered.
And there, inside, was air. The temperature was moderate. And gravity—gravity almost like Earth's. He felt a weight in his body he hadn't felt in months.
He removed his helmet. Breathed deeply. His lungs filled with air for the first time in weeks.
Then he heard a voice.
"After eight hundred years... finally."
He looked around. It was a wide hall, walls of white metal, lit by cold blue light. In the center, three people stood.
An old woman, her face carved by time, her eyes silver, her long white hair. Beside her, a middle-aged man, bald, thin, his sharp face like a blade. Behind them, a young woman around his age, her hair dark blue, her eyes golden—like his own.
No one moved. They looked at him, examining him, reading him with eyes unlike human eyes.
"Who are you?" asked the old woman. Her voice was deep, calm, as if coming from an ancient well.
"Enel," he said. His voice was hoarse. "I came from Earth."
"Earth," the old woman repeated. The word was heavy on her tongue, as if she had not spoken it in centuries. "How did you find us?"
"The manuscripts." He raised his trembling hand. "I had manuscripts. A map. They led me here."
The three looked at each other. They exchanged glances he could not understand.
"The manuscripts," said the bald man. "Those our ancestors took with them when... when we fled."
"You fled?" Enel asked.
No one answered. The old woman stared at him with her silver eyes.
"Why did you come?"
Enel hesitated. He knew the right answer was power, treasure, authority. But he was too exhausted to lie.
"I was defeated," he said. "A child in a straw hat. He defeated me. I came to become stronger."
A long silence. The three looked at each other again.
"Take him to the room," the old woman said finally. "We will talk tomorrow."
Enel woke in a small room. White walls. No windows. No furniture. Only a cold metal bed.
He sat up. Felt dizzy. His body was weak. He tried to form lightning in his hand—a small, weak spark emerged, then died. His power was still drained. The ascent through the atmosphere, the weeks in space, the hunger, the thirst, the defeat—all of it had left a mark that had not yet healed.
The door opened. The blue-haired young woman entered. She carried food and water. She sat on the floor before him. Said nothing. Just looked at him.
"Where am I?" Enel asked.
"In our city," she said.
"Who are you?"
She did not answer immediately. She examined him with her golden eyes.
"You are weak," she said finally. "Weaker than we thought."
"The defeat weakened me. And the journey."
"Defeat," she repeated the word. "We have not heard that word in a long time."
"Who are you?" he asked again.
She was silent. Then she said: "The Luna people."
"Luna?"
"That is what we call ourselves. On Earth... they called us other names. They don't matter now."
"Why are you here?"
She looked at him. For a moment, he saw something in her eyes he could not interpret. Sadness? Anger? Hope?
"We fled," she said. "Long ago. From war. From betrayal."
"Who betrayed you?"
She did not answer. She stood. "We will talk tomorrow. You need rest."
"Wait," Enel said. "What is your name?"
She stopped at the door. Did not turn.
"Miria."
Then she left.