Elbaph, New World
The temporary holding cells of Elbaph were never meant to house royalty—much less a monster born of both bloodline and fury.
Carved deep into the living bedrock beneath the great hall, the chamber was vast yet oppressive, its ceiling lost in shadow as massive stone pillars rose like ancient sentinels. The walls bore the scars of age and conflict—deep gouges from past prisoners, fractures from battles long forgotten, and faint runic markings etched by generations of giants to reinforce restraint rather than comfort.
At the center of the chamber stood the cell itself. Towering seastone bars, thick as ancient tree trunks, formed a crude cage driven directly into the stone floor and ceiling. The metal radiated a cold, unnatural stillness, dulling the air around it and suppressing the violent surge of power within. Chains lay coiled like sleeping serpents along the walls—unused, but ever-present reminders of what the cell was designed to contain if restraint failed.
Dim torchlight flickered along the corridor outside, casting long, trembling shadows through the bars. Each flame hissed softly, its light revealing patches of dried blood smeared across the stone—some old, some unmistakably fresh. The scent of iron hung heavy in the air, mingling with damp stone and the faint, acrid trace of battle.
High above, a narrow, iron-grilled window cut into the far wall allowed a thin blade of pale light to slip inside. It was barely enough to illuminate the massive figure slumped within the cell—but enough to remind him that the world beyond still existed.
"Why, Loki… why?"
Jarul's voice was low, strained, each word dragged out as though forcing itself past decades of restraint. His massive hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening. If not for the thick seastone bars separating them, he knew—without doubt—that his temper would have driven him to strike sense into the Prince of Elbaph by force alone.
Inside the cell, Loki did not answer. The giant prince sat slumped against the far wall, his towering frame hunched for once, robbed of its usual defiant posture. Heavy bandages wrapped his torso, arms, and head, already darkened with fresh blood seeping through the cloth. Deep bruises marred his skin—evidence of a battle that had pushed even his monstrous endurance to its limits.
He had not gone down easily. The clash at Brewster's Village still echoed in Jarul's mind. At first, it had been chaos—Loki's berserk fury tearing through warriors and structures alike, his grief-fueled rage turning the battlefield into a storm of destruction. But once Harald had stepped in and finally shed restraint, the stalemate had shattered. The King of Elbaph, wielding his full might, had subdued his own son through sheer overwhelming power.
A victory that tasted like ash. Originally, the elders had demanded Loki be cast into the Underworld—banished, entombed, erased. That he had nearly annihilated an entire giant clan was reason enough for exile in their eyes. But Harald, despite everything, had refused.
Instead, he confined his son here. A temporary holding cell. A pause. A decision delayed. Jarul stared at the prince through the bars, his gaze heavy with disappointment and something far closer to sorrow.
"You still won't say anything, will you?" Jarul continued, his voice quieter now. "You should have been by Ida's side… especially now. Especially when Harald has left for the Holy Land."
At that— Loki moved. Slowly, he lifted his head. One eye was swollen shut, the other burning with a cold, festering fury. His breathing deepened, massive chest rising beneath bloodstained wrappings.
"Don't," Loki growled, his voice rough and broken like grinding stone. "Don't you dare take her name."
The air in the cell seemed to tighten.
"It was you bastards," he continued, teeth clenched, every word dripping with venom. "All of you knew. You knew what they were doing to her. Decades of it. And you did nothing." His shackled hands trembled—not with weakness, but with restraint.
"Even now—look at him," Loki spat bitterly. "Running to them like a loyal dog the moment they whistle. While his wife lies on her deathbed."
Jarul flinched. Loki's rage simmered, controlled—but only barely. If he chose to, he could rip these cells apart like paper. With Harald away, there was no one on the island who could truly stop him.
But he didn't. Because beneath the fury, beneath the violence, was something deeper. Something raw. Love.
Ida had never been his by blood—but she had been his mother in every way that mattered. The one who had stood between him and the world when he was young. The one who had soothed his temper, scolded his recklessness, believed in him even when he refused to believe in himself.
He had never said it aloud. Giants were not good with such things. But the thought of her suffering in silence while the rest of Elbaph hid behind tradition had hollowed him out from the inside.
"Loki…" Jarul began, instinctively moving to defend Harald—to explain the summons, the politics, the desperate hope that the Holy Land might offer a solution.
But the words died in his throat. Because he knew. No explanation would sound like anything other than an excuse. Loki was right. They had all been complicit.
Bound by tradition. Cowardly in their adherence to ancient customs. Turning blind eyes to injustice because it was easier than confronting it. And Jarul—who had the power, the authority, the strength to stop it—had stood by and watched.
For decades. The weight of that realization pressed heavily on his chest. Outside the cell, the torches flickered. Inside, two giants stood on opposite sides of iron and guilt—one consumed by rage, the other by regret—while Elbaph itself trembled on the edge of reckoning.
Jarul released a long, weary sigh, the sound heavy with years he could never take back.
"You know…" he began again, voice roughened by restraint, "more than half of the warrior clans are calling for your banishment. Some demand harsher judgment—an arm taken, or worse." His gaze hardened. "Especially those clans with blood ties to your mother's clan."
At the mention of his mother, Loki let out a sharp, humorless snort.
Jarul grimaced. "Fine. The former Queen's clan," he corrected, forcing the words out. "They're calling for blood. Your actions have made them feel as though you've spat upon the traditions of the giants themselves." Loki scoffed, finally lifting his head. His single un-swollen eye gleamed with cold amusement.
"Do I look like I care, old man?" he growled. "If they want my head, they can come and try." His lips curled into a feral grin. "I promise you—even like this—I won't go down easy. I'll drag every last one of those bastards screaming into the Underworld with me."
A low, dangerous chuckle rumbled from his chest. For a fleeting moment, Jarul could almost believe Loki hoped they would come.
"LOKI!" Jarul thundered, his voice echoing through the stone chamber. "Enough!"
He stepped closer to the bars, towering frame rigid with authority. "You are the Crown Prince of Elbaph. Harald's heir. Whether you like it or not, you carry a duty—to this island, to its people, to the future of our race!" Loki's smile faded into a sneer.
"Do you even understand the consequences?" Jarul continued, his voice urgent now. "If there is no clear successor after Harald, Elbaph will tear itself apart. Every warrior clan with even a trace of royal blood will stake a claim. It will be chaos—civil war. Giant against giant. A fire that could burn our entire race to ashes."
For a heartbeat, silence lingered. Then Loki laughed. Not loud—just low, bitter, and utterly devoid of warmth.
"Good," he said flatly. Jarul froze.
"If my death sparks that kind of slaughter," Loki continued, eyes alight with cruel satisfaction, "then I'll gladly give my life just to watch those sanctimonious clans tear each other apart. Let them burn. Let them choke on the same traditions they used to crush everyone else."
His laughter grew, echoing off the stone walls, sharp and broken.
"Shove your duty up your bunghole, old man," Loki spat. "They cursed me the moment I was born. Called me an ill omen. Tried to get rid of me at every turn." His fists clenched, chains rattling softly. "When I grew stronger, they feared me. And now?" He sneered. "Now they hide behind you because they know damn well they can't touch me themselves."
His laughter faded, leaving something raw and exposed beneath.
"Tell me, Jarul," Loki muttered, voice dropping. "Was there ever anyone in Elbaph who actually wanted me?"
The question hung unanswered. Ida's face surfaced unbidden in Jarul's mind. Dora. Hajrudin.
A painfully short list. Loki leaned back against the stone wall, eyes drifting toward the narrow barred window above. "Most of them would've celebrated if I'd died back then," he said quietly. "Prince or not."
The torches flickered. And for the first time, Jarul saw past the rage and violence—to the lonely child Elbaph had never truly accepted, now grown into a weapon forged by rejection.
Jarul saw it then—painfully, unmistakably clear. Loki held no love for Elbaph itself. Not for its banners, its traditions, nor for the clans that called themselves his people. His heart belonged only to the few who had ever looked at him and seen more than a curse wrapped in royal blood. And that truth frightened Jarul more than Loki's violence ever had.
Trying to reason with him now would change nothing. There was no bluff in the prince's eyes when he spoke of Elbaph tearing itself apart. No reckless exaggeration. Loki meant it. If his death became the spark that ignited the kingdom, he would welcome it without hesitation. Jarul closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of centuries pressing down on his shoulders.
"…If you wish to be with Ida," he said at last, voice lowered, stripped of authority and pride, "I can arrange for you to be placed under house arrest instead. You would be allowed to stay by her side."
He opened his eyes and met Loki's gaze. "For your safety. And for Elbaph's."
And though he did not say it aloud, Jarul knew the truth—for her sake. Ida's presence was the only chain Loki would never try to break. For the first time since the conversation began, Loki's expression shifted. The rage did not vanish—but it softened, just enough to reveal what lay beneath.
His jaw tightened. His gaze fell to the stone floor. For a moment, the fearsome prince of Elbaph looked almost… small.
"I understand what you're trying to do," Loki said quietly. Gone was the mockery. Gone was the laughter. "You think she'll keep me in line."
Jarul did not deny it. Loki exhaled slowly, a deep, restrained breath—as though steadying something fragile inside himself.
"Don't worry, old man," he continued. "I have no intention of breaking out. You can rest assured of that."
He paused. "And as for being by her side…" His voice faltered—just barely. So little that only someone who had watched Loki his entire life would notice. "…never mind."
He turned his face away toward the narrow barred window, where pale light slipped through and traced the edge of his massive form. His hands clenched, chains creaking softly. Because if he stood beside her now—if she saw him like this, bloodied and bound, carrying the weight of everything he had destroyed in her name—he didn't trust himself to leave again.
And worse still—he didn't trust himself to survive losing her. Jarul felt his chest tighten. In that silence, the elder finally understood: Loki's love for Ida was not loud, not gentle, not spoken. It was absolute. And that, more than his strength, was what truly made the prince dangerous—to Elbaph and to himself.
****
By Elbaph's standards, the house was laughably small. It looked less like a home and more like a dollhouse—its low ceiling barely reaching the waist of an average giant, its doors narrow and modest, its wooden beams carved with careful restraint rather than grandeur. Yet this humble structure, tucked away beneath the colossal shadows of Elbaph's ancient trees, was the sanctuary of Scopper Gaban—once hailed as the left hand of the Pirate King himself.
This was where the legend had chosen to lay down his blades. The home had once been warm, filled with laughter that echoed against its walls, the booming voice of Gaban's giantess wife mixing with his own rough chuckles. But tonight, that warmth was gone. The air felt heavy, suffocating. Even Gaban's wife had quietly withdrawn, sensing that what unfolded here was something only men bound by the past could face.
Scopper Gaban sat at the side, arms folded, jaw clenched. He did not intervene. Because what stood before him was not a mere argument. It was a reckoning.
"Smack—!"
Buggy's fist slammed squarely into Shanks' jaw. The sound cracked through the room, sharp and ugly. Shanks' head snapped to the side, his body staggering—but he did not resist. No Haki. No retaliation. He simply absorbed the blow, feet planted, eyes dulled by something far heavier than pain.
Buggy followed him. Another punch. And another. Each strike carried the full weight of Buggy's strength—not monstrous, not legendary, but raw and unrestrained. His fists trembled as much from fury as from exhaustion.
"Shanksss!" Buggy roared, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him back against the wall. "You bastard—! You kept this from me all these years?!"
His voice cracked, fury bleeding into something far more fragile.
"So all that time you vanished—every damn year I couldn't find you—you went back to them?" Buggy snarled, landing another punch on Shanks' already swollen cheek. "The Holy Land?! You went crawling back to those bastards?!"
Shanks' lip split. Blood ran down his chin. Buggy didn't stop.
"Even after you knew!" he screamed. "Even after you knew they were the ones who led to the Captain's death?!"
Another blow. Shanks finally spoke, voice hoarse, barely audible beneath the storm. "Buggy… I didn't have a choice back then."
That was it. Buggy's eyes went wild. He slammed Shanks harder into the wall, the wood groaning under the impact. "Don't you dare say that!" he shouted. "We always had a choice! We were his crew—his family!"
His hands shook as memories flooded back unbidden. The years after the Roger Pirates disbanded. The searching. The waiting. The unanswered questions. The nights Buggy spent staring at the sea, cursing himself for not being there when Shanks disappeared. The guilt. The anger turned inward. The belief that maybe—just maybe—he had failed his brother.
Only to find out now… "You didn't disappear," Buggy hissed, eyes burning. "You abandoned me."
Shanks said nothing. He didn't deny it. Buggy released him only to punch him again, breath ragged. "You joined the very scum that destroyed everything we stood for! And you didn't think—not once—to tell me the truth?!"
His voice dropped, raw and wounded. "I searched for you, you idiot. For years."
Silence followed—thick and crushing. Scopper Gaban watched from his seat, his weathered face unreadable, but his eyes told another story. He had seen pirates clash. He had seen brothers kill one another over pride and treasure.
But this? This was different. This was grief wearing the mask of rage. Buggy's gaze flicked—briefly, unwillingly—to Shanks' exposed arm. The mark. The strange, unnatural symbol was burned into his skin. The moment Buggy had seen it, everything had unraveled. The questions. The pressure. The truth Shanks could no longer avoid—not here, not in front of Gaban, not anymore.
Buggy clenched his fists, voice trembling. "You didn't trust me," he said quietly. "That's what hurts the most."
Shanks finally met his eyes. And for the first time since the punches began, he looked like a man who knew he deserved every single one.
"That's enough, Buggy." Scopper Gaban's voice cut through the room like a drawn blade. It wasn't loud—but it carried the kind of authority forged in storms long past, the kind that once made even monsters listen. For the first time since the blows began, the air shifted.
"You heard what Shanks said," Gaban continued, rising slowly to his feet. "He didn't have a choice back then."
Buggy's grip tightened on Shanks' collar, his knuckles white, breath coming in harsh bursts. His eyes burned with fury—but beneath it, something far more vulnerable writhed.
Gaban saw it clearly. There was no real hatred here. Buggy didn't care whether Shanks was a Celestial Dragon, a god's errand boy, or the king of the world itself. Titles meant nothing to him. What cut him to the bone was something far simpler—and far more painful.
Shanks hadn't trusted him. Not enough to tell him the truth. Not enough to share the burden.
They had grown up together. Stolen together. Bled together. Cried together when Roger died. And yet, when it mattered most, Shanks had carried that secret alone.
Gaban exhaled slowly. "Shanks kept silent because he knew what those secrets carried with them," he said, voice heavy with memory. "Danger that doesn't stop with the one who knows. Danger that devours everyone nearby."
Shanks' gaze remained lowered, jaw clenched. "Even Roger," Gaban went on, eyes distant now, "after learning the truth of the world… chose not to act."
Buggy froze. "Not because he lacked the will," Gaban said quietly, "but because he understood the scale of what lay beyond the horizon. What waits at the top of this world is not something you fight as a human." His voice dropped. "It is a god."
A thick silence settled over the room. Roger had laughed at death. He had challenged the seas themselves. But even he had known when the price was too high—not for himself, but for his crew. Buggy's teeth ground together. He still held Shanks' collar—but his strength faltered.
"Damn you…" Buggy muttered under his breath.
With a sharp shove, he threw Shanks away. The red-haired man stumbled, catching himself on the wall, but he didn't protest. Didn't look angry. Didn't even look hurt. Buggy turned his back and dropped to the floor, sitting hard, arms wrapped around himself like a child trying to keep something from spilling out.
"I'll never forgive you," he growled, staring at the wooden boards. "Not for this."
Shanks straightened slowly, rubbing his bruised jaw. He looked at Buggy—not with resentment, but with something closer to relief.
"That's fine," Shanks said softly. "I wasn't asking you to." For a moment, neither spoke. But despite the anger, the bitterness, and the unspoken wounds, they were still there. Two brothers, bound not by blood, but by a past that refused to let go.
Scopper Gaban let out a low, amused chuckle. Despite everything—despite gods, secrets, and the weight of history—the two of them still fought like children. Bruised knuckles, wounded pride, stubborn hearts. Time had not dulled that bond. If anything, it had hardened it into something unbreakable.
But Gaban's smile slowly faded. His gaze drifted—unavoidably—to Shanks' exposed arm. The sigil. Etched into the skin like a brand that refused to fade, its lines were neither wholly geometric nor organic, twisting in a way that made the eye recoil if stared at too long. It was ancient. Wrong. A mark that did not belong in the world of men.
Gaban's voice grew quiet. "I hope," he said carefully, "that the contract you signed doesn't give Imu absolute control over you, Shanks."
The name fell into the room like a stone dropped into deep water. Shanks stiffened.
His eyes widened just a fraction as he looked up at Gaban. "Gaban-san… you know the Great One's true name?" Gaban met his gaze evenly and nodded once.
"I know enough," he replied. He did not elaborate—and did not need to. The unspoken truth hung heavy between them. Shanks and Buggy had not been part of the final journey for a reason. Roger had chosen to leave them behind, not out of distrust, but mercy. Whatever the crew learned at the end of the world had turned them into marked men—ghosts forever hunted by the World Government.
Roger had refused to damn the boys to that fate. Shanks swallowed. "Well… then there's no point hiding it anymore." He took a slow breath, steadying himself, and turned his arm slightly so the sigil caught the light.
"The contract I was forced to sign," he said quietly, "is one of the lowest covenants."
Buggy's head snapped up despite himself. Shanks continued, voice steady but strained. "As long as I remain sufficiently distant from their influence, there's no direct control. I retain my will. My thoughts. My choices."
His jaw tightened. "But if the Great One is nearby…" He paused, fingers curling. "Then I lose myself. My body moves without my permission. My voice speaks words I never chose."
He looked away. "I become a puppet."
The room fell silent. The weight of that admission pressed down on all of them.
Buggy's usual bluster faltered, his expression darkening. "…Tch. Serves you right, you bastard," he muttered, though the words lacked their usual venom.
A sharp glance from Gaban shut him up instantly, leaving Buggy to scowl and mutter under his breath. Gaban's expression, however, had turned grave.
"So that's the leash they put on you," he said softly. "Low-grade… but a leash all the same."
Shanks nodded. "That's why I stayed away. From you. From everyone." His voice wavered, just slightly. "I didn't want either of you anywhere near that world. Near them."
Buggy clenched his fists. He didn't speak—but for the first time, his anger had nowhere left to go.
Gaban exhaled slowly. "Roger would have hated this," he said.
Shanks smiled faintly. "Yeah. That's why I plan to break it." The words were quiet. But they carried the promise of defiance. And for the first time since the truth was laid bare, the room no longer felt suffocating—only heavy with the kind of resolve that had once carried a ship to the edge of the world.