The laughter had been loud. Rum sloshed over the lip of the bottle as Buggy and Gaban argued—voices rising, insults flying, and the last bottle of Elbaf's spiced reserve held hostage between them like a priceless relic.
"Give it here, you stingy old goat—!"
"I found it first, clown—! "
Then, Shanks stiffened. It wasn't pain. Not quite. A jolt shot through his arms—sharp enough to steal his breath, but deeper than flesh. It felt as though something ancient had tightened a thread tied somewhere beneath his skin. His fingers trembled.
The scars along his arm burned faintly—not with agony, but with recognition. A connection. Strengthening. The abyss. Shanks' laughter died instantly. The mug slipped from his grasp, hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud. Buggy blinked.
Gaban stopped mid-retort. Shanks staggered one step back. For a heartbeat, his vision darkened at the edges—not from weakness, but from the overwhelming sensation of something vast anchoring itself more firmly into the world. Far away. Yet undeniably present.
"Shanks—?!" Buggy dropped the bottle without a second thought, rum splashing across the floor as he rushed forward. He grabbed Shanks by the shoulders, steadying him as the red-haired pirate swayed. "What happened?!"
Shanks inhaled sharply. The grogginess lasted only a second. Then his gaze sharpened. Cold. Focused.
"They're here."
The words were low. Certain. He gently pushed Buggy aside and turned toward the distant silhouette of Aurust Castle, its towering shape cutting against Elbaf's storm-laden sky. He didn't need confirmation. Didn't need proof. He could feel it. Someone had laid down an abyssal ritual circle on Elbaf.
And there was only one giant with both the authority and the desperation to attempt something like that. Harald. The thread tightened again, invisible but unmistakable—like a current pulling at his very spirit.
"Who is here?" Buggy demanded, shaking him lightly. "What are you talking about?!"
But Shanks wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were fixed on the horizon. On Aurust Castle. Behind them, Gaban had gone silent. Unlike Buggy, he did not question the words. He understood the tone. Slowly, deliberately, Gaban closed his eyes. His breathing steadied.
Kenbunshoku Haki expanded outward—spreading like a ripple across the island, slipping through forests, cliffs, stone walls, and ancient halls. For a moment—nothing. Then— His jaw tightened. He felt it. That same suffocating presence he had felt decades ago at God Valley.
Cold. Ancient. Watching. It was distant but unmistakable. And layered atop it—other signatures. Sharp. Disciplined. Terrifyingly composed.
"God's Knights…" Gaban muttered, eyes snapping open. His gaze darkened further. "And more than one."
Buggy froze. The humor drained from his face. Gaban did not hesitate. He turned, crossing the room in three long strides toward an old trunk shoved against the wall—its hinges worn, its surface scarred from years of neglect. He opened it without ceremony.
Inside, wrapped carefully in oilcloth and preserved against time and rust, lay his twin battle axes.
Steel kissed by decades of combat. Edges immaculate. Waiting. He unwrapped them slowly, reverently. The weight settled into his hands like an old memory. Like unfinished business.
Behind him, Shanks flexed his fingers. The burning sensation in his arm had stabilized—but the connection remained.
The levity was gone. The easy grin. The casual warmth. All of it vanished from Shanks' face as if a curtain had dropped. In its place stood something sharper. Older. The presence of a man who had once stood at the center of history's darkest turning point.
Without another word, Shanks reached for Gryphon on the table. The blade slid into place at his belt with a soft, deliberate click. Not hurried. Not dramatic. Certain.
Across the room, Gaban finished strapping his twin axes across his back, the worn leather harness settling against scarred shoulders that had weathered countless battles. His expression was calm—but his eyes were hard. This was not a drunken scuffle. This was not pirates clashing over territory. This was something far heavier.
Shanks turned to Buggy. "Buggy," he said evenly, his voice low but commanding, "round up the others and prepare the ship to set sail." There was no trace of humor in it. "Do not wait for me. I'll catch up on my own."
It wasn't a request. It was an order. Buggy blinked.
"But— but I can fight too!" he protested, stepping forward. "It's not like we haven't fought them before! And—"
He stopped. Shanks' gaze cut into him like a drawn blade. Not anger. Not cruelty. Just absolute clarity. Buggy felt his words tangle in his throat. For a moment, he was reminded of something he rarely allowed himself to think about—the last time they had faced two of God's knights and been overpowered completely. The suffocating pressure.
The difference between surviving… and standing at the front line against undying monsters. Gaban stepped beside him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to anchor him.
"Listen to your captain, Buggy," Gaban said quietly. His tone carried no mockery. Only experience. "You may be able to use Haoshoku," he continued, "but you don't have the mastery yet to contend with those God's Knights."
Buggy stiffened. Gaban's grip tightened slightly.
"Even I," the older warrior admitted, eyes narrowing toward the distant silhouette of Aurust Castle, "am not confident facing more than one at a time." A pause. "There are five on this island right now."
The words hung heavy. "Five?" Buggy's voice cracked.
"Including Harald," Gaban finished. Silence fell between them. Five God's Knights. On Elbaf. And one of them was a giant king empowered by the abyss. Shanks exhaled slowly, his hand resting lightly on Gryphon's hilt. The connection in his arm pulsed faintly again—steady, insistent. He could feel the ritual circle like a distant drumbeat.
"They didn't come here to sightsee; I am sure they have some sinister plan," he murmured. Outside, the wind picked up, carrying the scent of salt and storm. Shanks glanced once more toward the horizon.
"We will have to deal with the source, Gaban san. Before they end up laying waste to Elbaf itsef."
Buggy swallowed hard. "And if it's a trap?"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Shanks' mouth—not playful, but resolute. "Then I'll spring it."
Gaban nodded once. No more needed to be said. Buggy hesitated only a second longer before turning sharply toward the door.
"Fine!" he barked, masking unease with bluster. "But if you die, I'm taking the captain's quarters!"
Shanks chuckled softly under his breath. The smile didn't reach his eyes. As Buggy rushed out to rally the crew, Gaban stepped closer to Shanks. "You're going alone because of that connection," he said quietly.
It wasn't a question. Shanks gave a slight nod.
"They'll feel me coming anyway because they have a deeper connection to the abyss than I do." His gaze hardened. "And if that circle is what I think it is… the longer it stays active, the worse this gets."
****
Deep within the heart of Aurust Castle—beyond the throne room, past vaulted chambers etched with ancestral victories—lay a corridor known to almost no one. It was narrow by giant standards, yet cavernous to ordinary men. Ancient runes glowed faintly along the stone walls, their light pulsing like a slow heartbeat as though the mountain itself were alive.
This passage led to the inner treasury of Elbaf. A sacred vault untouched by outsiders for millennia. Only a handful of giant kings had ever stood at its threshold. And now—
In addition to the King of Giants, four God's Knights stood at its entrance.
Under any other sky, any other lifetime, Harald would have died before revealing this place to foreign powers—especially to the enforcers of the Holy Land. But the Harald who stood there now was not wholly his own. The Depth Covenant wrapped tightly around his will.
His posture was regal. His presence divine. And yet—there was a hollowness beneath it. Calling him a puppet would not have been inaccurate. At the end of the corridor, the treasury opened into a colossal chamber carved directly into Elbaf's bedrock. At its center stood a towering stone pedestal crafted for giants, and upon it rested a small, ornate chest bound in ancient iron.
Beside the pedestal—a hammer. Massive. Immovable. Its head looked plain at first glance but was etched with archaic sigils that flickered faintly with dormant lightning whenever it woke. The air around it felt heavy. Watching.
"Phew…" Shepherd Sommers let out a low whistle, hands resting lazily on his hips as his gaze locked onto the chest. "We searched the seas high and low for centuries for this Devil Fruit… and to think the giants kept it hidden under our noses all this time."
His tone was amused—but his eyes gleamed with hunger. Gunko stepped forward slightly, her calm gaze never leaving Harald.
"Knight Harald," she said evenly, "is the fruit's power confirmed?" They had received the command directly from Imu-sama themselves. If this fruit was truly what Harald claimed—
Then it was not merely rare. It was catastrophic. A Devil Fruit spoken of in ancient prophecy. One said to reveal its true power only to a giant of ancient blood deemed worthy.
If consumed by Harald—a God's Knight already bound by absolute allegiance—the World Government would not merely gain a soldier. They would gain a living ancient weapon.
"There is no doubt," Harald replied, his voice devoid of hesitation. His gaze remained fixed on the chest… and the hammer beside it. "It has been passed down through generations. The prophecy states only one of ancient lineage, judged worthy by the fruit itself, may claim its power."
A faint flicker crossed his eyes. "I attempted to claim it in my youth." He did not elaborate.
"I failed."
Maffey's gaze shifted to the hammer. "Interesting," she murmured. "An object imbued with the power of a Devil Fruit… If we brought the hammer to the Holy Land, we could study it. Replicate it, perhaps." The air seemed to tighten at those words.
"Tch." Sommers clicked his tongue, stepping forward boldly. "You let a mere hammer stop you from acquiring a legendary devil fruit?" He laughed, the sound echoing arrogantly through the treasury.
"I'm disappointed in you, Harald. Allow me to show you how it's done." Harald did not move to stop him. Gunko did not intervene. Killingham and Maffey watched with open curiosity. They wanted to see it. To test the so-called guardian of the fruit.
Sommers advanced down the chamber floor, boots clicking against ancient stone. At first, his steps were measured. Kenbunshoku Haki spread outward, locking onto the hammer's presence. He expected resistance—an explosion of force, a sudden strike. But nothing happened. No tremor. No lightning. No attack.
The silence stretched. With each step, his posture relaxed. His smirk widened. Perhaps Harald had exaggerated. Perhaps centuries of giant folklore had inflated a simple security measure into myth. Sommers approached the pedestal. Still nothing. He chuckled.
"Legends really do grow in the telling."
Thorned vines erupted beneath his feet, coiling and twisting into a massive serpentine column that lifted him upward. The pedestal had been built for giants; even a man of his stature required elevation. The vine-serpent raised him level with the chest.
He turned his head toward the others, disdain etched across his face. "See?" he called mockingly. "All that talk of—"
The air shifted. A subtle displacement. A pressure vacuum. Gunko's mismatched eyes widened a fraction. Killingham's smile vanished. Maffey's hand snapped toward her weapon. Sommers sensed it too, but it was too late. A deafening crack of thunder split the chamber. Lightning detonated across the treasury in blinding arcs as the hammer—silent until now—moved.
It did not swing from the ground. It vanished—then reappeared mid-arc. The massive head crashed into Sommers with apocalyptic force.
BOOM.
The impact tore the air apart. To his credit, Sommers reacted in a fraction of a second. Layer upon layer of thorned vines erupted around him, forming a dense cocoon of interwoven shields. But it wasn't enough. The hammer shattered the first layer instantly. The second splintered.
The third imploded. The lightning coating the weapon surged violently, bypassing physical defense and ripping through the vines like dry parchment.
Had he been a heartbeat slower—every bone in his body would have turned to powder. Even so—the blow launched him across the treasury like a ragdoll. The thorn serpent beneath him exploded into fragments. His body tore through the air, smashing through a stone pillar before slamming into the far wall with a thunderous crash.
The shockwave rippled outward, cracking the chamber floor and sending debris raining from the ceiling. Silence followed. Dust swirled. Sparks of lightning danced along the hammer's surface as it returned to rest beside the pedestal—as if it had never moved.
Sommers slid down the wall, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His breathing was ragged—but he was alive. Any ordinary person would have perished after such a blow. The treasury hummed faintly. Alive. Watching. Harald did not smile. He did not gloat. He simply spoke.
"That," he said evenly, "is Ragnir."
The hammer crackled once more—a low, warning growl of thunder. And the God's Knights understood. The guardian of the fruit had awakened.
"Ptui…! That really hurt." Sommers spat a mouthful of blood onto the cracked stone floor, the red stark against ancient gray. For a moment, he remained slumped against the fractured wall—then thorned vines crept up from the ground, coiling around his torso and arms, propping him upright like a macabre throne.
"GI…GI…GIHA…GIHAHAHAHAHA…!!!" He began to laugh. Low at first. Then louder. Unhinged. The twisted angles of his limbs shifted. Bone ground against bone with sickening cracks. His forearm snapped back into alignment. His shoulder rotated violently into place. Ribs audibly reset beneath his skin.
Each correction came with a sharp, echoing snap—as though the life-threatening injuries were nothing more than a temporary inconvenience. Vines tightened around him, pulsing faintly as they fed him vitality. Within seconds, he rolled his neck as if loosening stiff muscles after a nap.
"Now that," he said with a grin smeared in blood, "was interesting."
Across the chamber, Rimoshifu Killingham let out a slow clap. "Well done, Saint Sommers," he drawled, strolling a few paces closer but keeping a respectful distance from the pedestal. "You charged in to prove a point and ended up swatted like a stray mutt." His smile widened.
"Very dignified." Maffey adjusted her gloves calmly. "You announced your superiority," she added flatly, "then demonstrated the structural integrity of Elbaf's walls with your spine."
Even Gunko's gaze held the faintest glimmer of reproach. Sommers' eye twitched. The vines beneath him tightened, lifting him fully upright.
"Oh?" he replied, brushing dust from his coat. "Funny how neither of you moved an inch when it struck." He flexed his fingers. The last of the cracks settled into silence. "You're welcome to try."
His grin sharpened into something feral.
"Or are you two content spectating while I do the hard part?" Killingham placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "My dear Sommers, I simply didn't wish to deprive you of your grand entrance."
He tilted his head toward the hammer, which now rested innocently beside the pedestal—silent, patient. "Besides… I prefer learning from others' mistakes."
Maffey's eyes never left Ragnir. "You were fortunate that you are blessed with immortality," she said evenly. "Another person in your place, or you yourself without the great one's blessing, would have had nothing left to reconstruct."
Sommers scoffed. "Please. That thing's fast—but not invincible." As if in response—the hammer crackled faintly. A thin arc of lightning danced across its surface. The temperature in the treasury dipped.
Harald remained unmoving at the edge of the chamber. "You misunderstand," he said quietly.
All eyes turned to him. "Ragnir did not strike to kill." The statement lingered.
Sommers' grin faltered slightly. Harald's gaze remained fixed on the hammer.
"It simply judged you unworthy."
"That's enough." Gunko's voice cut through the chamber like a blade drawn clean from its sheath. The banter died instantly. Even Sommers stilled. She stepped forward, calm and precise, stopping just short of the cracked floor where lightning still faintly danced. Beside her, Harald towered—silent, imposing, the abyss pulsing faintly beneath his skin.
Gunko did not look at the others again. Her gaze remained on the pedestal.
"Knight Harald," she said evenly, "I will deal with the hammer. Proceed and consume the Devil Fruit." Her tone carried no uncertainty. "Once you obtain its power, leading the giants and fulfilling the Great One's command will become… considerably easier."
No ceremony. No wasted breath. They had no time for theatrics. Gunko raised her hands. Behind her, luminous arrows materialized into existence—dozens of them—formed from shimmering vector lines that bent the air around them. Each arrow hummed faintly, inscribed with invisible directional force.
The power of the Aro Aro no Mi awakened fully. Vectorial authority. Motion itself bent to her will.
She stepped across the invisible boundary. Ragnir moved. This time, there was no hesitation. The hammer vanished in a thunderclap— Reappearing mid-swing with murderous velocity, lightning exploding outward as it descended toward Gunko's skull.
The impact would have flattened a mountain. Gunko did not dodge. She did not flinch. She simply gestured. One arrow rotated ninety degrees in the air. The world obeyed. The hammer's vector shifted violently sideways at the last instant.
Instead of crushing Gunko— It tore through empty space, slamming into the far wall and detonating stone into molten fragments. The shockwave blasted outward. Gunko continued walking. Another thunderous crack.
Ragnir reappeared from behind, descending in a horizontal arc aimed at her ribs. Two arrows spun in opposite directions. The hammer's path twisted unnaturally mid-swing, forced downward into the floor where it gouged a trench hundreds of meters long. Lightning forked wildly across the chamber.
Dust roared upward. Gunko walked through it. Every strike that followed came faster. More violent. Ragnir blurred from one point to another, teleporting between arcs of lightning—overhead smashes, rising uppercuts, spinning side strikes that fractured pillars like brittle twigs.
Each time— Gunko adjusted a vector. A flick of her wrist. A rotation of her fingers. The hammer's momentum bent, redirected, inverted. Force meant for her rebounded into walls, floor, ceiling. The treasury shook violently. Stone rained from above. Yet she never once retreated. Never once stumbled.
Her Paramecia ability did not rely on brute strength. It imposed rules. And once direction was defined, even divine force had to comply. Behind her, Harald moved. One enormous stride.
Then another. Each step carried him closer to the pedestal. Lightning flared brighter as Ragnir seemed to sense it.
The hammer abruptly changed targets. It vanished from Gunko's redirected path and reappeared directly before Harald—crackling with amplified fury, descending straight for his chest. Gunko's mismatched eyes narrowed. Three arrows crossed in an instant. The space around Ragnir warped.
Its downward vector froze—then snapped ninety degrees sideways. The hammer hurtled into the chamber wall instead, embedding halfway through solid bedrock. Gunko's final arrow pinned it. Not physically—conceptually. A locked trajectory. Ragnir roared in thunderous protest.
Lightning erupted wildly as it attempted to vanish again—but every escape vector was overwritten. Each reappearance met another invisible redirection. Another imposed rule. The hammer ricocheted in a violent loop between altered trajectories, trapped in a prison of redirected momentum.
It could not advance. Could not defend. Could not return to the pedestal. Because to move required direction. And direction now belonged to Gunko. For Ragnir, the truth was simple. None here were worthy. Not Sommers. Not Killingham. Not Maffey. Not even the King of Giants, Harald, standing now at the pedestal.
The ancient weapon raged, lightning splitting the chamber ceiling as it fought against imposed vectors. But every path was sealed. Pinned. Controlled. Harald reached the pedestal. The small chest rested before him, ancient iron bindings etched with runes of judgment. Lightning reflected in his eyes.
For a fleeting instant—something flickered behind them. A distant memory of the young king who once failed this trial. Then the abyss pulsed. Suppressing doubt. Suppressing hesitation.
He opened the chest. Inside, resting upon velvet aged by centuries—the Devil Fruit of prophecy.
Its surface swirled with patterns that seemed older than language. The air grew impossibly heavy.
Behind him, Ragnir's lightning flared brighter in desperate resistance. Gunko extended her hand further. Every arrow tightened its imposed vectors.
The hammer froze mid-strike, suspended in roaring electricity. Completely restrained. Harald's massive hand reached down. He lifted the devil fruit, which was but a speck upon his palm. Thunder detonated across the chamber. And for the first time in centuries, the guardian could do nothing to stop what came next.