"Move." Jarul's voice was low at first. Then it rose, thick with grief and fury. "I need to see the King."
The courtyard before Aurust Castle had fallen unnaturally quiet. Wind swept across the high stone battlements, carrying with it the distant sound of mourning horns from the lower districts of Elbaf.
Ida was gone. Her final breath had come quietly—far too quietly for a woman who had once filled taverns with laughter and halls with fearless words. And Harald—Harald had not come. Not once in her final week. Not in her final hour. Not even at the end.
Jarul's massive hands clenched at his sides. The Elder's patience, legendary for its depth, had long since burned away. He had stood beside Harald for decades—through reforms, through wars avoided, through the fragile reshaping of giant society.
But this? This was unforgivable. As a governing elder, Jarul had already exercised his authority. Loki had been temporarily released from confinement. The young prince now knelt beside his mother's body, shoulders shaking as Dora held him, both children grieving over the still form of the woman who had defied half of Elbaf simply by loving their king.
Jarul had expected—at the very least—that Harald would come to say his final farewell. Instead, the king had sealed himself inside the palace. For a week. The royal gates loomed before Jarul now—towering slabs of reinforced stone and iron. Arrayed before them stood the king's personal guard, massive warriors clad in ceremonial armor, halberds crossed in a firm barrier. They did not move.
"I said move," Jarul growled again, stepping forward. The stone beneath his boots cracked faintly from the pressure of his weight.
The captain of the King's Guard stepped ahead of his men. He bowed slightly—but did not yield.
"I am sorry, Elder Jarul," the captain said, his tone measured and respectful. "His Majesty's orders were crystal clear. No one is to enter the palace without his explicit command."
The words were polite. The stance was not. Halberds lowered half an inch further. Jarul's eyes narrowed.
"You would bar me?" he demanded, voice reverberating through the courtyard. "The advisor to the King?"
The captain held his ground. "I would not dare defy you, Elder," he replied carefully. "But I cannot supersede the king's command. We are bound by duty, and so are you."
Jarul studied him. And he understood. Duty was only half of it. The captain's gaze was steady—but beneath it flickered something else. Resentment.
The guard captain had never hidden his views. He was counted among the traditionalists—the radicals who believed Elbaf had weakened under Harald's reforms. Who believed giants should remain warriors above all else. Who had despised Ida from the moment she stepped onto the island of Elbaf.
A giantess of unknown lineage. A tavern keeper. An outsider. A woman who had nearly become queen. For the extremists, her presence had been an insult. And for the past week—as Harald had not once left the palace to visit her—there had been quiet satisfaction among them.
Now that she was dead… That satisfaction had hardened into something uglier. Jarul saw it clearly. The captain was not merely enforcing orders. He was ensuring Harald would not be disturbed. Ensuring Ida would remain unacknowledged at her death. The Elder's jaw tightened.
"You celebrate this," Jarul said quietly. The captain's expression did not change.
"I celebrate nothing," he answered evenly. "I uphold the King's will." The wind howled louder across the battlements. From within the palace walls, there was no sound.
Jarul could have broken them. Even now—aged though he was—he could have torn through the line of royal guards with sheer force. The courtyard stones would have split beneath his stride. Halberds would have shattered like brittle branches. But he did not move. He would not let Ida's death become the spark for civil strife.
Not today. Not while her children wept. Jarul exhaled slowly, the fury in his chest cooling into something heavier. If Harald had truly wished to come… he would have. With senses as sharp as his, the King would have already known. The mourning horns, the shifting tension across the city, the subtle tremors in the air that only giants of ancient blood could perceive— Harald would have felt it.
And yet he remained inside. Jarul's shoulders sagged slightly. His efforts were in vain. He turned from the palace gates, boots grinding against stone, grief carving deeper lines into his ancient face.
Then— It came. At first, it was a tremor. Subtle. So faint that the guards barely noticed. Then the ground lurched. The entire foundation of Aurust Castle shook violently as if struck by a titanic hammer from beneath. The battlements rattled. Cracks raced like lightning across the courtyard stones. A pressure wave exploded outward from the heart of the palace.
Not wind. Not sound. Power. Raw. Primordial. Jarul froze. The guards staggered, struggling to keep their footing as an invisible force pressed down upon them. Then it intensified. The sky above Elbaf darkened unnaturally as clouds spiraled inward toward the castle's highest tower. The sea beyond the cliffs churned violently, waves crashing against the island's base as if recoiling from something ancient awakening.
Deep within the forests, birds took flight in chaotic flocks. Beasts howled and fled. And at the very heart of Elbaf, towering above all else— The Treasure Tree Adam trembled. Its colossal trunk groaned. Its vast canopy rustled violently despite the absence of natural wind. Leaves—golden and immense—began to fall in waves, drifting downward like a sacred offering.
As though the ancient tree itself acknowledged what had just been born. Jarul's eyes widened. He had felt power before. He had stood on battlefields that reshaped coastlines. He had witnessed the fury of giants in their prime.
But this—this felt older. Older than Elbaf. Older than recorded history. A presence surged upward from within the castle, expanding like a second sun igniting beneath stone. The air grew heavy, charged with crackling energy. Sparks of golden lightning arced across the castle spires. The clouds above split apart in a spiral pattern, revealing a violent vortex centered directly over Aurust.
The pressure deepened further. Giants across the island fell to one knee instinctively, breath stolen from their lungs. Even seasoned warriors felt their hearts pound erratically in their chests.
It was not merely strength. It was divinity. A forgotten force, last whispered of in sagas from the Age of Gods.
Jarul's ancient instincts screamed. This was not the aura of a king. Not the haki of a warrior. It was something else. Something awakened. A column of radiant energy erupted skyward from the center of the palace, piercing through roof and cloud alike. Thunder detonated across the island in deafening succession, shaking cliffs and splintering stone.
The Treasure Tree Adam shed another cascade of leaves. Not in fear. In recognition. Jarul steadied himself against a fractured pillar, staring at the epicenter of the eruption. His voice came out barely above a whisper.
"…Harald."
Whatever had just awakened within Aurust Castle was no longer merely a giant secluded king. It was something vast. And Elbaf, down to its very roots, had felt it.
"To the King…!" Jarul's roar tore through the chaos like a war horn. All disappointment, all restrained anger—cast aside in an instant. Instinct had taken over. Whatever had awakened within the castle was not a celebration.
It was not a coronation. It was danger. Grave and immediate. The tremors had not ceased. They pulsed now in violent intervals, as though the very heart of Aurust Castle beat out of rhythm. Stone cracked. Towers groaned. Golden lightning crawled across the upper battlements like living veins of energy.
Jarul did not wait. He moved. Each stride shattered flagstones beneath his boots as he charged toward the palace gates. The guard captain stood frozen for only a heartbeat longer, his breath ragged, heart hammering wildly against his ribs. He had felt it too—that overwhelming presence. It crushed against his spirit like the weight of a mountain.
Prejudice. Resentment. Hatred of Harald's peaceful reforms. All of it meant nothing in this moment. He was a giant of Elbaf. And he was sworn to the crown. The captain's jaw clenched.
"Open the gates!" he thundered. The massive doors were thrown wide as the captain swung his axe over his shoulder, eyes blazing.
"King's Guard—advance! Full armament! Move!"
Steel rang free from sheaths. Spears slammed against shields. War hammers crackled with ignited runes. The King's Guard surged forward behind Jarul in a thundering wave of armored giants. Inside the palace, the air felt wrong. Oppressive.
Thick with energy that prickled across skin and raised every hair on their massive bodies. The marble floors fractured beneath their weight as another pulse of power exploded outward from deeper within the structure. A chandelier shattered overhead. Dust and debris rained down.
Then—a shockwave blasted down the central corridor. It hit them like a physical wall. Several guards were thrown backward, crashing into pillars. Others dug their weapons into the stone to anchor themselves, boots carving trenches into the floor.
Jarul did not slow. He pushed through it. Veins bulged along his arms as he forced himself forward step by step against the torrent of pressure. His ancient muscles strained, but his resolve did not waver.
The captain saw it then—at the far end of the grand corridor, the one leading to the throne room—Light. Not fire. Not lightning. A radiant golden brilliance pulsing like a newborn star. And behind those closed doors he sensed it—multiple silhouettes brushed past against his observation Haki.
But amongst them he also felt their king, towering and brimming with absolute power.
The castle shook again—harder this time. Cracks spider-webbed along the ceiling as distant sections of stone collapsed. Outside, thunder split the sky once more. Inside, the guards hesitated. For the first time in their service, fear crept into their ranks. The captain roared to steady them.
"Stand firm! For Elbaf! For the King!"
By the time Jarul and the King's Guard reached the throne room, the tremors had dulled into a low, ominous hum that vibrated through bone and steel alike.
"Stand ready," the captain warned. Together, they heaved the colossal doors open. The ancient hinges screamed. The doors crashed inward—and silence met them. The throne room stood bathed in fractured golden light pouring from the shattered skylight above. Marble pillars were split with glowing cracks that still sizzled with residual energy. The air itself felt charged, heavy, difficult to breathe.
At the far end of the hall, upon the raised dais next to the massive stone throne, stood King Harald. Unharmed. Unwounded. Whole. Relief flooded the guards instantly. A collective exhale rolled through the chamber as armored giants dropped to one knee, weapons lowering in reverence.
"The King is safe…" one muttered under his breath. But Jarul did not kneel. He did not breathe in relief. He stared. Because he saw what the others did not. Harald stood taller than before—subtly, unnaturally so. His frame seemed broader, outlined faintly in arcs of fading golden lightning that danced across his skin before vanishing. The air bent slightly around him, as though space itself struggled to settle.
But it was his eyes. Gone was the fire. Gone was the storm of conviction and pride that had defined him since youth. In their place— Stillness. Cold. Empty. Eyes that reflected no warmth, no recognition. Not even grief. He did not move as his guards knelt. He did not acknowledge their presence. He stood as though placed there.
Positioned. Displayed. And only then did Jarul notice them. Four figures flanked the throne. Foreign. Composed. Watching. Their silhouettes were stark against the fractured glow—outsiders within Elbaf's sacred heart. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Jarul's voice cut through the kneeling ranks like a blade of ice.
"You…" The kneeling guards stiffened. "…Who are you?" His hand tightened around the haft of his weapon as his gaze locked onto the strangers.
"What did you do to our king?" The relief in the room curdled instantly into tension. Several guards slowly raised their heads, now truly looking. And they saw it too. Harald had not greeted them. Had not spoken. Had not even blinked. He stood like a war statue carved in flesh. The faint hum of power still radiated from him—not wild now, but contained. Controlled. Directed.
Jarul took a single step forward. The marble cracked beneath his foot.
"Answer me." His voice was no longer merely that of an elder. It was the growl of a giant who sensed that something sacred had been violated. And in the oppressive stillness of the throne room—the truth loomed heavier than any weapon. Their king stood before them. But whatever now looked through his eyes was not entirely Harald.
"Ah… Elder Jarul. You are here. I was about to summon you." King Harald's voice rolled across the throne room—calm, even, and utterly untouched by the storm that had just torn through the castle. He stepped forward from the dais. Each footfall echoed too cleanly. Too measured.
He did not answer Jarul's accusation. He did not acknowledge the drawn blade. Instead, he spoke as though addressing a routine council.
"Mobilize the giant warriors. Every last warrior from every tribe." His lifeless gaze swept over the kneeling guards. "We shall remind the world why Elbaf stands as the mightiest nation upon the seas."
The words were delivered casually. As though he had ordered extra rations for winter.
Silence followed. Then—shock. The guard captain slowly lifted his head, disbelief washing across his hardened features.
Full mobilization? War?
For decades Harald had steered Elbaf away from endless bloodshed. He had dismantled feuds. Opened dialogue. Suppressed extremists. Preached strength without conquest.
And now— Without warning. Without counsel. He commanded total war. The captain's eyes drifted past Harald. To the four figures standing near the throne. Small. Insignificant in stature. Yet utterly composed. Watching. Understanding struck him like a physical blow.
This was no change of heart. This was intrusion. Jarul's patience snapped. Steel screamed as he drew his massive blade fully, the edge gleaming under the fractured golden light. Black Armament Haki surged along its length, coating it in a dense, lethal sheen. He leveled it directly at the four outsiders.
"Guards!" Jarul thundered. "Summon Prince Loki. Inform every tribe—every elite warrior. The King is in danger." His voice shook the chamber. "Elbaf has been invaded."
Confusion rippled through the kneeling ranks. Some guards remained frozen, struggling to reconcile the scene before them. Their king stood unharmed. Yet their Elder declared invasion.
"Move!" Jarul roared. One giant near the rear snapped from his stupor and turned toward the massive doors. But he hesitated— Just for a breath.
"You—" the captain barked, fury overriding disbelief. "Go get Prince Loki. NOW!" The command cracked like thunder. The guard bolted toward the exit.
"Gihahaha…!" A shrill laugh sliced through the tension. Saint Sommers tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. "It seems your subjects are no longer eager to obey you, Harald. Do you want my help in getting rid of these troublemakers…?"
Though he had asked a question, he did not wait for permission. His fingers twitched. The marble floor beneath the fleeing giant ruptured. Thorny vines exploded upward in a violent surge—thick as ship masts, barbed and writhing like living serpents. They coiled around the giant's legs, waist, and arms in an instant.
The warrior roared, twisting mid-stride as his Haki flared black across his blade. He swung. Steel cleaved through vine after vine in brutal arcs, shredded thorns scattering across the chamber. But for every strand severed, two more burst from the stone. They tightened. Wrapped. Constricted.
The giant strained, muscles bulging as the vines creaked under his strength. He tore several free, snapping them with raw force— Only to be dragged backward as a massive coil lashed around his torso and yanked him off his feet. The throne room floor cracked further as he crashed down. More vines surged, binding his limbs, creeping over his shoulders, tightening around his throat.
"Release him!" the captain roared, leaping forward with axe raised. But the other three figures had not moved. They did not need to. Harald remained standing at the center. Watching. Unblinking. Golden arcs flickered faintly across his shoulders. Jarul's grip tightened on his blade as the ensnared guard struggled, Haki blazing in desperate pulses. Sommers chuckled, stepping forward slightly.
"Please… struggle harder. It makes it far more entertaining." The vines constricted again, forcing the giant warrior to one knee, then flat against the shattered marble. Around the chamber, the remaining guards finally understood. This was no council dispute. No internal strife. This was an occupation. And their king still stood in silence. Eyes empty.
Jarul raised his blade higher, killing intent flooding the throne room like a rising tide. "You dare lay hands on a warrior of Elbaf… within our own hall?" The air thickened instantly. Haki began to clash—unseen yet tangible. The war Harald had just declared had already begun.
"Aaaargh—!" The dying scream of the giant warrior shook the throne room as the thorned vines tightened—and then tore through him. Barbs the size of spears punched through armor and flesh alike. Blood sprayed across shattered marble. The massive body convulsed once… twice… before the vines lifted him like a broken trophy and flung him aside.
The King's Guard erupted. The captain was already moving. With a roar that split the air, he charged up the dais steps. Even now—even seeing one of his men butchered—he did not raise his axe toward Harald. He shot past him. Because he knew. Whatever had hollowed their king out stood behind him.
The captain's axe came down in a brutal arc toward the four intruders—but it never landed.
A massive hand clamped around his forearm mid-swing. King Harald. The grip was effortless.
Casual. The captain froze. Slowly—almost mechanically—Harald turned his head.
His eyes were empty. With a slight tug, he lifted the fully armored giant captain off his feet as though he weighed nothing. Then—he threw him. The captain rocketed across the throne room like a ragdoll, smashing through two marble pillars before crashing into the far wall with a thunderous explosion of stone and debris.
Silence fell for a single heartbeat. King Harald had always been the strongest giant in Elbaf. Even before the blessing from the Great One. Even before the devil fruit. Now? Golden lightning flickered faintly across his skin. The air warped around him with oppressive density. Immortality granted by Imu. The legendary Devil Fruit of the giants coursing through his veins.
Power layered upon power. He no longer felt like a giant king. He felt like a true calamity given form. Jarul roared.
"Restrain the King—!" His blade, coated in dense Armament Haki, swung toward Gunko in a cleaving arc meant to bisect a warship. "Kill the intruders!"
Gunko did not flinch. She merely raised her hand and swiped it gently to the side. Jarul's blade missed. Not by inches—by yards. The trajectory bent unnaturally, the Haki-clad slash curving away as though reality itself had been redirected. The flying slash screamed across the throne room and cleaved clean through a marble pillar instead.
The entire column split in two before collapsing in a deafening crash. Jarul's eyes widened. "Harald!" he roared again, voice cracking with fury and grief. "Come to your senses! Snap out of it, damn you! What are you doing—harming your own kin?!"
He lunged again toward the intruders. Around him, more than two dozen elite giant warriors surged forward, abandoning hesitation. They did not aim to kill their king. They aimed to restrain him. Chains forged from seastone were hurled. Massive shields slammed forward. Spears thrust not at his heart but at joints, at limbs, seeking to pin him down.
Harald did not retreat. He stepped forward. The first giant swung a war hammer the size of a siege engine. Harald caught it mid-swing. The impact alone shattered the marble beneath their feet. Without strain, Harald twisted.
The hammer—and the warrior holding it—were ripped free and spun overhead before being hurled into three advancing giants, sending them crashing into a wall in a tangle of broken bodies. Another guard leapt from behind, chains wrapping around Harald's torso.
For a brief moment, it looked as though they had him. Harald exhaled. Golden lightning exploded outward as his Haoshoku haki surged like an unrelenting tide. The chains disintegrated. The two giants holding them were thrown back with bones audibly snapping mid-air. A spear thrust toward Harald's neck. He caught it between two fingers. Snapped it.
Then drove the broken haft forward through the armored chest of its wielder without hesitation. Blood sprayed across the dais steps. No pause. No remorse. A shield-bearing pair attempted to tackle him together, bracing with Haki-hardened defenses. Harald stepped into them. One open-handed strike.
The shockwave alone flattened them. Their shields shattered like pottery. Both giants were driven into the floor, the marble cratered beneath their bodies. Across the chamber, more elite guards rushed in waves. It did not matter. Harald moved through them like a force of nature.
A backhand sent one giant spinning through the air, neck bent at an unnatural angle. A stomp cracked the floor and sent a shockwave that launched half a dozen warriors off their feet. He did not check if they rose. He did not care. His cold eyes never flickered with recognition. To him—
They were obstacles. Jarul watched in horror as warriors he had trained, giants who had defended Elbaf for centuries, fell. Some unconscious. Some broken. Some never rising again.
And through it all—the four figures behind the throne did not lift a finger. Gunko's expression remained serene. Sommers grinned, itching to join the fight. They did not need to intervene.
Elbaf's mightiest weapon now stood before them. And he was slaughtering his own.
Jarul planted his blade into the ground to steady himself as another body crashed nearby.
His voice, raw and desperate, thundered once more.
"HARALD…!" For a fleeting instant he thought, did something flicker in those empty eyes?
Or was that merely the reflection of golden lightning dancing across them? The throne room had become a battlefield. And at its center stood a king reborn as something far more terrible than any enemy Elbaf had ever faced.