Elbaph, New World
The bark of the Adam Tree rose like a living wall before us, its surface ridged with the age of countless millennia. But what drew every eye was not the sheer size of the tree—it was the mural etched into its bark, stretching so high and wide that even the tallest of giants had to crane their necks to take it all in. The figures carved there were not the work of ordinary hands. No… each stroke was so massive, so innocent, that it must have been made by children born of bloodlines long lost to this world. Even a full-grown giant, towering as they were, looked no bigger than a child's toy beneath this ancient canvas.
"It's beautiful… Brother Ross," Mansherry whispered from my shoulder, her small hands gripping my collar as her wide, tear-bright eyes traced the mural's figures. To call it beautiful was almost insulting—it was overwhelming. A window into a forgotten past, carved with childish simplicity yet carrying truths that weighed heavier than mountains.
Beside me, Buffalo shifted his massive palm so Leo could stand comfortably. The little warrior leaned forward, squinting at the etched lines with furrowed brows. "Are you sure that's our Tontatta tribe up there, Ross…?"
I didn't answer immediately. My gaze was fixed on the mural, my mind running through the fragments of Oden's journal, the scattered truths I had gathered, and the contradictions I had yet to reconcile. To stand here, before a relic older than even the Void Century, was like staring directly at the beating heart of the world's mysteries.
"Yes, Leo," I finally murmured, almost absentmindedly. "That should be the Tontatta, standing beside the ancient giants. Though…" My eyes traced the colossal forms beside them. "…those may not be the same giants who walk Elbaph today. No, these were something… more. Something older."
"Brother Ross," Mansherry tugged gently at my hair, her voice curious and innocent in the face of such immense history. "Who is that we are fighting against?" Her tiny finger pointed toward the most striking image on the left of the mural: a colossal, demon-like figure holding a blazing sun in its hand, its form twisted with menace, towering even above gods and mortals etched around it.
I parted my lips to speak, but another voice answered before me. A voice that carried weight like thunder rolling across a mountain range.
"We believe that to be the ancient enemy of the Sun God… Nika."
I didn't have to turn to know who it was. The air itself seemed to bend beneath his presence. King Harald approached, each step deliberate, his shadow stretching long against the mural's base. Compared to him, the mural looked almost small, as though it were but a painting on a wall. For in Harald's towering frame, the ancient bloodline of giants still endured.
He bowed his head slightly to Mansherry, respect flickering in his stern eyes. Since she had healed Prince Loki after his crushing defeat at my hands, the king's gratitude toward the Tontatta princess had only deepened. In a rare gesture, he had even offered us a chance to glimpse Elbaph's most treasured fruit before we left the island—an honor no outsider was meant to see. The elders of the giant tribe had protested strongly, saying they couldn't trust an outsider, but Harald had promised despite their opposition.
Mansherry's eyes widened as she clutched at my collar tighter. "The enemy of… a god?" she whispered.
Harald's gaze, like molten amber, lingered on the mural. "An enemy so terrible that the whole world rallied together to resist it. And yet…" His voice lowered, a rumble that seemed to echo with centuries of burden. "…they failed."
I exhaled slowly, the weight of his words pressing heavily against my chest. "An enemy that needed the whole world to come together," I muttered, almost to myself. "And still… not enough."
Harald's sharp hearing caught my words, but he offered no correction. Silence was confirmation enough. The King of Elbaph carried truths even his people could not fathom, fragments of a history passed down only through royal blood.
Monet, sitting cross-legged nearby, was absorbed in her task. With quills and ink from the ship and smooth parchment borrowed from Elbaph's school, she sketched the mural with a precision that belied her indifference. To her, this wasn't history. It was duty.
She was making a copy for Robin, knowing that the archaeologist friend would prefer a faithful sketch to the distortion of a Den Den Mushi's projection. For Monet, the world beyond the Donquixote family barely existed. Her loyalty was absolute, her universe defined by the threads of that bond.
"Brother Ross…" Mansherry's voice drew me back. Her eyes were still fixed on the mural's monstrous figure, its jagged outline etched deep into the Adam Tree's immortal bark. "Do you know who that enemy is? It looks like a demon to me… Are gods and demons real?"
Her question cut deep—not because of its innocence, but because it was the same question that had haunted scholars, warriors, and kings across centuries.
Around us, the plaza had grown silent. Even the wind seemed to hush, as though the Adam Tree itself was listening. The giants of Elbaph often treated the mural as a myth, a tale carved by children of an ancient age, half-truths tangled with fable. Yet standing before it now, the weight of reality was undeniable.
Were gods and demons real? Or were they just names carved into history to describe forces so great, so incomprehensible, that ordinary words failed?
The demon etched into the bark loomed over us, its grin wide, its sun aflame in its hand. And though thousands of years had passed since it had been carved, its presence still carried the weight of something eternal. Something not vanquished, but waiting.
As I studied the vast mural carved into the Adam Tree's bark, Mansherry's innocent question lingered in my mind. My thoughts drifted far from Elbaph, back to the words of the old shaman from the Shandian tribe. She had once spoken of gods who had walked this world, and now, staring at these ancient carvings, I wondered how many of those so-called deities had been captured upon this eternal canvas.
"Yes, Mansherry," I finally said, my voice carrying across the hushed air. "Gods and demons once walked upon this world. It wasn't always seas and scattered islands. Once, long ago, the world was bound by near-endless stretches of land — continents vast as the oceans themselves."
Even King Harald, who towered over us like a mountain, turned his head to listen. His eyes narrowed. For all his knowledge, even he had never truly realized how much I knew of the world's hidden past.
"Lands… as vast as the sea," Leo whispered under his breath, awe and disbelief mixing in his tone.
Even Monet, normally detached and focused only on her task, froze mid-sketch. She looked at me with sharp curiosity, her voice hesitant but tinged with intrigue. "Young master… where did it all go? If there were such lands, surely someone would have known. Surely something of them would remain."
I smiled faintly, though it was a bitter smile, and slowly lowered my hand to gesture at the earth beneath our feet. "They sank, Monet. The world itself sank beneath the wrath of the Sea God. What remains — the islands we walk today — are but fragments, remnants of a greater whole. Shattered pieces of the Second World."
"Second world…?" Leo piped up again, his voice quick, his eyes wide. "Brother Ross… does that mean there are many worlds?"
The young Tontatta's eagerness was almost painful. His people had survived, yes, but their history had been fractured, lost to tides and time. To him, every word was a fragile thread connecting him to a forgotten past.
Harald shifted, lowering himself to sit cross-legged beside us. The ground trembled faintly beneath his sheer mass. His sharp eyes never left mine. He had finally met someone who spoke of things even he knew only in fragments — things the world itself had forgotten.
"If history is to be believed," I continued, my tone grave, "what we live in now is the Third World. This world has already seen the cycle of creation and destruction twice before. I am certain King Harald knows something of the world that came before ours."
Harald's deep voice rumbled after a pause. "You know of the Harley Texts, then…?" His expression hardened with sudden clarity. At last he understood why the elders of the World Government had been so relentless in demanding my capture. To them, I wasn't merely a man with monstrous strength. I was a keeper of secrets — secrets older than the seas themselves, secrets buried even before the First World had ended.
"Well," I said with a small nod, "the scholars of Ohara preserved a copy of the original Harley Texts. So yes, I have read them. And if truth be told, the giants of Elbaph may possess the oldest records of history still in existence."
My gaze returned to the mural, its endless details pulling me deeper into thought. Around me, the others fell silent, lost in contemplation.
Then, unexpectedly, Mansherry's sweet voice broke the stillness, her words as sharp as they were innocent. "King Harald… where did your horns go? The ancient giants in the mural have them. Sister Dora has them. Prince Loki too. Brother Ross said that those with ancient bloodlines bear horns upon their heads. But you… you only have scars. Did you lose them?"
Her question struck like a hammer. The King's guards stiffened instantly, their eyes darting between each other in alarm. The subject of Harald's missing horns was a forbidden wound in Elbaph, never spoken aloud. To them, Mansherry's innocent curiosity sounded like a dangerous trespass.
But King Harald did not anger. He did not scowl, nor did his presence grow heavy. Instead, the great king threw back his head and laughed — a booming, thunderous laugh that rolled across the clearing like thunder.
"Barahahaha! Little one, I did not lose them. I removed them off myself. It was no accident — it was conviction. A choice." His grin widened, though his words carried weight far beyond his jovial tone. "I severed them to cut away the bloodline of my ancestors. The horns were a mark of the Ancient Giants, of their warmongering legacy. By casting them aside, I embraced peace. That was my vow."
His voice echoed, bold and unwavering. Almost every giant in Elbaph knew the truth in whispers but feared to speak it aloud. Yet Harald had never cared for secrecy. His sacrifice had been his declaration — a symbol, carved into his own body, of the world he wished to build.
Mansherry tilted her head, not fully understanding, but I understood all too well. Harald had done it to disavow his ancestry, to reject the endless wars that had defined his kind. His missing horns were a message to his people: a promise that Elbaph would no longer be chained to its bloody past.
It was noble. It was righteous. But perhaps it was also his undoing. By cutting away his horns, Harald had stripped himself — and perhaps all of Elbaph — of the fearsome legacy that once shielded them. His devotion to peace left cracks for the World Government to exploit. It weakened Elbaph's defenses, diluted their fire.
And in the end, perhaps it was this very conviction, this rejection of the old ways, that had brought about the downfall of King Harald himself.
"Maybe you shouldn't have, King Harald…"
The giant king's laughter cut short, rumbling into silence as his massive gaze shifted toward me. The weight of his stare was like a mountain pressing down, demanding to know why I had spoken such words.
"I understand your conviction," I continued steadily, my voice unshaken. "Your dream to build a new era for Elbaph through peace, diplomacy, and trade. I respect it — truly. But have you ever asked yourself what it is that truly keeps the World Government at bay? What it is that has preserved Elbaph's freedom from their clutches?"
The air grew heavy. The firelight flickered against the mural carved into the Adam Tree, shadows of ancient giants dancing across Harald's scarred face.
"I am already aware," I pressed on, "that the Elders — the Gorosei — have reached out to you. Some form of… deal."
The giant king's breath quickened. That was a secret known only to himself and the handful of guards present when he received that cursed call. His eyes flickered, suspicion already turning toward the men at his side — but before doubt could fester, I cut him off.
"You wonder how I know," I said, allowing a small smile to play at my lips. "Don't. It wasn't one of yours. I simply caught the rat the Government sent to deliver their little transponder snail."
Casually, I reached into my coat and pulled out an ornate white mask, tossing it onto the ground near Harald's feet. It clattered against the earth, its cold eyes staring up at us. Harald's expression darkened. He recognized it instantly.
The mask of Cipher Pol Aegis Zero. The very same worn by the so-called messenger who had come before him.
His jaw clenched. "Rosinante… despite his allegiance, he was sent as a messenger to Elbaph. It is our duty to ensure his safe return. Perhaps—"
"Perhaps nothing, King Harald," I cut in sharply, my tone carrying an edge. "Elbaph may be your kingdom, and its laws your sacred duty. But the Leviathan — my ship — is my kingdom. My domain. And when that little rat tried to crawl aboard in the dark like a thief, his fate became mine to decide. Your principles do not extend to my deck."
A smirk tugged at my lips. "If he were merely a messenger, he would not have crept into my ship. Would he?"
The truth was simple. The CP0 agent was no longer the World Government's to command. He was in the hands of my crew now — and among them were men and women who could break even the Aegis' finest. Torture, interrogation, the unraveling of secrets thought unbreakable. Few ever succeeded in cracking a Cipher Pol agent, but those few were mine.
Harald's massive eyes bore into me, his silence heavy with both disapproval and reluctant understanding. After a long moment, his chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. He knew — no matter what he commanded, no matter what he pleaded — I would never release the agent.
I stepped closer, my gaze rising to meet his. "As I was saying… it is not diplomacy that keeps the World Government from Elbaph. It is fear. Fear of giants. Fear of your people's collective strength. That fear is your shield, Harald. But what happens when the fear is gone?"
The words struck deep, echoing in the vast silence beneath the Adam Tree.
"And even now…" I went on, lowering my voice though each syllable was sharp as steel, "do you truly believe they are idle? That the Elders sit in their holy city and do nothing? No, King Harald. You would be naive to think so. They will never stop. Not until Elbaph bends the knee. Not until the giants serve beneath them."
The mural loomed above us, the ancient enemy's demonic shadow carved into the bark as though listening to our every word. I gestured toward it, my tone grim.
"They have been waiting centuries for this. Their plans run deeper than the seas themselves. And while you wait for your savior, while you cling to the hope of peace, they sharpen their blades in silence."
King Harald did not answer my warning immediately. His vast eyes lingered on the mural, and for a moment, the silence between us was heavier than stone. Perhaps he already knew. After all, had he not wondered himself why the World Government dared so much in recent decades? If Elbaph had remained the same fierce, untamed power it once was, would they have dared?
And yet, despite it all, Harald still clung to his path. The path of peace. The path of coexistence. He had even gone so far as to send young, promising giants to serve under the very flag of the World Government — to wear the uniforms of Marines.
Finally, his deep voice rolled like thunder. "The old savage world has no place anymore, Rosinante. Our race will fade into history if we do not change. If we do not try to coexist. Speaking of war and glory may sound mighty, but it will only lead us to ruin. The Ancient Giants have all but vanished, their horns buried in forgotten soil. Only a few remain. Unless we learn to live alongside the world, Elbaph itself may be lost to the winds of time."
That was Harald's philosophy, spoken with the conviction of a king. To him, the world's fear of giants was a chain that must be broken. He wanted to shatter the prejudice, to prove that his people were not monsters, but allies — capable of coexistence. Perhaps it was noble. Perhaps it was wise. But the flaw was not in his dream. The flaw was in his chosen partners.
The World Government.
Peace, after all, is only possible when both sides put down their blades. And unlike Harald, I knew the truth. Even if the giants laid down every weapon, the World Government would not see a hand of friendship — only vulnerability. To them, Elbaph would forever be the greatest threat to their dominion. And threats are meant to be destroyed.
I stepped forward, my voice carrying like steel drawn from its sheath. "Perhaps your ideals would suit a gentler world, King Harald. A world where peace is not bartered with blood. But do not forget the truth of this one."
I lifted a hand toward the mural — toward the endless carvings of war, gods, demons, and sacrifice. "This world was built upon conflict. Upon conquest. Upon power. It is carved into its very bones. If you abandon the one strength that has protected your people for centuries, if you throw away the legacy that made the world tremble… then sooner or later, tragedy will come knocking at your gates."
The king's guards stirred, tension thickening in the air, but Harald remained still, listening.
"It is not my place to dictate how you rule Elbaph," I said firmly, meeting the king's gaze without flinching. "But take my words as a warning. A predator is only safe in the jungle so long as it remembers what it is. The moment it forgets, the moment it grows soft…" My voice lowered, each word sharp as a blade. "…the world itself will tear it apart."
The fire crackled. The mural loomed. Harald's silence stretched long, like the weight of a storm pressing upon the earth. His jaw tightened, his massive hands curling briefly into fists. For an instant — only an instant — doubt flickered in his eyes, the doubt of a king who knew my words rang with truth. He had seen too much, heard too many whispers of the Government's schemes, to dismiss it entirely.
And yet, when he finally spoke, his voice carried the same thunderous conviction as before.
"Perhaps so, Rosinante. Perhaps the world is as cruel as you say. But if Elbaph forgets its dream of peace, then we are no better than the ancestors who drowned this world in blood. Let the Government scheme, let them plot — I will not lead my people back into savagery. If tragedy comes, then so be it. Better we fall holding to hope, than rise again as monsters."
I said nothing more. There was no need. Between us, beneath the eternal Adam Tree, two visions for the future of Elbaph clashed like unseen titans: mine, forged in survival and blood, and his, forged in conviction and peace.
And though I could see the doubt that haunted his heart, Harald's gaze did not falter. He had chosen his path — and he would walk it to the very end.