"Gihahaha… this is fun!" Saint Sommers' laughter rang across the battlefield like a madman's hymn. Another giant warrior roared as invisible thorns burst through his torso—impaled from within by vines no eye could see. Blood sprayed across the shattered stone pathways leading toward Aurust Castle, crimson pooling between cracks made moments earlier by titanic footsteps.
More giants were coming. From every direction. War horns echoed through Elbaf as warrior after warrior converged toward the castle, axes raised, shields splintered but spirits unbroken. Saint Killingham clicked his tongue as he parried a massive greataxe aimed at his skull. Steel shrieked against steel, sparks cascading around his armored frame.
"This will become troublesome if it continues," Killingham muttered, ducking under a follow-up swing and striking the giant's solar plexus with a precise, haki-coated palm. The blow sent shockwaves through the giant's body, knocking him clean off his feet rather than killing him. "If too many of them charge at once, even we'll be forced into a defensive posture."
Unlike Sommers, Killingham was exercising restraint. Gunko's orders were clear—do not slaughter excessively. These giants were future assets. But restraint bored Sommers.
"They're so weak!" he howled, spreading his arms theatrically as invisible thorned tendrils coiled through the earth beneath them. Screams erupted.
Half a dozen giants suddenly convulsed as unseen spikes pierced their limbs, their own blood splattering across their towering frames. Sommers' Devil Fruit power was insidious—thorned vines that could sprout and skewer without warning, phasing through terrain like serpents hunting in tall grass.
He reveled in it. But then the ground shook. Not from scattered footsteps. From something heavier. Deeper. The rhythm changed. Both God's Knights paused instinctively. A new presence approached. The air itself thickened.
Across the fractured stone plain, a colossal figure emerged through dust and smoke—towering even among giants. Muscles like coiled cables flexed beneath scarred skin. In his hands rested a warhammer so massive it looked like a fortress battering ram forged into weapon form.
Loki. Each step he took split the earth open.
"Gihahaha!" Sommers' grin widened, madness dancing in his eyes. "At least this one might prove entertaining!"
Without hesitation, he unleashed his power. The ground beneath Loki exploded. Invisible thorned vines erupted upward in a writhing forest of death—barbed, serrated, twisting like living spears. They lashed toward the charging giant from every angle, aiming to impale, bind, shred.
But then— "ROOOOOAAAARRRR!!!"
The roar was not merely sound. It was will made manifest. Haoshoku burst outward like a shockwave from a detonating star. Red lightning tore through the sky in jagged arcs, splitting clouds apart and sending tremors through the battlefield. Giants and soldiers alike staggered as the pressure slammed into them.
Sommers' laughter faltered. Killingham's eyes narrowed. Before either could react, Loki did not slow. He charged straight into the forest of invisible death. The first vine pierced his shoulder—and snapped. The second tore into his thigh— And was ripped free as muscle flexed like forged steel.
Barbs sank into flesh, drawing rivers of blood, but Loki did not hesitate. He grabbed a writhing mass of thorns with his bare hand—Haki crackling faintly around his grip—and pulled. The invisible vines screamed as they were torn from the ground, their roots ripping free in violent sprays of dirt and shattered stone.
Loki barreled forward like an unstoppable Titan. Thorns stabbed into his chest, his arms, his back—embedding deep enough to grind against bone. And he tore through them anyway. Each step crushed the battlefield beneath his feet. Each movement shredded the invisible restraints like cobwebs before a hurricane.
Red lightning surged around him, mingling with the crimson mist of his own blood. He looked less like a warrior and more like a war god reborn. Sommers' grin twitched. For the first time since the slaughter began—he felt it. Excitement. Real excitement.
"Well now…" he murmured, eyes gleaming. "That's more like it."
Loki swung his warhammer. The air detonated. A shockwave blasted forward, pulverizing the remaining thorn constructs and tearing a trench through the battlefield toward the God's Knights.
Killingham leapt backward instantly, haki flaring around him. Sommers remained where he stood—laughing as the hammer descended toward him like the judgment of the heavens.
Within moments, layer upon layer of thorned vines erupted from the earth. They twisted over one another in spiraling coils, weaving into a towering barricade of barbed death. Black Armament Haki hardened their surfaces, turning the writhing mass into something resembling a fortress grown from nightmare—dense, jagged, impenetrable.
Saint Sommers spread his arms wide behind it, grin stretching ear to ear. "Let's see you break that—"
Loki's warhammer descended. There was no hesitation. No slowing. The weapon came down like a falling star wrapped in black lightning.
BOOOOOOM—!!!
The moment hammer met shield, the world seemed to fracture. The Haki-clad vines did not hold. They ruptured. Exploded outward in shredded fragments as if struck by the wrath of an ancient god. Barbs snapped, coils tore apart, and the entire defensive construct was ripped open in a single overwhelming impact. Sommers' grin faltered. It was too late to erect another barrier.
"Oopsie…" he muttered dryly, black Armament Haki flooding across his body. "That's gonna sting."
The hammer struck. The impact detonated across his crossed arms and chest, shattering the ground beneath him in a massive crater. Shockwaves tore outward, flattening nearby structures and sending giants stumbling from the blast radius. Sommers was launched skyward like a broken projectile.
Midair, more thorned vines burst from the earth—snapping around his waist and limbs, halting his momentum before he could be sent crashing into distant ruins. The vines strained under the force before slamming him back down onto the battlefield. He landed heavily, boots carving trenches into stone.
Saint Killingham descended beside him in a controlled glide, coat fluttering, expression unreadable. Around them, the giants instinctively closed ranks around their prince, forming a defensive semicircle. Massive shields rose. War axes lowered into ready stances.
Loki stood at the center, bleeding freely from dozens of puncture wounds—but his grip on the warhammer never wavered. Black lightning crackled faintly around him, raw and unpolished, yet undeniably potent. Sommers rolled his shoulder with a grimace.
"Bastard… that hurt," he muttered, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. His eyes narrowed. "How many Haoshoku users are there on this island? They just keep popping up one after another…"
This time, there was caution beneath the sarcasm. That strike had damaged him. Which meant— This giant could infuse Conqueror's Haki into his blows.
"Prince Loki," one of the giant guards spoke urgently, never taking his eyes off the two knights. "The King is inside the castle. These two have barred our entry. We suspect there are more enemies within. His Majesty may be in danger."
Sommers couldn't help but snort. If only you knew, he thought. He wasn't about to enlighten them that their beloved king had already bartered Elbaf's future in chains. Harald was one of them—already a god's knight bound in eternal servitude to the Great One. As long as Harald stood before the giants afterward with a carefully crafted tale, the truth could be buried.
All they needed to do was eliminate those inside the castle who knew too much— And prevent any more giants from reaching it.
"I told you so," Killingham murmured dryly, glancing at Sommers. "Subduing this one won't be simple."
Judging by the gleam in Sommers' eyes, "subdue" wasn't even in his vocabulary anymore. He wanted to kill the prince. That would not be easy.
"Oye, Killingham," Sommers muttered, flexing his fingers as thorned vines slithered restlessly around him. "Do something. Divert the rest of these giants away from the castle. We can't have more of them swarming this place."
Killingham exhaled slowly. "That's what I suggested earlier. And you didn't even bother listening to my suggestion."
He resisted the urge to snap. Now that Sommers had found a worthy opponent, he would not spare even a thought for battlefield control. Which meant the responsibility fell entirely on him. And disappointing Captain Gunko was not an option.
"Buy me a few minutes," Killingham said calmly. "Let me give the giants something to worry about in earnest." He stepped forward.
The air around him shifted. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the battlefield as a strange, almost sacred aura enveloped his body. His frame began to change. His limbs elongated. His torso expanded with divine grace.
Silvery-blue scales shimmered into existence along his skin, each reflecting light like polished crystal. Antler-like horns spiraled upward from his temples, branching majestically toward the heavens. His hair flowed into a mane of radiant white, crackling faintly with ethereal energy.
Cloud-mist gathered around his hooves as his feet reshaped into powerful, cloven forms that hovered inches above the ground. Saint Killingham had assumed his mythical Zoan form. Ryu Ryu no Mi, Model: Kirin. A creature of legend. A divine beast said to be capable of walking between realities and dreams—yet here it stood amidst chaos.
Lightning arced subtly along his scaled hide, not wild like Lightning Logia nor oppressive like Haoshoku, but refined, almost celestial. The giants instinctively stiffened. Even Loki's gaze sharpened. Killingham lowered his head slightly, golden eyes glowing.
"Let's restore some order and level the playing field, shall we…?" he said softly. Clouds began to swirl above the battlefield, drawn unnaturally toward the Kirin's presence.
Without warning, the Kirin's body pulsed. Ripples. Wave after wave of invisible energy burst outward from Saint Killingham, distorting the very air like heat over molten steel. The pressure wasn't crushing like Haoshoku—it was subtler, invasive, seeping into the mind rather than the flesh.
The giant warriors braced themselves instinctively. Most held firm. Only those already battered from earlier clashes staggered briefly, clutching their temples as dizziness threatened to topple them. But the seasoned warriors endured. Their wills were hardened by decades of battle. They were not the true targets.
Killingham's golden eyes glinted. A grown mind was rigid. Structured. Its fears shackled by reason. But children—children dreamed without limits. And their nightmares had no ceiling.
Far beyond the battlefield, within the massive structure known as Walrus School, young giant children suddenly swayed where they stood. Lessons halted mid-sentence. Wooden practice weapons slipped from small hands.
One by one—they collapsed. Not in pain. In sleep. Deep. Induced. Killingham's aura threaded through the sky like unseen roots, slipping past walls, past distance, past awareness.
"I hope you giants are ready," he bellowed, voice echoing across the fractured plains, "to face the monsters of your own imagination!"
Loki froze. His instincts screamed. The energy had direction. Purpose. He shut his eyes for a split second, extending his Observation Haki outward, tracing the ripple's path like following a current through dark water. And then he saw it. Walrus School. The children. His eyes snapped open.
"He's targeting the children!" Loki roared, fury detonating through his veins. The ground exploded beneath his feet as he launched forward, warhammer raised high, intent clear— End it in one strike. But the earth ahead of him bulged grotesquely.
Thorns erupted skyward, twisting together in a violent spiral. In seconds, a colossal construct formed—a towering giant of interwoven vines and barbs, its surface hardened with black Armament Haki. Saint Sommers stood atop its shoulder, grinning like a demon at play.
"Gihahaha… not so fast," he crooned. "You're mine. I still need to repay you for that little sting." The thorn giant swung a massive arm downward, forcing Loki to pivot mid-charge. The warhammer collided with the vine-fist in a thunderous explosion.
BOOM—!
Shockwaves tore through the battlefield, splitting stone and uprooting nearby trees. The vine construct shattered at the forearm but immediately regrew. Sommers' laughter echoed as more thorns sprouted, coiling around Loki's legs like serpents.
"Trust me," Sommers taunted, eyes gleaming, "even if you reach him, you can't stop Killingham once he begins. Sometimes I envy his abilities. …"
Another clash. Loki tore free, muscles bulging as he ripped through barbs that sank deep into his flesh. Blood sprayed—but he didn't slow. He swung again, obliterating half the thorn giant's torso. Sommers leapt clear, landing lightly as more vines surged from the earth to intercept the prince's advance.
"You know," Sommers continued mockingly, weaving hand gestures that caused entire forests of spikes to erupt around Loki, "he can give life to your deepest, darkest nightmares. The ones you were certain would never crawl into the light."
Behind them, the sky shifted unnaturally. Back at Walrus School— The sleeping children began to tremble. From the air above them, faint distortions formed—like mirages taking shape. A child who once feared the ancient sea serpent of Elbaf whimpered in his sleep— And above the schoolyard, a colossal spectral serpent began to coil into existence, scales glistening with nightmare sheen.
Another child dreamed of a faceless giant devouring villages—and from the clouds, a grotesque titan with hollow eyes and a cavernous maw clawed its way into reality. Dozens. Hundreds. Monstrosities pulled straight from the unfiltered fears of giant children. They were imperfect at first—shimmering outlines, translucent horrors.
Then Killingham's power solidified them. Flesh. Claw. Fang. The sky above Elbaf darkened as nightmare after nightmare took form, descending toward the island like an omen of apocalypse.
On the battlefield, Loki's heart pounded as he felt it. Multiple presences.
Monstrous. Emerging near the school. His roar shook the heavens as he tried to break past Sommers again— But the thorned giant reformed once more, larger, denser, reinforced with layers of Haki.
"Focus on me, giant...!" Sommers shrieked gleefully, launching a barrage of razor-sharp vines that rained down like a storm of spears. Loki smashed through them, but every second spent fighting was another second for the nightmares to awaken fully.
Far away, the first dream-beast opened its eyes. And roared. Walrus School—Branch Route 8—descended into chaos within minutes. The children had been gathered into the main hall after distant tremors from Aurust Castle rattled windows and sent flocks of sky-birds scattering. It was only a precaution. Nothing more. Every giant trusted in King Harald. Whatever disturbance had occurred, surely the king would handle it.
So the teachers stood watch. Calm. Alert. Confident. Until the first child collapsed. Then the second. Then the third. One after another, enormous young bodies crumpled where they stood, hitting the wooden floor with heavy thuds that echoed through the hall.
"Colon…? Colon!" Ripley dropped to her knees, lifting her five-year-old son's massive head into her lap. His eyes were closed. His breathing steady. He was… snoring.
"Wake up! Colon, wake up!" she shook him gently at first, then harder, panic seeping into her voice. He didn't stir. All around her, children lay sprawled across the hall—some mid-step, some mid-sentence—now lost in unnaturally deep sleep.
"Jaguar!" Ripley roared, fear cracking through her usually composed tone. "What the hell is going on?! What's happening to the children?!" Jaguar's jaw was tight as he lifted two unconscious students and carefully laid them across reinforced tables.
"I don't know," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Check their breathing. Check their pulses. Don't panic."
The dean barked orders, trying to maintain order as teachers scrambled to move the fallen children out of walkways. Massive hands trembled. Some tried shaking students awake. Others called their names desperately. Nothing worked. They were locked in deep, unnatural slumber.
Then Wolf, the giant gym teacher, froze by the window. "What in Odin's name is that…?" he muttered.
He instinctively stepped back, his limbs stiffening against his shoulders. The room fell gradually silent as one by one, the teachers followed his gaze. Above the school, the sky was changing. Distortions shimmered in the air, like heat waves bending reality. Clouds twisted unnaturally, spiraling inward as if drawn to a singular, invisible point.
And something was forming within them. At first, it was only a shadow. Then—a shape. Ange, the language instructor, felt her breath leave her lungs.
"No…" she whispered. The shape grew clearer. Massive. Wolflike. Its body stretched across the sky, fur bristling like jagged stormclouds. Its jaws elongated unnaturally wide, rows upon rows of serrated teeth forming in sickening detail. One eye glowed molten gold while the other socket remained a hollow abyss of darkness.
"Fenrir…" Ange's voice trembled. The ancient devourer of gods.
But it wasn't exactly as the legends depicted. Its proportions were warped. Limbs too long. Spine bent at unnatural angles. Pieces of it seemed stitched together from inconsistent memories—half-remembered stories and exaggerated fears.
It was not Fenrir as history told it. It was Fenrir as a child feared it. And as the seconds passed—it solidified. Fur gained texture. Claws lengthened. Its breath fogged the air with visible heat. The sky groaned under its weight.
"That's impossible…" Jaguar muttered. Fenrir was just a myth even in Elbaf; however, now that same myth was being given form, and the ancient Fenrir was not alone. To its right, another shape clawed its way into existence—serpentine, vast beyond measure. Scales formed in jagged patches, each one darker than midnight. Its body coiled through the clouds in loops that stretched far beyond sight.
The Midgard Serpent. Jörmungandr. Except its eyes were mismatched—one reptilian, one disturbingly human. Its fangs dripped not venom—but blackened mist, as though the very concept of poison had been twisted by imagination.
Below it, something else emerged— A towering figure made of ice and bone, faceless except for a vertical maw that split its torso open. It resembled no true legend—only a nightmare stitched from a child's fear of the dark forest. More shapes followed.
A fire giant whose flames burned cold blue. A headless draugr dragging a rusted anchor behind it. A colossal shadow with too many arms and no discernible face. Each one pulled from a sleeping mind. Each one born from dreams unfiltered by reason. Ripley felt her heart pound violently as she clutched Colon tighter.
"These are all beasts and creatures from giant mythology…" Ange said hoarsely. "They are supposed to be just that…myths…and nightmares…"
A deafening roar split the sky. Fenrir threw its massive head back and howled, the sound rattling every window in Walrus School. Cracks spiderwebbed through the glass. Dust rained from the ceiling. Outside, the ground trembled. The manifestations were descending. Teachers instinctively formed a protective ring around the sleeping children.
Jaguar clenched his fists. "We have to evacuate—"
"There's nowhere to go," the gym teacher whispered, staring at the descending horrors because they were hovering above the entirety of Elbaf, not just the school. Above them, Jörmungandr's coils tightened. Its massive eye rolled downward— And locked onto the school.
The tension snapped. The first nightmare began its descent. And Walrus School stood directly beneath the wrath of children's dreams made flesh.
Across Elbaf, the sky changed. It did not happen subtly. One moment, the heavens were merely clouded by the distant tremors from Aurust Castle. The next, the very firmament twisted as if seized by an unseen hand. The winds shifted violently, whipping through forests of colossal pines, bending their ancient trunks in protest.
On fishing outposts along the western cliffs, seasoned warriors paused mid-haul as the sea began to churn unnaturally. One grizzled giant narrowed his eyes at the horizon.
"That… ain't a storm." Above the canopy of the Great Forest, shadows coiled. Massive. Alive. In the central villages, blacksmiths stepped away from their forges as daylight dimmed beneath an encroaching silhouette. Hammers fell silent. The crackle of flame felt suddenly small.
Then—a roar. It rolled across Elbaf like thunder made flesh. Every giant on the island knew that sound. Or rather—they knew of it. Mothers froze while hanging laundry the size of ship sails. Children playing with carved wooden shields looked up, confused as the sky darkened. High above Branch Route 8, the colossal shape of a wolf tore through the clouds.
Its body stretched impossibly wide, paws pressing against nothing yet supported by the air itself. Its golden eye burned like a dying sun. An elder in one of the mountain settlements dropped his drinking horn, mead spilling into his beard.
"Fenrir…" he breathed.
Not a tale. Not a carving on a temple wall. Not a warning told around hearthfires. Fenrir. Alive. Elsewhere, fishermen screamed as the sea beyond the cliffs bulged upward. A serpentine mass rose from the depths of the clouds themselves, scales forming in jagged, incomplete patterns as lightning flickered along its spine.
"Jörmungandr…" someone whispered in horror. Panic did not come as shrieks. It came as silence. A stunned, disbelieving stillness that lasted only a heartbeat—before Elbaf roared back. War horns erupted across the island. Deep. Resonant. Ancient.
From watchtowers carved into mountainsides, signal fires ignited one after another. Flames leapt skyward in coded bursts, passing the alarm from village to village. Calamity. Mobilize. In the southern stronghold, a massive warrior with braided white hair stepped out of his hall, fastening a fur-lined cloak across his shoulders. His single eye locked onto the sky.
"So the end chooses today…" he muttered grimly.
Behind him, rows of giants began lifting shields taller than houses. Spears were pulled from racks. Axes slung over shoulders. Across the plains, mounted patrols on horned elk kicked their beasts into motion, racing toward the epicenter of the disturbance.
At the docks, longships meant for ceremonial voyages were instead shoved into defensive formation along the coast, ballistae being loaded with harpoons thick as tree trunks. Blacksmiths reignited their forges not for crafting but for war preparation.
Armor long preserved for Ragnarok myths was dragged from vaults. Helmets crested with horns and iron wings were donned. Ancient blades etched with runes were lifted once more into calloused hands. The ground itself seemed to tremble with gathering resolve.
Fear existed. Of course it did. These were not mere monsters. They were the oldest nightmares of Elbaf given flesh. The devourer of gods. The serpent that encircled the world. The frost horrors of forgotten sagas. And yet—if the myths spoke true, then Elbaf had always been fated to stand against them.
In a northern village, a young giant trembling beside his father asked, "Are those really the gods' enemies?" His father tightened the strap on his shield. "Doesn't matter what they are, boy," he replied firmly. "They stand over our home."
Another roar split the sky as Fenrir's massive jaws opened, shaking the air. Treehouses splintered beneath the pressure. But beneath that monstrous sound rose another—the unified war cry of Elbaf.
Hundreds…no thousands of giants. Voices layered like an avalanche. Defiant. Thunderous. Axes lifted. Shields raised. Spears leveled toward the heavens. If this was the prophesied end… Then they would meet it as warriors. Not as victims.
Across the entirety of Elbaf, from the smallest settlement to the gates of Aurust Castle, the giant nation armed itself in unison. The myths had descended. And Elbaf would answer.