Elbaph, New World
A cold sweat clung to Loki's skin as he jolted upright from his sleep, breath ragged and chest heaving like a man drowning on dry land.
"It was him… It was him!" he rasped aloud, eyes wide and burning with the fire of revelation. The massive chamber around him, carved into the roots of the great frozen tree of Elbaf, trembled ever so slightly as his voice echoed off the stone walls. The ornate bed groaned beneath his bulk as he swung his legs down, golden sheets soaked with sweat.
For the first time in years, a puzzle piece long buried in the fog of his memories had fallen perfectly into place.
The mystery man… the one cloaked in shadow, whose fists hit like meteors and whose presence bent the very air around him — that man who had nearly beaten him to death near the base of the world tree, deep beneath the surface in that cursed place, was the same man he had once knelt before.
Once, long ago, in the days when Loki was young, prideful, and still intoxicated with dreams of boundless strength, he had sought out a legend — a monster among men.
Rocks D. Xebec.
Not the myth. Not the name whispered by cowards and kings alike. But the man — the living, breathing force of nature. Loki had stood before him, not as a prince of Elbaf, but as a warrior hungry for the skies, for dominion over the seas, over fate itself. He had asked — no, demanded — to join the madman's crew.
"Dogahahaha… so you are alive…" Loki muttered, a mad grin stretching across his face. He clutched his head, strands of unkempt blond hair falling between his thick fingers.
"You were alive all these years… I knew it… I knew it!" he erupted, laughter rolling out of him like thunder in a storm. It echoed through the high arches of his room, past the frost-laced stone columns and out into the silent corridors of the giant palace.
His scarred chest rose and fell, the old wounds suddenly aching — phantom pains of battles fought in shadows and silence. The memory of that brutal duel beneath the world played in his mind like a prophecy. Every strike, every step, every roar that had nearly split the mountain — all of it made sense now. The aura, the bloodlust, the sheer impossibility of his opponent's existence… Loki had known that presence once before.
And yet, he had failed to recognize him.
"Stupid… I was blind." His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists, not in anger at the man who had humiliated him — not once, but twice — but at himself. How could I not see it sooner? That monstrous will… that unstoppable haki… it could only be him.
Not hate, nor vengeance boiled in Loki's blood. It was reverence. A reverence twisted by regret. If he had recognized him that day, he would have knelt once more — not as a young fool, but as a warrior who had tasted the bitterness of time and still longed to reach the summit.
He would have followed him into the seas, even if it meant death. Then, a knock at the door shattered the moment.
"Prince Loki. The king has summoned you."
A voice — stern, but respectful — echoed from the threshold. A massive warrior, clad in ceremonial furs and bearing the blue war-paint of the royal guard, stood waiting. His brows were furrowed, concern etched into his face, for he had heard the wild laughter from within and feared the worst.
Loki turned, eyes now calm but burning with purpose.
"Tell him I'm coming," he said, his voice deep, like glaciers grinding against one another. He stood, towering and mighty, a giant among giants. The light from the hearth behind him cast a long shadow on the stone floor — one that seemed larger than life.
As the guard saluted and left, Loki moved to the window. He gazed out at the frostbitten expanse of Elbaf, the mighty spires of ancient trees and the roaring sea beyond. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon — as if the world itself were holding its breath.
"So you've returned from the abyss, old ghost," Loki murmured. "But this time, I will not ask to follow." His fingers brushed the long-handled war axe resting against the wall, runes etched deep into the blade's steel.
"This time… I will challenge you again — and I will not lose."
Outside, the winds howled like the ghosts of the old era. And far across the seas, in the depths of chaos, the name Xebec was beginning to stir once more.
The ancient doors of the Hall creaked open with a groan that echoed through the stone corridors like the growl of a slumbering beast. The moment Loki stepped inside, he felt it — a silence so heavy it seemed to press down on his shoulders like the weight of a mountain.
The great hall before him was carved directly into the heart of the ancient world tree that crowned Elbaf. Massive stone pillars, sculpted in the likeness of the First Giants, held up the vaulted ceiling, and torches mounted in dragon-headed sconces cast flickering light across the long wooden beams above.
Tapestries, thick as sails, hung along the walls, each one depicting a saga of blood and glory — battles of old, sea serpent hunts, the founding of Elbaf, and the fabled voyage of the Giant King's fleet.
At the center of the hall blazed a colossal hearth, its fire as tall as a man and ringed with massive stones. It was around this hearth that the giants of legend now sat — chieftains, warlords, and advisors whose names were spoken with reverence across the isles of the New World. Their throne-like seats, hewn from glacial rock and Adam wood and carved with runes of lineage and conquest, formed a wide circle around the flame.
Yet tonight, the warmth of the fire did little to lift the cold that clung to the air.
Loki's keen eyes scanned the gathering. He could feel it in the way the warriors sat — not with the ease of camaraderie or the anticipation of war stories, but with shoulders hunched and brows furrowed. Even the mighty Thrym, Breaker of Waves, sat quietly, his famed iron war-braid hanging loose — a rare sign of distress among their kin.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
Loki's eyes caught his younger brother, Hajrudin, seated lower in the circle, despite not being of royal blood, he had been given a seat among the young warriors. The usual light in his eyes—that spark of admiration or mischief — was gone. In its place, a troubled stillness. He didn't even nod at Loki's arrival.
Then Loki's gaze turned to the hearth, where King Harald, his father and the monarch of all Giants, stood with his back turned to the hall, the only giant in this hall whose stature could match Loki's own to an extent. The flamelight cast dancing shadows on the deep furrows of his face. He wore no crown tonight, only the thick mantle of bearskin over his shoulders.
In one massive hand, he held a fire iron, slowly stirring the coals, though the logs did not need kindling. It was not the fire he was tending to — it was himself.
Control. Restraint. Reflection.
Loki recognized it at once. He had seen his father like this only a rare few times in his life—the day his mother died and the day he himself had challenged their father regarding the legacy of the giants.
He approached with deliberate steps, heavy fur cloak dragging behind him, every movement laden with the strength of a warrior but measured by the respect owed to the throne.
When he reached the center, Loki dropped to one knee, fist to the floor, head bowed low — the ancient sign of veneration passed down by the Jotnar of old.
"Father... you summoned me," he spoke with clarity, voice carrying through the hall like the deep call of a war horn.
It was tradition. Whatever private rifts tore within their bloodline — whatever bitter words had been exchanged behind closed doors in the years past — in the Hall of the King, tradition reigned above all else. He was not a son, not just a prince — he was a warrior of Elbaf answering the call of his sovereign.
King Harald didn't turn at once. For a moment, all that could be heard was the slow crackle of firewood and the soft wind that slipped through the gaps of the mountain stone.
Then, at last, the king spoke, his voice low, grave — the sound of a glacier splitting.
"Rise, Loki."
Loki rose, his expression composed, though his gut churned. Something was coming — a decree, a revelation. He could feel the eyes of the room upon him, not just watching, but weighing.
Harald turned finally, and the sight of him struck Loki like a sudden gust. The king's eyes were tired — not from age, but from the weight of terrible knowledge. His face was stoic, carved from ice, but Loki could see it. The tension in the jaw. The fury hiding beneath composure.
"The Giant warriors who had formed the new Giant Pirate crew under your orders... have been slaughtered — to the last one."
King Harald's voice rang through the hall like a solemn bell, calm yet heavy, the kind of stillness that comes before an avalanche.
At first, Loki didn't move. He didn't even breathe. It was as if time had fractured around him.
The words echoed inside his skull, dull at first, then sharper, more cutting with every repetition.
Slaughtered... every last one...
His eyes widened, and for the briefest instant, his breath caught in his throat. It was as though a thunderclap had torn the roof of the hall apart and left him standing naked beneath a storm of impossible truth.
"What...?" Loki finally spoke, his voice rasping, disbelieving, almost childlike in its need for reassurance — as if asking again would change the meaning. "What did you just say?"
Harald did not repeat himself. Instead, he held his son's gaze — eyes that had seen centuries of war, betrayals, and alliances shattered like ice on stone. There was no room for false hope in them. No space for denial.
The hall remained deathly silent. Loki's steps faltered as he took a half step forward, his thoughts spiraling, heart pounding like a war drum. Those giants — those warriors — had not just been subordinates. They were handpicked by him, brothers-in-arms, chosen from the fiercest bloodlines of Elbaf. Many of them he had trained with as a child, fought beside as a warrior, bled alongside when they'd carved their name into the New World.
They were his brothers more than his own blood could be. His legacy. A banner of Elbaf's strength and wrath cast upon the seas. And now... they were gone. All of them. The world tilted slightly.
"No..." he muttered, voice low and guttural. "No, that's impossible. Not them. Not all of them. No, if the world government had moved such a force, we would have known.."
His fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. He turned to look at the warriors seated around the hearth, searching for disbelief, for outrage — but what he found instead was grim acceptance.
They knew. They had already mourned. And that made the loss real.
His chest heaved once. Twice. Then came the fury.
"Who!?" he roared, the force of his voice shaking dust from the ancient rafters as his Conqueror's Haki unleashed without restraint, shaking the very halls they stood on. The fire in the hearth surged higher, licking at the stones as if feeding on the sudden storm within him. "Who did this!? Who dares!?"
Harald held up a hand to calm his son's outburst, but it was not anger that drove him — it was pain, buried deep beneath a warrior's restraint.
"We are not certain yet," Harald began, his deep voice reverberating through the ancient stone hall. "But the rumors... the whispers carried by the winds and ships alike... they say the heads of our warriors were presented at Enies Lobby — by one man."
The hearth crackled softly, flames reflecting in the King's eyes like dying stars.
"And this man," he continued, "is soon to be named the newest Shichibukai. A Warlord of the Sea, an ally of the World Government… bought with the blood of our sons."
The words struck Loki like a hammer to the chest. He didn't move. He couldn't. It was as if the marrow in his bones had turned to ice. His warriors — the brothers he'd trained, bled with, laughed with — reduced to trophies. Their heads paraded like conquest spoils to curry favor with the World Government.
His pride and arrogance had led them to sea. His banner had flown at their mast. His name was whispered when their ship passed through foreign waters. And now that pride was being shattered — not in glorious battle, but slaughtered, desecrated, then bartered for power.
A bitter taste filled his mouth — rage, shame, and the bile of helplessness.
"Prince Loki, we do not blame you—" one of the chieftains dared to speak, but his voice faltered as Harald's gaze snapped to him. The glare from the King needed no words. But it was already too late.
The damage was done. Though the words claimed otherwise, the blame had already taken root — unspoken, but heavy. Everyone in the room knew it. These warriors hadn't just been soldiers — they had been prodigies, the pride of their clans. Titans in the making. And Loki, the one who had formed the Giant Pirate Crew, bore the shadow of their fate, whether he admitted it or not.
Loki clenched his jaw, fury blooming in his chest like wildfire.
"I will go," he declared, stepping forward. His voice thundered through the hall. "I will personally hunt down the one responsible. I will find him, rip him from whatever fortress he hides in, and bring his head back to Elbaf." He pointed to the hearth, flames reflecting off his furious eyes. "And I will lay it at the roots of Yggdrasil, as penance for my failure and as tribute to our fallen!"
Some of the younger warriors around the hall stirred, embers of approval in their eyes. But Harald remained unmoved. He had expected this.
"No," the King said coldly. His voice cut through the heat like glacial steel. "You will do no such thing. Not just you…"
His presence engulfed the entire hall, even suppressing Loki's aura, tall and commanding, turning his gaze not only on Loki but on every elder and warrior present.
"This is not a decree for the prince alone — it is an edict for all of Elbaf. Until further notice, no Giant shall raise arms or venture beyond our waters. Not until we understand the kind of enemy we face. Not until we understand what truly happened."
Gasps echoed around the hall, quiet but tense. Even the stone chairs upon which ancient warriors sat seemed to shift under the weight of the declaration. Loki's breath caught again — not from grief this time, but sheer disbelief. They all knew King Harald's adherence to peaceful coexistence and diplomacy, but this time it was the lives of Elbaph's future guardians that they were talking about, and he still wanted to hold back.
"You would have us sit idle!?" Loki roared, eyes wide with fury. "After what they've done? After they carved our legacy into nothing more than mere trophies…!? Do you expect me to stay put while their killer walks free, bathed in glory?!" Many of the giant warriors within the hall shared the same sentiment as the giant prince, for they too believed the time for diplomacy was over.
"If I must go alone, then I will. You may shackle the others with your authority, but I will not be caged like a child!"
Harald's expression hardened. Then, without warning, his voice exploded like a tidal quake.
"LOKI… ENOUGH!!"
The very air trembled. The flames in the great hearth snuffed out in an instant, as if cowed by the force of his will. The room darkened, flickering in the embers of shattered firelight.
A sudden, overwhelming pressure filled the hall — a torrent of Haki so intense it cracked the stone beneath the King's feet. The ancient banners of Elbaf swayed violently despite the absence of wind.
It was not just authority. It was the weight of a King's fury — and a father's heartbreak. Loki stood his ground, but his legs tensed under the invisible storm pressing down on him. Harald's voice came again, quieter now, but heavier than stone.
"You forget yourself."
His eyes were glacial and unblinking, staring into the soul of his son.
"You are not a lone warrior. You are a Prince of Elbaf. Your actions do not belong to you alone — they ripple through the bloodline of Ymir and shake the roots of Yggdrasil itself."
He stepped forward, towering, divine in presence.
"I have given my order. Disobey it… and you are no longer of Elbaf. And this applies to everyone present here today…"
Silence. The king turned without waiting for a reply.
His fur cloak swept behind him like the wing of a great eagle as he strode from the chamber, flanked by his royal guards, the weight of his command leaving behind an echo that would not soon fade.
The great doors slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, all that remained was the soft hiss of dying embers.
The hall was quiet. But tension crackled like lightning in the walls. Loki stood frozen, his heart pounding like the ancient drums of war. Across the room, his half brother Hajrudin met his gaze — no hatred, but not comfort either. Just silence. Uncertainty.
The giant warriors in the room looked away, some in shame, others in pain. But none could speak. Loki's fists trembled. And though his breath came steady, fire still burned behind his eyes. This was not over.
Loki's eyes scanned the hall, his gaze burning with unspoken fury. Though King Harald's decree had been aimed at all of Elbaf, Loki knew — he knew — the chains had been crafted for him alone.
A shackle. A public collar. And in front of the ancient hearth where countless kings had once decreed vengeance and war, he had been silenced.
He could feel it — the judgment hanging in the air, thick as northern fog. Whispers slithered across the stone walls, low murmurs like biting winds in a graveyard. Perhaps the others were speaking of unrelated matters, but to Loki, they were daggers. Every glance felt like a verdict. Every averted eye, a condemnation.
He felt stripped. Exposed. Powerless. The name 'cursed prince' kept echoing in his ears. He wanted to scream, to challenge the old lion on the throne, to prove that the fire of the ancients still burned in his blood — that he was not some leashed pup beneath a coward's command.
The giants of old would not have knelt. They would have flooded the world in retribution. Fire and stone. Blood and thunder. Their wrath would have been written into the sea itself.
But here they stood. Hushed. Tame. Cowards. His father… a coward. The rage churned in his gut, threatening to devour him whole. A soft voice broke through the storm.
"Loki… are you alright?"
It was Hajrudin. Gentle. Steady. Ever the healer between their storms. Loki didn't answer at first. He stared at his older brother, who approached with cautious steps, concern written plainly across his face. For a heartbeat, something inside Loki stirred — a flicker of shame, perhaps.
But then Hajrudin placed a comforting hand upon his knees. And that flicker ignited into fury.
Pity. That's what Loki saw. That's what enraged him. He should be the one protecting everyone. He should be the one standing tall, leading them — not being pitied like a fallen child.
"Don't touch me!" Loki snarled, his voice venom and fire.
In a flash, he twisted, grabbing Hajrudin's shoulder and shoving him back with such force that the smaller giant crashed into one of the stone chairs behind him — the impact cracking it apart with a deafening snap. Dust and rubble exploded around him as the hall fell into stunned silence.
A gasp swept through the warriors.
"Hajrudin!"
Several giants rushed forward, helping the stunned but uninjured young warrior to his feet. He winced, not from pain, but disbelief — and hurt. Real, visible hurt in his eyes as he looked up at the half-brother whom he outwardly never accepted but whom he always revered in his heart.
Loki stood over him, chest heaving, jaw clenched. For a moment, the prince looked as if he might speak — as if an apology lingered on the edge of his lips. But the fury still clouded his mind. Pride snapped the reins of empathy. He scoffed and turned his back.
"Leave me alone." His voice was lower now, cold. "I don't need your pity."
Across the hall, expressions darkened. Elders who had once spoken of Loki as the savior of Elbaf now exchanged glances that brimmed with dismay. For years, they had placed their hopes on the young giant who had spoken of change — of power reclaimed, of a golden age for their kind; even those who had cursed him for being the bane of Elbaph had come to change their opinions in the recent years.
But this? This was not a leader. This was a storm that didn't know where to strike — lashing out at kin when it could not reach the heavens. The weight of that shift wasn't lost on Loki.
He felt it. Saw it. The disapproving eyes of warriors who had once toasted his name with pride. He paused at the great archway that marked the exit of the throne hall. A part of him — some small, stubborn part — still wanted to turn around. To face his brother, to explain. To confess that his outburst was not truly meant for Hajrudin, but for the shame clawing at his soul.
But he said nothing. Just before stepping out into the frost-bitten air, he glanced back over his shoulder — eyes meeting Hajrudin's, whose gaze held no anger. Just sorrow.
That made it worse. Loki turned away with a final scowl and marched from the hall, his heavy footsteps echoing across the ancient stone — a prince beneath the weight of fury, pride, and the unraveling judgment of giants.
Outside, the winds of Elbaf howled across the ancient world tree, carrying with them the tension of a world on the verge of fire. The halls behind him remained silent, but a storm had already begun to brew — not just within Elbaf, but within the very soul of its future king.