"Stop!"
At the very instant despair filled Kraem's eyes, an enraged shout thundered from the skies.
The dense cloud cover above was torn apart by a colossal hand, which plunged downward without hesitation, grasping for Kraem an attempt to save him.
But seeing prey snatched from his jaws, Ghidorah erupted in fury.
ROAR!
With a bellow, a crushing aura exploded from his body—palpable, golden shockwaves rippling outward like radiant waves of radiation.
The golden ripples swept over the giant hand, halting its movement for the briefest moment.
And in that heartbeat of stillness—
Zzzhhht!
Ghidorah's raging Graviton Beam struck Kraem head-on.
Golden light and fire consumed him in an instant, the explosive shockwave detonating with deafening force.
"Bastard!"
The one who commanded the giant hand roared in fury, for he had once suffered from that same attack himself.
As the blast scattered, Ghidorah sensed something—behind him, the twisted-neck tree's fruit was changing. His feral face split into a sinister grin.
It wasn't the fruit's birth that delighted him. No—what thrilled him was that yet another of the Twenty Kings had fallen by his hand.
Confirming Kraem's death, he lifted his gaze skyward, voice cold and merciless:
"Do you intend to keep hiding in there forever?"
At his words, the heavens churned. The vast sea of clouds roiled, then descended. Whirling, rolling thunderclouds twisted downward, until they formed a titanic body—a storm giant of black cloud, lightning flashing and winds raging within.
A towering elemental of wind, a hundred meters tall. Though smaller than Ghidorah, its appearance was a spectacle of overwhelming might.
In its hand churned a raging storm-sphere, brimming with apocalyptic energy.
The storm giant opened its mouth, and Doraine's cold, deadly voice echoed from within:
"Killing Kraem will cost you dearly."
"How laughable."
Ghidorah's battered body shook, but he sneered.
"So—you're allowed to kill me, but I can't kill you? What kind of idiotic logic is that?"
Amused by such foolishness, he abided by the only principle he knew: when words fail, fight.
Without another word, his vast body surged into the sky, diving straight at the storm giant.
Against a creature resistant to lightning, the best option was simple—tear it apart with brute force.
The storm giant raised its storm-sphere in response, Doraine's voice roaring through the thunder:
"Ice Storm!"
The sphere swelled instantly, emitting a deafening screech of friction against the air.
Whrrrshhh—!
From the orb burst countless razor-thin shards of ice, a blizzard of blades that blotted out the sky.
If asked which Logia fruit was the most terrifying, Ghidorah—as one of the world's oldest "creators"—would answer without hesitation: the Storm-Storm Fruit.
Because its potential was infinite.
What seemed like mere wind and weather could give rise to countless catastrophic effects.
But Ghidorah no longer flinched. Seeing the storm of ice descending, his blood boiled. With sheer brute strength, he ignored the slicing shards, his flesh torn open, and crashed forward regardless.
Doraine, in his storm giant form, was momentarily stunned by such reckless madness.
And in that instant—Ghidorah struck.
His colossal, battle-scarred body slammed down like a falling mountain, weighing nearly 150,000 tons. The impact crushed the storm giant beneath him.
With a sickening crunch, his massive talons drove into the giant's form, rending it apart.
And then—left and right heads lunged, tearing into its essence, while the leftmost head—his devouring maw—opened wide in a grotesque grin and gorged itself, swallowing chunks of storm energy whole.
Doraine had gambled everything, burning his own life force to sustain the Storm Giant form, hoping to stall Ghidorah.
But that cursed left head, that devourer, feasted without hesitation.
If this continued, his end would be worse than Kraem's.
In that split-second of clarity, Doraine made his choice.
The storm giant dissolved. His body flickered, twisting into a rift of wind that shot upward, vanishing into the cloud sea.
"…Huh? Gone already?"
The left head, jaws still snapping, blinked stupidly.
But Ghidorah was faster—an instant later, a blazing beam of destruction lanced skyward toward Doraine's fleeing trace.
Yet he was too late. Doraine had already vanished into the clouds.
Ghidorah snarled, eyes locked on the roiling heavens.
"So the great King of the Twenty runs with his tail between his legs?"
But Doraine was no fool. An ancient schemer who had lived for a millennium—even if eight hundred of those years had been in slumber—he would not be provoked by childish taunts.
His voice echoed from the clouds above:
"Against you? There isn't a soul alive who can stand alone."
"So I do not see it as shameful. In fact, surviving you is the greatest pride I can claim."
"Tch. Shameless." Ghidorah's lips curled, yet he had no words to counter.
"Compared to my life, pride means nothing," Doraine's voice pressed on, calm and certain.
"Kraem's death—I will report it in full.
And know this: it won't be long before we come for you. Wash your neck clean, and wait for us in the Holy Land."
"…Oh?"
Ghidorah was taken aback. By his own estimation, they would need at least a year before war could begin.
So why the rush?
Had some unforeseen change forced their hand?
Or… had they gained a new weapon, powerful enough to challenge even him?
He smiled darkly.
"Seems you've great faith in your ragged little group. Confidence is good, boy… but don't let reality slap you in the face."
"Slap in the face?" Doraine sneered back.
"The one being slapped will be you.
For we've prepared a surprise just for you."
"…A surprise?"
Doraine's voice faded into the clouds, leaving Ghidorah alone, muttering:
"Cunning little fox."
Though frustrated Doraine had escaped, he found some satisfaction. Crushing one of the Twenty Kings was no small victory.
He lumbered toward the twisted-neck tree. The left head stretched out, plucking the newly-formed Devil Fruit—a melon-like sphere, green with black streaks—and swallowed it whole.
Then, spreading his colossal wings, Ghidorah lifted off, leaving behind the ruined, half-barren island—half strewn with rubble, half strangely vibrant with new growth—and soared toward the Red Line.
But as he flew, his mind churned.
What was the "surprise" they had prepared?
No matter how he puzzled, he found no answer. Even the Pluton—Ancient Weapon of legend—hardly counted as a true surprise anymore.
Unless, of course, they could produce a hundred of them.
That, he admitted, would make him kneel and call them father.
But such a thing was impossible.
The makers of Pluton had been destroyed a thousand years ago, its auxiliary fruits scattered across the world—two of them already in Sabo's possession.
So what else could it be…?
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