King Neptune, a being of colossal stature and immense responsibility, was not meant to cower.
Yet, here he sat, his vast, muscular tail curled awkwardly, his mighty trident lying uselessly beside him on the cool coral floor outside his youngest daughter's chambers.
The magnificent, jewel-encrusted doors of Shirahoshi's bedroom, designed to protect her from the insidious threat of Vander Decken IX's undesirable "gifts," felt like the only sanctuary left in his fractured world.
His mind, usually occupied with matters of state, was a chaotic swirl of the day's unbelievable events, each moment a fresh stab of disbelief and terror.
It had only been five days.
Five short, agonizing days since Queen Otohime, his beloved wife, the radiant light of Fish-Man Island, had been tragically taken from them.
Her underwater cemetery, a garden of luminous sea flowers, was still wet with the fresh currents that bathed it, a constant, cruel reminder of their loss.
His own heart, a wound still gaping and unhealed, felt as raw as the day she died.
In his grief, the kingdom had remained closed to all surface-dwellers, their very presence a painful echo of the hatred that had consumed his queen.
He wasn't ready. Not for anything.
This afternoon, he had been in the midst of a regular, somber meeting with his royal ministries, trying to navigate the kingdom through the turbulent waters of mourning and simmering unrest.
The air in the council chambers had been thick with hushed tones and respectful silences.
Then, a sound.
A piercing, heart-wrenching wail.
It was Shirahoshi.
His precious, six-year-old daughter.
Neptune's immense frame had jolted, his grief momentarily forgotten, replaced by a cold dread.
Decken.
It had to be Decken.
That deranged Fish-Man, obsessed with his innocent child, was the source of his greatest fear.
He had abandoned the meeting instantly, roaring commands for his trusted vassals to guard Shirahoshi and sprinting through the palace corridors with an urgency that shook the very foundations.
He was still several districts away, his powerful tail propelling him through the water, when it hit him.
Not a sound, not a sight, but a feeling. An energy so dreadful, so massive, that it didn't just blanket Fish-Man Island; it seeped into its very coral, infecting the luminous waters, pressing down on every soul within the bubble.
It was pure, unadulterated chaos, a living, breathing nightmare made manifest.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
This was no mere Decken attack.
This was something ancient.
Something cosmic.
"Guard Shirahoshi! Do not let anything near her!"
He had bellowed, his voice echoing with desperate authority, pushing his vassals back towards her chambers.
Then, driven by an instinct far older than his reign, he had turned and surged towards the source of the disaster, his massive trident gripped tightly, prepared to face utter annihilation if it meant protecting his people.
When he arrived at the central plaza, the chaos had already erupted.
It was no longer a bustling marketplace but a hellish tableau. The air was thick with the phantom stench of decay, the luminous coral structures seemed to writhe with a sickly green glow, and the very water tasted of blood.
But above all, there it was.
Hanging in the vast, transparent bubble ceiling, where the gentle sun should have been, was the maddening, bloody red moon.
It pulsed, weeping spectral crimson into the distorted, churning void of the sea, making his blood run cold.
It defied all reality, all logic.
Neptune felt the insidious corrosion begin to work on his mind.
The terrifying visions of skeletal figures, of loved ones screaming, of the ocean itself becoming a viscous, blood-soaked abyss, clawed at his sanity.
He fought with all his might, his will, honed by years of leadership and love for his people, pushing back against the encroaching madness, his teeth gritted, his huge body shaking.
He had to.
He was King.
Through the shimmering veil of horror, as he struggled against the encroaching insanity, he saw it.
In the very eye of the storm, at the epicenter of the nightmare, stood the source: the towering, demonic form of the Black Swordsman, radiating a terror that could shatter worlds.
He saw his eldest son, Fukaboshi, collapse on the ground, struggling against the residual waves of dread.
And over Fukaboshi, a translucent, shimmering form, radiating a familiar, gentle warmth.
It was Otohime.
His late wife.
Her spirit, her presence, protecting their son even beyond death.
A silent, desperate plea on her ethereal face.
And then, his gaze fixed on the most astonishing sight.
A small, frail figure, a daughter of man, was desperately embracing the colossal, armored demon, her face streaked with tears.
She was crying out, not for help, not in fear, but a desperate, loving plea.
Father... stop!
Neptune, even amidst the mental war for his own sanity, felt a gasp catch in his throat.
Father.
A daughter of man, protecting his citizens.
His wife aura resonance with a daughter of man.
Enveloping the whole Kingdom.
And that monstrous human, the source of this otherworldly horror, responding.
It was in that moment, as the horrifying vision began to recede, washed away by a benevolent, calming energy emanating from a daughter of man, and his wife, that the King heard her.
Otohime.
Her spirit, her presence clearer than any physical form.
She was beside him, her voice in his mind, desperate, urgent, filled with a profound understanding.
She told him.
She poured the story into his very soul - of the Butcher, of the true cause of this terror, and of the bond that could save them all.
He had understood then. He had finally understood everything.
Once again, she disappeared before he could say goodbye, leaving only the ache of unspoken words behind
The night sky, a vast, luminous canopy within the immense bubble of Fish-Man Island, was now peaceful, dotted with the soft glow of bioluminescent currents and distant coral cities.
Neptune watched it for a long moment, the vibrant hues a stark contrast to the darkness that had briefly consumed his kingdom.
He lingered outside Shirahoshi's chambers until he was absolutely certain his precious daughter's innocent dreams were undisturbed, until the last faint tremor of his fear had dissipated.
With a deep, cleansing breath that filled his massive lungs, he turned.
A young Fish-Man guard, still looking a little shell-shocked but composed, stood dutifully at the end of the corridor.
"You," Neptune rumbled, his voice low but firm.
"Where are our guests? The young lady and... the Swordsman?"
The guard straightened immediately, snapping a salute.
"Your Majesty! The young lady, Nico Robin, has already retired to her designated royal chambers. As for the other guest, the 'Devil Swordsman'... he is in the main training ground, Your Majesty."
Neptune nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.
The training ground.
Of course.
He strode through the quiet, opulent corridors of the palace, the hum of the filtering currents the only sound.
As he neared the vast, open-domed training ground, the rhythmic THWACK! WHUMP! SWISH! of a colossal blade cutting through the water reached his ears.
He pushed open the heavy, ornate doors and stepped inside.
The sight that greeted him was both chilling and awe-inspiring.
Guts was there, clad in his regular armor, the Dragonslayer a blur of black steel in his hands.
He wasn't practicing fancy footwork or elegant parries.
This was a dance of pure, brutal efficiency.
Each swing was a testament to raw power, driven by a relentless, almost desperate energy.
The sword blurred, a dark streak against the shimmering water, moving with speed that defied its impossible size.
It was a sword style used for carnage, for ending conflicts with overwhelming, undeniable force.
No feint.
No fancy swing.
Just practical, bone-shattering impacts against the training dummies, cleaving them into splinters with every blow.
He moved with a feral grace, a predator honing its deadly art.
Neptune watched, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity. The sheer, unadulterated fighting spirit radiating from Guts was immense, infectious even.
It was like watching the very essence of combat distilled into one man.
A spark, long dormant in the King, began to ignite within his own warrior's heart. He was a protector, a ruler, but he was also a fighter.
Finally, after a final, thunderous CRACK that sent a dummy flying into shards, Guts stopped.
He didn't turn immediately, but Neptune knew he had been noticed.
The Swordsman's breathing was calm, the air around him still charged with a residual, dangerous energy.
Neptune took a firm grip on his massive trident, the familiar weight a comfort in his hand.
He took a steadying breath.
"Devil Swordsman," he rumbled, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "A moment of your time."
Guts slowly turned, his eyes fixed on the King, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"I... I wish to offer a personal apology,"
Neptune began, then cut himself off.
The words felt hollow, insufficient after what he had witnessed, what he now understood.
"No. Not just that."
His grip tightened on the trident.
A glint of challenge, of camaraderie, flickered in his eyes.
"Guts. Will you grant this old King a... friendly spar?"
Guts looked at the King, then at the trident.
His gaze was intense.
After a moment that stretched, thick with unspoken challenge, a subtle nod.
A bare, almost imperceptible tilt of his head.
And then, it began.
The colossal trident of the King of the Sea met the monstrous giant sword of the Black Swordsman.
Not a duel of honor or vengeance, but a raw, unbridled clash of titans, two warriors testing each other's mettle.
In the furious exchange of blows, the roar of the water as the weapons carved through it, the thundering impacts that shook the very ground, Neptune forgot himself.
He forgot the fresh ache of his wound, the gnawing worries of his kingdom, the lingering bitterness of his hatred for the surface world.
There was only the primal dance, the clash of steel, the pure, exhilarating focus of the fight.