Chapter 5: The King's Aura
With his body honed and his defenses nearly impervious, a new restlessness grew within Arata. The storm was a challenge he was steadily overcoming, but a deeper part of him chafed at the very notion of being challenged by something so mindless. This island, this tempest—it was his domain now. It should acknowledge him.
The feeling peaked during a night of unprecedented fury. The sky was a solid sheet of flashing light, the thunder a single, endless roar. Arata stood on the highest peak, drenched but unyielding, his Hybrid Form making him a stark silhouette against the chaos.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice not a shout, but a low, resonant command that cut through the din.
It was not a request. It was a decree.
And the world obeyed.
A wave of invisible force erupted from him, a shockwave of pure, unadulterated will. It wasn't lightning or thunder. It was presence. The rain within a fifty-meter radius of him didn't just stop; it was violently blasted away, creating a perfect, dry sphere. The howling wind fell silent. The constant, oppressive pressure of the storm simply vanished, replaced by a heavy, awe-inspiring stillness.
For three full seconds, the heart of the storm on Raijin Island was calm.
Then, with a reluctant, shuddering groan, the tempest resumed, but it felt… lesser. As if the island itself had taken a step back in fear.
Arata panted, his body trembling not from exhaustion, but from the sheer, overwhelming release. He had done it. Haoshoku Haki. The Conqueror's Spirit. The power to dominate the will of others. He had just dominated the will of a storm.
He understood now. This was the final piece. Observation Haki let him see the world. Armament Haki let him interact with it. But Conqueror's Haki was the power to make the world bend to his vision of it.
He spent the following days not just weathering the storm, but clashing with it. He would unleash his Conqueror's Haki, trying to push back the clouds, to silence the thunder for longer periods. He learned to infuse it into his physical strikes, a concept that came instinctively. A Haki-infused punch, crackling with his divine lightning, didn't just hit a rock; it erased it from existence in a flash of light and a sound of shattering reality.
He was complete. The product of a hellish training ground and a god-like fruit.
Standing on the shore, looking out at the deceptively calm seas of the Calm Belt, he knew it was time. He had a new purpose, fueled by the memories of his past life and the powers of his present one.
He needed to find her. Nico Robin. He needed to ensure she never had to sacrifice herself again. He needed to become the shelter from her storm.
But first, he needed to leave.
He raised his hands to the sky, not in supplication, but in command. The clouds above him swirled, drawn to his will. Lightning, not of the storm's chaotic making, but of his own golden-purple design, began to arc between his hands, coalescing, solidifying.
He wasn't building a ship. He was forging a vessel worthy of a Thunder God.