Year 1503
The wind howled across the cliffside laboratory, its mournful cry echoing against cold steel walls perched above a violent sea.
Dr. Vegapunk stood before a towering glass window, watching lightning fracture the sky like a shattered mirror. His hands were clasped behind his back, his white coat fluttering like the wings of a restless bird.
"You have chosen a dangerous path," he said calmly, without turning. "All for the sake of leaving something behind."
Behind him stood a woman unlike any he had ever studied.
Her hair shimmered like moonlight woven into silver threads, her eyes glowing with an unearthly light—neither fully human nor wholly alien. The very air around her rippled subtly, as if reality itself bent ever so slightly in her presence.
"I do not seek a legacy," the woman replied, her voice soft yet heavy with unseen weight.
"I seek a future that will not vanish when I do."
She stepped closer, gazing through the reinforced glass at the raging ocean below.
"My kind cannot produce children with the people of this world," she continued. "We are from another dimension… stranded here long before the Void Century was ever whispered. Our bodies may resemble humans, but our essence rejects union with other kinds."
Vegapunk turned, sharp eyes gleaming with fascination rather than disbelief.
"A dimensional being incapable of hybrid reproduction…" he murmured. "Then what you ask is not mere cloning. It is a convergence by design."
The woman nodded.
"I want a child. One who can live freely in this world… without fading, as I eventually will."
She reached into her cloak and placed a crystalline vial upon the metal table between them. Within shimmered a silvery drop of blood, glowing faintly like starlight.
"These are my genes."
Vegapunk's breathing slowed.
"And the other parent?" he asked.
Her gaze hardened, though her voice remained steady.
"A Marine officer. Monkey D. Garp."
Vegapunk's eyes widened for the first time that night.
"The Hero of the Marines?" he repeated. "You would merge the blood of a dimensional being with one of the strongest humans alive?"
"Yes."
"Why him?"
The woman smiled faintly.
"Because his blood carries defiance against fate itself. And because if my child must live in this world… then she must be strong enough to survive it."
Outside, the storm roared louder, as if the heavens themselves protested the decision.
Vegapunk began pacing slowly, hands trembling—not from fear, but from excitement.
"Combining his physical resilience with your dimensional adaptability…" he muttered.
"She would be neither fully human nor fully other. A bridge between worlds."
The woman met his gaze.
"I do not want a weapon."
Vegapunk stopped.
"I want a daughter."
Silence followed. Even the storm seemed to pause, listening.
Vegapunk turned toward the vast machinery lining the chamber—gene stabilizers, growth chambers, artificial wombs, systems decades beyond public science.
"I can do it," he said at last.
"But this child will be extraordinary. Her existence may challenge the very laws of nature. The World Government must never learn the truth of her origin."
"I expect nothing less," the woman replied.
She walked toward a cylindrical chamber filled with softly glowing liquid and placed her palm against its cool surface.
"Name her," Vegapunk said quietly.
After a moment, she answered:
"Maris D. Luna.
Maris, for the sea that will carry her destiny.
Luna, for the moon that watches over wanderers."
Vegapunk smiled faintly.
"A child of sea and moon… born between worlds."
The woman's voice softened.
"Promise me something, Doctor."
Vegapunk turned to her.
"If the world ever turns against her… do not let her become its prisoner. Let her be free, even if that freedom carries danger."
Vegapunk bowed his head.
"I swear it on my science."
The machines began to hum, blue light flooding the chamber as the first strands of DNA intertwined—
human might and otherworldly essence weaving together like fate itself being rewritten.
And thus, in secret and storm…
A child was conceived.
A child who did not belong to one world alone.
The chamber later glowed with a gentle, pale blue light.
Within the artificial womb, a small figure floated peacefully, surrounded by shimmering liquid. Tiny fingers twitched, as though reaching for something unseen.
Vegapunk stood silently beside the woman as the chamber slowly opened, mist spilling onto the metal floor like clouds descending from the sky.
A newborn cried.
Not loud.
Not weak.
But clear—sharp, and undeniably alive.
The woman stepped forward at once, gathering the child into her arms. Her strange, luminous eyes softened for the first time since entering the laboratory.
"Maris…" she whispered.
The baby's deep blue eyes opened, reflecting the sterile lights above like twin oceans beneath the moon.
Vegapunk observed quietly, awe written across his face.
"She's stable," he said. "Her human physiology is dominant, but your dimensional traits are fully integrated. She will grow as a human… yet never be bound by human limits alone."
The woman smiled gently.
"That is all I ever wished for."
For a brief moment, the world beyond the laboratory ceased to exist. There was no World Government. No Marines. No clashing dimensions.
Only a mother and her child.
But that moment could not last.
Vegapunk turned away, his expression grave.
"The World Government will eventually notice anomalies in my research. Even if they never trace her here… her existence is too dangerous to keep anywhere touched by their eyes."
The woman nodded slowly.
"I already know where she must go."
Several nights later, beneath a silent sky pierced by unfamiliar stars, a small vessel drifted across the East Blue.
There were no flags.
No lights.
Only a single woman standing at the bow, cradling a sleeping infant.
The sea parted gently before the ship, as though recognizing something not of its world.
Hidden beyond ordinary maps, shrouded by thick fog and jagged rocks, lay a small island—uncharted, unnamed, unseen by all who sailed nearby.
The woman guided the vessel toward it without hesitation.
As the ship approached, the air itself shimmered.
Reality bent.
The fog thickened unnaturally, curling like living things, twisting sight and sound alike. Any ordinary sailor passing nearby would feel only a strange unease… and turn away, never realizing land lay just beyond their reach.
This was her doing.
An enchantment, woven from powers not born of this world— a veil to erase the island from perception, to hide not just land, but destiny itself.
She stepped onto the shore, barefoot upon pale sand untouched by footprints.
Massive shadows moved beneath the waves beyond the reef.
Sea Kings.
Dozens of them circled the island in slow, silent patterns—not hostile, not summoned, but bound by her will and presence.
"They will protect you," she whispered to the child.
"Not as beasts… but as guardians."
She walked inland through lush trees and softly glowing flowers, arriving at a quiet clearing where moonlight spilled through the leaves like silver rain.
Kneeling, she placed Maris gently upon a bed of moss and broad leaves.
For a long moment, she did not move.
She brushed a finger across the child's cheek.
"You were born between worlds," she said softly.
"But you will grow in this one… free."
The wind stirred around them, gentle and warm.
"You will not know me," she continued, her voice trembling now.
"But you will know the sea. The wind. The creatures who walk beside you.
And one day… your name will echo across oceans."
Tears fell silently, vanishing into the moss.
She reached into her cloak and placed a small object beside Maris—a simple, beautifully crafted cutlass in miniature, its hilt wrapped in soft cloth.
"A promise," she whispered.
"Of who you will become."
Rising slowly, she lifted her hand.
The enchantment deepened.
The island faded further from the world, slipping like a secret between the cracks of reality. The Sea Kings settled into their eternal vigil.
And without another sound…
Maris' mother vanished into the wind between worlds, leaving behind only the sleeping child, the whispering sea, and a fate greater than any map could ever contain.