The Grand Line had a way of forging legends from raw potential. Five years could turn a hopeful rookie into a nightmare for the World Government. Five years could transform a crew of four dreamers into a force that made even the Marines hesitate.
Ten years had turned Baahubali into something the world had never seen before.
The ship that cut through the turbulent waters of Paradise bore little resemblance to the small vessel that had once struggled with basic supplies. The Oro Jackson—named after Roger's childhood friend—was a masterpiece of shipbuilding, courtesy of the legendary Tom. Large enough to house a crew of thirty, fast enough to outrun most Marine vessels, and sturdy enough to weather the Grand Line's worst storms.
On its deck stood a man who bore little resemblance to the confused, memory-less youth who had once sat on a lonely beach.
Baahubali had grown into his power the way a tree grows toward the sun—inevitably, magnificently, unstoppably. At twenty-eight, he stood as one of the Roger Pirates' strongest members, his name whispered in the same breath as the monsters who ruled these seas.
His memories had never returned. Not fully. But over the years, he'd stopped searching for them.
He'd found something better: purpose.
"Oi, Baahubali!" Roger's voice carried across the deck, still as cheerful as ever despite the ten years of increasingly dangerous battles. "Stop brooding at the bow and come look at this map! I think we've found something interesting!"
Baahubali turned from his contemplation of the horizon. His appearance had changed—no longer the simple clothes of a wanderer, but the practical armor of a warrior. He wore fitted dark clothing beneath a long coat that bore no flag or symbol, only the mark of his own making: a simple shield emblem. His weapons were no longer crude—a magnificent sword hung at his hip, forged by a master craftsman in Wano, and a bow crafted from Adam Wood rested across his back.
But the most striking change was in his bearing. Ten years ago, he'd moved like someone searching for their place in the world. Now, he moved like someone who had found it and claimed it absolutely.
He crossed the deck to where Roger, Rayleigh, and Gaban were huddled around a table, studying what appeared to be an ancient map.
"What have you found, Captain?"
Over the years, Baahubali had grown comfortable with the formality of addressing Roger properly, even though Roger himself had tried countless times to get him to drop the title.
"An island that supposedly doesn't exist!" Roger's eyes gleamed with that familiar excitement. "According to this, there's a place called God Valley that appears and disappears from the world. And get this—there's supposed to be some kind of gathering there soon. Big players, powerful people, the kind of thing we absolutely need to check out!"
Rayleigh, now sporting a more mature appearance with his hair slightly longer, frowned at the map. "Roger, this could be a trap. An island that doesn't exist? That sounds like something the World Government would use to lure in pirates."
"Or it could be the adventure of a lifetime!" Roger countered. "When has 'potentially dangerous' ever stopped us?"
"Never, which is why we've nearly died thirty times in the last ten years," Gaban muttered, but there was no real complaint in his voice. He'd long since accepted that this crew actively sought out danger.
Baahubali studied the map with the tactical mind he'd honed over countless battles. His instincts—those deep-seated reflexes that had never needed memory to function—were screaming that this was important.
"If powerful people are gathering, there will be conflict," he observed. "The question is whether we wish to be involved in that conflict or merely observe it."
"When do we ever just observe?" Roger laughed. "Besides, I've got a feeling about this one. A really good feeling!"
"Your 'good feelings' have led us into six wars, four natural disasters, and two incidents involving a sea king the size of a mountain," Rayleigh pointed out.
"And we survived all of them! That's a perfect record!"
Before the debate could continue, a lookout called down from the crow's nest. "Captain! Marine ships on the horizon! Three of them, and they're flying Vice Admiral flags!"
The mood on deck shifted instantly. Ten years of piracy had made the crew's combat instincts razor-sharp. Within seconds, everyone was at their stations, weapons ready, minds focused.
Baahubali moved to the starboard rail, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the approaching vessels. Then his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"It's Garp."
"Again?!" Gaban groaned. "That's the fourth time this month!"
"He's persistent," Rayleigh observed, his hand resting on his sword. "Though I notice he always comes alone when he finds us."
It was true. Over the past ten years, Monkey D. Garp had become something of a recurring presence in their lives. He'd been promoted to Vice Admiral two years ago—the youngest in Marine history—and had made hunting Roger his personal mission.
But there was something unusual about his pursuits. He always came with enough force to make it look official, but never so much that it became truly dangerous. And his encounters with Baahubali had become less like arrests and more like...
"He wants another match," Baahubali said calmly. "I can feel his intent from here."
As the Marine ships drew closer, a voice boomed across the water, amplified by a Den Den Mushi. "GOL D. ROGER! This is Vice Admiral Garp! Prepare to be arrested!"
Roger cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back. "GARP! Good to see you! Want to have lunch before the fighting starts?"
There was a pause, then: "...Actually, yes! Meet me on that island over there in an hour! And bring Baahubali—we have unfinished business!"
The crews on both sides looked baffled, but Baahubali and Roger just grinned at each other.
"See?" Roger said to his crew. "Garp gets it! Food first, fighting after!"
The island was small, uninhabited, with a single rocky beach that served well enough as neutral ground. The Roger Pirates sat on one side, the Marines on the other, and in the middle, a ridiculous amount of food was spread out on makeshift tables.
Garp had grown too over the past ten years. At thirty, he was in his physical prime, his already impressive strength honed to a terrifying edge. He'd earned his epithet—"Garp the Fist"—through countless battles with the strongest pirates on the seas.
He was also, in his own way, friends with the people he was supposed to be arresting.
"So," Garp said around a mouthful of meat, addressing Baahubali directly. "I heard you took down the Iron Armada single-handedly last month. Three ships, over two hundred men, and you didn't even draw your sword until the captain showed up."
Baahubali, seated across from him, nodded. "They were slavers. They preyed on small villages in the East Blue, taking children to sell in Sabaody. I could not allow it to continue."
"Yeah, I read the report. You sank two of their ships using some kind of fire technique, then boarded the third and fought through the entire crew." Garp's expression was serious now. "The survivors said you moved like a demon, that your Conqueror's Haki was so strong they thought the sky itself was crushing them."
"I was... motivated."
"Motivated." Garp snorted. "You made grown men wet themselves from fear and then left them tied up for the Marines to find, along with all the kids they'd kidnapped. Do you know how many commendations I got for 'your' work?"
"You are welcome to them. I seek no recognition."
"That's what makes you dangerous," Garp said, but there was something like respect in his voice. "You're not in this for fame or money. You actually believe in that 'righteous warrior' stuff. Makes it hard to paint you as a villain."
Roger laughed. "That's because he's not a villain! Baahubali's the most moral pirate I've ever met! Sometimes I think he's more Marine than you are!"
"I am not bound by the Marines' bureaucracy," Baahubali replied calmly. "I can act as conscience dictates, not as orders demand."
"Careful," Rayleigh interjected with a slight smile. "That kind of talk makes Garp's job harder."
"My job is already impossible," Garp grumbled. "I'm supposed to arrest the guy who's been stopping slavers, protecting villages, and generally making the East Blue a safer place? The only reason I even have to chase you is because you're sailing with this idiot." He jerked his thumb at Roger.
"Hey! I've never done anything wrong!" Roger protested.
"You declared yourself an enemy of the World Government!"
"They started it! I just wanted to explore!"
Watching this familiar banter, Baahubali felt something warm in his chest. These people—this impossible collection of pirates and Marines who should have been mortal enemies—had become something like family over the years.
After the meal, Garp stood and stretched. "Alright, Baahubali. You and me. I've been developing some new techniques, and I want to test them against someone who can actually take a hit."
Baahubali rose as well, and the temperature on the beach seemed to drop several degrees. When these two fought, reality itself bent around them.
"No weapons?" Baahubali confirmed.
"No weapons. Just pure Haki and technique."
They moved to opposite ends of the beach. The crews of both sides retreated to safe distances—experience had taught them that "safe" meant at least a hundred yards away.
Roger was grinning like a kid at a festival. "This is going to be good! They've both gotten so much stronger since the last time!"
The last time they'd fought—six months ago—they'd accidentally created a crater hundred feet deep and caused a tidal wave that flooded three nearby islands. The fight had been declared a draw only because they'd both been too exhausted to continue.
Baahubali settled into a stance that had become second nature over the years. His feet were positioned in the opening form of Kalari, his hands loose but ready, his breathing calm and measured.
Across from him, Garp cracked his knuckles, and black Haki immediately coated his fists.
Then they moved.
The first exchange created a shockwave that flattened every tree within twenty yards. Fist met palm, palm met elbow, knee met knee. They blurred across the beach, each strike carrying enough force to level buildings.
But this was different from their earlier fights. Both had grown exponentially.
Garp's Armament Haki had developed to the point where he could coat not just his fists but his entire body in an instant. His attacks carried the weight of absolute conviction behind them.
But Baahubali had evolved too.
As Garp's fist came toward his face, Baahubali didn't just dodge—he seemed to flow around the attack like water, his body already moving to counter before Garp's strike fully extended.
"You've awakened Future Sight!" Garp realized, his eyes widening even as he adapted his assault.
Baahubali didn't respond verbally, but his slight smile confirmed it. Over the past year, his Observation Haki had reached a level where he could perceive seconds into the future. Not just the next attack, but the intent behind it, the feints within feints, the layered strategies that high-level fighters employed.
It made him nearly impossible to hit.
But Garp was Garp. He didn't need to outsmart Future Sight—he just needed to make every possible future equally dangerous.
His next assault was a masterpiece of controlled chaos. High, low, left, right, straight, curved—attacks coming from every angle with such speed and variety that predicting them became meaningless. If every future showed an attack, the only option was perfect defense.
And Baahubali's defense was approaching perfection.
He moved through Kalari forms with fluid precision, each movement serving dual purposes—blocking while positioning for counter-strikes, evading while maintaining offensive pressure. His hands became blurs, redirecting Garp's devastating punches with minimal force applied at precise angles.
Then Baahubali shifted to offense.
His palm strike, enhanced with Advanced Armament Haki infusion that flowed into his opponent's body, caught Garp square in the chest. The Vice Admiral felt the impact not on his skin but inside, his very organs shuddering from the internal destruction technique.
Garp grinned through the pain. "Now we're talking!"
He responded with a punch that carried so much Conqueror's Haki( Yes Garp has in this story) that black lightning crackled through the air. Baahubali crossed his arms to block, and the impact sent him sliding back fifteen feet, his feet carving trenches in the beach.
"Magnificent," Baahubali breathed, and there was genuine joy in his voice.
This was what he lived for now. Not the violence itself, but the purity of testing himself against worthy opponents. The clarity that came from moments where only skill, will, and determination mattered.
They clashed again, and this time both unleashed their Conqueror's Haki fully.
The sky darkened.
The sea retreated from the shore.
Weaker members of both crews collapsed unconscious from the sheer pressure.
And in the center of it all, two warriors danced their violent ballet, each pushing the other to heights neither could reach alone.
Baahubali's Conqueror's Haki manifested as golden-black lightning that seemed to command the very environment. Sand rose in patterns around him, waves froze mid-crash, even the wind seemed to bend to his will.
Garp's Haki was more direct—pure, overwhelming force that crashed against Baahubali's control like a tsunami against a seawall.
The clash of their wills created a dome of pressure where nothing else could exist. No one could enter. Nothing could interfere.
Inside that dome, they fought with everything they had.
Baahubali flowed through forms he'd mastered over ten years of constant battle. Sword techniques adapted for empty hands. Spear principles applied to palm strikes. Archery's economy of motion informing every dodge.
And something new—a technique he'd been developing, inspired by fragmentary dreams of a dance he couldn't fully remember.
He began to move in a pattern that seemed almost rhythmic, his steps following a beat only he could hear. The Tandava Step—named for a cosmic dance from memories that weren't quite his.
His movements became unpredictable even to Garp's battle-honed instincts. He seemed to be in multiple places at once, his attacks coming from impossible angles, his defenses appearing where no defense should exist.
Garp's eyes widened in recognition. "You're predicting my predictions!"
It was true. Baahubali wasn't just using Future Sight to see what Garp would do—he was predicting what Garp would predict he would do, then acting on that second layer of awareness.
"You really are a monster," Garp said, but he was grinning.
Then he showed why he was called the strongest Marine.
He stopped trying to outthink Baahubali and simply attacked with such overwhelming force and speed that prediction became irrelevant. If every future showed an unavoidable attack, Future Sight offered no advantage.
His "Fist of Love"—a technique he'd been developing—carried not just physical force but emotional weight. It was Conqueror's Haki refined to its purest form, an attack that struck at the opponent's will itself.
Baahubali took the punch head-on, his Armament Haki forming an "Iron Fortress" around his body.
The impact created a crater thirty feet deep.
But Baahubali stood at its center, unmoved.
"The Guard of Dharma," he said quietly, and Garp understood.
As long as Baahubali fought for something he believed was righteous, as long as he stood firm in his convictions, he could not be moved. His will would not allow it.
"That's cheating," Garp said, but there was admiration in his voice.
"That is faith," Baahubali corrected.
They separated, both breathing heavily, both bearing the marks of their contest. Garp had bruises forming across his ribs where Baahubali's internal destruction techniques had landed. Baahubali had a cut above his eye where one of Garp's punches had slipped through his defense.
They looked at each other and began to laugh.
"Draw?" Garp offered.
"Draw," Baahubali agreed.
As they walked back to their respective crews, Roger was practically bouncing with excitement. "That was amazing! You guys keep getting stronger! At this rate, you'll both be able to split mountains!"
"We can already split mountains," Garp pointed out. "I did it last week during training."
"Show off," Rayleigh muttered.
They shared drinks and conversation for another hour, the absurdity of the situation not lost on anyone. Here they were—wanted pirates and the Marine sent to capture them—laughing together like old friends.
Because, in a way, they were.
Finally, Garp stood. "I should get back before my superiors start asking questions about why I haven't arrested you yet."
"Tell them we were too strong," Roger suggested.
"I tell them that every time. They're starting to think I'm exaggerating."
"You are," Rayleigh said. "We're much stronger than you describe."
That got another laugh. As Garp prepared to leave, he pulled Baahubali aside.
"Hey. Serious question." His voice dropped. "Have you heard about God Valley?"
Baahubali's eyes narrowed. "Roger mentioned something about it. An island that appears and disappears."
"Yeah. And in two months, it's going to appear again. There's going to be a gathering there—Celestial Dragons, their slaves, and probably every big-name pirate who wants to make a statement." Garp's expression was grim. "It's going to be a bloodbath."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I know Roger. He's going to go. And I know you—you're going to see those slaves and you won't be able to walk away." Garp met his eyes. "I'm going to be there too. Officially, to protect the Celestial Dragons. Unofficially... well, let's just say I don't care much for people who own other people."
"You are suggesting we might be on the same side, despite being enemies?"
"I'm suggesting that sometimes the world is more complicated than Marines versus pirates." Garp clapped him on the shoulder. "Watch yourself, Baahubali. God Valley is going to change everything."
As the Marine ships sailed away, Baahubali stood at the rail, contemplating Garp's warning.
Roger came up beside him. "He told you about God Valley, didn't he?"
"He did."
"We're going."
"I know."
"It's going to be dangerous."
"I know that too."
Roger grinned. "Good. Because I have a feeling this is going to be the adventure that defines us."
Baahubali looked at his captain—his friend—and nodded. "Then we shall face it together."
Neither of them knew how right they were. God Valley would indeed define them.
It would be the day the world learned to fear the name Amarendra D. Baahubali.
To Be Continued...
The stage is set. The players are moving into position. And at God Valley, the Shield of Dharma will face his greatest test yet—not of strength, but of conviction. When the powerful prey upon the helpless, when justice and law stand in opposition, what path will a man without memory but infinite principle choose?