Chapter Text
Papa, papa!"
The small voice echoed through the warm courtyard, sticky with the scent of mangoes and marigolds. A young boy with ink-smudged hands stomped into the veranda, his long braid bouncing behind him. "I'm so bored of this holiday work—it’s just full of hard stuff!"
A chuckle followed—a calm, older voice with the rasp of wisdom and warmth.
"Hmm? What happened, little one? Tell me your holiday homework."
The boy groaned, flopping beside the man. "We have to write about a fantastic story from the past. Something ancient and magical. But I don’t know anything exciting…"
The man smiled, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Ahh… I know one. A story not found in books. No one can say if it’s real or just a whisper of the wind. Want to hear it?"
The boy's eyes lit up. "Tell me! Tell me now!"
The man looked to the horizon, where the golden sun dipped behind temple towers and peacocks danced beneath gulmohar trees.
"This story belongs to a sacred land with many names… ‘Bharat’, its first breath… ‘Hindustan’, ‘Indus Valley’, ‘India’ by the Greeks… and ‘Tenjiku’—the land in the center of Heaven, as the Japanese say."
"A land of poetry and fire. Of food rich with spices, temples that reach the clouds, rivers that whisper secrets. This story isn’t from the stone age or medieval tales… It belongs to an age of love, of sacrifice… and of divine freedom."
---
The eagle soared.
Its wings sliced the air as it flew over rivers braided like silver threads—holy Ganga rippling beneath moonlight, Yamuna with her blue grace curving through lush plains. It passed dense jungles where tigers prowled and monkeys leapt from sal trees, and then over golden fields stretching to the feet of mountains.
Then came the kingdom—Svarnagar, the City of Gold.
The palace rose like a dream: domes of jade, white sandstone walls carved with lotus vines, and temple towers kissed by sacred smoke. Inside, the prayers of conches and bells filled the wind.
The eagle landed gracefully on the extended arm of the King, Roronoa Arashi, as he knelt before a great black Shiva lingam, his green silk dhoti swaying gently in the temple breeze. His bare chest bore sacred ash and the mark of a warrior. He whispered Sanskrit mantras with his eyes closed, voice deep and reverent.
A golden ring was tied to the eagle’s leg.
He untied the scroll and read:
> “Your Majesty, I, Arya, King of Vaideh, invite you and Maharani Tera to the naamkaran ceremony of our newborn twins—blessings of Surya and Chandra. It would be our honor to welcome you for this sacred event.”
A soft smile tugged at Arashi’s lips. He stood, offering one last flower to Shiva, and turned toward the palace.
---
The castle of Svarnagar gleamed with morning light. Marble floors, rose-scented fountains, murals of gods and battles… maids in red and gold moved gracefully, tending to incense and flower garlands. Servants bowed as the king passed, his green silk cape trailing behind him.
He entered a garden chamber where Maharani Tera sat, her long blonde hair braided with jasmine, her golden saree glittering with moonstone beads. She gently arranged flowers on a silver thali, lost in thought.
"Tera," he said softly.
She looked up, her face brightening.
"We are invited," Arashi said. "Arya and Queen Mira’s children—twins. Their naamkaran is in four days."
Tera smiled. "I'm so happy for them… Arya has waited many years for this joy. I would like to go."
She paused. Her smile faded as she looked at the flowers in her lap.
Arashi noticed. He stepped closer, sitting beside her. "Priyatama… what troubles you?"
Tera’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Have the gods turned away from me? Is this a punishment for my past life? I have not given you an heir. After all these years… our marriage still bears no child."
He gently took her hand, eyes steady. "You are the jewel of this kingdom. The gods are testing us, not cursing us."
She looked down, silent.
"We will go to the naamkaran… and after that, we will journey to Prithvi Maa's Temple. You and I will pray under the earth mother’s tree. She listens. She gives. I believe she will bless us with the most beautiful child."
Tera closed her eyes. "Do you think… our child will be special?"
Arashi smiled. "More than special. They will change destiny."
The naamkaran ceremony had ended in grandeur. Bells rang across the kingdom of Vaideh, echoing laughter and joy. Prince Arya and Queen Mira welcomed guests from far and wide, celebrating the birth of their long-awaited twins. Blessings were showered, songs sung, and gold rained from balconies.
Among the guests, King Arashi and Queen Tera smiled… but their hearts were heavy with a quiet longing.
As they were preparing to return to Svarnagar and begin their journey to Prithvi Maa’s temple, Queen Mira approached, her voice soft and wise.
> "Tera, Arashi… may I say something not as a queen, but as a woman who once cried under the same stars?"
They turned to her, listening with quiet respect.
> "If you go to the temple dressed in silks and guarded like royals, you will only show your status, not your faith. But if you go as bhakts, as humble souls on earth’s dust… Prithvi Maa will see you. She will feel your pain."
"Go simply. Go as seekers, not sovereigns. That is how she’ll bless you."
There was silence, and then Arashi nodded. "You're right, Mira. We will leave as villagers, not rulers."
---
The next morning, the king and queen of Svarnagar left the golden palace through a side gate—no entourage, no elephants. Only a cloth bag, wooden sandals, and plain cotton clothes. Arashi wore a faded white dhoti and shawl; Tera a simple red sari without jewelry. Her long hair was tied in a modest braid, a cloth wrapped around her shoulders to shield from wind.
Their path was long.
They walked through muddy paths, dried rice fields, narrow forest tracks. Thorns scratched their skin. Heat bore down like punishment. Tera’s sandal broke near a sharp stone ridge, cutting her ankle. Blood trickled slowly, but she tightened her jaw, walking on.
"Let’s stop," Arashi urged.
"No," she said. "If I stop now, the pain may win. Let it bleed. Let me bleed… for our child."
Storm clouds swelled. Thunder rolled like ancient drums. Rain poured suddenly, drenching them in seconds. Their clothes clung to their skin, hair soaked, legs trembling. Wind howled through the trees, as if testing their spirit.
Still, they walked.
By dusk, after a full day of pain and prayer, they reached a mountain ridge—and there, carved into a cliff draped with vines and glowing moss, stood Prithvi Maa’s temple.
The temple was quiet, sacred.
Inside, a lone brahman, a wise man with silver hair and eyes that had seen centuries, sat before an ancient tree rooted in the earth herself. His hands moved in gentle mudras. Incense curled around him like spirits. Earth, moss, and jasmine filled the air.
As the storm calmed, he opened his eyes.
Arashi and Tera bowed low, their foreheads pressed to the wet floor.
> "O Mahatma," Arashi said, voice hoarse, "We are Roronoa Arashi and Tera of Svarnagar… but today, we are not king and queen. We are only man and woman. We have no child. We seek Prithvi Maa’s grace."
The brahman looked into their eyes, his gaze piercing.
> "You came in rain and pain, without crown or chariot. You bled and bowed, and still did not stop. That is shraddha… devotion born not from gold, but grit."
He placed his hand on their heads.
> "Prithvi Maa has heard. She will give you a child. A son born not from royal blood alone, but from the roots of the earth, the winds of courage, and the fire of love."
Tera gasped softly, her hand flying to her chest.
Arashi clenched his fists, his eyes shining.
> "Raise him well," the brahman whispered. "He will be both gentle and fierce. He will be unlike any child this land has seen. And he will belong not only to you—but to destiny."
Nine moons passed gently.
Queen Tera's body grew heavy with life, her glow like that of the evening sun reflecting off sacred rivers. Arashi held her hand through each prayer, each sleepless night, each joyful kick that reminded them: the earth had heard them.
And then, on the night when the moon turned red above the hills and peacocks danced in the rain, Queen Tera gave birth.
The palace echoed with chants. Lamps were lit in every courtyard. The royal gardens filled with marigolds and jasmines. But within the sacred birthing room, silence followed the first cry—deep and powerful, like a lion’s roar from a newborn’s throat.
Wrapped in cotton and sandalwood cloth, the child opened his eyes.
Golden-brown eyes that shimmered like honey in the sunlight.
Hair dark green, thick like the jungle trees of the southern forests.
A warrior’s soul in a child’s fragile body.
The healers stepped back in awe. "He is an alpha," one whispered. "His presence… already commands the air."
Arashi fell to his knees. Tera held the child to her chest, weeping.
"This is Prithvi Maa’s miracle."
---
A few days later, under the shade of ancient neem trees in the temple courtyard, the naamkaran ceremony was held. A thousand lamps glowed as sacred water from the Ganga was poured into copper bowls.
The brahman who had blessed them returned, holding scrolls and sacred beads. He sat before the child, who calmly stared up at him—silent, watching.
The priest opened his scroll and began to read the child’s kundali (birth chart).
> "Maharaj Arashi... Maharani Tera... listen closely."
> "This child will be the example of satya (truth), veer (bravery), and vishwas (loyalty). Even if fate causes him to lose, he will rise again—and win. His soul has been forged with the sky’s steel, and the moon’s calm."
Tera smiled, her eyes filled with tears. "My son… will grow strong. And one day he will marry, give me grandchildren with a beautiful omega…"
The brahman paused. His gaze turned serious, ancient.
> "Yes… the gods have promised him one omega. A beautiful, golden-hearted soul. But… this love will not come easily. He must win their heart—not with might, but with emotion."
> "Their love… is destined. In every life, they shall find each other, die together… be reborn again. Their souls are tied."
Tera’s brows furrowed. "Die together? What do you mean, O wise one?"
The brahman chuckled, closing the scrolls.
> "Only Lord Krishna and Radha know such mysteries. We mortals must only prepare them for the path."
King Arashi stepped forward, gazing at his son.
> "Then… what shall we name this child, born of earth, sky, fire, and fate?"
The brahman raised his hand to the heavens, then gently pointed to the child’s chest.
> "He is a symbol of the sky’s storm, the moon’s light, and the rivers of red dawn. He must be named..."
"Zoro."
The wind rose suddenly. A white eagle flew above the temple, circling three times before vanishing into the clouds.
---
The child listening to the story sat up straighter, wide-eyed.
"Wow! So Prince Zoro will be that strong in the story?"
The adult chuckled warmly.
"Yes… stronger than a hundred lions but guided by a heart more tender than a poet’s verse."
The child tilted his head, frowning a little.
"But… I don’t know Hindi. What is naamkaran?"
"Naamkaran means… the ceremony of naming. The day a child receives their name from the universe."
"I wanna hear more! I wanna hear about that omega who will be with Prince Zoro!"
The man smiled, eyes turning to the sky outside the window.
"Then let us walk deeper into the story… into a holy land where the three divine mothers—Ma Ganga, Ma Yamuna, and Ma Saraswati—meet in eternal embrace. A land where a single drop of charnamrit can wash away lifetimes of sorrow. That sacred city is known as… Prayag."
---
The village had gathered at dawn.
Before the great Sangam, where the three rivers kissed, the temple bells rang in slow rhythm. Smoke from incense mixed with the cool mist rising from the sacred waters.
All stood silently… watching a lone man in the middle of the river—King Zeff.
For 78 days, he had sat unmoving—no food, no water.
A prayer, a tapasya (penance) for his people.
One elder whispered, "If Maharaj Zeff dies, what will happen to our kingdom? He never married, never had children. He follows brahmacharya..."
(Brahmacharya—a vow of celibacy, spiritual discipline where one renounces worldly pleasures to seek divine connection.)
Villagers feared him fading like the last ember in a dying fire. But they also feared something worse—Blackbeard, the cursed sorcerer whose shadow tried to spread across their lands.
Yet Zeff stayed—still as stone—offering his soul to protect his people.
---
For 70 days, a strange sound echoed beside him…
A baby’s cry.
But he could not look, could not break the prayer. The rivers tested him with winds, rains, even bloodied waves. Still he didn’t move.
But now—on the dawn of the 78th day—the cries had stopped.
He opened his eyes.
And beside him, floating in a bundle of golden silk, was a baby.
Skin glowing like the morning sun.
Hair golden, curled like lotus petals.
Eyebrows curved delicately.
Eyes blue—deeper than the ocean.
Zeff’s breath caught. The baby looked up… and smiled.
---
He lifted the child gently into his arms, and walked out of the river.
The crowd gasped. A miracle… a rebirth…!
"Brahman-ji!" a villager cried. "The king has returned—and he carries a child from the rivers!"
Zeff stepped onto the banks, soaked but calm. "I… heard this child crying every day. But only today… did the silence frighten me. I looked… and saw him."
He turned to hand the baby to a maidservant.
But the moment he let go, the baby wailed loudly.
Yet the instant Zeff took him back, the child nestled calmly into his arms, cooing softly.
Just then, a royal guard came running. "Maharaj Zeff! Our traders report wealth flowing again! Cows are giving milk! Flowers bloom across the fields!"
Thunder cracked. Rain fell—soft, sweet, and warm.
The Brahman bowed, tears in his eyes.
"Maharaj… this child is no ordinary soul. He is the blessing of the Sangam. A gift from the goddesses who heard your prayers."
---
The Brahman examined the child’s tiny hand, reading the sacred lines in his palm.
> "He brings Lakshmi—wealth, fortune. But also deep prema—love. His kundali shines with three rare yogs of luck. He is destined to be the beloved of a powerful soul… their love eternal."
Zeff looked at the baby, who touched his beard with tiny fingers and laughed.
> "Then… what shall we name him?"
The Brahman smiled.
> "He is gentle as the breeze and yet born of sacred power. Let us name him…"
"Sanji."
---
And so the rivers, the sky, and fate itself watched as the story of Zoro and Sanji was written into the bones of the earth.
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