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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.

---

Chapter Text

The grand chamber was bathed in warm afternoon light filtering through tall, intricately latticed windows. Rich tapestries of crimson and gold adorned the walls, depicting legendary battles and ancient kings. Plush cushions and silk rugs in deep reds and royal blues covered the polished marble floor, where baby Zoro crawled happily.

Tera and Arashi, dressed in traditional royal robes, sat near the floor watching over their son. Tera wore a flowing saffron silk saree embroidered with delicate silver thread, her hair braided with jasmine flowers. Arashi’s attire was a dark emerald sherwani, finely embroidered with golden motifs of dragons and waves — a symbol of his warrior lineage.

Around them, the maids and servants moved quietly, their simple cotton kurtas and dhotis in soft pastel colors, their eyes fixed on the playful scene. Baby Zoro, wrapped in a soft white muslin cloth, reached out with tiny hands, eagerly trying to catch Arashi’s toy sword. The sword gleamed with a polished silver blade and a handle wrapped in dark leather.

“Catch, Zoro!” Arashi laughed, holding the sword just out of reach.

With determined eyes, the little prince stretched his chubby hands forward, fingers trembling with effort as he tried to grab the sword. Tera smiled softly, watching the fierce spirit in her son.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors creaked open, and a royal courtier entered, bowing respectfully. His expression was grave as he approached the couple.

“Maharani Tera, Maharaj Arashi,” the courtier said, “there is news from the border. Blackbread’s forces have attacked Shri Lakhan... and have won. He has established a golden kingdom, rivaling even Ravana’s grandeur.”

Arashi’s smile faded. He tightened his grip on the sword and said quietly, “That person is not even at Ravana’s level. He was smart and knew his limits. But this... this new king, he is dangerous. He has already conquered many kingdoms. When a ruler resists, he curses them with dark magic, destroying their lands and people.”

Tera’s brow furrowed with worry as she glanced down at Zoro, now playing on the floor. “If he comes here... what will we do? After all we suffered to have this child... I cannot bear the thought of harm coming to him.”

Arashi’s voice was steady but firm. “Don’t worry. King Zeff of Prayag is breaking those curses. He will perform the Sangam prayers for seventy-eight days.”

Tera’s eyes widened. “But he has accepted the Brahmacharya vow. If he dies... no one will be left to protect the kingdom but you. You have a son — you must be ready to become king after me.”

The courtier interrupted gently, “Maharani, Maharaj, King Zeff was blessed with a beautiful omega child by the Sangam ceremony after he completed the prayers. Everything is going well. He also invites you to the puja ceremony for his son.”

Tera and Arashi exchanged glances of relief. “Really?” they breathed in unison.

“Yes,” said the courtier, smiling softly.

Their moment of happiness was interrupted when Zoro suddenly stood, wobbling unsteadily, and dashed toward the balcony. The room froze. Tera’s heart stopped as she rushed forward, only to see the child slip and fall over the balcony’s edge.

Gasps filled the room as everyone rushed outside.

But there, in the lush palace garden, baby Zoro giggled and crawled unharmed on the soft grass.

Tera ran, scooping him into her arms, tears of joy streaming down her face.

Arashi smiled proudly, “Our son is strong. He will be a great warrior.”

---

The Puja Ceremony

The next day, at King Zeff’s grand palace, the puja ceremony for the newborn — called Annaprashan — was held. This sacred ritual marks the first time a child is fed solid food, symbolizing the beginning of nourishment beyond milk. Golden lamps flickered beside fragrant marigold garlands as priests chanted blessings, and the royal family gathered in shimmering finery.

Arashi, however, did not attend. “If I go, Blackbread’s forces will see this as a weakness and attack,” he explained solemnly.

Tera and Zoro stayed by his side, but a beautifully crafted gift was sent to King Zeff, along with a locked locket — a symbol of alliance and protection.

Time passed slowly but steadily, and baby Zoro grew into a curious little boy. By the time he turned six, he was full of energy, always running through the palace halls, climbing up garden trees, and asking endless questions.

One peaceful evening, his mother, Tera, invited him to the puja room, a sacred space glowing with warmth and tradition. The room was softly lit with rows of brass oil lamps. Sandalwood and jasmine scents filled the air. The walls were painted with ancient epics — Ram, Sita, Lakshman, and Hanuman drawn in graceful strokes. An altar stood at the far end with deities adorned in fresh flowers and jewels.

Zoro curled up beside Tera on a silken cushion. Tonight, it was time for another of his favorite stories.

Tera smiled and began, “Long ago, in the time of Lord Ram, there was a demon named Ahiravan, the ruler of the underworld. He was very clever and powerful. One night, he kidnapped both Ram and Lakshman while they were asleep, and took them deep into the dark caves of Patala.”

Zoro’s eyes widened, clutching his mother’s arm in suspense.

“But then came Hanuman, the mighty monkey god,” she continued. “He followed them into the depths, fought terrifying demons, and discovered that Ahiravan planned to sacrifice Ram and Lakshman. With his strength and wit, Hanuman defeated Ahiravan, destroyed his dark temple, and carried both brothers back safely.”

Zoro grinned with excitement. “Hanuman is soooo cool!”

Then, with a hopeful look in his eyes, he asked, “Mama… can I also have a monkey like Lord Ram? Like Hanuman? One who can talk to me… and play with me?”

Tera laughed softly, pulling him into a warm hug. “No, dear. That Hanuman was not just any monkey — he was a god. Monkeys today can’t talk or fly. But you… you can still be brave like him.”

Zoro pouted a little, but then smiled as he imagined his own talking monkey friend leaping across the sky.

The Royal Garden of Ayodhya Palace was like a dream carved from gold and green. Birds chirped from peepal trees, and the fountains sang as white lotuses floated gently in the marble basins. A warm breeze rustled the royal flags bearing the symbol of a golden lion.

Under a neem tree in the garden, Prince Zoro, only six years old, was playing with a carved wooden sword. His soft green hair was tied into a tiny topknot, and he wore a light green silk kurta with golden embroidery at the edges. His small dhoti, also silk, fluttered as he moved. Around his neck gleamed a tiny sword-shaped pendant of gold, a gift from his father.

He sat quietly, barefoot, pressing flowers into a book when he heard something unusual—a voice, light and playful, coming from behind the tree.

> “Ahh… God, I want to live in a palace like this. Eating, sleeping, playing all day… what a life...”

Zoro blinked and slowly stood. His innocent golden brown eyes searched behind the tree and found a monkey. But not an ordinary one.

This monkey wore a tattered red vest with golden buttons, and around his neck was a rope that trailed loosely. He was sitting upright like a human, peeling a banana and talking to… a butterfly?

“You can… talk?” Zoro whispered.

The monkey froze. His wide eyes darted toward the prince.

> “W-What? No! Haha! I’m just a monkey, see? Ooh-ooh-aah-aah! You’re hearing things, little human!” he said, waving his hands and making silly faces.

Zoro tilted his head. “But you’re talking. To me.”

The monkey sighed and dropped the act.

> “Alright, fine! You caught me. I’m Luffy, the future greatest monkey leader. And you are?”

“I’m Zoro,” the boy said proudly, placing his wooden sword on his shoulder. “I’m the prince.”

Luffy’s jaw dropped. “Prince?! Oh no, no, no! Udi Dada’s gonna kill me!”

Just then, from beyond the garden wall, came a loud call:

> “Luffy! Court’s starting! Get back here!”

The monkey jumped in panic, yelled, “Nice meeting you!” and dashed off, leaving Zoro blinking in surprise.

---

Inside the Royal Court

The Durbar Hall of was majestic. Long ruby-red carpets stretched from the golden doors to the twin lion thrones. Marble floors shimmered like water, and the air was filled with incense and the faint sound of veenas and flutes playing in the background.

Courtiers, nobles, and guests filled the hall, dressed in fine silk robes, embroidered angarkhas, and turbans adorned with jewels. The nobles whispered eagerly as the Madari, the monkey master, entered with his troupe of eleven monkeys, each dressed in bright colored coats, tiny bells on their ankles.

Each monkey performed a unique trick:

One juggled fruits while hopping.

Another danced on a rope to drumbeats.

One mimicked royal courtiers perfectly, making the crowd roar with laughter.

But the last monkey, Luffy, stood awkwardly.

He didn’t jump. He didn’t roll. He didn’t even move to the beat.

Instead, he looked at Zoro, sitting beside Queen Tera, watching with wide eyes full of wonder.

Everyone laughed at Luffy’s clumsiness, but he smiled. He liked the sound of laughter—even if it wasn’t for his tricks.

After the show ended, Queen Tera leaned close to her son and asked, “Zoro, did you enjoy the monkeys?”

Zoro nodded, then pointed. “I want that one.”

The Madari smiled politely. “Ah, the young prince has chosen! Please, I will offer you my finest monkeys—this one juggles knives, that one can sing—”

Zoro shook his head. “No. I want him.”

The Madari hesitated. “That one? He doesn’t do tricks, Your Highness…”

“I want him,” Zoro repeated. “He has a name. He said it’s Luffy. And he talks.”

The court fell into stunned silence.

King Arashi narrowed his eyes. “He talks?”

Luffy scratched his head and nervously laughed, “W-Well… I do, but only sometimes! Please don’t throw me in a cage!”

Everyone gasped.

The Madari fell to his knees. “Forgive me, Maharaj! I didn’t know this monkey had such power! I found him in the jungle… I thought he was cursed!”

Queen Tera’s eyes softened. “No. He’s chosen. Zoro has chosen him.”

The king nodded, and the monkey Luffy was officially gifted to the prince.

That night, after the court emptied, Luffy hugged Zoro tightly.

“Thanks, kid,” he whispered.

Zoro hugged back. “You’re mine now. You live here.”

Queen Tera smiled as she watched them. “Zoro… why did you choose that monkey?”

Zoro’s voice was soft but sure.

> “Because he’s not just a monkey. He has a name.”

And with that, the bond between the talking monkey Luffy and Prince Zoro was sealed forever.

Chapter Text

Little Sanji, a six-year-old boy with shining yellow-blonde hair that caught the sunlight like strands of pure gold, sat on the sun-warmed ground of the palace courtyard. His ocean-blue eyes sparkled like the deepest waters as he played with the soft earth beneath him. The soil was fragrant, mixed with crushed marigold petals and sacred turmeric powder from the morning puja.

The golden sunlight lit up Sanji’s silky hair as he scooped handfuls of the fragrant soil, letting it slip slowly through his fingers like flowing rivers. His chubby hands were dusted with the fine earth, and the hem of his dhoti—an elegant blend of saffron and ivory with delicate zari embroidery—brushed the ground softly as he moved. Around him, the palace maids and servants smiled warmly, playfully chasing after their lively little prince. Their anklets tinkled with each step, and their bright saris fluttered in colors of emerald, ruby, and sapphire.

Nearby, vibrant rangoli patterns of lotus flowers and peacock feathers decorated the stone floor, their bright powders welcoming auspiciousness and joy to the day. A group of children chased a peacock feather, laughing as it floated teasingly in the breeze.

Suddenly, a gentle voice called out, "Sanji!" It was Zeff, beckoning him toward the inner chambers.

Sanji wiped his hands on his dhoti and padded barefoot to the puja room, where fragrant incense curled in delicate spirals beneath a brass lamp. Zeff sat comfortably on a plush cushion, beckoning Sanji into his lap.

With a soft smile, Zeff began, "Let me tell you the story of Sita ji and Ram ji."

Sanji nestled against him, eyes wide with wonder as Zeff’s deep voice painted the tale. When Zeff told how Sita ji chose Ram ji as her husband, Sanji’s little brow furrowed in curious thought.

“Papa,” he asked softly, “how could only Ram ji lift the bow, and no one else?”

Zeff chuckled warmly and ruffled Sanji’s golden hair. “Haha, that’s because Sita ji prayed to Lord Shiva, asking that only Ram ji should be able to lift it.”

Sanji’s eyes sparkled with innocent wonder as he whispered, “So… love is always at first sight?”

Zeff smiled, a hint of mystery in his eyes, and said quietly, “I don’t know, my little prince. Maybe it is.”

Sanji played again in the courtyard, his golden hair shining as he chased after a fluttering butterfly. His ocean-blue eyes, wide with childlike wonder, seemed to search for something he didn’t quite understand yet. The idea of “first love” tickled his young mind like a soft breeze—something sweet and magical, but mysterious too. Though he didn’t fully grasp it, the thought stayed with him, swirling gently as he played.

As night fell, Sanji curled up in his little bed, the soft silk sheets cool against his skin. His thoughts drifted, the story of Ram ji and Sita ji lingering like a gentle warmth in his heart as he slowly slipped into sleep.

The next morning, as the sun cast soft golden rays through the palace windows, a Brahman arrived, dressed in a crisp white dhoti and angavastram. His face was kind and wise as he bowed respectfully to Zeff and Sanji.

Zeff welcomed him warmly, guiding him into the puja room where Sanji sat quietly by his side.

The Brahman looked at Sanji with a gentle smile and said, “That child is a blessing from the Sangam—the sacred confluence of rivers. You must ensure that his future as an alpha becomes a blessing too.”

Sanji blinked up at the Brahman, curiosity bright in his eyes.

The Brahman continued, “When the time comes for his swayamvar, set a challenge that only a true alpha can overcome.”

Zeff furrowed his brows thoughtfully and asked, “Do you think they will fall for each other?”

The Brahman chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with wisdom. “Love is not something that comes easily or quickly. They don’t fall for each other at first sight—but when they do, no force in this world or the next can ever separate them.”

Zeff watched Sanji playing again, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo. He smiled softly, remembering how curious and bright his little boy was—even when it came to things like love, which Sanji didn’t fully understand yet.

He turned to the Brahman and asked quietly, “Is love really that strong?”

The Brahman laughed warmly, and Zeff nodded slowly, pondering the weight of those words.

Then Zeff looked down at Sanji, who was watching them with wide eyes, and said softly, “Love isn’t something you can rush or force, beta. Sometimes, it comes slowly—like a river carving its way through stone. But when it comes… it’s unbreakable.”

Sanji blinked, his little face serious as he tried to understand.

Zeff smiled and ruffled his hair gently. “You’re too young to worry about all that now. Just keep playing and learning.”

Chapter Text

The soft light of dawn spilled over the grand palace grounds of Svarnagar, where the air was fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and freshly strung marigold garlands. Intricate stone carvings of peacocks and lotuses adorned the palace walls, and the courtyard buzzed with the sounds of morning life.

In the middle of it all, the young Alpha prince Zoro darted between carved sandstone pillars, his wild green hair tousled by the breeze. His golden brown eyes sparkled with the energy of youth and adventure. On his shoulder perched Luffy, a small monkey with glossy black fur and sharp, curious eyes. Luffy spoke with a lively voice, chatting and teasing like an old friend.

“Bet you can’t catch me, Zoro!” Luffy chattered.

“Not a chance!” Zoro grinned, scrambling up a low stone wall decorated with lotus motifs.

But a sudden slip sent him tumbling down, scraping his knee on the smooth stone. Luffy immediately jumped down, his voice quick with concern. “You okay, Zoro? You gotta watch out!”

Zoro laughed it off, brushing dirt from his dhoti. “I’m fine. Can’t let you win that easily.”

---

Far away, in the palace of Prayag, the morning sun filtered through tall arched windows draped with saffron and marigold silk curtains. The air was heavy with the scent of sandalwood incense and blooming frangipani.

In a quiet chamber adorned with hand-painted frescoes of ancient gods, young Sanji, with his golden hair tied back neatly, listened carefully. He wore a crisp white dhoti with gold embroidery, and an angavastram draped over his shoulder.

Sitting cross-legged on a woven mat was Zeff, the royal tutor, holding an ancient leather-bound manuscript—the Arthashastra. Its pages detailed the principles of wise governance, diplomacy, economics, and the duties of a ruler.

Zeff’s deep voice echoed softly in the room as he read aloud passages in Sanskrit, explaining the lessons to Sanji. The boy’s bright eyes followed every word, learning how power should be balanced with justice and wisdom.

---

Later, in the fragrant kitchen halls of Prayag’s palace, Sanji practiced his cooking under the watchful eyes of the royal chefs. The air was thick with the aromas of cumin, cardamom, coriander, and turmeric. His hands moved carefully, mastering the art of preparing dishes that had been perfected over generations.

---

Though miles apart—Zoro growing strong and wild in Svarnagar, Sanji learning wisdom and grace in Prayag—their lives moved forward in parallel. Fate had yet to intertwine their paths, but the bonds of family and destiny were quietly weaving the threads of what was yet to come.

---

Years passed, and the golden kingdom of Svarnagar stood proud under the gaze of the gods. The scent of incense, blooming champa, and turmeric smoke mingled with the soft hum of temple bells echoing across the palace courtyards. It was the day of the Maha Puja, an ancient sacred ritual performed by the queens of Svarnagar to honor Agni, the divine flame—protector of kings and symbol of ancestral strength.

Clad in a flowing red silk saree edged with gold, Maharani Tera walked gracefully through the temple halls. Her forehead bore the bright red tilak of devotion, and her hands held a copper thali of marigold flowers, sandal paste, and clarified ghee. Around her, other queens and noble women gathered, their bangles clinking softly, sarees rustling like whispers of time.

In the center of the grand temple courtyard blazed a sacred fire atop a carved marble havan kund. The queens circled it, chanting ancient mantras passed down through generations. Tera stepped forward to offer ghee into the flames, eyes closed in prayer.

But suddenly, as if tested by the gods themselves, a sharp gust of wind blew the fire sideways. A burning ember leapt toward her leg—and in that very instant, a small figure moved faster than anyone could react.

Zoro, now 10 years old, leapt forward. His golden-brown eyes were focused, wild green hair tousled by the wind. With his bare hand, he caught the falling flame before it could touch his mother’s skin. A sizzle marked his palm, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he tossed the flame back into the havan kund and stepped back silently, like a guardian born of fire.

On his shoulder, Luffy the monkey squeaked and clapped. “That’s my Zoro!”

Gasps filled the temple. Tera stared at her son, both stunned and proud. She stepped toward him and cupped his unburned cheek with trembling hands. “You’ve grown,” she whispered. “The gods smile upon you today.”

---

That night, in the royal chamber adorned with sandalwood carvings and soft lamp light, Maharaj Arisha sat deep in thought. Dressed in a silk angavastram and seated on a low cushion, he watched his son sparring with wooden sticks in the courtyard below.

“He needs more than this palace,” the king said. “It’s time.”

He sent a royal scroll to his younger brother—the famed warrior monk Mihawk, a man known for his discipline, sharp swordsmanship, and mastery of ancient philosophies. He taught at the Gurukul of Ekachakra, nestled deep in the forested hills, where princes were raised as warriors and scholars.

The Gurukul was no palace. There were no golden walls or royal silks. Housed in mud-brick buildings and surrounded by tall sal trees, it rang with the sounds of conch shells, sword clashes, and Vedic recitations. Disciples lived simply—sleeping on grass mats, bathing in rivers, rising at dawn, and learning under the sun and moon.

When Zoro heard the news, his face lit up—but quickly fell when he realized what it meant.

“I’m going?” he asked, clutching Luffy tightly. “Then… Luffy can’t come?”

Arisha chuckled softly. “A talking monkey in a Gurukul isn’t exactly tradition.”

“But he’s my brother!” Zoro snapped, arms around Luffy. “I won’t go without him!”

Luffy looked between them, tail drooping. “I can behave! I’ll be quiet! I can even meditate!”

Tera stepped in, smiling gently. “Let him go, Arisha. They’re never apart. He’ll be Zoro’s strength.”

With a sigh and a nod from the king, it was settled. Zoro grinned from ear to ear, hugging Luffy as the monkey squealed in delight.

---

As the palace gates opened at dawn, Zoro stood tall in a simple cotton dhoti, hair tied back with a red ribbon, a small satchel slung over one shoulder—and Luffy on the other.

He didn’t look back as he walked down the stone steps toward his destiny, the light of the rising sun painting gold across his determined face.