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The salt-laced wind carried the scent of the sea, a familiar comfort that usually soothed Shanks. But today, it only amplified the hollowness in his chest. He clutched the worn, oversized coat that had once belonged to Garp, the rough fabric a stark contrast to the memory of the small, feverish hand that used to grip his own.
Luffy. His son. The word still felt foreign, a precious jewel he'd held too briefly. He remembered the day he'd found the boy, a fragile wisp of life in Makino's care, his breath shallow and his small body constantly battling an unseen enemy. There was no boisterous laughter then, no boundless energy, only a quiet resilience in his wide, innocent eyes.
Shanks had taken one look at the boy and felt a protectiveness so fierce it surprised even him. He’d stayed in Foosha, his usual wanderlust subdued by the need to care for this tiny human. Garp, gruffer than usual, had also been a constant presence, his worry etched onto his weathered face. They’d shared quiet evenings, watching the sickly child sleep, a silent understanding passing between the legendary Marine and the carefree pirate captain.
Those days, though tinged with the constant anxiety of Luffy’s illness, were filled with a tender sweetness Shanks would now forever ache for. Makino’s gentle care, Garp’s surprisingly soft touches when he thought no one was looking, and Luffy’s small, weak smiles that held the warmth of a thousand suns. He remembered reading stories to Luffy, the boy’s eyes lighting up at tales of adventure, a spark of the spirit that Shanks knew lay dormant within his frail form.
Then, the whispers started. Dragon’s son. Revolutionary. The World Government’s long arm reaching even to their peaceful corner of the East Blue. Shanks had felt a cold dread grip him. He knew what that meant. He had to leave, a desperate hope blooming in his chest. The Gomu Gomu no Mi. Legend spoke of its unique properties. Maybe, just maybe, it held the key to saving his son.
The journey was a blur of frantic sailing, his crew sensing his urgency, the usual jovial atmosphere replaced by a tense silence. Every league they covered, his heart pounded with a mixture of hope and fear. He pictured Luffy’s small face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration when Shanks taught him simple knots, the soft sigh that escaped his lips in his sleep.
He arrived back in Foosha under a sky choked with black smoke. The salty air was thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and something else… something metallic and sickening. His ship anchored haphazardly, the crew’s worried faces mirroring his own growing terror.
He ran. He didn’t remember the distance, his legs moving on instinct, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The village was a ruin. Buildings were reduced to smoldering piles, the familiar landscape twisted into a nightmarish tableau.
And then he saw them. In the center of the devastation, amidst the debris, was a large, unmoving form. Garp. His massive back was towards Shanks, but even from this distance, the stillness was horrifying. He stumbled closer, his breath catching in his throat.
He rounded Garp’s body, and his world shattered.
Curled in the crook of his grandfather’s arm, small and still, was Luffy. His clothes were soaked a horrifying crimson, his face pale and serene, as if he were merely sleeping. One tiny hand clutched at the fabric of Garp’s coat. Dried tear tracks stained the old Marine’s cheeks, his large frame a final, futile shield against the unimaginable.
A few meters away, half-buried in the ash, lay the straw hat. Burnt at the edges, still retaining its iconic shape, but now a symbol of a future that would never be.
Something inside Shanks snapped. The carefully constructed walls around his emotions crumbled. A raw, primal scream tore from his throat, a sound of pure agony and rage that seemed to shake the very foundations of the island. His haki erupted, a tidal wave of grief and fury that slammed into the remaining debris, into the sea, into the very air itself. The crew on his ship staggered, clutching at anything for support, the sheer force of his despair a physical blow.
He fell to his knees beside them, his tears flowing freely now, hot and burning against his ravaged soul. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from Luffy’s still face. “Luffy…” he choked out, the name a broken whisper.
Days bled into weeks. Shanks remained in the East Blue, a ghost haunting the shores of his lost happiness. The carefree smile was gone, replaced by a cold, haunted look in his red eyes. His interactions were curt, his laughter nonexistent. The joy had been ripped from him, leaving only a burning emptiness.
He encountered a Marine patrol, their faces smug and self-righteous. The memory of Akainu’s molten fist, the image of Luffy’s blood staining the ground, flashed before his eyes. A terrifying calm descended upon him. He drew his sword, Gryphon, and in the blink of an eye, the Marines were cut down, their shocked expressions frozen in death.
Buggy, his old rival, tried to reach him, his usual bluster replaced by genuine concern. “Shanks… this isn’t you.”
Shanks simply stared through him, his eyes devoid of warmth. “There is no ‘me’ anymore, Buggy. Only this.” He gestured to the bloodied blade in his hand.
Even Rayleigh, the Dark King, his former mentor, sought him out, his voice filled with sorrow. “Shanks, you can’t let this consume you.”
But the words were like water off a duck’s back. The world had taken his son, his family. Now, he would take from the world. The seas became more dangerous, not just from the usual storms and sea kings, but from the wrath of a Yonko consumed by grief. Mihawk, his eternal rival, watched him from a distance, a flicker of something akin to fear in his golden eyes. The once jovial Red-Haired Shanks was gone, replaced by a force of nature, a harbinger of sorrow and retribution, forever haunted by the memory of a small, sick child and the burnt straw hat that lay in the ashes of a dream.
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