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i.
The first time Law prays to the Sun God, it isn’t out of belief. He doesn’t believe in gods. Not anymore. His faith died in Flevance—forsaken like a bullet-riddled dog on the side of the road, along with his family, his friends, his entire world.
He clambers over twisted mounds of bodies, tangled and clinging to human warmth even in death, slipping again and again on viscous fluids pooling across the alabaster cobblestones, wading knee-deep through entrails. For the first time, he sees the prized ore of his homeland not as beauty, but as a sickly, blank canvas, spattered red with violence. He runs until his weak legs give out—spindly, brittle things stunted by a lifetime of hereditary affliction—and pushing past exhaustion, he finally reaches Garnet Village, a desolate port nestled along Flevance’s eastern coast.
Law knows little of Nika apart from its roots in Elbaph mythology, a deity of freedom and joy, passed down through generations in the stories of giants. At the crest of the village, a dilapidated temple leans into ruin. Overgrown, shrouded in vine and shadow, its sagging roof bears a single circular opening where a shaft of sunlight illuminates a weathered stone idol.
He steps inside cautiously, the rotten wood groaning beneath his feet—soles worn thin, scuffed with blood that isn’t his, dried into the fabric of his clothes, into the crevices of his skin; the last remnants of his loved ones. On the back wall, a faded mural catches the light: a wide-mouthed figure dancing in the sun, flecks of ancient paint shimmering faintly through the dust motes.
There’s no point, he knows. What could any god do for him now? His home is gone, quarantined and cut off from the world, its people herded like cattle and slaughtered. He’s the sole survivor. And yet, he drops to his knees, trembling hands clasping together. He prays, awkwardly, uncertainly, not knowing if he’s doing it right, not even sure it matters. Before this, he never asked for anything. When he used to close his eyes with the other children, he only pretended to speak to God.
Now, he offers no supplication, makes no plea; he knows, realistically, there is no force in the universe capable of restoring the dead. Beyond that truth, there is nothing left to ask for. So he simply sits. Knees aching. Fingers contorted in spasms. And he cries. He cries to the Sun God, and the rough-hewn shrine quakes beneath the weight of his grief.
Perhaps, through his shared sorrow, mercy will shine down on him. He will traverse the north and find a doctor who can cure him. He’ll live on.
ii.
There are no willing doctors, but whether through prayer or sheer coincidence (he isn’t sure), Cora-san appears, draped in an ostentatious feathered coat.
For now, alongside the tallest man he’s ever seen—second only to Doflamingo—Law moves forward (and he wonders, fleetingly, if not for the sickness, could he have grown just as tall? He dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes; pointless).
Cora-san is in a good mood today, as always, rambling incessantly about trivial, nonsensical things. Law doesn’t understand why. He’s dying, and this strange pilgrimage they’re on is nothing more than a wandering pursuit for a cure that, as far as he can tell, doesn’t exist. But Cora-san remains unshakable. He hauls Law up a steep incline, tucking him under his arm like a measly loaf of bread, all the while smiling foolishly.
“Cora-san,” Law murmurs to the ground, eyes riveted on the line of footprints sinking into the endless, snowbound tundra—the only sign they’re still moving, that time hasn’t frozen with everything else.
Startled, Cora-san lets out a small, bewildered sound and stumbles mid-step, stalling briefly as if questioning whether the noise was real or a trick of his mind. His attention falls to where Law hangs limp in his arms—a sight almost comical if the circumstances weren’t so dour.
“Yeah?” He says at last, slowing but not yielding. “What is it, kid?”
“Have you… um, have you ever heard of…” He trails off, cheeks burning with embarrassment, suddenly grateful his gaze is fixed downward. “Nika?”
Cora-san comes to a full stop, the crunch of snow beneath his boots dwindling to a hush. Law’s breath catches, a quiet hitch in the cold air, his chest tightening as he strains to look up, craning his neck, searching for his reaction, but the angle is all wrong, sky and collar and coat in the way. Then, without a word, Cora-san slips his large hands beneath Law’s arms and lifts him until he’s a weightless thing above the white expanse—looking down into the expression he’d been so desperate to see. It’s not what he expected. Cora-san’s face shines brighter than any sun, a lone torch piercing through the barren, ashen wasteland at dawn’s first light. It pulls Law back to the mural: to when he was ten, broken by the loss of humanity, before he met him.
His savior.
Wide-eyed, Law whispers, breath barely more than a tremble, “Cora-san…”
“Have I?” he grins wide, the kind of silly, jackknifing grin that caricatures his features into a full-blown clown. “They used to frighten the children in the Holy Land with tales of the Warrior of Liberation. First came the drums…then Nika would come and devour you.” He tosses Law into the air, limbs flailing wildly before catching him again. “To those pieces of shit, he’s a villain. But to the ones they trample, he’s a beacon of hope and freedom. They say one day Nika will return to reclaim everything they stole.”
“You actually believe that?” Law asks, yelping as Cora-san begins spinning them in lazy, looping circles.
“With all my heart,” he answers. “There’s nothing in this world that’s truly impossible, Law. The moment you believe otherwise, you’ve already locked yourself in a cage of your own making.” Snowflakes cling to his lashes as the flurry swirls around them. “The only way to live…is to live freely.”
Cora-san gently sets Law down, then launches into an eccentric dance, lifting his feet one at a time with a jaunty bounce, elbows rising in rhythm, mimicking the deep, resonant doom-dut-da-da of distant drums.
Law’s mouth drops open in mute astonishment before laughter overtakes him, so fierce it burns ice-hot, wracking his chest until every breath sears and his ribs throb in protest.
“Hey, Law! Don’t just stand there, dance with me!”
“No way!” Law clutches his stomach, shaking his head as he collapses back into the snow. “You look like a total idiot, Cora-san.”
Cora-san beams, eyes gleaming with heartfelt pride. “Perhaps. But I’m a free idiot.”
Freedom.
It was never a notion Law had entertained for himself. What does it mean, really, to be free? To move unburdened by consequence? To act entirely on his own terms? If that alone defines freedom, hasn’t he already tasted it? Or does true freedom only begin once the heaviness in his heart finally lifts?
In moments like these, he thinks he can almost feel that fleeting sense of freedom. A burgeoning hope, the fragile daring to believe in goodness. And then the guilt, curling in behind it: the shame of wanting to live, and to share that existence with someone who won’t be easily taken away.
Just a little longer, he finds himself wishing, praying, against his better judgment: let this last.
iii.
His entire body aches, but there’s a grim satisfaction in the pain. It’s raw, undeniable proof that he’s still breathing, still standing, after going head-to-head with an Emperor of the Sea…and winning (singlehandedly, as far as he’s concerned). He can still feel the echoes of the battle: the chaos of Onigashima’s lower levels, Big Mom’s thunderous wrath, the brutal push and pull of Devil Fruit powers awakened in desperation. The castle had shuddered. The ground had split open. And then, she was gone, swallowed by the earth and dragged into the depths by the explosion of an underground volcano. Now, he lies in the wreckage, and once again, Cora-san has saved him—not in body, but in spirit. His memory cocoons Law like an energy shield, a room of blanketed calm that dulls the panic, steadies his hands, and eases the fear that once smothered the hall.
Only one fight remains, arguably the most demanding of all, and while victory hinges entirely on the shoulders of one individual, Law has entrusted that fate enough times to be certain the triumph is already theirs.
He gazes skyward through the jagged hole in the roof—their only window to the world beyond the Skull Dome’s confines. Through that fractured aperture pours not just moonlight, but a radiant, mischievous glow that twists and ripples like a living, breathing entity: cartoonish, absurd, and still somehow perfectly fitting.
Luffy.
The name drums like a rumbling pulse inside Law’s chest, reverberating through the cavity where his heart should be—a resolute truth that defies every calculation he’s made against fate, power, and gods.
There’s nothing in this world that’s truly impossible, Law.
The sun god has risen.
And through Law’s eyes, Cora-san’s enduring patience is finally vindicated.
So is his own, adds a smaller voice.
When the battle concludes, and Luffy, just as expected, prevails, Law doesn’t need to witness the impossible transformation again to believe it, the aftermath speaks for itself: the way the world seems lighter, freer, as if the very air has been charged with irrepressible laughter.
He exhales slowly, Bepo’s sure hands tending to his injuries, relieving the pressure in his chest, just enough.