Legend of Zelda One Piece
Chapter 1 The wingless knight
Link thrashed in his bed, ancient evil whispering through his dreams. Whispers of a monster echoed in his mind, growing louder with each heartbeat. Chains of light strained against the darkness; each link forged from the stolen sun wrapped around a massive beast its black scales dripping ichor. Link's fingers clawed at the phantom chains, his wooden sword clattering to the floor.
"You know what it means to be bound... They imprisoned more than darkness," the shadows hissed. "They buried truth itself. But you'll help set it free, won't you, child? You who know what it means to be... bound."
The nightmare's whispers followed him into waking, each shadow in his room wearing the shape of ancient evil. His warrior's breathing - the pattern Ganfar had drilled into him - scattered like leaves in a storm.
Link bolted upright, his heart matching the three-beat warning drums from his grandfather's war stories. Morning light caught his scattered toys–brave soldiers now, standing guard against the lingering dark.
Dawn crept through warped boards, turning dust motes into falling stars. Link's trove of souvenirs caught the light: a cracked bottle still smelling of forest magic, a tarnished coin that hummed dragon-songs in the night, a pebble smooth as sky-ship sails. His fingers found each dent and scratch, mapping adventures not yet lived.
Below Skyloft's morning winds rattled the ladder rungs. The familiar creak-and-sway helped steady his hands as he donned his hand-stitched knight's tunic, its hem still ragged where he'd measured it against Ganfar's real armor.
Wiping his eyes from unshed tears, he heard the familiar rustling of his grandfather Ganfar's armor as he peered in from the doorway. Link rushed into his arms, the nightmare fading.
Ganfar lowered himself to Link's height, his old warrior's knees creaking like practice-sword hinges. His sword-callused hand found Link's shoulder–the same grip, Link noticed, that steadied nervous recruits before their first sky-patrol.
'Ready for an adventure, little knight?'
Link's fingers found the worn spot on his wooden sword's hilt, right where Ganfar had shown him to hold it. At the same spot, his grandfather's sword bore a smoother wear from thirty years of peacekeeping.
"Will there be monsters?" Link's question carried the weight of a thousand bedtime stories.
Ganfar's smile flickered like candlelight. "Different kind of battle today." His hand tightened briefly on Link's shoulder. "But just as important as any in the old tales."
"Today, we're meeting people from another village," Ganfar continued. 'We'll talk about working together and being friends. It's like when you and your friends play and help each other, but on a bigger scale."
Link traced patterns on the wooden floor with his toe. "Is it like the time we all built Mari's treehouse together? Are we going to be heroes today, Grandpa?"
Ganfar chuckled softly. "Yes, in a way, we are," he replied, ruffling Link's spiky blond hair affectionately. Ganfar's smile faded, just for a moment, like clouds passing over the sun. 'You know how sometimes friends disagree about game rules? Well, Link, some grown-ups, like Shura, have different ideas about our village's rules."
Link's fingers slipped on the sword hilt. He readjusted his grip once, twice, then forced his hands to stillness. 'What if I can't do it, Grandpa?' His voice wavered, the question hanging in the air like an incomplete sword drill. The rough fabric of his tunic brushed against the skin of his back. The space was empty where wings were supposed to be.
"We go anyway." Ganfar rose, the armor creaking.
Link tightened the makeshift belt holding his wooden sword, checking it three times–just as he'd seen the knights do in training. His chin lifted a fraction higher with each check until he stood as straight as the Sacred Forest's tallest tree.
The ladder creaked as Link descended from his treehouse into Skyloft's morning bustle, Link dodged between market stalls, the hum of float-dials and the click of light-shells following his path. He paused at Mari's bakery, where sky-berry loaves warmed on amber-glowing heat-dials.
"Mind the dials, young knight!' Old Mari tapped her counter's edge, where a row of pearl-white shells regulated the height of her floating display. Her fingers danced across them with a baker's precision–click-click-pause–adjusting the counter to Link's eye level. 'Can't have my favorite customer straining his neck."
Link grinned at the recognition of his growing height as they walked away. Waving back excitedly to the bakery, he watched passing clouds engulf the building, wrapping it in a thick fog.
As they left the market behind, ancient trees loomed over Link, their shell-marked bark towering like silent sentinels. His wooden sword bumped against copper-colored moss, each step bringing them closer to the Sacred Forest's heart.
"Watch your step," Ganfar murmured. His boots found the old knight-paths, worn smooth by generations of peacekeepers. 'The forest remembers who walks with respect."
Link caught the whispered words of the two tribes as they finally arrived.
Skyloftian uniforms blazed against the Shandorian war-paint. A Skyloftian guard stepped forward, hand on his hilt. "Keep your distance."
A Shandorian warrior replied with a low growl, "We have as much right to be here as you."
As they entered the clearing, a gust of wind rustled the leaves, and an eerie silence fell. The scratch of sword hilts against scabbards rang out, and Link found himself drawn to the clearing's center, his wooden sword tapping against his leg with each step.
Ganfar moved with the measured pace of old warriors, each step placing his sword-side away from the children. He paused, kneeling beside Link. "Here, little knight, like this." His weathered hands, calloused from thirty years of swordplay, guided Link's fingers to the proper grip.
Ganfar led the way, his measured steps and gentle guidance a contrast to the tense atmosphere. As they approached the clearing, he returned the skyknights' sharp salutes and the Shandorians' cautious bows with the practiced ease of a peacekeeper.
"Remember, little knight," he murmured to Link, the old nickname rough with affection, "a warrior's strength flows from here—" he tapped Link's chest, "—not here." He touched the wooden sword's hilt.
The forest path opened onto two worlds: above, children's laughter rang through sun-dappled branches; below, adults' boots crushed pine needles as they carved invisible territories into the soil. Link's spirit lifted at the sight of games and play, even as shadows deepened between the ancient trees. In the clearing's center, children traded dial-games across invisible borders. A Skyloft girl pressed her chime-dial, releasing a cascade of bell-notes that a Shandorian boy caught with his echo-shell, transforming them into a warrior's drums. Their laughter mixed with dial-song while their parents stood apart, guard-dials pulsing soft warnings at their belts.
Pine needles marked each tense step as adults claimed their territories, shadows cutting borders sharp as sword edges across the clearing. The Shandorians gathered in the shade of ancient oaks while the Skyloftians claimed the sunlit spaces, neither group willing to cross the shifting lines of light.
Link's eyes widened as a tall man strode into the clearing, his red cap bright against the shadowed trees. The man's boots crunched on the pine needles, each step making Link think of the warriors in Ganfar's stories. Link noticed three long scars on the man's arm, just like the ones he'd once traced on Ganfar's skin during a tale his grandfather never finished. The man's hand brushed over the scars as he looked around the clearing, his gaze settling on the children. Link shivered, feeling like he'd just stepped into one of Ganfar's darker stories.