Shanks and his crew burst into the house where your mother was cradling your newborn self, their footsteps echoing through the quiet room. The urgency in their movements was palpable, the tension thick in the air. They had traveled far and wide, following cryptic clues and half-whispered rumors to find you.

Whitebeard, the legendary pirate, had warned Shanks of an ominous prophecy. A prophecy about a baby, fathered by the enigmatic and feared Imu Nerona, destined to bring about the end of the world. This child, shrouded in mystery and potential, was the catalyst for an unprecedented upheaval. That child was you.

Your mother, her eyes wide with fear and protectiveness, clutched you tighter to her chest as Shanks approached. His expression was a mix of determination and sorrow, understanding the gravity of what he had to do. The weight of the prophecy bore heavily on his shoulders, as did the responsibility to prevent the foretold calamity. He exchanged a grim look with his crew, each of them aware of the stakes involved.

Shanks knelt beside your mother, his gaze softening as he looked at you. Despite the dire circumstances, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes, a belief that perhaps the prophecy could be thwarted, that your destiny was not set in stone. He reached out, gently touching your tiny hand, feeling the pulse of potential that lay within you.

"We have to protect this child," Shanks said, his voice resolute. "No matter what it takes."