Marya's breath hitched as the world dissolved into mist—thick, cold, and suffocating, like drowning in a cloud of ash. The air reeked of smolder and the metallic tang of blood, a cocktail that clung to her tongue and seared her throat. Shadows coiled around her ankles, viscous as tar, pulling her deeper into a labyrinth of crumbling stone. Above her, the sky was a lidless eye—a void streaked with pulsating veins of gold and crimson, as though the heavens themselves were bleeding.
She stumbled through the ruins of Angkor'thal, but wrong. The Temple of Dawn's Echo loomed fractured, its sandstone spires twisted into skeletal fingers clawing at the void. Bioluminescent vines snaked across the ground, their glow sickly green, hissing like serpents as they recoiled from her steps. The air thrummed with the distant, arrhythmic beat of drums—Nika's rhythm, warped and faltering, as if the god's hands were bound.
Four figures materialized from the fog, their forms shifting, unwhole.
The Crocodilian outline rose from a pool of black water, its scales shimmering with drowned constellations. Its jaws yawned, spewing a flood that burned like memory. Faces surged in the current—her mother's smile, Vaughn's lifeless eyes—each dissolving into screams as the water swallowed them. "You let them sink," it rasped, its voice the creak of a ship's hull breaking.
The Serpent of Decay coiled around a shattered obelisk, its body a mosaic of cracked seastone and weeping shadows. Venom dripped from its fangs, corroding the ground into a yawning pit where spectral hands clawed upward. "Guilt is a rot," it hissed. "It hollows you… like her." A shadow flickered—a woman with Elisabeta's face, her eyes voids, her mouth sewn shut with thorns.
The Condor perched atop a crumbling arch, its feathers molten gold and ash. Its talons gripped a writhing mass of souls, their whispers merging into a dirge. "Worthiness is a lie," it croaked, snapping its beak. The arch shuddered, revealing a portal to a starless sea where a titanic creature—the Sea Devourer—thrashed against chains of light.
The White Tiger stood sentinel before a fractured gate, its fur bristling with static. A golden barrier flickered around it, but cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, oozing a substance like liquid night. "Balance is betrayal," it growled, its voice doubling—Mihawk's dispassion layered over a child's plea. "You break what you try to save."
The mist thickened, coalescing into a figure. Her form was smoke and static, a silhouette etched with dying stars. Where her face should have been, a vortex spiraled, sucking the light from the air. She reached for Marya, her fingers tendrils of void that hummed with the Primordial Current's song.
"You are the key," the figure intoned, her voice the shudder of a glacier calving. "The gate hungers."
The guardians lunged. The crocodilian's jaws snapped at her heels; the serpent's venom ate at her veins; the condor's gravity pinned her; the tiger's barrier splintered into shards that pierced her palms. Nika's drums surged—liberation, liberation—but the rhythm frayed, overtaken by a dissonant choir of voices from the Poneglyphs, chanting in a language that hurt.
The figure's touch reached her chest. Cold bloomed, spreading like ink in water, devouring her heartbeat. Her veins blackened, the curse of Yggdrasil writhing up her arms. "The Void is your birthright," the goddess whispered. "Embrace the eclipse."
But then—light. A sunburst fractured the mist. Nika's silhouette flickered, his laughter a counterpoint to the drums. The guardians recoiled, their forms unraveling. The tiger's barrier flared gold, the condor's souls wailed, the crocodilian's waters boiled away, and the serpent collapsed into ash.
The figure hissed, her void-face contorting. "You cannot outrun the tide."
Marya's eyes snapped open.
The scent of antiseptic and aged wood replaced the dream's rot. Marya lurched upright, her hand clawing at her chest where the cold still lingered. The Sick Bay of the Red Force swam into focus—lanterns casting amber pools on oak panels, the tang of Hongo's medicinal brews bitter in the air. Her arms trembled, the black veins beneath her skin faintly luminescent, as though the void still pulsed within.
In the corner, Mihawk turned a page of his book, the sound crisp in the silence. His wineglass paused midway to his lips, the liquid catching the light like congealed blood. "You screamed," he said, tone flat, but his gaze lingered on her arms—assessing.
She tasted ash. "It was… I don't know what it was. It spoke."
His thumb brushed the cover of his book—The Epics of the Blue Sea, its spine cracked with age. "Dreams are phantoms. They hold no blades."
But his jaw tightened, a micro-expression she hadn't seen since her mother's death.
Beyond the porthole, the sea churned, its waves hissing like the mist in her dream. Somewhere, Shanks' laughter echoed on the deck, a sound too bright for the shadows clinging to her ribs.
The drums still echoed in her skull. Liberation.
Or damnation.
The sea's hiss beyond the porthole melded with the creak of the Red Force's timbers, a lullaby undercut by the sharp scent of camphor and dried kelp hanging from Hongo's herb racks. Marya's fingers twitched against the stiff linen sheets, her knuckles brushing the raised carvings on the sick bay walls—whales and storm clouds, etched by bored crewmates during long voyages. Hongo's shadow fell over her, his silhouette backlit by a swaying lantern that painted his hair amber.
"Finally awake, eh?" he grunted, adjusting the bandolier of vials across his chest. His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, a contradiction that matched his reputation: a surgeon who could stitch a man's artery mid-brawl but kept sugar cubes in his pockets for seasick deckhands. "Three days unconscious. Gave your old man something to brood over besides wine vintages."
Marya's gaze flicked to the corner where Mihawk sat, his black-clad form blending into the shadows like a blade sheathed in night. A leather-bound tome—The Epics of the Blue Sea—rested in his lap, its pages yellowed at the edges. He sipped from a goblet, the wine inside glinting like a ruby held to flame.
"You lost focus," he said without looking up, his voice a honed edge. "Required… intervention."
She rolled her eyes, the motion sharp enough to slice the tension. "How tragic for you."
Hongo snorted, pressing a cool palm to her forehead. "Vitals stable. Black veins receded. Try not to collapse again—waste of good bandages."
She shoved his hand aside and swung her legs over the cot, only for Hongo to shove her back with a grip like ship rigging. "Sit. Your Haki's still frayed. You'll pass out before you reach the door."
Mihawk turned a page. "Rest. There's no foe here requiring your theatrics."
Before she could retort, the door banged open. Shanks sauntered in, Benn Beckman a silent shadow at his shoulder, the scent of salt and smoked meat trailing them. The captain's grin was a sunbeam cutting through storm clouds.
"Look who's back!" Shanks crowed, his voice bouncing off the ship's beams. He leaned against a barrel of pickled sea slugs, his scarred eye crinkling. "Sleeping Beauty finally decided to rejoin the land of the living. Took your sweet time, kid."
Marya blinked, the fog in her mind parting. "Uncle Shanks? What are you—?"
"Funny," he interrupted, wagging a finger. "I was gonna ask you the same thing. Found you and your pops tangling with half the Navy at Angkor'thal. Classic Mihawk—too stubborn to call for backup."
Mihawk's wine sloshed as he set the goblet down with deliberate calm. "Your timing remains as insufferable as your humor."
Shanks laughed, the sound rich and warm, while Benn lingered by the door, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His rifle, Gunpowder Symphony, gleamed on his back—a weapon as precise as his silence.
Marya crossed her arms, the Void veins on her wrists pulsing faintly. "It's a long, boring story. You wouldn't care."
"Boring?" Shanks clutched his chest in mock offense. "Kid, you've got Mihawk's broodiness and his flair for drama. You're turning into him."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Mihawk drawled, flipping another page.
"You would," Shanks shot back, grinning.
Outside, the deck erupted with voices—Lucky Roux's booming laugh, Yasopp's whistled shanty, the clatter of dice. The Red Force hummed with life, a symphony of chaos that made Marya's temples throb. She eyed Shanks' missing arm, the sleeve pinned carelessly. "Why were you at Angkor'thal?"
Shanks' grin softened, a flicker of something older in his gaze. "Same reason you were. The World Government's got a habit of poking where they shouldn't." He tossed her a dried mango slice from his pocket. "Eat. Hongo's gruel tastes like bilge."
Hongo glared. "That gruel saved your leg at Galehaven Gulch."
"And I've regretted it every day since," Shanks said, winking.
Marya nibbled the mango, its sweetness clashing with the lingering dream-rot on her tongue. Her mind clawed for memories—the Navy's siege, Mihawk's blade cutting through marines and Pacifistas like paper, the sky splitting as Shanks' Conqueror's Haki roared like a leviathan.
Benn finally spoke, his voice smoke-rough. "You fought well. For a rookie."
She arched a brow. "High praise from the man who shot a canonball out of the air mid-sentence."
Benn's lips quirked. "Practice."
Shanks draped an arm over Mihawk's chair, ignoring the daggers in his glare. "So, kid. You sticking around? We've got a betting pool on how long you'll last before you stab someone."
"Tempting," Marya said dryly. "But I've got things to do."
Mihawk snapped his book shut. "Rest," he repeated, standing. "We will talk tomorrow."
As he strode out, his coat swirling like a storm cloud, Shanks chuckled. "Same old Hawk-Eyes. Can't admit he's relieved you're alive."
Marya stared at the door, the drumbeat in her skull fading to a whisper. Liberation. Maybe.
For now, the sea called—and with it, the shadows of a key yet turned
*****
The Red Force's deck buzzed with the controlled chaos of a crew that thrived on mischief. Salt-crusted ropes hung like jungle vines from the masts, swaying in rhythm with the island breeze that carried the tang of seaweed and fresh tar. Marya slipped through the shadows of the ship's starboard side, her boots silent against the sun-bleached planks. The crew's laughter echoed around her—Lucky Roux's booming guffaw as he devoured a leg of smoked seaking, Yasopp's off-key humming while polishing his rifle, and Bonk Punch plinking out a shanty on a dented ukulele.
She paused behind a barrel of pickled eels, her golden eyes scanning the dock below. There, moored beside a pile of coral-strewn crates, was her submarine. Or what was left of it. Its hull, usually sleek and etched with the Heart Pirates' smiling sigil, now bore a jagged gash along its flank, patched haphazardly with sheets of petrified mangrove wood. Building Snake, the crew's hulking shipwright, knelt beside it, his tattooed arms flexing as he hammered a seastone rivet into place. A faint trail of vapor curled from the sub's exhaust.
So that's how Shanks tracked us, she realized. He must have found it adrift after that storm. It's good to see it has found its way here.
"Oi, Snake!" Limejuice called out, leaning over the railing with a grin that split his scruffy face. "You sure that thing's seaworthy? Looks like a Sea King chewed it up and spat it into a blender!"
Building Snake didn't glance up. "S'more seaworthy than your face," he rumbled, his voice like gravel tumbling down a cliff.
Marya edged toward the gangplank, her stoic mask slipping just enough to betray a flicker of urgency. But Limejuice—long blond hair, flowing in the breeze—spotted her instantly.
"Hey, Ghost Girl!" he hollered, pointing a freckled finger. "Where you slinking off to? Hongo'll have my hide if you keel over!"
The deck fell theatrically silent. Yasopp paused mid-polish, Bonk Punch missed a chord, and Monster—the crew's silent giant—peered over from his perch in the crow's nest, his shadow blotting out the sun.
Marya froze, her jaw tightening. "None of your business."
"Oho, she's got the Hawk-Eyes glare down pat!" Lucky Roux cackled, grease dribbling down his chin. "Bet she's gonna stab someone. Ten berries on Gab!"
"Twenty on me," Yasopp muttered, buffing his rifle barrel harder.
Before she could retort, Hongo's voice screeched up from below deck like a harpy's wail. "MARYA! I swear on Shanks' stash of rum, if you're not in that cot—"
The crew sprang into action.
Bonk Punch strummed a frantic crescendo to mask her footsteps. Monster lobbed a crate of oranges onto the deck with a thud that shook the ship, sending fruit rolling toward Hongo's approaching boots. Yasopp "accidentally" fired a warning shot into the air, the blast startling a flock of noisy gulls into a squawking frenzy.
"Whoops," Yasopp said, not sorry at all.
Marya bolted down the gangplank, her coat flapping behind her like a raven's wings. The dock's wooden slats groaned underfoot, salty spray misting her face as she neared the Haven of the Eclipse. Building Snake stood, wiping his hands on his oil-stained apron, and gave her a nod so slight it could've been a trick of the light.
"Fixed the ballast," he grunted. "Still needs a proper realignment. And maybe a paint job."
She opened her mouth—thank you perched awkwardly on her tongue—but Hongo burst onto the deck above, his ponytail wild and a syringe glinting in his fist.
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
The crew erupted into synchronized shrugs. "Who?" Lucky Roux asked, mouth full. "Haven't seen a thing. Right, lads?"
"Right!" they chorused, Bonk Punch adding a jaunty ukulele flourish.
Marya bolted down the dock, her lips quirking in the barest hint of a smirk. As she rounded the corner, she heard Shanks' voice drift from the nearby tavern, where he was undoubtedly regaling locals with embellished tales:
"—and then I said, 'That's not a sword, this is a sword!'"
She looked over her shoulder as the Red Force disappeared from her view. Hongo shook his fist at the horizon, the crew's laughter chasing her into the town.
Idiots, she thought
Haven of the Eclipse sprawled around Marya like a mosaic of defiance—stilted wooden shops perched above tidal flats, their rope bridges swaying in the salt-kissed breeze. Bioluminescent vines clung to the eaves, casting a soft blue glow over the cobblestone streets, while the distant clang of hammers echoed from Shipwright's Row. Marya leaned against a mossy stone pillar, catching her breath, the scent of smoked eel and molten seastone sharp in her nose.
Then she saw him.
Mihawk strode down the street with his usual predatory grace, his black coat flaring like a raven's wings. The townsfolk parted around him instinctively, a fisherman nearly dropping his net of moonstone oysters as he sidestepped. Their eyes met—Marya's relief a flicker, Mihawk's smirk a blade unsheathed.
She opened her mouth to speak, but—
"Marya-san!"
Juro's voice boomed from the forge across the street, where he'd been hammering a crescent-shaped dagger. The Fish-Man blacksmith wiped sweat from his cobalt-scaled brow, his scarred chest heaving as he abandoned his anvil. A stray spark caught in his leather apron, sizzling out as he jogged toward her, his tailfin leaving a faint damp trail on the stones.
Marya's jaw twitched. Mihawk raised a brow, his smirk deepening.
"You're well?" Juro asked, his voice uncharacteristically high. He thrust a newly forged kogatana toward her, its hilt carved with tiny, lopsided starfish. "I—I made this. For your collection. To, ah, cut through… lies. Or fish. Whatever needs cutting."
Marya stared at the blade, then at Juro's earnest face. "...Thank you," she said flatly, tucking it into her belt without looking.
Mihawk's chuckle was a low rumble, barely audible over the squawk of gulls.
"And your arms—the Void veins—" Juro reached for her wrist, then froze when she stiffened. "Apologies! I only meant… Hongo's tonics. I have a salve. Sea urchin extract. Very… soothing."
"She's fine, Kurosawa," Mihawk drawled, stepping closer. "Unless you'd like to test that theory with your teeth."
Before Juro could stutter a reply, chaos erupted.
"STABBY FRIEND!"
Jelly Squish barreled around the corner, his gelatinous body wobbling violently, Tavi and Kip clinging to his back like barnacles. The trio skidded to a halt, sending a fruit vendor's cart of ripe mangoes spilling into the street.
"You're all better! Bloop!" Jelly cheered, morphing his hand into a giant thumbs-up that promptly deflated. "We brought you a present!"
Kip hurled a seaweed-wrapped parcel at Marya's feet. It flopped open, revealing a dead crab with a tiny pirate hat glued to its shell.
"His name's Captain Pinchy," Tavi announced, adjusting her moth-eaten tricorn. "He's your first mate now."
Marya blinked. "I don't need a—"
"Gotta go! Byeeeee!" Jelly slurped the kids into his body like a gelatinous cannonball and bounced away, ricocheting off a stack of Lunarian feather cloaks at the Eclipse Bazaar.
Mihawk seized the distraction. "Move," he muttered, steering Marya by the elbow toward a shadowed alley.
Juro scrambled after them. "Wait! The salve—!"
"Another time," Mihawk called without turning. "She has a crab to bury."
Marya shot her father a sidelong glance as they melted into the alley's gloom. "You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
The sounds of the town faded behind them, replaced by the drip of mangrove sap from overhead. Somewhere in the maze of alleys, a Three-Eyed Tribe oracle chanted tidal predictions to a cluster of wide-eyed sailors.
Marya glanced at the kogatana, its starfish hilt glinting. "...He's persistent."
Mihawk snorted. "Like a remora. Less useful."
She almost smiled. Almost.
Above them, the bioluminescent vines hummed with Nika's forgotten rhythm—a promise, or a warning. But for now, the shadows held no Void, no guardians. Just a father, a daughter, and the sea's endless whisper.