The fading light of Elbaph's long dusk painted the engawa in stripes of molten gold and deep indigo. Below, the Western Village glimmered like scattered embers, the distant thump-thump of giant life a steady counterpoint to the sighing wind through Adam's colossal leaves. The scent of Ripley's hearty stew–rich with root vegetables and smoked fjord fish–still lingered, mingling with the sharp tang of pine sap and the mineral coolness rising from the deck's steaming hot spring. Marya sat cross-legged on the smooth Adam wood planks, her back against a support beam carved with intricate knotwork. The cool weight of the Tideglass fragment pressed against her thigh, a silent counterpoint to the chaotic reel playing behind her golden eyes.
Young Freyja's desperate flicker, dissolving into motes of light. The crunch of obsidian shards beneath her boots as the octagonal gems shattered. The unnerving calm of Shamrock's departure, his parting words – 'Tell them Shamrock was here.' – echoing in the silence left by the dying Algorithmic Oracle. The weight of it felt denser than the Underworld's permafrost. What anchors had she truly broken? What was the cost of securing this key?
A familiar, gravelly chuckle broke the quiet. Scopper Gaban settled beside her with a heavy sigh, the worn wood creaking under his weight. He placed two simple ceramic sakazuki cups on the engawa and uncorked a bottle of sake, its sharp, clean aroma cutting through the evening scents. The amber liquid glowed like captured sunset as he filled both cups. He slid one towards her. "Silence suits you less than steel, lass," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration in the stillness. He took a measured sip, his gaze fixed on the sprawling vista below, but his attention was entirely on her. "What's gnawing at you? That look you brought back from below… it wasn't just the chill."
Marya picked up the cup, the ceramic warm against her palm. She stared into the clear liquid, seeing not her reflection, but the dying deity's pleading eyes. "The guardian," she said, her voice flat, devoid of inflection yet heavy with unspoken images. "Freyja's echo. She faded before my eyes. Just… gone. And the anchors…" She paused, searching for words that felt inadequate. "They weren't just power sources. They were her. Or pieces of her essence." She took a sip, the sake's warmth a fleeting contrast to the cold memory. "And the one who was there… Shamrock. He saw something."
Gaban grunted, swirling his own sake. "Shamrock, eh? Nasty piece of work, that one. What'd he see?"
Before Marya could formulate an answer, a cacophony erupted from inside the house. A loud CRASH! of something ceramic meeting its demise was followed by frantic, heavy-footed scurrying and a high-pitched "Bloop! Uh-oh!" Ripley's voice, thick with exasperation but lacking true anger, boomed through the open doorway: "Colon! Jelly Squish! If that was Great-Grandmother's berry bowl, I'll tan both your hides! Out! Outside with you before you break something irreplaceable!"
Two figures tumbled onto the engawa in a flurry of limbs and wobbling gelatin. Colon, his pink hair sticking out wildly from under his horned helmet, clutched his practice sword like a shield, eyes wide with faux innocence. Jelly, shimmering faintly blue in the twilight, had morphed one hand into a dustpan shape, futilely trying to scoop imaginary shards. "We was helping, Mama!" Colon protested, puffing out his cheeks. "Jelly was being a… a very bouncy drying rack!"
"Bloop! Bouncy rack!" Jelly affirmed, wobbling dangerously. "Then… crash-bloop!"
Gaban threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the settling dusk. "Helping, he says! Like a whirlwind helps a library!" He nudged Marya with his elbow. Marya watched the absurd tableau – the earnest giant-child, the perpetually cheerful, chaotic jellyfish-man – and a faint, genuine smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. The sheer, nonsensical life of it momentarily dispersed the shadows clinging to her thoughts.
Gaban's laughter subsided, but his gaze remained on her, sharp and assessing. He studied her profile – the set of her jaw, the guarded intensity in her eyes, the way she held herself with that innate, coiled stillness. He took another slow sip of sake. "You really do remind me of them, you know," he said, his voice dropping to a quieter rumble, almost conversational.
Marya's head snapped towards him, the smirk vanishing. Her golden eyes fixed on his face. "Them?" The word came out sharper than intended. Them. Shamrock's word. Echoing here, now, from Gaban.
Gaban met her gaze, a knowing glint in his own weathered eyes. He gestured vaguely with his cup. "Mihawk. Shanks."
Of course. The realization clicked into place with the cold certainty of a lock turning. Mihawk's disciplined intensity, Shanks's unpredictable charisma – aspects she carried, amplified or warped by her own path. That was what Shamrock had meant. The bloodline. The legacy. Not just her father, but the man who was, and her uncle. She muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him, "Must have been what he meant."
Gaban leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, the sake bottle cradled loosely in one large hand. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were keen. "He who?" he pressed gently. "Shamrock saw them in you?" He let the implication hang. Shamrock recognizing the echoes of the world's greatest swordsman and a reigning Emperor in this young woman spoke volumes about both Marya's presence and Shamrock's own dangerous perception.
Marya turned fully towards him now, her curiosity momentarily overriding her usual reserve. The sake's warmth and the shared, quiet moment loosened something. "Hey, Gaban," she said, her tone shifting, becoming almost… casual. Unusual for her. "You've known them since before they were… them." She gestured vaguely, encompassing the legends they'd become. "Want to share some insight? What were they like? Before the titles?" Her gaze was direct, expectant.
Gaban chuckled, a low, warm sound. He poured himself another measure of sake, the amber liquid catching the last light. He looked at her, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. "Now, Marya," he said, his voice thick with amusement and unshakeable loyalty, "it ain't my style to spill another man's past like yesterday's grog. Especially not those two." He took a deliberate sip, his eyes twinkling. "If you want to know the tales of the idiot swordsman and the reckless cabin boy, you'll have to ask the idiots and the cabin boy yourself. Preferably over good sake. Lots of it."
Marya groaned, a low, frustrated sound she immediately regretted letting out. She slumped back against the beam, her expression souring. It was the answer she'd expected, steeped in the Roger Pirates' infamous camaraderie and their fierce protection of each other's stories, even decades later. Annoying, but… predictable. Respectable, in its own way.
Gaban watched her reaction, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. "What's the sudden interest, lass?" he asked, his voice losing its teasing edge, becoming genuinely curious. "Shamrock rattled you good, didn't he? Seeing the ghosts in your eyes?"
Marya opened her mouth, ready to deflect, to retreat into stoicism. But before a syllable could form, a rapid, frantic knocking shattered the peaceful twilight. BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM! It was urgent, excited, pounding against the sturdy log door.
Ripley's heavy footsteps thudded inside, followed by the scrape of the door opening. "Ange? Great roots, you look like you raced a storm giant! What's got you in such a state?"
Ange, the Owl Library's head librarian, stood panting on the threshold, her braided hair escaping its pins, her scholarly tunic askew. She was bent double, hands on her knees, gulping air. Her eyes, wide and bright with exhilaration, scanned the dim interior frantically. "Is— Is Marya—? Is she here?" she gasped out.
Marya was already on her feet, rounding the corner of the engawa to stand in the doorway. "Ange?" Her voice was calm, but her golden eyes held a spark of anticipation.
Ange straightened with visible effort, her chest still heaving. A triumphant, breathless smile spread across her face. She thrust a crumpled piece of parchment towards Marya, her hand trembling slightly not from fear, but from sheer excitement. "Marya!" she managed, her voice tight with exertion and triumph. "I figured it out! The Tideglass Fragments! The celestial alignment for the Eclipse Gate!"
Marya's fingers closed around the parchment. The shadows of Freyja, Shamrock, and the weight of lineage momentarily receded, replaced by the sharp, immediate pull of the riddle solved. The path forward, obscured for so long, suddenly felt tantalizingly clear. The labyrinth of celestial riddles had yielded a key.
The crumpled parchment felt alive in Marya's hand, the key to the Eclipse Gate suddenly vibrating with potential. The shadows of the Underworld, Shamrock's unsettling presence, and the weight of Mihawk and Shanks momentarily dissolved under the sharp clarity of Ange's discovery.
Ripley, her large frame filling the doorway with gentle concern, stepped aside. "Come in, Ange, catch your breath before you blow away," she urged, her voice warm like the hearth's embers.
Ange stumbled gratefully over the threshold, still gulping air, her braids escaping their pins. She leaned against the sturdy Adam wood beam framing the entrance, her scholarly robes disheveled. "Oh, Marya! It was the Ohara texts!" she burst out, eyes shining with the fervor of revelation. "Buried in the marginalia of a treatise on Void Century meteorology! They had the Celestial Tideglass cataloged! Not just mentioned – cataloged! And there were references… explicit references… to an underground archive beneath the island itself! A secret vault, Marya! Sealed before the Buster Call, probably forgotten even by the survivors who might still linger there! It has to be where the fragment is hidden!" She paused, sucking in another breath. "And then! Then! Cross-referencing with the star-charts from Aurust Castle's observatory ruins – there's a sky island! Lost, forgotten! References call it 'Lumenara' – 'The Glimmering Path'! Floating somewhere in the Calm Belt! With Gaban's skill… his old maps… we could chart it!" Her gaze swung to the weathered navigator, pleading and triumphant.
She barely paused. "But the riddle! The first verse! I know what it means now! 'What roots drink the tears of the sky?' It's a metaphor for–"
Marya held up the parchment Ange had thrust at her, a rare interruption cutting through the librarian's torrent. "Yes, Ange," she stated, her voice calm but carrying a new weight of certainty. "I deciphered that too. The roots are Adam, the tears are the Tideglass fragments. The four keepers…" She met Ange's eyes, a flicker of respect in her golden gaze. "You confirmed my suspicions."
Ange beamed, clapping her large hands together with a sound like a sail snapping taut. "Oh good! So you know! It's the lost races! The Lunarians – 'flame'! The Three-Eye Tribe – 'sight'! The Minks – 'storm'! And 'flame's denied'… that has to be the 'D' Clan, defying the celestial flames of tyranny! And the Sun God Nika, the dancer who mends the heart!" She was practically vibrating. "The blood required: Sky Islander, 'D' Clan member, and…" she lowered her voice slightly, "...a World Noble. Willingly given. A traitor's atonement. The three relics: The Celestial Compass, forged from Sky Island dials! The Heart of the Sea Devourer, a Titan-Sea King's core! And the Mask of the Forgotten Oracle, a Three-Eye artifact! And the four Guardian Devil Fruits!" She ticked them off on her fingers, scholarly precision overriding her excitement for a moment: "Wani Wani no Mi, Model: Ginga – the Water Guardian! Hebi Hebi no Mi, Model: Bhūta Kāla – the Underworld Serpent! Tori Tori no Mi, Model: Kuntur – the Condor Judge! Tora Tora no Mi, Model: Byakko – the White Tiger! They're not just powers; they're keys to manipulating the Gate's mechanisms!"
Marya simply blinked. The sheer volume and detail of Ange's deductions, laid out with such breathless enthusiasm, momentarily silenced her usual guarded analysis. The labyrinthine riddle, which had consumed months of her solitary research, had been unraveled not just in part, but seemingly in its terrifying, complex entirety, by the librarian's relentless curiosity and access. "Thank you, Ange," Marya said, the words carrying a genuine weight she rarely used. "You… you really did figure an extraordinary amount out."
Ange's chest puffed out with pride. "Of course! It was like piecing together the world's most dangerous, fascinating puzzle! Once I had the Tideglass connection from Ohara, everything else started clicking into place! Cross-referencing the constellations mentioned in the riddle's final verse about 'heaven's stars aligning' with known Void Century navigation logs… triangulating Lumenara's possible drift patterns in the Calm Belt using historical weather anomalies… correlating the Guardian Fruit names with fragmented bestiaries from the Ancient Kingdom! Oh, I had help from old Gotfrid in the Restricted Section, but mostly it was… well…" She trailed off, finally seeming to realize she was rambling, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "It was just… fun."
Gaban, who had been watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and deep interest, finally let out a rich, rumbling laugh that filled the cozy log house. "Well, lass," he chuckled, refilling his sakazuki, "sounds like quite the shopping list. Not exactly picking up grog and ship's biscuits. Where d'you reckon you'll even start?"
Marya's gaze turned inward, the parchment held loosely in her fingers. Two paths, each fraught with legendary danger and cosmic significance, crystallized before her: the crushing, silent depths where Ohara's ruins held their secrets, or the treacherous, cloud-shrouded heights where a forgotten sky island drifted. The Heart of the Sea Devourer likely lay in Fishman Island. The Celestial Compass, perhaps, on Lumenara. All these locations were keys, both were shrouded in mystery and peril. Her eyes lifted, sharp and focused, to meet Gaban's knowing stare. "The sky island," she stated, the decision settling with a hunter's certainty. "Lumenara. Will you be able to map its location? Chart a course through the Calm Belt?"
Gaban's smirk was the answer before he spoke. He took a slow, deliberate sip of sake, the amber liquid catching the firelight. "Course I can, girl," he said, his voice a confident rumble that spoke of decades navigating the impossible. "Roger saw stranger things driftin' in dead zones. But," he added, his eyes twinkling with the wisdom of countless voyages, "not tonight. Stars'll keep. We chart that particular madness tomorrow, with clear heads and Gotfrid's star logs." He gestured towards the comfortable chaos of the house, the lingering scent of stew, and the faint, rhythmic bloop… bloop… coming from where Jelly had evidently fallen asleep mid-wobble near the hearth. "Tonight? Tonight, we rest on solid ground."
*****
The acrid tang of welding fumes and brine hung thick in the humid air of Port Concordia's public shipyards. The Silent Gambit, listing slightly and scarred by molten metal impacts and cannon splinters, looked like a wounded beast tethered to the groaning dock. Inside a nearby tavern, 'The Salty Rivet', the air was marginally better – greasy with fried seafood, stale beer, and the tang of flickering neon signs advertising dubious insurance for docking fees. Bioluminescent Starlight Coral fragments embedded in the ceiling cast shifting blue-green patterns on the worn metal tables.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko sat rigidly at a corner booth, her silver hair a stark waterfall against the grimy wall. Anathema rested horizontally across her lap, the obsidian scabbard seeming to absorb the sickly light. Across from her, Bianca Yvonne Clark spread grease-stained schematics of the Silent Gambit's hull breaches across the sticky tabletop, her magnifying goggles pushed up onto her forehead. A half-eaten nut-butter sandwich lay forgotten beside her multitool holster. Charlie Leonard Wooley fidgeted, his pith helmet askew, khaki shirt damp with nervous sweat. He kept glancing towards the shipyard visible through the grimy viewport.
"...like, minimum three days, Sprocket," Bianca was saying, tapping a schematic showing a jagged tear near the keel. "That Cloud-Steel plating we saw stacked near Drydock Seven? Perfect for the main patch job. But the starboard propulsion manifold is, like, toast. Needs a full rebuild. And we need Starlight Coral lenses for the navigation array – kid's sparklers fried the calibration crystals."
Charlie cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the tense atmosphere. "Ahem! Three days? Preposterous! Every hour we languish here, Marya gains distance! And surrounded by… by…" He lowered his voice, leaning conspiratorially across the table, his eyes darting around the sparsely populated tavern. "...such questionable individuals! Kuro's duplicity is palpable! Souta observes us like specimens! And that pyromaniacal child! We have the Bubble Porter submersible! We could bypass this… this industrial quagmire entirely! Why endure this perilous association?"
Aurélie's steel-grey eyes, fixed on a faint scratch on the tabletop, finally lifted to meet Charlie's agitated gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but a flicker of impatience tightened her jaw. "Scholar Wooley," she began, her voice low and cool, "the Porter lacks the range for Elbaph. And navigating the paths to that island requires more than—"
The tavern door swung open, cutting her off. Kuro "The Strategist" entered, adjusting his cracked glasses with a gloved palm, his tailored suit and trench coat immaculate despite the shipyard grime. Souta "The Ink Shadow" followed silently, his sharp eyes scanning the room, the stylized wolf on his exposed forearm seeming to ripple subtly. Kuro slid into the booth beside Aurélie, while Souta remained standing near the entrance, a watchful silhouette.
"Tedious bureaucracy," Kuro stated flatly, ignoring Charlie's indignant splutter. "Docking fees are exorbitant, the harbormaster demands 'security bonds' payable only in Aqua-Crystals, and the available Cloud-Steel is suddenly 'reserved'." He took a deliberate sip of water a wary waiter provided. "This port is a pressure cooker. Three main factions: the Cartel of Tides – corporate sharks monopolizing resources like that Cloud-Steel and Starlight Coral. The Iron Syndicate – black-market parasites infesting the tunnels beneath us. And the Coral Consortium – idealistic fools trying to unionize the divers and foundry workers. All watched over by the Azure Guard – corrupt peacekeepers selling 'protection'." He gave a dismissive wave. "Petty squabbles over baubles and territory."
Bianca blinked. "Like, okay. Corporate jerks, tunnel rats, worker bees, and bent cops. Got it. But can we fix the ship?"
Souta spoke from the shadows, his voice a calm monotone. "The materials exist. Access is the issue. The Cartel controls the Skyfoundries where Cloud-Steel is refined. The Starlight Coral is harvested in the Sunken Gardens, likely guarded. Acquiring them will require navigating—"
He was cut off not by words, but by the world itself convulsing.
A deep, resonant BOOM shuddered through the floor, rattling the mugs on the table and making the neon signs flicker wildly. Plates clattered, and somewhere, glass shattered. It wasn't an earthquake. It felt artificial, targeted – like a massive hammer blow striking the city's foundations. Before the echoes faded, shouts erupted from outside. Through the grimy window, they saw a surge of people – not panicked civilians, but armed figures in mismatched armor bearing the stylized wave insignia of the Tidal Enforcers (Cartel thugs). They were chasing a smaller group wearing the rough, coral-patterned sashes of the Coral Consortium, who were desperately trying to drag crates down a side alley. "Halt! Cartel property!" roared an Enforcer, leveling a rifle.
Kuro sighed, a long, weary exhalation. "Tedious."
Charlie yelped, ducking instinctively as the tavern lights flickered again. "By the Epigraphic Annals! What was that?!"
Bianca grabbed her schematics, eyes wide. "Like, seismic charge? Structural destabilizer? Should we, like, do something? Help?"
Aurélie's hand rested lightly on Anathema's hilt. Her gaze was fixed on the chaotic scene outside. "We avoid entanglement," she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. "Our objective is repair and departure. Local conflicts are irrelevant noise."
The words hung in the air, punctuated by another, closer CRACK – not an explosion, but the tavern door being kicked off its hinges. Three burly Enforcers burst in, their faces grim, rifles sweeping the dim interior. "You! Patrons! On the floor! Cartel inspection! Anyone harboring Coral Consortium rats gets scrapped!" one bellowed, his voice amplified by a vox-unit on his shoulder.
Souta didn't move from his spot near the door, but his posture shifted subtly, ready. Kuro slowly lowered his water glass, his retractable Cat Claws making a soft snick sound beneath his gloves as they extended. Aurélie remained seated, but her focus was now laser-sharp on the intruders, a predator assessing threats. The lead Enforcer took a step towards their booth, his rifle barrel swinging towards Charlie, who whimpered and tried to make himself smaller.
"It appears," Souta observed calmly, his voice cutting through the tension, "avoidance is no longer a viable strategy."
Before the Enforcer could react, a high-pitched cackle split the air from outside the shattered window. Ember "The Pyre" was perched precariously on a rusty gantry crane overlooking the street. Her neon-pink buns were askew, a manic grin splitting her face. "Ooh! New toys!" she chirped, already ratcheting back the pneumatic arm of her Helltide slingshot rifle. With a gleeful shout of "Sparkle surprise!", she let fly.
A small, glowing pellet arced through the broken window and detonated with a blinding FLASH and deafening BANG right at the feet of the lead Enforcer. He screamed, dropping his rifle and clawing at his eyes. His companions staggered, disoriented. Outside, the pursuing Enforcers scattering as Ember peppered their position with smaller, sizzling pellets, giggling hysterically. "Missed me! Missed me! Josiah says aim higher!"
Inside the tavern, chaos erupted. The remaining Enforcers opened fire wildly in their blindness. Souta moved like ink flowing, a serpentine tattoo whipping off his arm to entangle one gunman's legs. Kuro blurred forward, Cat Claws flashing, disarming another with brutal efficiency. Aurélie was a silver streak; she didn't draw Anathema fully, but used the sheathed blade like a staff, sweeping the legs out from under the third Enforcer with impossible speed before he could fire.
Charlie was under the table, hands over his ears. Bianca had ducked behind the booth, peering out with wide eyes. "Like, okay," she breathed, watching Ember's pyrotechnic chaos outside and the swift, brutal takedown inside. "Guess we're involved." The hunt for Elbaph had detoured straight into a warzone, and their path was now irrevocably tangled in the treacherous currents of Meridian Atoll. The only certainty was the ringing in their ears and the smell of cordite and Ember's fireworks mixing with the stale beer.