The defiant trumpet notes still hung in the air like smoke over La Place des Masques as Moxy-Rouge surveyed the scarred plaza. Her crimson tignon was askew, revealing strands of silver hair plastered to her temples by sweat and bayou mist. Beside her stood the Krewe's uneasy council: Capitaine Jolene "Ironjaw" Martel kicked a chunk of gold-plated obsidian from Saint Lysander's shattered statue, her mechanical jaw clicking impatiently. Sébastien "Silk" Moreau adjusted his mud-spattered brocade cuffs with fastidious disgust, while Granny Zéphyrine leaned heavily on her whalebone stilts, aged eyes scanning the ruins as if reading braille in the debris.
"Focus, mes amis," Moxy commanded, her voice raspy from chanting. She pointed her soul-bound Petit Roi doll toward the statue's base. "The roots didn't just crack the stone. They rearranged it."
Where Saint Lysander's frozen sneer once dominated, the rubble had settled into a jagged spiral. Beneath a slab of toppled marble, damp soil exhaled a breath of air laced with wet limestone and something older—the scent of dried ambrosia and rum-soaked grave dirt.
"Superstitious nonsense," Jolene scoffed, stomping her boot near the fissure. A hollow thud echoed back. "Probably just a smuggler's tunnel."
Granny Zéphyrine tapped her stilt against the ground. "L'Esprit whispers... chains beneath chains."
With a shared glance, they heaved the marble aside. Revealed was not a tunnel, but a staircase carved from living cypress wood, its steps fused with luminous blue algae that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. The air rising from below tasted of musk and overripe magnolias.
"After you, Reine Voodoo," Silk murmured, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he conjured a handkerchief to cover his nose. "Try not to wake the dead."
Descending felt like walking into the island's ribcage. The walls weren't stone, but petrified mangrove roots threaded with veins of glowing Living Gold. Bioluminescent fungi dangled like chandeliers, casting shifting shadows that made the murals writhe.
On the left wall A veiled goddess (Achlys) wept diamonds that shattered into Soul-Sugar crystals as they fell. Snake-legged Les Guédés played bone trumpets to lull her, while masked figures danced atop swirling mist. Over on the right wall Saint Lysander, depicted with a jackal's head, pried a lyre from the goddess's hands. The bayou behind him boiled with spectral alligators. Above on the ceiling a massive ouroboros serpent devoured its own tail, its scales etched with constellations and Cajun proverbs ("Grattez l'or, trouvez la boue" – Scratch the gold, find the mud).
Jolene ran a hand over a mural of Lysander. "Fancy art for a tyrant. Smells like Celestial Dragon ego." Her mechanical jaw whirred as she spoke, echoing in the cavern.
Granny Zéphyrine paused, tilting her head. "Hear that?" A faint, dissonant jazz melody hummed through the roots—Orpheus' lyre corrupted into a Voodoo dirge.
Then they saw it.
At the chamber's heart stood the Black Poneglyph. Twelve feet of obsidian etched with jagged Void Century script, its surface swam with trapped starlight. Soul-Sugar crystals crusted its base like barnacles, humming with stolen memories.
"Merde," Silk cursed, recoiling as his reflection fractured in the stone. "What is the meaning of this… rock?"
Moxy approached, her doll's eyes glowing violet. She traced a glyph showing Achlys bound by strings of enchanted party beads. Jolene kicked the Poneglyph. A hollow boom reverberated, shaking algae-dust from the ceiling. "So the rumors were true. Saint Lysander hid his shame underground."
Granny Zéphyrine pressed a gnarled hand to the stone. "The bayou's anger... it's in the words. Feels like storm teeth."
Moxy turned, her face grave. "We bring Shanks. He knew Roger—he'll understand this poison."
As they retreated, the murils seemed to watch them go. The jazz melody swelled into a warning: a single trumpet note, sharp as a guillotine.
Aboveground, the sun bled through the cracked sky, but the chamber's secrets clung to their clothes like the taste of salt and unshed tears. The real battle for Nouvèl Orléon's soul had only just begun.
*****
The humid air aboard The Siren's Bargain clung thick as swamp gauze. Jolene Martel stood at the prow, her stolen Marine coat—now dyed the color of dried blood—flapping against legs still caked in the primordial muck of Achlys' prison chamber. The scent of petrichor and decay rose from the Forgotten Marshes, mingling with the sharper tang of gunpowder and spilled rum. Belowdecks, her smuggler crew patched hull breaches from the battle, their curses punctuated by the rhythmic thud of hammers.
Jolene pulled a waterlogged transponder snail from her coat—a fat, blue-shelled thing with Boudreaux's personal frequency etched onto its back. She dialed, her mechanical jaw clicking like a cocked pistol.
The snail's eyes snapped open, pupils dilating into the gaunt, moss-green visage of Vice Admiral "Bayou" Boudreaux. His tricorn hat shadowed eyes bloodshot with exhaustion and Soul-Sugar withdrawal. Behind him, the groans of wounded Marines echoed in a makeshift infirmary lit by flickering oil lamps.
"Martel," Boudreaux rasped, his voice sandpaper over stone. "Make it quick. I've got men bleeding out."
Jolene leaned against the ship's rail, watching a bioluminescent garfish breach the inky water. "Found your precious rock, Boudreaux. The Black Poneglyph."
The snail's expression sharpened. "Where?"
"Under Saint Lysander's statue. Buried deeper than Celestial Dragon shame." She paused, savoring the revelation. "Roots cracked it open like an egg. Chamber's covered in murals—snake-legged goddesses, weeping mist, the whole cursed family album."
A long silence followed, broken only by the distant shriek of a night heron. Boudreaux's gator-claw prosthetic flexed, razor talons scraping wood. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously low. "Lysander's monument… That arrogant bastard hid it under his own effigy?"
"Irony's thicker than bayou silt," Jolene drawled. "Moxy-Rouge's already whispering 'bout fetching Shanks. Place reeks of Void Century secrets."
Boudreaux's image flickered as a medic shouted behind him—"Tourniquet! NOW!" He turned, barking orders before snapping back to Jolene, sweat beading on his brow. "Heavy casualties here. Husk Soldiers short-circuited. My flagship's hull is Swiss cheese. I need to regroup, salvage what's left." His gaze hardened. "Don't let the Krewe move it. Don't let anyone touch it."
Jolene's laugh was a metallic grind. "And how d'you suggest I stop Shanks? Ask nicely? Toss confetti?"
"Use that silver tongue of yours, Martel. Or a harpoon. I don't care." He leaned closer, the snail's shell reflecting the feverish glint in his eyes. "I'll call when I'm ready. Until then—keep. It. Contained."
The line went dead. The snail retracted into its shell with a tired plop.
Jolene crushed a glowing firefly against the railing, its emerald smear staining her thumb. "Contained," she muttered. The word tasted like swamp water and false promises. Beyond the marshes, the lanterns of the Red Force glowed like a challenge. Some cages, she knew, couldn't hold what they imprisoned.
She pocketed the snail, its shell now warm with Boudreaux's desperation. The real game had just begun—and the board was drenched in blood and ancient sorrow.
*****
The infirmary of the Red Force creaked as the waves rocked the ship's hull and the rhythmic drip-drip of IV solutions. Sunlight, thick with dust motes, streamed through the portholes, painting warm stripes across the polished teak deck and the two occupied beds. The air smelled of antiseptic, sea salt, and the faint, lingering tang of ozone – a ghost of the divine battle.
Shanks lay propped up, his usually vibrant complexion pale beneath the bandages swathing his ribs. Gryphon, its legendary blade dulled and bearing hairline fractures, leaned against the bulkhead nearby, looking strangely forlorn. In the adjacent bed, Marya was still, her raven hair fanned across the pillow, the dark lines of void-veins beneath her skin faded but still visible like old bruises. Her breathing was deep and even.
In a high-backed leather chair commandeered from the captain's quarters, Dracule Mihawk sat like a carved obsidian statue. He held a worn volume of classical philosophy, a crystal glass of deep red wine resting untouched on a small table beside him. His golden eyes occasionally flickered from the page to the still forms of Marya and Shanks, then to the corner where Yoru and Eternal Eclipse leaned companionably against the wall. The two legendary black blades seemed to share an aura of silent understanding – Yoru, the elder, exuding an almost imperious calm, while Eternal Eclipse, its obsidian length etched with faintly glowing crimson runes, hummed with a quieter, watchful energy. They leaned together as if sharing secrets only blades of their stature could comprehend.
The door creaked open, admitting Benn Beckman and Hongo. Ben's sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in Mihawk's silent vigil and the sleeping patients, before he leaned against a heavy medicine cabinet, crossing his arms and lighting a thin cigarette. The smoke curled lazily in the sunbeam. Hongo, his usually stern face etched with lines of exhaustion, moved with quiet efficiency. He checked Shanks's IV line, adjusted the flow, then moved to Marya, gently peeling back a bandage on her forearm to inspect the fading void-scars. The scent of medicinal salve joined the mélange in the air.
"How's it looking, Doc?" Ben's voice was a low rasp, cutting through the quiet.
Hongo didn't look up, his fingers expertly reapplying a clean dressing. "The same, Ben. Stubborn fools pushed themselves past the brink. Haki exhaustion severe enough to crack bone marrow, aggravated by divine backlash and physical trauma." He finished securing the bandage and straightened, meeting Ben's gaze. "No hidden damage we can find, thanks to… unconventional intervention earlier. But their bodies and spirits are drained. They just need time. Lots of quiet, enforced rest." He shot a pointed look at Mihawk, who remained engrossed in his book, seemingly oblivious.
As if on cue, Shanks groaned. His hand flopped weakly onto his forehead. "Ugh… Feels like a Sea King used my skull for a chew toy…" His voice was rough, but the familiar, flippant tone was unmistakable. He cracked one eye open, squinting at Hongo. "Did someone steal all the rum? Cruel world, Doc. Cruel world."
Hongo's professional composure snapped. He whirled on Shanks. "Rum?! You nearly drained your soul facing down a goddess, and your first thought is rum?!" He jabbed a finger, his voice rising. "You need broth! Water! Rest! Not a drop of alcohol until your Haki reserves stop flickering like a dying candle! Do you have any concept of responsibility, even for your own blasted health?!"
Shanks managed a weak grin. "Broth sounds terrible, Doc. Where's the fun in broth? A little hair of the dog that bit me… metaphysically speaking…"
"Fun?! This isn't about fun! This is about you not dying! You're the Emperor, you idiot! Act like it!" Hongo's face was flushed now, the stress of the past days bubbling over. "You push, and you push, and you grin while doing it, but someone has to pick up the pieces! That's me! With bandages and IVs instead of cannonballs!"
Mihawk turned a page of his book with deliberate slowness, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden tension. He didn't look up, but his aura of studied indifference was a palpable counterpoint to Hongo's outburst.
Then, a sharper, colder voice cut through the argument. "You're all being way too loud."
Marya's eyes were open. Sharp, observant golden irises fixed first on Hongo, then on Shanks, radiating annoyance beneath a layer of profound weariness. She shifted slightly, wincing.
Mihawk finally lowered his book a fraction, his gaze meeting Marya's. "Agreed." The single word, delivered with his usual icy calm, was a dismissal of the entire noisy tableau.
Hongo, momentarily deflated by Marya's interruption, redirected his fussing. "And you! Don't think you're off the hook, young lady! Void-taint mixed with Haki burnout is a recipe for chronic instability! You need just as much rest, if not more! No sudden movements, no straining your powers, no—"
Marya ignored him. Her gaze had drifted past the arguing doctor, past the grinning, pained Shanks, to the corner where the two black blades stood sentinel. Seeing Yoru and Eternal Eclipse leaning together, their dark forms almost merging in the shadows, a rare, genuine smile touched her lips – small, fleeting, but undeniably present. It softened the sharp lines of her face, hinting at a deep, unspoken satisfaction.
Mihawk followed her gaze. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He understood. The kinship of blades, forged in impossible battles, was a language he spoke fluently.
Shanks chuckled weakly, catching the exchange. "See? Gryphon's gonna feel left out… sulking over here all by himself…"
Before Hongo could launch into another tirade about neglected swords and irresponsible captains, Ben pushed off the cabinet. He took a final drag of his cigarette, stubbing it out on the sole of his boot. "Chief," he said, his voice cutting through the infirmary drama with its usual pragmatic calm. "Moxy-Rouge is aboard. Been waiting. Says it's urgent, something about what they found under the plaza." His sharp eyes assessed Shanks. "You up for it? Or should I tell the Voodoo Queen to come back when you've finished your nap and Hongo's stopped yelling?"
Hongo sputtered. "Ben! He is not up for visitors! He needs—"
Shanks waved a dismissive hand, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. "Ah, stuff it, Hongo. If Moxy's here, it's important. Can't keep a lady waiting, especially one who throws scary dolls around." He tried to push himself up higher on the pillows, grimacing. "Tell her… tell her five minutes. Need to look slightly less like death warmed over."
Ben nodded curtly. "Five minutes. Try not to pass out before I get back." He shot a look at Hongo that clearly said deal with it, then slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind him.
As the door clicked shut, Shanks sank back with a sigh, the bravado momentarily slipping. He looked at Hongo, his expression serious beneath the lingering amusement. "Alright, Doc. While Ben fetches the scary lady… Give it to me straight. The crew? The town?"
Hongo sighed, running a hand through his hair. He pulled up a stool, his medical pragmatism reasserting itself. "Crew's banged up, but intact. Gab's got bruised vocal cords from all the roaring, Snake's knuckles are raw, Roux's got a spectacular shiner from a Husk Soldier's lucky swing, but no one critical. They've been working non-stop." He gestured vaguely towards the deck above. "Field hospital's winding down. We lost some good Krewe folk, a few Marines who couldn't be saved… too many civilians caught in the crossfire." His voice tightened. "Damage… it's bad. Whole blocks near the plaza are rubble. La Maison Rouge took a beating. But…" He paused, a flicker of grudging respect in his eyes. "They're pulling together. Krewe, pirates, even some Marines who stayed behind. Clearing debris. Salvaging. Already started patching roofs. That bard, Remy, he's got people singing while they work. Helps."
Shanks listened, his gaze distant, absorbing the cost. "And Lucky?"
A ghost of a smile touched Hongo's lips. "Driving everyone mad. Has a whole hog roasting since dawn yesterday. Says the party's just waiting on you to wake up. Swears his 'Victory Rub' will cure what ails you."
Shanks managed another weak chuckle, this one tinged with genuine warmth. "Tell him… tell him to fire it up. Might need his 'cure' after talking ancient evil with Moxy." He closed his eyes for a second, gathering strength. Around him, the infirmary settled into a watchful quiet, broken only by the drip of the IVs, Mihawk's silent presence, Marya's observant gaze, and the quiet communion of two legendary blades in the corner. The battle was over, but the echoes, and the consequences, lingered.
The infirmary door clicked open again, admitting Benn Beckman and Moxy-Rouge. The Voodoo Queen's crimson tignon seemed to absorb the infirmary's sterile light, and the scent of dried herbs, swamp moss, and faint incense clung to her, a stark contrast to the antiseptic tang. Her violet eyes swept over Shanks's pallor and Marya's exhaustion, lingering on the fading void-veins. A flicker of ancestral sorrow crossed her face.
"Forgive the intrusion, Shanks," Moxy murmured, her voice low and resonant, like distant temple bells. She clutched her Petit Roi doll tighter. "I would not disturb your healing if the matter were not... profound. The island itself whispered its secrets beneath the broken Saint."
Shanks opened his eyes, the earlier weariness replaced by keen interest. "Under Lysander's feet? Found something nasty, did you?
Moxy stepped further in, ignoring Hongo's immediate, disapproving scowl. "A chamber. Old. Older than the Golden Betrayal. Walls covered in murals – a veiled goddess weeping diamonds that became Soul-Sugar, snake-legged spirits playing bone trumpets, Saint Lysander himself like a jackal stealing a lyre." She met Shanks's gaze directly. "And at its heart... the Black Poneglyph. Void Century script carved in obsidian. Soul-Sugar crystals weeping from its base like corrupted tears."
Shanks pushed himself up slightly, wincing but undeterred. Hongo made a strangled noise. "The real poison Saint Lysander was guarding," Shanks breathed, his voice losing its flippant edge. "Not just a rock. A cage. Roger... he spoke of scars like this." His gaze shifted to Marya, who was watching Moxy with intense, guarded focus. "Sounds like something you might have insights on, Mist-girl. Your cursed blade, your fruit... they sang the same tune as that goddess.
Moxy turned her violet eyes to Marya. "Oui. The murals... they showed the Mist Mother bound. Her power fractured. Your Devil Fruit, child... it tastes of her essence. The chamber reeked of it. The Poneglyph pulsed when I stood near it, like a heart recognizing kin." Her gaze was probing, not accusatory, but laden with ancient understanding. "That place... it may speak most clearly to you."
Marya remained silent, her stoic mask firmly in place. Her golden eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of intense, analytical curiosity beneath the exhaustion. She didn't deny the connection; she simply absorbed the information, filing it away. Before she could formulate a response, likely dismissive or pragmatic, Hongo exploded.
"Absolutely not!" He stepped between the beds and Moxy, his hands planted on his hips. "Insights? Chamber? Are you all mad?! He," he jabbed a finger at Shanks, "can barely sit up without grimacing! And she," he gestured sharply at Marya, "has Void-taint simmering under her skin and Haki levels lower than a tide pool at noon! Venturing into some cursed hole under the city? Over my dead body! Which it will be if I have to haul your corpses back!"
Shanks held up a placating hand, though a familiar, mischievous glint was returning to his eyes. "Alright, alright, Doc. Point taken. Today... we rest." He looked at Moxy and Ben. "Tomorrow. When the sun's high and Hongo's run out of bandages to throw. We'll take a look. Ben, work with Moxy on securing the site until then. Keep it quiet."
Moxy nodded solemnly. "It will be done. Les Guédés watch that place; it will remain hidden until you come." She gave a slight bow, her gaze lingering for a moment on Marya's impassive face and then the paired black blades in the corner, before turning to leave with Ben.
Hongo huffed, mollified but still radiating disapproval. "Tomorrow. Only if your vitals stabilize and you promise not to do anything more strenuous than blink aggressively." He turned to fuss with Marya's blankets. "That means you too, young lady. No deciphering ancient evils from your sickbed. Underst—"
His words trailed off. Shanks's head had already lolled back against the pillow, his breathing deepening into the rhythmic cadence of exhausted sleep. Marya, too, had closed her eyes, her face relaxed into its customary guarded calm, though a faint line of concentration remained between her brows – already, perhaps, contemplating murals and mist-bound goddesses.
Mihawk, who had observed the entire exchange without lowering his book, finally turned a page. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips as he glanced from the sleeping figures to where Yoru and Eternal Eclipse stood sentinel. Hongo stared at his oblivious patients, sighed dramatically, threw his hands up in surrender, and stomped out of the infirmary, muttering about "stubborn, suicidal legends" and "needing a very large rum."
Silence reclaimed the room, deeper now. Sunbeams warmed the teak deck, catching motes of dust and the faint, ethereal gleam of the runes on Eternal Eclipse. The drip of the IVs was the only sound, a counterpoint to the quiet communion of the blades and the deep, healing sleep of those who had stared into the abyss – and sealed it away, for now. The echo of the Poneglyph's secret pulsed in the stillness, waiting for tomorrow.