Chapter 468 - Chapter 468

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— [Silent_stiele]

*****

Pangea Castle, Red Line

Tap…Tap…Tap.

A steady rhythm echoed like a slow heartbeat—boots striking ancient stone with an unnatural cadence. It was the only sound within the pitch-black spiral stairwell that seemed to descend into eternity. No torch lit the path. No crystal or flare guided the descent. And yet, the solitary figure moved with perfect confidence, as if darkness itself parted before them.

The narrow staircase was carved deep into the very marrow of the Red Line, hidden far beneath the surface of Mary Geoise. This was a place that did not exist on any map or record. Not even the Five Elders—those called the greatest authority in the world—had full knowledge of what lay at the end of this path.

This place belonged to Imu and Imu alone. After what felt like a descent into the heart of the planet itself, the final step was reached. The air shifted.

The stone corridor gave way to a cavernous chamber, ancient and untouched by time. Unlike the immaculate throne room or the radiant flower garden above, this place was steeped in shadow and silence. The walls were adorned not with symbols of grandeur, but memories—fractured relics from a time before the world had been torn into pieces.

Fragments of an era long buried. And in the heart of this forgotten sanctum… sat a monument.

A massive straw hat. It simply sat there on an altar of frozen black stone, towering over the average man in height and breadth. A weathered, frayed brim curled ever so slightly from age, but its form was unmistakable. Not a replica. Not a tribute.

The original. A relic of the first Joyboy.

Imu approached, their boots now silent as they came to stand before the towering hat. The air around it seemed heavier, as though it remembered everything that had come before—and what had yet to come again.

"I know you aren't done with this world," Imu whispered, their voice sharp and low, echoing faintly through the chamber. "I've waited for your return… for almost eight centuries."

Their gloved hand hovered above the edge of the altar, not touching, but feeling—remembering.

"So many tried to wear your name. To inherit your fire. But none lived up to it." The bitterness in their voice deepened. "Not one."

A pause.

"But this time… is different. I feel it. He's coming. You're coming. And this time, I won't make the mistake of underestimating you. Not like last time."

Their words were laced with venom. Not fear. But rage. The kind of rage born not of hate alone—but of betrayal.

Just then, from the depths of the chamber, a second voice rasped through the darkness like metal scraping across bone.

"Hahaha… Are you scared…?" it asked mockingly. "Are you finally afraid? That when he returns, you'll have no place left to run?"

It was a voice as old as sorrow itself—once melodic enough to stir the hearts of kings, now frayed and worn like shattered coral. The tone still carried the remnants of ancient grace… and unspeakable power.

Imu's crimson eyes narrowed. They turned, leaving the monument of the straw hat behind, and walked toward the shadows deeper within the chamber—toward a place that no one outside of Imu should have ever known existed.

A prison.

It was not made of iron or stone, but of something older—something almost alive. Chains carved from deep-sea obsidian and reinforced with etched Sea Prism glyphs coiled like serpents around the central figure. The restraints pulsed faintly with forgotten magic and runes etched in the Lost Tongue. The very architecture of the cell echoed the ancient seals used to bind gods in the deepest trenches of myth.

Suspended within this prison, barely illuminated by a single beam of pale, unnatural light, was a figure—graceful, regal, and bound in solemn dignity.

She was a mermaid. Not just any mermaid. She was Poseidon.

The true, living, breathing… ancient weapon. The one the world believed had perished in the Great War over nine centuries ago. The one spoken of in hushed whispers in the deepest corners of history.

Her beauty, even diminished by time and chains, remained unearthly. Hair the color of moonlight flowed like silk in the waterless air. Her tail—scaled with a brilliance of iridescent azure—was cracked and dulled from centuries of confinement. Yet her eyes, glowing faintly with sea-green light, had not dimmed. They stared through Imu—not in fear, but with ancient, unwavering patience.

"You still wait for him…" Imu said coldly, their tone shifting into a cruel smirk. "Even now, after all this time. You think he's coming for you, to uphold his promise that he once made to you…don't you?"

They stepped closer, their shadow falling over her.

"He made a promise. And he broke it. He left you… and the world. And still, you wait like a fool. Stubborn as ever."

Poseidon said nothing. She didn't need to. Her gaze alone spoke volumes—of a love that defied centuries, of a bond that transcended fate itself. And of the quiet certainty that he would return.

Imu's smirk faded, their expression hardening.

"He failed once. He'll fail again. And this time… I'll crush him before he even remembers what he is."

The chamber rumbled faintly—whether from Imu's words or from something older stirring in the depths below was unclear.

And through it all, Poseidon never blinked. Never flinched. For she had seen the fall of kingdoms. The rise of tyrants. The betrayal of gods. And still… she waited.

"We both know…" Poseidon's voice, hoarse yet defiant, echoed through the cavernous abyss, "…this time, it will be different."

Chains groaned, ancient and unyielding, as the colossal figure of the imprisoned mermaid stirred in the gloom. Her sea-green eyes—each as large as a man's shield—gleamed through the darkness like submerged suns. The very air around her trembled with a dormant, suffocating power that had not been awakened for centuries.

Her size was monumental— more towering and graceful than any other mermaid to have lived in the past millennia, yet etched with the weight of regret. She was not merely a prisoner. She was a monument of history, bound and buried beneath the world itself.

The prison that held her was like no cell built by mortal hands—it was a cathedral of chains, forged from seastone so ancient it pulsed with the heartbeat of the planet itself. The walls were melded into the very marrow of the Red Line, bone-deep, as if the earth itself conspired to keep her trapped.

Massive pillars wrapped around her tail and arms like tectonic bindings. Her long flowing hair, still radiant with hints of divine beauty, coiled across the blackened floor like waves frozen in time. Poseidon's voice slithered through the darkness again, a whisper heavy with the taste of prophecy.

She lifted her head, chains creaking softly in protest as they clung to her form like the roots of an ancient, dying tree. The faint glow of her sea-green eyes shimmered in the gloom like distant lighthouses through a storm. "Don't tell me you can't feel it. In your bones. In the marrow of your being."

Imu's expression remained unreadable, but their silence said enough.

Poseidon's lips curled into a sneer—not one of cruelty, but one of triumph borne from centuries of patient suffering. "Perhaps your instincts have dulled, O self-proclaimed god," she hissed, her tone sharp as sea glass. "After all this time on your throne of lies, have you forgotten what true fear feels like?"

She gestured—subtly, as far as her shackled arms would allow—toward the giant straw hat, still looming silently behind Imu like a phantom of history.

"There's a reason you've been returning to this chamber so often," she whispered. "Far more than you ever did in the past few centuries. You've felt it, haven't you? The tide turning. The rhythm of the world… shifting."

Imu's eyes flared crimson. Poseidon's smile deepened.

"You don't have to doubt it. He is coming. And this time, you won't be able to stop him from embracing his truth. No matter what chains you bind him with… no matter how many empires you burn."

Her voice dropped, rich with absolute certainty.

"And who knows… perhaps the one who inherits Joyboy's will this time won't just live up to his name…"

A pause.

"… They may very well surpass him."

The words echoed across the chamber like a bell tolling the end of an age. Imu's brow twitched. For a fleeting moment, their stillness cracked—betraying the tiniest flash of something ancient and deeply buried. Not anger.

Doubt.

But it vanished as quickly as it appeared. In one cold step, Imu stood before the imprisoned mermaid, their presence towering even above her colossal bound form like a phantom from the abyss. Their voice returned, low and venomous.

"You speak boldly for someone who lives only because I allow it."

Imu's hand rose, fingers twitching ever so slightly. Poseidon's body seized for a heartbeat—her muscles locking, her breath hitching as unseen forces surged through her veins like a tidal wave of agony. But she didn't scream. She refused to give Imu the satisfaction.

"You forget," Imu whispered, voice now colder than the deepest trench, "that I gifted you eternity. Not as a blessing. As a trophy."

They stepped even closer, their breath like ice upon her skin.

"You were the greatest spoil of the Great War… the last surviving weapon of the Ancient Kingdom. My masterpiece. My caged siren."

Imu's gaze hardened into obsidian. "At my command, I could shatter your will. Strip away every memory, every hope. I could turn you into a mindless harbinger of death… a monster that slaughters your kin, sings to the Sea Kings only to lead them to extinction. And yet…"

They turned, cape brushing the air like thunderclouds breaking over still water.

"I haven't."

Poseidon's breathing slowed. She watched as Imu walked away, toward the base of the massive straw hat once more. And even bound, broken, and sealed away by time, Poseidon spoke with a voice that echoed like waves crashing against the cliffs of fate.

"You fear him."

Imu froze mid-step.

"You feared him then, and you fear him now. Not just for his strength, but for what he represents. For what he reminds you of."

A pause, thick with history.

"…That no matter how long your reign stretches, or how many centuries you bury the truth beneath your lies…"

Another pause.

"…You were never a god." The silence that followed was suffocating. And somewhere, far beyond the Red Line, across the sea, a storm began to rise.

However, Imu did not rise to Poseidon's taunt. This wasn't the first time Poseidon had lashed out with venom in her voice and hope in her words. Perhaps, deep within her sorrow, the sea goddess believed that her defiance would provoke Imu into ending her eternal suffering. But Imu had long since transcended such simple provocations.

No—death would have been a mercy, and Imu was far too cruel to offer mercy to a living relic.

Instead, Imu turned away from the bound leviathan, their cloak trailing across the stone floor like a shadow unbound by light. Their crimson gaze drifted once more to the massive, weathered Straw Hat, preserved in perfect silence as if it, too, awaited a return that the world had forgotten.

"You've grown unusually bold these past few years," Imu said coldly, without facing her.

"Perhaps… you still believe the world is as it was during your time. When the Ancient Kingdom stood at the pinnacle. When the seas answered to your name."

They paused, their voice like a dagger dipped in ice.

"You think his ideals live on. That the echoes of your rebellion still linger… in whispers, in hearts."

At that, they turned their head slightly—just enough for the crimson of their eyes to glint in the dark.

"But you are mistaken. Gravely." Imu's voice dropped into a whisper so frigid it could shatter stone. "Nothing remains from that time. No legacy. No glory. No gods."

They glanced once more toward the titanic Straw Hat, its form drenched in shadow, and smirked with utter contempt.

"Not even him."

And with that, they departed the chamber—their footsteps fading into nothing, swallowed by the abyss.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then… a soft sound. A faint, trembling laugh—the kind that hadn't touched Poseidon's lips in nearly a thousand years. A sound that once could summon the tides, now trembling with the joy of revelation.

A smile bloomed across Poseidon's lips—not bitter, not broken, but radiant. Because in that instant, she knew.

She did not fear Imu's departure, nor their threats. The only thing she had feared—truly feared—was the possibility that when Joyboy returned, she might be made to stand against him, enslaved by the cursed power that had chained her mind and body for nearly a millennium.

She could not run. She could not hide. She was already marked—tainted by Imu's control, her will corroded slowly over the centuries. It was a miracle she had retained even a shred of her identity, of her memories, and of her sanity. Her divine power was a double-edged trident: a blessing turned curse, an ability meant to protect the seas, twisted into a leash by a tyrant.

But today… today was different.

For the first time in almost nine centuries, Poseidon felt it—not just the faint pulse of Joyboy's spirit returning to the world, but something else. A warmth rising through her ancient veins. A new resonance.

Her power… was fading. Not in weakness—but in transference.

The ancient force that once allowed her to command the Sea Kings was no longer hers alone. It was leaving her, dissolving into the world, seeking a new vessel. A new Poseidon.

Somewhere across the vast blue seas… A child would soon be born. Someone who would inherit the sea's voice, and walk beside Joyboy—not as a prisoner, but as his equal.

The thought made her chest swell with pride. If she could no longer be by his side… then this new Poseidon would be.

And this time, they would not fail.

Poseidon's laughter rang out—rich, melodic, and unshackled. It echoed through the great chamber, washing over the blackened stone and rusted chains. For centuries, this place had drowned in cries of anguish, screams of rage, and silence born of despair.

But now, for the first time… It rang with laughter born of freedom. Even if she would never leave this prison. Even if the curse of her immortality bound her until the end of time. Poseidon laughed—for she knew, with absolute certainty, the tides had begun to turn.

*****

Royal Palace, Arabasta Kingdom

The stone corridors of the Royal Palace of Alubarna were uncharacteristically silent that night. Only the soft flicker of torchlight and the rhythmic rustling of banners stirred as the winds of the desert whispered through the ancient halls. But within the grand east wing—beyond towering golden doors inscribed with the legacy of kings—something sacred was unfolding.

And just outside those doors, King Nefertari Cobra paced like a caged lion.

Clad in his royal robes, which he had worn since dusk without changing, his normally composed expression was gone—replaced by a storm of tension and restrained desperation. He walked up and down the marbled corridor, hands clasped tightly behind his back, head bowed slightly, lips muttering silent prayers to gods old and forgotten.

Inside the chamber, his wife—the radiant Queen Titi—was in labor.

Cobra's every instinct demanded he be at her side. He had argued, pleaded, even ordered to be let in when her cries had first pierced the walls, shattering the stillness of the palace like thunderclaps in a desert storm. But tradition stood as firm as the red sands of their kingdom.

"No king of Arabasta," the aging Minister had said solemnly, placing a hand upon Cobra's shoulder, "has ever entered the birthing chamber. It is sacred. According to our law, the child must be first presented to the father in the throne room. It is there the child receives the blessing of the crown."

Cobra had nearly cast aside the law that night.

He had already stepped toward the great doors when the older ministers intervened, forming a line—not as servants, but as guardians of ancient custom. In truth, even Igaram, loyal to the bone, had faltered under the weight of Cobra's desperate eyes.

Yet somehow, they convinced him. And so the king waited.

Each moment dragged like hours. Every muffled sound from within sent a tremor through his spine. He hated this distance—this barrier of tradition between him and the one he loved most in the world. He could do nothing but pace the corridor, like his forefathers once had, when kings were tested not on the battlefield, but in moments like these—moments that defined lineage and legacy.

He paused only when a scream—Queen Titi's voice—rose sharp through the air, followed by a sudden silence so thick it stole the breath from the corridor. The torches flickered. The wind died.

And then… a sound broke through. A soft, sharp cry—raw and new, like the first breeze after a sandstorm. A newborn's cry. Cobra froze.

The golden doors creaked open, and an elderly woman stepped out, her hands trembling as she cradled a bundle swathed in silken blue cloth, embroidered with the crest of the Nefertari line.

She nodded once.

"They are safe, Your Majesty. Both mother and daughter."

Time stopped. The world—the wars, the politics, the weight of kingship—melted away. In that moment, Cobra was not a ruler. Not a monarch.

He was simply… a father.

A few minutes later, after ensuring the well-being of his queen, standing within the grandeur of the royal throne room beneath the blazing midday sun pouring through stained-glass windows, Cobra took the child into his arms. His heart shook as he looked down at her—a tiny, squirming miracle with eyes like the deep desert sky.

His voice cracked as he whispered her name.

"Vivi... my daughter. My little light."

The ministers bowed. The guards saluted. And across the kingdom, bells tolled joyously from every corner of Alubarna to the farthest oasis. A princess had been born. And at her first cry, the kingdom rejoiced.

King Cobra stood upon the sun-drenched dais of the Royal Throne Room, the infant princess swaddled gently in his arms, her tiny hand curled around his finger. His eyes, usually firm and commanding, shimmered now with emotion he made no effort to conceal.

The great stained-glass windows bathed the room in warm hues of amber and sapphire, casting a divine light upon the child as if the very heavens had chosen to bless her birth.

He turned slowly toward the gathered court—ministers, generals, nobles, and servants—all assembled in reverent silence. Then, in a voice that boomed with the pride of a father and the conviction of a king, Cobra spoke:

"Let the whole of Arabasta know… A new sun has risen over our kingdom today."

The chamber rippled with whispers, eyes widening, hearts stirring.

"Today, my daughter—Princess Nefertari Vivi—has entered this world. And for this gift, for this light, for this blessing greater than any crown or conquest... we shall not celebrate in silence."

He looked to Igaram, who stood tall beside him, though his eyes too betrayed a glimmer of emotion.

"Igaram, send word to every corner of our kingdom—from the richest villas of Rainbase to the farthest sand dunes beyond Nanohana. Let it be known: Arabasta shall celebrate together, as one people—nobles and commoners alike, merchants, scholars, shepherds, and swordsmiths. There shall be no gate closed, no citizen uninvited."

The ministers stirred, stunned.

"Your Majesty," one of the older advisors dared to interject, stepping forward. "With all respect… such a grand affair would strain even the royal vaults. The logistics alone—entertainment, food, transport, security—this scale of celebration hasn't been attempted since the ancient coronation of the First King. We must be cautious."

But Cobra, still holding his daughter, never faltered. His smile grew as he looked down at Vivi—then back at his court, his tone calm, but absolute.

"Then it shall not come from the royal treasury."

Murmurs broke out. The ministers were taken aback.

"Every last coin, every gem, every measure of spice and silk… shall come from the coffers of House Nefertari. My personal wealth. Not a single grain of sand shall be taxed from our people for this celebration."

He took a step forward, his voice now layered with both royal decree and fatherly passion.

"This celebration is not for the throne. It is not for politics, or prestige. It is for Arabasta. For our people. For the future."

A pause.

"My daughter was born today—not just into royalty, but into a kingdom I swore to protect, cherish, and unify. Let this day be remembered not for the gold we spend, but for the joy we share. Let laughter echo across the dunes. Let music rise in every street. Let every family eat, dance, and rejoice."

The ministers fell silent, eyes wide with awe. Igaram bowed deeply, his voice filled with unshakable loyalty.

"As you command, Your Majesty. I will see to it myself… that this celebration is the grandest Arabasta has ever seen."

Across the palace, messengers were dispatched with golden-sealed scrolls. Invitations engraved on sun-pressed parchment, carried by swift birds and desert riders. Town criers shouted the joyful news in every city square. Streets were draped in banners of azure and gold, the colors of House Nefertari. Palaces were lit with lanterns, and villages with bonfires. Feasts were planned, dances prepared, and old songs brought back to life.

In every oasis, from Yuba to Erumalu, the people of Arabasta cheered in unison:

"Long live Princess Vivi! May her smile never fade, and may her heart burn as bright as the desert sun!"

And that night, under the blanket of a starlit sky, as all of Arabasta prepared to celebrate, King Cobra held his daughter close and whispered:

"This kingdom will be yours one day, Vivi. But until then… let it be your garden of joy."