---
Chapter:
Lyra marched down the dim hallway, Chastifol floating silently at her side.
She shoved open the double doors into the main dining hall — and froze.
The scent of smoke and blood hit her first, sharp and metallic.
Tables were overturned, plates shattered, and the wooden floor was slick with spilled food... and something darker.
Across the wrecked hall, a handful of Baratie chefs — the big, burly ones who had helped her earlier — fought desperately against a gang of armed pirates.
Zeff was at the center, whirling like a storm, knocking enemies back with fierce, punishing kicks. His wooden leg cracked against skulls with brutal efficiency, but even he looked strained and cornered.
Lyra took a shaky step forward — and her foot splashed into something wet.
She glanced down.
There, lying crumpled on the floor, was one of the cheerful chefs who had caught her tray earlier — blood pooling beneath him, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.
Not moving. Not breathing.
Her heart lurched violently.
Further along, another man — the one who had tackled the cake to safety — was slumped over a broken table, a gaping wound across his chest.
The laughter they'd shared hours ago echoed in her memory — jarringly, horribly out of place.
Lyra's hands trembled.
This wasn't funny.
This wasn't an anime.
It was messy. Ugly. Real.
People she knew were dying.
(•Caution. Mental stability critical. •) Great Sage whispered, its voice oddly gentle.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Lyra felt something sharp and cold coil around her chest.
Anger. Grief. Resolve.
She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.
Slowly, Chastifol stopped dancing around her.
It floated behind her now — plain, practical, deadly.
"No more games," Lyra muttered.
She stepped forward onto the bloodstained floor.
This time, she wasn't smiling.
---
She moved slowly — yet somehow, everyone heard her.
The pirates, who had been jeering and surrounding the battered chefs, turned in unison to face her.
Lyra stopped just a few paces inside the ruined hall, her eyes calm, her grip steady on her weapon.
In a voice clearer and colder than anyone had heard from her before, she said:
"Old man Zeff... you can't die yet."
She tilted her head slightly, almost casually.
"I haven't even tasted your cooking. And you still owe me my wages."
For a moment, there was stunned silence.
Then the pirates burst out laughing — cruel and mocking.
Eighty men, armed and bloodthirsty, roared with laughter at the sight of a tiny girl standing against them.
Some pointed. Some jeered. A few doubled over, gasping between wheezing laughs.
Zeff, battered but unbowed, snapped his head toward her voice. His expression darkened.
"Get out of here, you brat!" he barked, blood dripping from a cut above his eye.
"Your debt's paid! You don't owe us anything anymore! If you stay, you'll just—"
He broke off, grimacing.
"Tch... Sanji's gonna kill me if he finds out I let a cute little thing like you get hurt... Especially his friend."
But Lyra didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Instead, she stared down the pirates, her gaze steady and unyielding — enough to make even the boldest among them falter.
One of the bigger pirates, a hulking man with greasy hair and a missing tooth, swaggered forward, leering at her.
"Hey, little girl," he sneered, voice low and oily.
"Forget these old geezers. Why don't you come with me? I'll take real good care of ya..."
His companions snickered behind him.
Zeff's jaw tightened. "No..." he hissed under his breath. "Don't you dare—"
But before anyone could move, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
The greasy pirate's grin froze on his face.
Because Lyra was smiling.
Not the bright, innocent smile she'd worn before.
This one was cold. Empty. Deadly.
Without a word, she raised her hand.
Chastifol shimmered, floating higher — no longer playful, but heavy with lethal intent.
Only then did the pirates truly notice the weapon behind her.
Some blinked, startled, seeing it clearly for the first time:
A golden spear, faintly glowing with dangerous energy.
Instead of fear, greedy smiles spread across their faces.
"A floating weapon..." one of them muttered. "It'll sell for a fortune!"
Their eyes gleamed with greed.
But before they could move, Lyra spoke.
Her voice was low, almost a whisper:
"Spirit Spear Chastifol — Fourth Form: Sunflower."
The pirates watched, horror dawning, as the spear morphed.
From the bloodstained floor, a massive shoot erupted, spiraling upward.
The pirate leader — a scarred man with a jagged gash across his forehead — cursed and surged forward.
"Kill her! NOW!" he roared.
All the pirates — even those fighting Zeff — broke off and charged toward her.
But they were too late.
Lyra simply raised her hand.
And whispered:
"I'm sorry, goodbye."
The Sunflower bloomed — a monstrous golden flower, radiant and terrible.
There was a heartbeat of silence.
Then a beam of brilliant destruction erupted from the center — tearing through the hall like a divine judgment.
Eighty pirates disappeared in an instant.
Not even ashes remained.
Only scorched wood, shattered stone, and a gaping hole in the far wall where the night sky stared through, cold and empty.
The clouds beyond were split apart — and a lonely moon shone through the jagged gap.
Silence fell like a heavy shroud.
---
Lyra slowly lowered her hand.
Breathing heavily, she turned to face the chefs.
Zeff stood firm, jaw tight, his expression unreadable.
But the others — the same men she had laughed and joked with just hours ago — were stepping back.
Fear flashed in their eyes.
Their hands trembled.
They were looking at her not with gratitude.
But as if she were a monster.
Lyra's heart twisted painfully.
She opened her mouth, desperate to say something — anything — but no words came out.
Tears welled up, blurring her vision.
Without thinking, she turned and ran.
The doors slammed open under the force of her escape.
She sprinted blindly through the wrecked halls, her footsteps echoing hollowly behind her.
When she reached the open deck, she didn't stop.
Wings of shimmering light burst from her back, unfurling in a brilliant flash.
She soared upwards, away from the ruin, away from the fear in their eyes.
Away from everything.
She landed heavily on the slanted roof of the Baratie, crouching low, clutching herself as violent sobs wracked her small frame.
Above her, the broken sky revealed the silent, watchful moon.
And for the first time since she arrived in this world...
Lyra felt truly, utterly alone.