The bubble lamp's sickly green glow pooled on the scarred wood of the dice table, highlighting the worn leather cup in Rayleigh's hand. Marya stopped at the edge of the light, arms crossed over the Heart Pirate insignia on her leather jacket, golden eyes fixed on the game. Atlas hovered just behind her shoulder, fur prickling with nervous static. Jelly wobbled beside her knee, trying to mimic her crossed-arm pose with gelatinous mittens.
Rayleigh didn't look up. His focus seemed entirely on the rhythmic shush-shush-shush of the dice inside the cup. The dealer slammed it down with a soft thump. "Evens," he declared, his voice a low rumble like distant surf, barely audible over the surrounding din.
The dealer, a thin man with greasy hair and a permanent sneer, flipped the cup. Two bone dice clattered to a stop: a three and a four.
"Odds," the dealer rasped, a smirk tugging at his lips. He raked a small pile of rainbow-shell chips towards himself.
Marya's dark eyebrow arched, a silent question etched onto her stoic face. Rayleigh just chuckled, a warm, rich sound, and took a slow sip from a chipped clay mug. "Lady Luck," he mused, wiping foam from his goatee, "is being particularly coy today."
The dice rattled again. Shush-shush-shush. Thump.
"Evens," Rayleigh called once more.
The cup lifted. A one and a six glared up from the wood.
"Odds," the dealer crowed, gathering another small stack of chips. His smirk widened. "Running low there, old timer. Another loss like that, and you'll be washing dishes."
Rayleigh chuckled again, unfazed, taking another deep draught. "The tide always turns."
The dealer scooped the dice back into the cup, rattling them with exaggerated vigor. Rattle-rattle-RATTLE! He slammed it down hard enough to make the coins on the table jump. "Place yer bets!" he barked, his eyes scanning the few other players, all looking skeptical of the silver-haired man's luck.
Silence hung for a beat. Then, clear and calm, cutting through the background noise like a knife:
"Odds."
Every head at the table, and several nearby, swiveled. Marya stood unmoved, her gaze locked not on the cup, but on Rayleigh. She cocked her head, a silent challenge gleaming in her golden eyes.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Rayleigh's weathered face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the wood groaning. "You heard the lady," he said, his voice carrying easily now. "Odds it is."
The dealer groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Fine, fine. Suit yourselves." He lifted the cup with a flourish. The dice tumbled free: a five and a two.
"Odds!" the dealer admitted grudgingly, pushing a modest pile of chips towards the center of the table. He glared at Marya. "Beginner's luck."
Rayleigh took another sip, his eyes twinkling as he regarded Marya properly for the first time. His gaze traveled from her tall combat boots, up the denim shorts, over the Heart Pirates insignia, finally settling on her face with an intensity that felt like gentle pressure. "Hmph," he grunted, a sound of amused appraisal. "Looking for something specific, young lady? Or just enjoyin' the view?"
Marya's lips curved into a sharp, knowing grin. Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the sealed letter Scopper Gaban had entrusted to her. The wax seal – a stylized mountain peak and ax– gleamed dully in the green light. She held it out. "You."
Rayleigh's gaze dropped to the letter. Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by a deeper, warmer chuckle that vibrated in his chest. He took the letter, his thick fingers brushing the familiar seal. He turned it over, seeing the bold, angular script scrawled across the front: For the Dark King. Don't lose it gambling. A soft laugh escaped him as he slid it into his own shirt pocket. "That old Mountain Eater," he rumbled, shaking his head fondly. "How is he? Still pickin' fights with giants for breakfast?"
Marya's smirk widened. "Old. And loud. Complains about the beer."
"Ha!" Rayleigh's laugh was louder this time, drawing more glances. "Sounds about right. Still hidin' out on Elbaph, I reckon? Too stubborn to sail anywhere flat."
"Bloop! Giant people!" Jelly chirped, bouncing excitedly on the spot, his form jiggling. "Big rocks! Colon with the funny hat!"
Rayleigh's smile softened as he glanced at the wobbling jellyfish. "Indeed." He turned his full attention back to Marya. "So, what brings you to this particular den of iniquity, carryin' mail from that fossil—"
"Oy!" the dealer snapped, slamming his hand on the table, making the dice jump. The nearby gamblers flinched. "You playing or runnin' a social club? Place yer bets! Now!" He glared pointedly at the dice cup he'd just re-filled.
Rayleigh didn't look at the dealer. His eyes, sharp and knowing beneath bushy silver brows, remained on Marya. He cocked his head towards the waiting cup, a challenge mirroring her own earlier one. A slow, inviting smile spread across his face. "Well, young lady? Feel like testin' that beginner's luck a bit further? The night's still young, and my pockets are feelin' light." He gestured towards the meager pile of chips before him.
Marya met his gaze, the smirk solidifying into something fierce and amused. She pulled out a small pouch from her other pocket, the clink of Beris inside clear even over the casino noise. She dropped it onto the table beside Rayleigh's dwindling stack with a decisive thud. Her golden eyes never left his. "I think," she said, her voice a low, confident rasp, "I can go a few rounds." She pulled out a chair opposite him, the legs scraping loudly on the sticky floor, and sat down, leaning forward, her focus narrowing to the worn leather dice cup and the legend holding it. The quest for a ship coater had just become a high-stakes game.
*****
The air in the shadowed alley near the chart vendor's stall was thick with the damp, earthy smell of the mangrove roots and the sharper tang of cheap ink. Galit Varuna's long neck was bent in a loose S-curve as he examined a brittle, water-stained map of the Florian Triangle, his stylus scratching notes onto his volcanic glass slate. Fia stood beside him, bare feet shifting uncomfortably on the rough wood planks, her borrowed denim shorts and oversized shirt making her feel exposed despite the cover Galit's tall frame provided. The vendor, a wizened man with eyes like cloudy pearls, droned on about treacherous currents and phantom reefs.
As Galit handed back the map, a flash of garish color pinned to the stall's sagging canvas wall snagged Fia's eye. It was a flyer, crudely printed on cheap paper. It depicted a stylized, almost cartoonish figure with exaggerated features – bulging eyes, flippers for hands – standing awkwardly on a stage under bright lights. Bold letters screamed: "MARVEL AT THE DEEP DWELLER! AQUATIC CURIOSITY EXTRAORDINAIRE! GROVE 9 - ONE DAY ONLY!"
Galit's emerald gaze followed Fia's. His stylus paused mid-scribble. "This exhibition," he asked the vendor, his voice carrying its usual analytical cadence but edged with a hint of distaste as he tapped the flyer. "What is its nature?"
The vendor spat a stream of brown liquid onto the root-strewn ground. "Eh? That rubbish? Some fancy human shop over in Grove Nine, 'Treasure Trove Trinkets' or some such nonsense. Put'n on a show, they are. Got some poor fish-folk or maybe just a bloke painted blue in a tank, I reckon. Gimmick." He wiped his mouth with the back of a gnarled hand. "All flash, no catch. Just tryin' to lure in the fancy robes, see? Them World Nobles get a peek, maybe buy the shop's whole stock o' silk sails an' gold-plated spyglasses direct, cut out the auction house up in Grove One. Smart business, if you got no shame." He chuckled, a dry, rattling sound.
Galit carefully unpinned the flyer, his expression unreadable but his neck muscles tightening slightly into subtle knots. He examined the crude artwork, the boastful text. "Grove Nine," he stated, confirming the location printed beneath the garish headline. "May I retain this?"
"Keep it, lad," the vendor waved a dismissive hand. "Worthless scrap."
"Your cooperation is noted," Galit said stiffly, folding the flyer and tucking it beside his slate. He didn't turn away immediately. "One further inquiry. Have whispers reached your ears… concerning slavers? Specifically, those trading in Fishman or merfolk within the Archipelago recently?"
The vendor's clouded eyes narrowed. He glanced furtively down the grimy alley, then jerked his chin towards the broader thoroughfare beyond the root cluster. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial rasp. "Big building. Three roots down. Looks like a warehouse, smells like despair. 'Hightower Holdings'. They move… unusual cargo. Fast. Quiet. Don't ask more. Don't wanna know more." He quickly busied himself rearranging a pile of dubious-looking compasses, his message delivered.
Galit gave a curt nod. "Understood. Thank you." He turned, gesturing subtly for Fia to follow him back into the marginally busier flow of foot traffic near the main path. The relative bustle felt oppressive now – the shouts of hawkers, the clatter of carts, the ever-present pop of bubbles seemed suddenly harsh and intrusive.
Fia hurried to keep pace with Galit's long strides, her new legs still unsteady on the uneven ground. The vendor's words echoed in her mind: 'Poor fish-folk in a tank', 'Hightower Holdings', 'smells like despair'. Her pearlescent skin seemed to lose its faint shimmer under the dappled, gloomy light. She clutched the hem of her oversized shirt. "Galit," she whispered, her voice tight with dread, "do you think… that exhibition… could it be…?"
He didn't let her finish the horrifying thought. "We lack sufficient data," he stated, his voice clipped but not unkind. He kept walking, his gaze fixed ahead, scanning the towering root structures. "Jumping to conclusions based on a vendor's gossip and a crude advertisement is strategically unsound. It could be a deception, a distraction, or merely tasteless theatrics unrelated to your kin." He risked a glance down at her. The hope in her ocean-blue eyes had been replaced by a raw fear that twisted something unexpected in his analytical core – a pang of protective urgency he usually reserved for tactical maneuvers.
Seeing her expression, the way her coral-pink hair seemed to droop, Galit did something profoundly uncharacteristic. He stopped walking. He didn't touch her – physical comfort wasn't his language. Instead, he slightly lowered his head, bringing his intense emerald gaze level with hers. His voice, when he spoke again, was lower, losing some of its usual scholarly edge. "Fia. Speculation breeds panic. Panic clouds judgment. We investigate Hightower Holdings first. We gather facts. Then… we act." He held her gaze, willing her to find strength in his certainty. "Understood?"
Fia took a shaky breath, meeting his intense stare. She saw the rigid set of his jaw, the subtle tension coiling his long neck, the absolute focus in his eyes. It wasn't warmth, but it was resolve. Solid, unwavering resolve aimed at helping her. She managed a small, tremulous nod. "Understood."
Galit straightened, his neck resuming its watchful curve. "Good. Stay close." He turned and led the way, his stride purposeful.
Three massive mangrove roots down, just as the vendor described, stood the building. 'Hightower Holdings' was stenciled in faded, peeling paint on a facade of unnervingly plain, grey stone. No windows. Heavy double doors, currently open just enough to admit a sliver of dim interior light and a faint, unsettling odor – a cloying mix of cheap disinfectant, stale sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like old coins left in seawater. It stood between a noisy tavern spewing raucous laughter and a shop selling suspiciously sturdy chains and collars. No ostentatious signs, no guards lounging outside. Its very blandness was its disguise, making the vendor's description – 'smells like despair' – feel chillingly apt.
Galit paused at the threshold, his hand instinctively going to the braided sea-snake sinew bracer on his forearm. He glanced back at Fia, her face pale but set with determination. No comforting words came to him, only the cold clarity of the task. He pushed the heavy door open wider, the hinges groaning like a wounded beast, and stepped into the gloom, Fia following close behind, the sweet, resin-scented air of Sabaody swallowed by the building's oppressive stillness. The hunt for answers had led them into the lion's den.
*****
The Silent Gambit bucked like a wild seabeast, groaning under the lash of the Grand Line supercell. Rain slashed horizontally, stinging exposed skin. Waves, black as oil and taller than the mainmast, slammed into the hull with bone-jarring crunches. Bianca clung to a secured cable near the engine housing, her goggles completely fogged over. "Like, 200% humidity in here!" she yelled, uselessly wiping at the lenses with a soaked sleeve. Salt spray coated everything, leaving a gritty film on lips and stinging eyes. Ember huddled near a hatchway, Mr. Cinders clutched tight. Rain hissed as it hit her, and one of her Molotov hairpins, jarred loose, sparked feebly against the wet deck before fizzling out. "Sizzle-bloop," she muttered, flinching as lightning split the sky, illuminating Kuro at the wheel. His cracked glasses were hopelessly smudged, salt crusting the gold chain, his aristocratic features strained as he wrestled with the spokes, knuckles white.
They'd lost the Marines hours ago, or the storm had swallowed them. Now, survival was the only chart. The tempest roared, a living thing trying to tear the world apart. It felt endless.
Then, abruptly, it wasn't.
The Silent Gambit punched through the final wall of lashing rain into an unnatural stillness. The roaring wind dropped to a suffocating whisper. The punishing rain became a cold, clinging mist that hung in the air like damp cobwebs. Grey light filtered down, weak and directionless. The sea calmed to a flat, oily black mirror reflecting nothing.
Kuro slumped slightly against the wheel, breathing hard, wiping uselessly at his glasses with a damp glove. "Report!" he barked, his voice rough.
Bianca finally got her goggles clear enough to peer at a waterlogged navigational dial. "Uh... like... all bearings are scrambled, boss-man. Compass is spinning like a top after Ember's last tantrum. No stars. Nothing." She tapped the dial, frustration clear. "We got thrown hard."
Aurélie appeared beside Kuro, her silver hair plastered to her skull, water dripping from Anathema's scabbard. Her grey eyes scanned the oppressive fog. "Where are we?"
Before Kuro could speculate, the cry came from above, shrill with alarm: "NAVY SHIPS! PORT QUARTER! CLOSING FAST!"
Souta, who had been silently observing the fog from the starboard rail, spun around. His usual calm fractured. "Navy? Now?" He scanned the murk where the lookout pointed. Shadows resolved – the unmistakable, grim silhouettes of Marine warships cutting through the still water, their searchlights piercing the gloom like accusing fingers.
"AND... AND SOMETHING DEAD AHEAD! HUGE! LIKE A WALL!" the lookout screamed again, voice cracking.
All eyes snapped forward. Through the shifting veils of fog, an immense, dark shape loomed. It wasn't land. It was sheer, vertical, stretching upwards until it vanished into the murk. Ancient, weathered stone, slick with algae and moisture. A colossal, crumbling edifice blocking their path entirely.
Kuro didn't hesitate. "Helm! Hard to starboard! Make for that structure! Aim for any break, any opening!" He shouted orders to the Syndicate sailors, who scrambled, faces pale.
Aurélie's hand tightened on Anathema's hilt. "Is that wise? We know nothing of it."
Kuro shot her a sharp look, his smudged lenses hiding nothing of the urgency in his eyes. "Our options are the unknown or a Marine brig, Nakano. Unless you fancy testing your steel against cannon fire and Vice Admirals here and now?" He gestured sharply towards the pursuing warships, their outlines growing clearer, sharper. The thrum of their engines vibrated through the water.
Aurélie held his gaze for a heartbeat, then gave a single, reluctant nod. The risk of the Marines discovering their secrets – Consortium or Syndicate – was far greater than whatever haunted this fog-shrouded place. "Do it."
The Silent Gambit heeled over, engines groaning as Bianca pushed them to the limit. They raced towards the monolithic wall, the fog swirling thicker. The Marine searchlights swept across their stern, momentarily blinding. They were close enough now to see the structure wasn't smooth. It was a bridge. A bridge of impossible scale, built of massive, rough-hewn stones, vanishing into the fog in both directions. Crumbling arches and jagged gaps hinted at ruin. This was Sector 7 of Tequila Wolf, a forgotten, decaying segment of a slave-built nightmare.
Bianca spotted a wider fissure, a collapsed section near the waterline. "There! Like, that opening! Go, go, GO!"
Kuro wrenched the wheel. The Gambit shot towards the dark maw in the ancient stone. Behind them, a Marine loudhailer crackled, distorted but threatening: "UNIDENTIFIED VESSEL! HEAVE TO! THIS IS THE MARINE—"
The rest was drowned out by the sickening, splintering CRUNCH of wood and metal meeting unyielding stone. The Silent Gambit slammed into the edge of the fissure, grinding along the slimy rock face before lurching to a sudden, brutal stop. The impact threw everyone to the deck. Timbers shrieked. Bianca yelled as her tools scattered. Charlie yelped, tumbling. Ember shrieked, a sound lost in the echoing chaos within the stone channel.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute, broken only by the dripping of water, the groaning of the wounded ship, and the distant, fading thrum of Marine engines as the warships, unwilling or unable to enter the cursed Florian Triangle's fog bank, turned away. They were inside Tequila Wolf. Stranded. Hidden. And surrounded by centuries of crushing, oppressive history. The air hung thick with the smell of wet stone, decay, and the sharp tang of fear.