The air in Jaygarcia Saturn's opulent office in Mary Geoise was thick with the cloying scent of incense, meant to purify, but today it did little to mask the stench of failure. The Den Den Mushi, its face molded into a perfect replica of Alejandro Fuego's grim features, fell silent. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft, wet pop of a bubble forming and bursting from experimental contraption in the far corner of his office.
"Incompetence," the word slithered out, a venomous hiss that seemed to coil in the air as he slammed the receiver. His spindly, arthropod-like fingers drummed a rhythm of pure irritation on his desk. A basic escort mission. A Lunarian child, a specimen of immense genetic value, and the Uroboros Kernel, a relic of untold potential, both gone. A Marine vessel, a symbol of their power, left a crippled husk. And the architect of this humiliation? A disgraced Admiral and the shadow of a Warlord.
He did not shout. Saturn's rage was a colder, more calculated thing. He muttered into the stifling quiet, the names like curses. "Dracule Mihawk… his shadow brat… and that traitor, Kuzan."
With a gesture that was more a twitch of annoyance than a command, he summoned an attendant. Minutes later, the doors swung open to admit Figarland Garling. The Supreme Commander of the God's Knights moved with the unassailable confidence of a man who believed his bloodline was the very bedrock of the world. His pristine white uniform was a stark contrast to the shadowy opulence of the room.
Saturn relayed the facts, his voice a dry, scraping rasp. "The assets are lost. Fuego failed. The girl and the Kernel are with Mihawk's daughter. And Aokiji is with them."
A smirk, subtle and infuriating, touched Garling's lips.
"You find this amusing?" Saturn's voice dropped, the danger in it as sharp as a razor.
"I find it… predictable," Garling corrected, his tone smooth as polished marble. "And I know where the girl is going. She makes for Ohara."
Saturn's eyes narrowed to apprehensive slits as he gripped the end of his cane. "Ohara? The graveyard?" The irony was not lost on him. A seeker of forbidden knowledge, drawn to the tomb of knowledge. "See that you handle this. Permanently."
"Of course." Garling gave a slight, almost mocking bow and turned on his heel, his cape sweeping behind him without a sound.
In his own austere office, a space that spoke more of a barracks than a noble's chamber, Garling found Shamrock waiting. The man opened his mouth to deliver a report on some minor disciplinary matter within the Knights, but Garling waved a hand, cutting the words off before they could form.
"It can wait," Garling stated, his attention already elsewhere. He did not raise his voice, but the command in it was absolute. "Send for Hasapis and Rue."
Shamrock's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he complied. Soon, the two God's Knights entered. Garrett Hasapis moved with a predator's quiet grace, his calm hazel eyes taking in the room in a single, sweeping glance. Beside him, Darcy Rue was a statue of imposing discipline, her silver, slitted pupils fixed on Garling, her very posture a testament to her rigid worldview.
"The Shadow Brat and Kuzan Aokiji," Garling began without preamble, "have the Lunarian girl and the Uroboros Kernel. Intel confirms their destination: Ohara."
A subtle shift occurred in Garrett's stance; his fingers twitched, as if feeling for the hilt of the sword sheathed on his hip. Darcy's head tilted a fraction, the ghostly wails that seemed to cling to her growing faintly more audible.
"Casimir is en route with a marine unit," Garling continued, his disdain for the Admiral evident. "You will take a contingent of the Fallen. This is not a retrieval. It is an eradication. Dracule and Kuzan are not to leave that island alive. Is that understood?"
It was then that Shamrock stepped forward. "Supreme Commander, with respect, my skills could be of use on this–"
"You will remain," Garling's voice was final, a door slamming shut. "Your duties here are not complete."
For a heartbeat, raw frustration warred with discipline on Shamrock's face. His eyes bulged slightly before he mastered himself, his expression settling into a neutral mask, though a muscle in his jaw feathered with tension. He gave a stiff nod and stepped back into the shadows of the room.
Garrett and Darcy offered no words, only a synchronized, acknowledging nod. They turned and departed, their silence more telling than any vow of success.
They did not meet in a gleaming throne room or a sterile command center. Garrett and Darcy descended into the bowels of the Holy Land, to a chamber known only as the 'Ashen Sepulcher.' It was a place of echoes and damp stone, where the light from flickering gas lamps fought a losing battle against the gloom. The air was cool and carried the faint, metallic tang of old blood and sea salt, a stark contrast to the perfumed halls above.
Here, the Fallen waited.
They were not a uniform unit. They were a collection of jagged pieces, each broken by the same system that now used them as its bluntest instruments.
Leaning against a damp wall, partially merged with the shadows, was Leander Cole. His jet-black hair was tied back, revealing the sharp lines of his face and the thin scar running from temple to jaw. His golden-amber eyes, with their vertical pupils, tracked Garrett and Darcy's entrance with a predator's lazy interest. He flexed his fingers, and for a moment, the tips seemed to darken and sharpen into black claws before returning to normal. The air around him felt still and heavy, like the calm before a pounce.
"The architects grace us with their presence," Leander murmured, his voice a low, measured purr. "I assume we're not here for a tea party."
"Your wit remains as sharp as your failed ambitions, Leander," a new voice answered. Esen Sturm stood apart from the others, his sandy-and-silver hair stirring in a breeze that didn't touch anyone else. His robes, embroidered with ancient Assyrian designs, seemed to shift and flow around him. Small, localized whirlwinds of dust danced around his boots. He smiled, a charismatic, zealous light in his piercing gray eyes. "The call would not come unless it was a matter of divine import. A chance to prove our worth to the true order."
From a stone bench, Elvira Jaeger watched them, her powerful arms crossed over her chest. She said nothing, but her sharp, calculating brown eyes, with their reptilian slits, missed nothing. Her stillness was not patient; it was the stillness of a coiled spring, of contained, explosive force. A faint, vertical scar through her left eyebrow stood as a pale testament to her own rejection.
"Worth?" a voice, both childish and ancient, seemed to emanate from the darkness near the ceiling. Alisa Copperfield was perched on a high ledge, her legs swinging idly. Her vibrant blue bob was a splash of impossible color in the gloom, her wide, unnerving grin a fixed feature on her face. "What a boring, straight-laced concept. We're here because the story is getting interesting, and they need the best plot-twist specialists in the business." She checked a pocket watch that hung from her pinafore dress, its hands spinning uselessly. "Ooh, we're late for something terribly important. Curiouser and curiouser."
Garrett stepped forward, his presence a quiet anchor. "The targets are Dracule Marya and Kuzan Aokiji. They are en route to Ohara. Our mission is terminal." He didn't need to elaborate. The finality in his tone was clear.
"Ohara," Esen breathed, his eyes glowing with fervor. "A place of heresy and failed ideologies. A fitting battleground to demonstrate the supremacy of our cause." Unconsciously, the papers on a nearby rusted table began to curl and tear at the edges from his radiating wind.
Leander uncoiled himself from the wall, a silent, fluid motion. "The daughter of Hawkeyes… I've always wondered how her fabled skills would fare against true adaptability." He glanced at the saber at his hip, Umbral Fang. "A worthy trophy for my collection."
Elvira finally spoke, her voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Trophies are secondary. The mission is primary. We move as one. We strike as one." Her gaze swept over them, a silent challenge to any who might prioritize personal glory over the kill. It was the ghost of the Knight she almost was, asserting itself.
Alisa giggled, the sound echoing strangely in the stone room. "Don't be such a stick-in-the-mud, Ellie. A good story needs memorable villains and dramatic duels! I'll make sure the setting is just right. A misty, forgotten island where reality is… flexible." She vanished from the ledge, reappearing an instant later sitting cross-legged on the floor, her wide eyes fixed on Garrett. "And what will your little friend be doing while we're all having fun?"
All eyes fell on the sword on Garrett's hip, Stinger. For a moment, it seemed to shiver, the segmented metal of its sheath shifting with a soft, insectoid chitter.
Garrett's hand went to its hilt, a gesture that was both protective and communicative. "Stinger and I," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "will ensure there are no loose ends. No witnesses. We will turn Ohara from a graveyard of knowledge into a tomb for fools."
A grim, unified understanding settled over the Ashen Sepulcher. The Fallen, rejected by the God's Knights, these masters of brutal strength, deceptive cunning, and fanatical zeal, were now a single, sharpened weapon, pointed directly at the heart of a legend and the ruins of a forgotten past. The hunt for Ohara had begun.
*****
The air on the deck of Haven-07 was a solid wall of chaos—the shriek of tearing metal, the concussive thump of distant explosions, and the panicked shouts of CUA personnel created a symphony of desperation. The massive platform groaned and tilted violently under another impact, forcing the group to slide and scramble for purchase on the rain-slicked metal. Caden, moving with the sure-footed grace of a man who danced with disaster for a living, pointed towards two waiting JFF Armored Frames. Their patchwork, battle-scarred hulls were a stark contrast to the pristine CUA Sentinels.
"Split up! Three and three!" Caden yelled over the din.
Bianca's eyes went wide, scanning the apocalyptic scene. "What about the sub? My tools—!"
Evander of the Crimson cut her off, his booming voice laced with impatience as he pointed a thick finger toward the edge of the platform. Two other JFF Frames were already lifting off, the familiar, whale-like form of the submarine securely cradled in a magnetic net between them. "Already taken care of! Now move!"
"Charlie, Bianca, with me!" Aurélie commanded without hesitation, her silver hair whipping around a face of cool determination. She and her two Consortium members sprinted after Caden towards his lean Storm Dancer.
Kuro gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod to Souta and Ember. "It seems we are with the crimson giant." The three Syndicate operatives fell in behind Evander towards the hulking Scarlet Marauder.
Their path was suddenly blocked as a thick, barbed tentacle, dripping with corrosive slime, slammed down from the chaos above, crushing a gun emplacement into scrap. Without a word, Aurélie and Kuro moved in perfect, synchronized violence. Anathema left its sheath in a black blur, its Haki-sharpened edge meeting the monstrous limb at the same moment Kuro's seastone claws raked deep, sizzling grooves into its hide. The tentacle recoiled with a pained shriek, severed and twitching.
A new, deafening alarm blared, its tone deeper and more urgent than any before. A synthesized voice boomed across the deck: "Alert. Typhon Class III breach. Starboard side."
Bianca ducked as a piece of shrapnel whizzed past her head. "Like, what is that?!"
Evander and Caden exchanged a single, grim look. "We need to hurry," Caden stated, his usual coolness strained.
The words were barely out of his mouth when a blinding beam of incandescent energy, fired from one of the battling Frames in the sky, sliced clean through a communications tower. The structure groaned, its metal skeleton screaming as it toppled into the churning, wine-dark sea. The impact sent a mountain of water crashing over the deck.
Aurélie's locust wings, a shimmering, semi-translucent blur, erupted from her back in a partial transformation, lifting her effortlessly above the deluge. Souta, with a flick of his wrist, summoned a massive ink-hawk that swooped down, its shadowy talons gently scooping up a giggling, clapping Ember just before the wave would have washed her away. "Wheee! Again, again!" she squealed.
For a heartbeat, Evander and Caden could only stare, their professional composure broken by the display of utterly alien abilities. Their pause was shattered by Bianca, who ran past them, yanking on Kuro's sleeve. "Come on! This looks, like, really bad!"
A screeching roar that seemed to tear the very fabric of the air itself pierced through the cacophony. The water on the starboard side bulged, then erupted as a true leviathan, the Class III Behemoth, began to breach the surface. Its sheer size was incomprehensible, a living island of jagged plates and writhing tentacles that made the platform beneath them feel like a child's toy. Haven-07 listed violently, metal screaming in protest.
"Move! Move! Move!" Evander roared, finally snapping into action. He and Caden scrambled up the access ladders of their respective Frames, the cockpits hissing open and then sealing shut behind them. "Get to the passenger seats below and strap in!" Caden's voice, filtered through the external comms, was a sharp crack of authority.
In the belly of the Storm Dancer, Charlie opened his mouth, no doubt to begin a pontification on the structural integrity of their vessel. "Ahem! The gravitational forces alone in an emergency ascent—"
"Not now, Charlie!" Bianca interrupted, her fingers flying as she tightened the complex harness around both of them, her knuckles white.
Through the cockpit canopy above, they heard Evander and Caden's voices, tight with strain. "Emergency takeoff! Skipping the checklist!" Buttons were slammed, and the two Armored Frames shuddered to life, their reactors whining with a building, urgent pitch.
A random, panicked voice crackled over the comms. "Ghost, this is Reaper Four, what's your status? The CUA command is in shambles—"
"Not now!" Caden snapped, his hands a blur over the controls. "We need to go, a Class III is about to sink the Haven-0-7!"
With a thunderous roar that drowned out even the Typhon, the two Frames blasted off the deck. The G-force shoved everyone back into their seats. Below, the colossal limb of the Behemoth slammed down exactly where they had been standing, crushing the deck into a twisted ruin of metal.
In the CUA command center, Commander Victor Keller could only watch, his face a mask of purple rage, as the two JFF scavengers and their stolen prizes vanished into the bruised, green-streaked sky. His fists clenched, his curses lost in the sound of his world falling apart.
Inside the Frames, as the initial crushing pressure subsided, a collective, shaky sigh of relief was exhaled. The frantic red of emergency lights was replaced by the soft glow of stable systems. Ember, strapped in beside Souta, clapped her hands. "So fun! Can we do it again?"
Then, they saw it. The view through the cockpit canopy and external cameras shifted from the tumultuous atmosphere to the profound, star-dusted blackness of space. Below them, the Typhon Cluster unfolded—a breathtaking tapestry of colossal space colonies shaped like rings and cylinders, connected by shimmering energy lines, all orbiting the swirling, monstrous gas giant Jörmungandr. It was a view of an entire civilization, a desperate empire clinging to existence in the void.
Bianca was the first to break the awed silence, her voice small. "So… like, where are we, like, going?"
Caden's voice came through the internal comms, calm and restored now that they were in their element. "Orphan's End. We can regroup there."
Another voice, the one from earlier, replied, "Copy that, sir. Course laid in. Rendezvous in five."
Caden let out a breath, a faint smile in his voice. "That's a good copy. Well done, team. Mission execution complete. Drinks are on Evander."
From the Scarlet Marauder, Evander's protest was immediate and loud. "But I already—!" he began, before sighing in defeat. He had already been committed.
Silence returned, filled only by the hum of the Frames' systems. The six strangers from the sea, two teams bound by secrets and a shared ordeal, stared out at the impossible vastness of their new reality, united for now, but sailing into an uncertain future at Orphan's End.
*****
The air on Ohara was thick, heavy with the scent of salt, damp earth, and the ghost of burnt paper. Ancient, skeletal ruins, their stones worn smooth by time and weather, pushed up through a suffocating blanket of vibrant green. Vines choked crumbling walls, and the cries of unfamiliar birds echoed from a jungle that had spent two decades reclaiming its space from cinders and ash.
Zola Newton pushed her glasses up her nose, the delicate frames smudged with a fresh fingerprint. She gestured with a sweeping, frustrated motion at the oppressive greenery. "Is she really coming here? Honestly. Look at this place. It's a graveyard with bad drainage and worse Wi-Fi. What possible intellectual draw could this hold, beyond a morbid case study in ecological reclamation?"
Near a cleared circle of stones, Emmet Pascal struck a match. The small flame flared, casting sharp angles across his face and setting his unruly red hair ablaze for a moment. He touched the fire to the kindling, his movements economical. "Celeste's and Natalie's last encrypted message was clear on the 'where,' but frustratingly vague on the 'why.' She's looking for something. And she isn't traveling alone." He glanced up, his sharp green eyes catching the worried look on a junior archivist's face. "Her companions are, by all accounts, formidable."
Jax Boone emerged from the tree line, his arms laden with dry driftwood. His muscular frame moved with a soldier's economy, his brown eyes constantly scanning the perimeter. "We aren't here to fight her," he stated, his voice a low rumble. He dropped the wood next to Emmet's nascent fire with a clatter. "She just needs to be reasoned with. Reminded of where she belongs."
Emmet let out a soft, breathy sound that wasn't quite a laugh. He carefully adjusted a log with the toe of his boot. "You still see the recruit from the training yards, Jax. I'm not sure that's the woman we're waiting for. The math has changed. New variables have been introduced."
Zola's head whipped around, her pink bun wobbling precariously. "What does that mean? New variables? Is this more of your cryptic probability talk, or do you have actual data?"
Jax opened his mouth, his expression grim, but the words never came.
A sharp whistle cut through the humid air, followed by a shout from a Consortium lookout perched high in the mossy bones of a broken tower. "Sails! Three Navy vessels on the horizon! Heading straight for the island!"
Jax cursed, a short, sharp, soldier's curse. His hand went to his belt, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, his three-sectioned staff snapped out to its full length, the Seastone tips glinting dully. "What in the seven hells are they doing here? This place is a condemned tomb."
On the lead Marine vessel, the polished deck gleamed under the weak sun. Admiral Casimir stood at the bow, the wind whipping his immaculate, ivory-white coat like a banner of arrogance. A silver quarter danced and rolled effortlessly over the knuckles of his right hand, a fluid, metallic whisper. He didn't turn, his voice cutting back over his shoulder, calm and cold as deep-sea ice.
"Prepare to disembark. Combat formation Alpha." A slow, maniacal grin stretched across his face, a stark contrast to his monotone. "It appears our little academic excursion has become so much more interesting. We have company."
Behind him, the two other Navy ships fell into a textbook-perfect flanking position, their hulls cutting through the water as they closed in on the cursed shore of Ohara. The air, already thick, now crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with the coming storm.