The descent into the palace's underbelly was a journey into the island's skeletal remains. The air grew thick and cool, smelling of old paper, dry rot, and the faint, metallic tang of forgotten machinery. Gordon led them with a lantern that cast long, dancing shadows, its light seeming to be swallowed by the profound darkness between the towering bookshelves. This was no cozy repository; it was a catacomb for knowledge, a vast, subterranean archive where silence had settled like a layer of ancient dust.
Finally, they reached a small clearing of space dominated by a massive, scarred wooden desk, an island in a sea of parchment and leather-bound tombs. Scrolls cascaded from its surface like frozen waterfalls, and a single, high-backed chair sat as a throne for a lonely scholar.
"This is where I have conducted my research," Gordon announced, his voice a low, reverent hum in the stillness. He moved with a practiced familiarity, reaching for a specific, yellowed sheet of parchment resting under a weight of tarnished brass. He handled it as if it were a holy relic. "This is the score. The key to our salvation."
Vesta was a shot from a cannon, her rainbow hair a streak of color in the monochrome gloom. She practically snatched the parchment from his hands, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and frantic curiosity. Mikasi, slung on her back, gave a soft, sympathetic hum.
"Well, songbird?" Atlas rumbled, leaning against a shelf that groaned in protest. "Can you actually read that ancient squiggle, or did we follow the nervous king on a tour of his dusty basement for nothing?"
Ignoring him, Vesta's eyes scanned the elegant, ink-staved lines. Her brow, initially furrowed in concentration, then puckered in confusion. "I can read the notes… but this…" She traced a finger below the staff, where the tempo marking should be. Instead of 'Allegro' or 'Largo', the instructions were written in a flowing, desperate script: "Con il peso di una nave che affonda" — With the weight of a sinking ship.
She looked up, baffled. "It says to play it 'with the weight of a sinking ship'."
Gordon gave a slow, grave nod, his large hands clasped. "It is the mystery I have never been able to solve. The emotion is prescribed, not the tempo. How does one play a feeling of utter finality?"
Vesta nodded, her enthusiasm dampened by the philosophical weight of the task. "It looks finished. The composition is complete. It should work…"
While Vesta was engrossed, Marya had drifted away from the desk, her golden eyes lifted upwards. The dim light from Gordon's lantern barely reached the vaulted ceiling, but it was enough to catch the edges of something etched into the dark stone. Faint, sprawling script, unlike any common language, coiled across the arches, almost hidden in the shadows. It reminded her of the Poneglyph rubbings in her mother's notebook—dense, historical, and secret.
Uta moved to stand beside her, following her gaze. She leaned close, her voice a whisper that tickled Marya's ear, a ghost of their childhood. "Reminds me of all those times your mom would drag us to those dusty old libraries. She'd get that look in her eyes… just like you have right now."
A faint, genuine smirk touched Marya's lips. "This library is small in comparison to the places she liked to go. She preferred places that felt… alive with history. This one just feels dead."
Uta's chuckle was soft, but it died quickly, her expression becoming somber. "I also remember when…" she began, her voice dropping even further. "I was so scared you wouldn't wake up. Your dad was so…" She trailed off, unable to find the word for the storm of silent fear that had surrounded Mihawk.
Marya's gaze didn't waver from the ceiling. "That was a long time ago," she said, her tone even, a practiced dismissal of old vulnerabilities. "Besides, I am wide awake now." She finally turned her head, her eyes cutting from the cryptic ceiling to Gordon, who was watching her and Vesta with a nervous, flickering intensity. Her voice was low, meant only for Uta. "Uta, how did you end up here with him?"
Uta opened her mouth, the truth a fragile, dangerous thing on her tongue, ready to be spoken into the oppressive silence.
But the moment shattered.
"I think I got it!" Vesta announced, her voice ringing with triumphant discovery, slicing through the tension and whatever confession was about to come. All eyes, including Gordon's profoundly relieved ones, snapped towards her.
---
The ghost of Captain Korsakov led them deeper, his translucent form the only source of light in the oppressive dark. The polished stone of the palace foundations gave way to rough-hewn rock, the air growing colder and carrying a strange, metallic hum that vibrated in their teeth.
"Where do you think he's leading us?" Eliane whispered, her voice small as she clung to Jannali's arm, her fingers tensed so tight they felt strained.
Galit's hand rested on the braided sinew of his whip, his emerald eyes scanning the narrowing tunnel. "It is unclear," he murmured, his voice tight. "But the construction is intentional. There is no way to find this place unless you know where it is. It was built to be hidden."
The subterranean passage suddenly opened, and the three of them stopped short at the threshold. The cavern was vast, but it was not a natural formation. It was a laboratory, a chilling fusion of science and sorcery that should not exist. The walls were lined with towering, crystalline cylinders, each one pulsing with a faint, sickly green light. A low, mechanical thrum filled the air, a sound utterly alien to the world above.
"Bloody hell," Jannali cursed, her usual easy-going demeanor vaporized by the sight.
Captain Korsakov paused, his spectral hand waving for them to continue, his expression grim.
Galit swallowed hard, the sound audible in the humming silence. "What does this mean? Who...?"
Jannali cut him off, her eyes fixed ahead. "This isn't what he wants to show us. This is just the foyer." Her voice was low, a mixture of dread and fierce determination.
They followed the ghost deeper into the nightmarish lab. The cylinders were not empty. Each one contained a single, suspended figure. At first, the faces were a blur, but as they moved further in, the horrific pattern became undeniable. Dozens of cylinders, each holding the same person. A young woman with signature white-and-crimson hair, her face peaceful in artificial sleep. Uta.
Eliane let out a small, choked sound. "Jannali," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why are there so many Uta's? And... and King Gordons?" She pointed to a row of cylinders containing the tall, balding man they had just eaten lunch with.
Jannali glanced down at the young chef, her face grim. "I don't know, little chef," she said softly, placing a reassuring hand on Eliane's shoulder. "But I suspect that's what our guide is about to tell us."
The lab evolved as they pressed on. The liquid-filled cylinders gave way to alcoves housing perfect, motionless mechanical replicas, their features crafted with an uncanny, soulless accuracy. It was a gallery of dolls, a factory of flesh and steel.
Finally, they reached the heart of the chamber. A single, massive cylinder, wider than the rest, stood as a central pillar, its dark glass opaque. Captain Korsakov floated before it, gesturing urgently with a shimmering hand towards its interior.
Jannali stopped, staring up at the colossal pod. A fresh, more profound curse escaped her lips. "I bet this is the real one," she breathed.
Galit moved to a nearby control panel, his fingers hovering over alien symbols. "The question is why?" he asked, his analytical mind struggling to process the scale of the horror. "What is all this doing down here? Why create an army of replicas?"
Captain Nikolaos 'Rhythm' Korsakov locked his piercing gray eyes on Jannali. His ghostly lips moved, forming silent words.
Jannali's own lips parted in understanding. "Tot Musica," she muttered.
The ghost nodded in grim affirmation.
"The what?" Galit snapped, looking back from the panel.
"The demon king," Jannali clarified, her voice hollow. "It's not just a story. It's controlling the king up there like a puppet on a string. And it's cloning Uta."
As if on cue, the Captain's spirit appeared directly beside Jannali, his presence casting a frosty chill. He leaned close, his whisper a freezing breeze that only she could hear, the information flowing directly into her mind. Jannali's eyes widened, the pieces snapping into a terrifying whole.
"She was resistant at first," Jannali translated, her voice gaining a horrified momentum. "Kept trying to escape. So the demon trapped her in a deep sleep down here and started cloning her, transferring her consciousness every time it failed to seize full control. Whenever a clone fails or dies... her consciousness just gets shunted to the next one in line."
Galit's face was a mask of cold fury. "That explains the empty cylinders we passed."
Eliane sniffled, tears welling in her large blue eyes. "So... the Uta upstairs... she's a clone? And she's trapped? She can't ever really leave?"
Jannali placed a consoling hand on Eliane's shoulder. "That's what it looks like, little chef."
"But she's so nice!" Eliane cried, her voice cracking with emotion. "We have to help her!"
Captain Korsakov shook his head, a gesture of profound sorrow and warning. Jannali looked from the ghost to her friends. "Our ghost friend here... he and his crew, they're the island's guardians. They didn't cause the haunting; they're containing it. They've been able to trap the demon king here, to suppress its influence so it can't spread across the whole world."
Galit nodded slowly, the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place. "That explains the eerie silence. It's not the absence of sound. It's a quarantine."
Jannali stepped forward, her gaze locked with the spectral Marine Captain. Her expression was hard, her accent sharp with intent. "Alright, mate. The penny's dropped. We see the whole rotten picture. Now, what is it you want from us? What do you want us to do?"
*****
The deep, industrial groan of the Stubborn Mule's landing gears engaging was a welcome sound after the tense silence of the final approach. The freighter settled into its berth with a final, metallic sigh, the deck plates vibrating beneath their feet. Through the main viewport, the world of Káto Lávyrinthos unfolded—a stark, brutalist landscape carved from a billion tons of grey rock.
The docking bay was a cavernous space, its ceiling lost in shadows thick with industrial smog. Harsh, white work-lamps cast jagged pools of light, leaving the deeper recesses to cling to their darkness. The air that seeped into the cabin was a gritty cocktail of tastes and smells: the iron-rich tang of raw ore, the acrid bite of engine exhaust, and the flat, recycled staleness common to all deep-space habitats. A fine, grey dust—Lunar-Ceramite, the lifeblood and curse of this moon—already began to settle on every surface, soft and insidious as frost.
In the cockpit, Bianca Yvonne Clark yanked her magnifying goggles down onto her forehead, leaving a grimy ring around her eyes. "Okay, people. We are, like, officially parked. Try not to track too much moon-gunk into the ship, yeah?" Her hands, stained with grease and sporting chipped, neon-green nail polish, danced across the console, shutting down primary systems with a practiced, if chaotic, rhythm.
Beside her, Emily Nary unclasped the safety webbing, her movements serene but her storm-grey eyes taking in the oppressive vista with a visible weight. The constant, low-frequency thrum of the moon's machinery was, to her, a deafening chorus of strain and ancient pain. Souta, who had chosen a seat at the rear of the cockpit, observed everything. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, missed nothing—from the way Emily's fingers tightened on her armrest to the specific patterns of the rust streaking the bay walls. He said nothing, the silence itself a form of commentary.
Over the ship's comms, Tony Nutter's voice crackled with forced bravado. "Finally! My beauty sleep's been calling my name for six sectors."
A moment later, his brother Peter's more measured tone cut in, "Your 'beauty sleep' is a lost cause, Tony. Just get the manifest ready."
Before the ramp had even finished lowering, Tony was on his feet, pulling a compact communicator from his pocket. He turned his back in a move so transparently covert it was almost charming. "The, uh, cargo is secure. The Mule has landed. ETA to your location is five minutes. Copy." He snapped the device shut with a flourish.
Peter threw his hands up in despair. "A secret call? You might as well have painted a sign, you idiot! Now everyone knows we're making a secret call!"
"Relax, Pete! It's just professional courtesy!" Tony shot back, puffing out his chest. "Unlike some people, I maintain my business relationships."
Their bickering formed a comedic backdrop to the far more tense conversation unfolding in the main hold.
Charlie Leonard Wooley adjusted his wire-framed glasses, his expression one of academic fascination. "Ahem! So, to be perfectly clear," he began, clearing his throat with a sharp ahem. "You have no recollection of the events on Styx? No sensory triggers, no lingering emotional impressions? The entire episode is simply a… a blank slate in your cognitive archive?"
Ember, looking small and fragile amidst her tactical gear and soot-streaked Lolita dress, shook her head. Her neon-pink hair seemed dulled. "It's just… dark. Then I was in the market, and everything was loud and…." She plucked at the charred plush rabbit, Mr. Cinders, tied to her waist.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko stood with her usual poised stillness, a stark contrast to the chaotic environment. Her silver hair was a splash of light in the gloom, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of Anathema. She turned her steel-grey gaze to Kuro. "A market does not explain a psychological break. What was the catalyst?"
Kuro, looking every bit the annoyed academic in his charcoal suit, adjusted his spectacles with a gloved palm. "As I have stated, we were procuring supplies. The environment was crowded. Then she became agitated. There was no single event." His voice was a study in controlled irritation, a man forced to explain the irrational to those he considered intellectually sluggish.
"Agitated?" Aurélie repeated, her voice dangerously soft. "She assaulted a CUA security outpost. 'Agitated' is for children who have missed a nap."
"Maybe there's, like, a smell or a sound that flips the switch?" Bianca suggested, leaning out from the cockpit doorway, her multitool-holster creaking. "Brains are, like, super weird computers. Sometimes you just gotta find the corrupted file."
Before anyone could dissect the metaphor further, the main ramp hissed fully open, revealing the vast, noisy expanse of the Káto Lávyrinthos dock. The Nutter brothers, still bickering, were the first to march down into the gritty haze.
The rest of the group rose to follow, a collection of wary, mismatched allies stepping into the moon's oppressive embrace. The sound was immense—a symphony of clanging machinery, the distant roar of rock-crushers, and the ever-present groan of the moon itself.
And then, they saw him.
Standing at perfect attention just beyond the ramp, flanked by two CUA soldiers in crisp grey armor, was a man who embodied military authority. He had an imposing stature, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his immaculate CUA officer's uniform, which was adorned with custom, polished pauldrons. His hair was cropped short, and his dark eyes held an intensity that seemed to physically push against the chaos of the dock.
Josiah Manos.
The reaction was instantaneous and unified. Every member of the crew, from the bickering Nutter brothers to the stoic Aurélie and the calculating Kuro, froze. The air, already thick, became solid. Here was not a faceless bureaucrat or a black-market broker, but a named, known blade of the CUA—an "Elite CUA pilot," the "Honorable Soldier" himself, standing at their disembarkation point.
Tony Nutter's jaw went slack. Peter instinctively took a half-step back, his hand twitching as if for a flight manual that wasn't there. Bianca's stream of "likes" died in her throat. Charlie let out a small, undignified squeak. Aurélie's grip on Anathema tightened, her knuckles bleaching. Souta's critical gaze sharpened, reassessing the entire chessboard in a single, furious moment. Next to him, Emily went very still, her empathic senses recoiling from Josiah's aura of rigid, unyielding discipline.
Only Kuro's reaction was internal, a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes. His plan, already fractured by Ember's instability, now faced a direct confrontation with CUA martial authority.
Josiah's eyes swept over them, a commander inspecting a troop of unruly recruits. His voice, when it came, was calm, deep, and carried the weight of unquestioned command through the industrial din.
"Welcome to Káto Lávyrinthos," he said, his tone devoid of welcome. "I am here to personally oversee the transfer of Nash Weiner's cargo. Let's not waste time."
If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider giving Dracule Marya Zaleska a Power Stone! It helps the novel climb the rankings and get more eyes on our story!
Thank you for sailing with us! 🏴☠️ Your support means so much!
Want to see the Dreadnought Thalassa blueprints? Or unlock the true power of Goddess Achlys?
Join the Dracule Marya Zaleska crew on Patreon to get exclusive concept art, deep-dive lore notes, and access to our private Discord community! You make the New World adventure possible.
Become a Crewmate and Unlock the Lore:
https://patreon.com/An1m3N3rd?utm_medium=unknown&utm_source=join_link&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=copyLink
Thanks so much for your support and loving this story as much as I do!