The Grand Line's evening air was thick with salt and the day's fading warmth, the sea a rolling plain of darkening indigo beneath a sky smeared with orange and purple. The Marine vessel cut a steady path through the swells, a floating fortress of white and blue. On its main deck, a scene of profound tranquility clashed with the ship's martial purpose.
Admiral Issho, known to the world as Fujitora, sat cross-legged on a simple mat, a picture of concentrated serenity. Before him, a steaming, oversized bowl of ramen sat on the polished deck. He held his shikomizue—the sword-cane that was both his weapon and guide—propped against his shoulder, its presence as natural as a limb. With a pair of chopsticks in hand, he navigated the bowl with an ease that belied his sightless eyes. Each deliberate movement—the careful gathering of noodles, the gentle blow to cool a mouthful, the satisfied hum that rumbled in his chest—was a small, deliberate ceremony. The rich, savory aroma of pork broth and scallions created a tiny, defiant bubble of domestic comfort amid the vast, duty-bound ocean.
This peace was shattered by a thunder of boots on the gangway. A young marine, his face pale as fresh sailcloth and slick with a cold sweat, skidded to a halt before the Admiral, his uniform disheveled from his frantic sprint. He gasped for air, the sound ragged and loud in the quiet space.
"A-Admiral! Admiral, sir!"
Fujitora didn't stop eating. He brought another bundle of noodles to his lips, slurping them with audible appreciation before speaking, his voice a low, weathered gravel. "The deck is not for running, Lieutenant. You'll scuff the wood and disturb the cook's excellent broth. Now, breathe. Then speak."
The marine, a man named Kaito, forced himself to stand at attention, though his shoulders trembled. "W-we have an urgent distress call, sir! Priority Alpha! It's… it's from a Celestial Dragon vessel!"
The chopsticks in Fujitora's hand paused mid-air for the briefest moment. The only sign of his reaction was a slight tightening of his knuckles. He set the chopsticks across the rim of the bowl with a soft click. "Well? Out with it. Is our 'god' complaining that his champagne is insufficiently bubbly, or has a seagull dared to defile his gilded rail?" The dryness in his tone could have seasoned the sea itself.
"No, sir! It's a Mayday. The vessel, the Divine Entitlement, is shipwrecked. They've run aground on Lagoonia Island."
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the sigh of the wind in the rigging and the distant cry of a News Coo. Fujitora's head tilted a fraction, as if he were listening to a frequency only he could hear. The name seemed to hang in the air, as tangible and cold as a sudden fog.
"Lagoonia…" Fujitora mused, his blind eyes seeming to stare through the ship's mast toward some internal chart. "That is a… sovereign's territory. In the heart of the Paradise half of the Grand Line. A place where even the Log Pose needles get nervous and point in circles to avoid it. Not even the Emperors, in all their territorial squabbling, dare to plant their flags or challenge its master. A restricted region by ancient accord and sheer, terrifying reputation."
Kaito nodded vigorously, then remembered his audience and stammered, "Y-yes, sir! The navigator confirmed it. The call was weak, broken… but the coordinates are unmistakable. Lagoonia."
Fujitora let out a long, slow breath that was more sigh than respiration. He reached up and stroked his bearded chin, the rough sound of his calloused fingers against the whiskers strangely loud. "A Celestial Dragon," he murmured, almost to himself, "a self-proclaimed 'creator of the world,' shipwrecked like common flotsam on the shores of a true Sovereign's domain. How… poetically problematic." The word 'problematic' carried the weight of a coming storm. It meant political cataclysm. It meant the very real possibility of a war that could drag the Marines between the anvil of the World Nobles' wrath and the hammer of an unknown, Emperor-level power.
"W-what are your orders, sir?" Kaito's voice was a tight wire of anxiety.
Fujitora moved. In one fluid motion, he rose to his full, imposing height, the purple folds of his yukata and cloak settling around him like the wings of a great, settling bird. He placed his bowl carefully to the side, ensuring not a drop of the precious broth was spilled—a small, telling act of respect for the simple things. He planted his shikomizue firmly on the deck, his hands resting on its pommel.
"Change course," he said, his voice no longer dry but forged iron, quiet and absolute. "Set a heading for Lagoonia Island. Maximum safe speed."
The order hit Kaito like a physical blow. His eyes widened. "But, sir! The regulations, the sovereign waters… Fleet Admiral Sakazuki's standing orders regarding unauthorized incursions into—"
"Lieutenant."
Fujitora did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. The single word, sharp and final, cut through the young marine's panic like his own blade. The Admiral's sightless gaze pinned Kaito in place. "Do I need to repeat myself? A life—however reprehensible its owner may be—has issued a distress call. We are the Marines. Our justice may be a tangled vine, but at its root is a duty to protect. Even," he added, the ghost of his earlier dryness returning, "from the consequences of their own monumental stupidity. Or would you prefer to explain to the Five Elders that we left their cherished 'Saint' to the mercies of a power that does not recognize their bubbles?"
The image was a potent one. Kaito's face cycled from white to a sickly green. He snapped a perfect, trembling salute. "N-no, sir! Course for Lagoonia, maximum speed! Right away, Admiral!"
As Kaito scurried off, his shouts to the helmsman and navigator cracking with urgency, the deck of the ship erupted into controlled chaos. Sailors scrambled like ants, shouting coordinates, hauling on lines, the great vessel groaning as it began its ponderous turn towards the deeper, darker stretches of the New World.
Fujitora stood unmoved at the center of the storm, a mountain in a gale. He turned his face toward the bow, where the first stars were beginning to prick the twilight. He could not see the dreaded outline of Lagoonia on the horizon, but he could feel its pull—a heavy, ominous magnet in the world's fabric. He could smell the change in the air, the scent of the familiar Grand Line giving way to something older and wilder.
"A sovereign who frightens Emperors," he mumbled, a grim, humorless smile touching his lips. "And a 'god' who has forgotten he can drown. What a delightful mess to walk into." With a soft tap of his cane, he turned and walked calmly toward his quarters, the shouts of his crew and the groan of the ship fading into a backdrop for his own silent thoughts. The bowl of half-finished ramen, forgotten and cooling on the deck, was the last testament to the peace of the evening, now irrevocably broken by the pride of the heavens and the secrets of the deep.
*****
The air above the Sovereign Territory's border waters was a sharp, clean blue, scoured by winds that carried the distant, iron-like scent of glacial ice from the north. The Black Revenge, a vision of maritime menace with its black hull and blood-red sails, cut a silent path through the choppy grey sea. At the prow, a figure stood as still as a figurehead, her silver battle-braid tapping a quiet rhythm against her shoulder.
Captain Jeanne "La Lionne" de Clisson rested her palms on the cold railing, her amber eyes scanning the horizon line where the jurisdiction of the World Government ended and the domain of Grutte Pier Dorian began. This was a line drawn not on maps, but in understood fear and old power. The only sounds were the sigh of the waves against the hull, the creak of the rigging, and the low hum she sometimes made—an old Bret Sea shanty about drowned bells.
The calm was broken not by a shout, but by the measured, heavy tread of armored sandals on oak. Vitus Quinctilius Varo approached, his modified lorica segmentata clicking with a soldier's metronome rhythm. He stopped a precise three paces behind her starboard side, his elongated arms folded behind his back. His voice, when it came, was a dry recitation, a report to a commanding officer.
"Captain. We have received verified reports from the border lookout snails. A shipwreck has occurred."
Jeanne didn't turn. She watched a distant albatross tilt on the wind. "And this is relevant to our patrol because, Varo? Ships founder every day. The sea is a graveyard with better scenery." A trace of annoyance, like a lemon rind in wine, sharpened her tone.
Before Varo could deliver his methodically prepared assessment of why it was, in fact, critically relevant, a thunder of footfalls shook the deck. William Fitz-Alyn, a mountain of muscle and wild red hair, bounded up the companionway with the force of a launched catapult. He skidded to a halt, his great chest heaving, the iron greaves on his shins screeching against the deck.
"Captain! Big news!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the sails. "We just got word! There's a shipwrecked vessel!"
Jeanne's eye twitched, a tiny tic beneath the scar on her cheek. She slowly turned her head, her gaze sliding from the horizon to Varo's stoic face, then to William's excited one. A deep, weary sigh escaped her. "Yes. The Chief Tactician just informed me. Thank you for the echoing confirmation, William."
William's bearded face scrunched in confusion, then indignation. He loomed over Varo, though the Long-Arm man didn't flinch. "Well, you should've told her faster! That's time-sensitive loot just sitting there!"
Varo's head rotated with the slow, disdainful grace of a tower-mounted cannon. "First," he intoned, his Latinate accent frosting the word, "the priority is identification, not 'loot.' Second, my report follows protocol. It is not a… barked alert."
"A barked alert gets the hunt started!" William shot back, leaning down so they were nose-to-chin. "Your 'protocol' would have us filing a report while the good timber sinks!"
Jeanne's patience, a thin parchment stretched over a furnace of vengeance, finally tore. "ENOUGH!" she snarled, the sound carrying the rasp of a cutlass being drawn. Both men stiffened. "Why, by every storm in the New World, should I care about one more splintered hull? We are border-wardens for the Cross of the North, not salvage divers!"
William opened his mouth, but Varo, straightening his spine to its full, rigid length, beat him to it. "Captain, the analysis of the wreckage's markings indicates—" he began, his voice the calm before the storm.
"IT'S A WORLD GOVERNMENT SHIP!" William blurted out, unable to contain himself. He grinned, a fierce, wild thing. "And it was transporting a Celestial Dragon! Can you believe the luck? A stranded 'god'!"
The words hung in the salty air.
Varo closed his sightless eyes and brought a long-fingered hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his armor emitting a soft groan of protest. "That… was the next point in my briefing," he muttered, the ghost of the Three Lost Fleets seeming to haunt his shoulders.
Every other sound on the Black Revenge vanished. The crew frozen in their tasks. The wind itself became motionless, the sails going limp. Jeanne de Clisson became utterly still, a statue of coiled fury. Then, she moved. She turned fully, and the air around her grew cold. Her voice, when it came, was a low, terrible thing, quieter than a whisper but cutting deeper than any shout.
"A Celestial Dragon," she repeated. The words were not a question. They were a curse, a verdict, a promise. She took one step toward her officers, her boot heel striking the deck like a gavel. "A Celestial Dragon. Wrecked. And you two were bickering about protocol and loot?" Her volume exploded. "WHY DIDN'T YOU LEAD WITH THAT?!"
William had the sense to look abashed, shuffling his enormous feet. Varo merely bowed his head a fraction. "The details required confirm—"
"The detail is that a child of the 'gods' who think the ocean is their bathwater is sitting in the drink!" Jeanne cut him off, her amber eyes blazing. She paced, a lioness in a cage of her own rage. "Where?" she demanded, whirling back. "Where is this fortunate wreck?"
"Lagoonia!" William interjected, eager to redeem himself. "The Eightfold Atoll."
Jeanne stopped pacing. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, devoid of any warmth. "Lagoonia," she breathed, savoring the word. "The sovereign islands under the watch of the Black Tortoise. The Celestial Dragons think their holy bubbles let them float over every border, into every sea." Her hand went to the lioness-tooth necklace at her throat. "They have just sailed their gilded barge into the wrong damn waters. This isn't a rescue mission. This is a teaching moment. We will show them that in these seas, even gods can drown, and their actions have… consequences."
"Orders, Captain?" William asked, his own fierce grin returning, his hand drifting to the hilt of the living sword, 'Lion-Trap,' at his hip. The blade seemed to shiver in its scabbard in anticipation.
Varo let out a short, sharp breath. "She has already issued the strategic directive, you long-legged alarm bell. We change course. Immediately."
Jeanne gave a single, sharp nod, her mind racing ahead of the ship. "How long?"
Varo's head tilted, his Future Sight Haki not for combat, but for calculating currents, winds, and the stubborn flow of time. "With this wind? A few hours. Perhaps less if we risk the shoals near the Atoll's southern teeth."
"Good," Jeanne said, her voice dropping back into a controlled, deadly calm. She turned and strode toward her cabin, her crimson coat flaring behind her like a battle standard. "That gives me time. I need to make a call."
As the Black Revenge came alive with shouted orders and the groan of timbers turning hard to starboard, the two officers were left on the deck. William elbowed Varo in the ribs, a gesture that clanged against his armor. "See? Barked alert. Gets the hunt started."
Varo didn't deign to look at him, his milky eyes fixed on the new horizon ahead—a horizon that now held the scent of vengeance, political dynamite, and the sweet, salty chance to make a 'god' bleed. "First, we intercept," he murmured to himself, the strategist in him already laying out the grim steps to come. "Second, we isolate. Third… we see if a dragon can scream."
*****
The air on the deck of the Dreadnought Thalassa was not still, but it was a silence of a different kind—the heavy, watchful quiet of the Calm Belt. The great submarine, a leviathan of lost history, floated like a slumbering beast upon water so flat it gleamed like polished obsidian, mirroring the bruised purples and oranges of a late afternoon sky. Aurélie Nakano Takeko stood at the forward rail, her long silver hair barely stirring in the windless air, a stark, monochrome figure against the impossible scale of her surroundings. The ship's black, hull rose behind her, a cliff-face of ancient alloy, still weeping condensation from its dive. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water against the seamless metal and the distant, mournful cry of some unseen sea creature far below.
In her hand, a Den Den Mushi yawned, its shell painted in the Consortium's subtle, starfield pattern. It blinked sleepily, then contorted its features into a precise, matronly frown.
"An extraordinary experience indeed, Aurélie," came the voice of Nanette Ellington, rendered tinny by distance but no less sharp. The snail's expression perfectly mimicked her composed, calculating gaze.
Aurélie's steel-gray eyes were fixed on the horizon where sea met sky in a seamless, daunting line. "We are very happy to be back on the Blue Sea," she recited, her tone even and professional, the words feeling both true and insufficient. "And to have followed through with our mission. The connection with Marya has been established."
Another shift. The snail's face puffed out, its features hardening into the familiar, rugged scowl of Knox Penrose, Captain of the Guards. "About Marya," his gruff voice crackled. "What's her state?"
Aurélie's fingers, resting on the cool pommel of Anathema at her hip, twitched slightly. "She is as you would expect. She will not adjust her stance. She intends to follow through with her objective."
The snail emitted a low, rumbling grunt. "That is…"
"Of course she won't be swayed from her objective!" The snail's face transformed again, eyes widening with impatient energy, taking on the lively, weathered contours of Master Gaius Vesper. "We know as much! The question isn't her stubbornness, it's our own necks! We should be considering what our role will be in this, not stating the obvious!"
"Master Gaius," Nanette's voice cut back in, the snail's expression smoothing into chilly authority. "She is inadvertently uncovering secrets that have been lost to us for a millennium," Nanette's voice reasoned through the snail. "Secrets we never even knew existed. I would rather we be the benefactors of her exploits. Otherwise, we run the risk of…"
"But is that wise?" Knox's image reappeared, interrupting. The snail's brow furrowed deeply. "Maybe some secrets are buried for a reason. Maybe the soil over them should stay undisturbed."
"Haven't you been paying attention?!" Gaius's voice snapped back, the snail's tiny face turning red with frustration. "If she's finding them, they're no longer lost! The dirt's already flying! If we want to be in the know—and not let that information or, seas forbid, the technology fall into the wrong hands—we have to be in the trench with her!"
Aurélie sensed the conversation spiraling into a familiar, cyclical argument. She cleared her throat softly, a sound that was not her usual poetic hesitation but a tactical redirect. "Should our mission objective be adjusted, then? Provide support and report findings as they come, to allow you to follow up independently."
"Yes." Nanette's reply was immediate and final, cutting off the brewing retort from Knox. The snail's gaze was unwavering. "Before the other two could speak, yes. Keep us in the loop as she continues her quest. Do your best to… deter her from causing a cataclysm. Manage the chaos."
Aurélie gave a single, sharp nod. "Understood. We are currently en route to Lagoonia and Gora-Gora Island. I will…"
"What did you just say?" Knox's voice boomed, the Den Den Mushi's eyes bulging. He didn't wait for a reply. "Gora-Gora? That's Sovereign Grutte Pier Dorian's territory."
Aurélie's lips pressed into a thin line. A new variable. "Is that a problem?"
A long, static-filled sigh emanated from the snail. "Sovereign Grutte Pier Dorian is one of the Sovereigns, meaning he is…"
"A dangerous guy with a short temper and a long memory," Gaius Vesper's voice piped up, the snail adopting a look of exaggerated warning. "So stay on his good side. If he has a good side. Probably doesn't."
"How can you be so cavalier?!" Knox's image sputtered.
"Do you really think they're going to stop and turn around just because you say 'oooh, scary man'?" Gaius shot back, the snail's face now a perfect mimicry of his incredulous smirk.
"Enough." Nanette's tone was like a shard of ice, silencing the bickering. The snail's features settled into her cool, unreadable mask. "Aurélie. You have your mission objective. Safe travels, and welcome back to the Blue Sea. We look forward to your next report. Ellington out."
The connection severed with a soft click. The Den Den Mushi's face went slack, returning to its natural, dopey expression before it retracted into its shell with a sleepy snuffle.
Aurélie stood motionless for a long moment, the weight of the silent device in her hand feeling suddenly immense. She placed it carefully in a pouch on her belt. Her gaze swept over the endless, placid sea of the Calm Belt. No currents. No wind. A nautical purgatory.
"Sovereign Grutte Pier Dorian," she murmured to the empty air. The title meant nothing to her. It sounded like a character from one of the overwrought epic poems she secretly devoured—a name meant to be bellowed by a chorus. Yet Knox's concern had been real, Gaius's warning flippant but grounded. A Sovereign. In the hierarchy of the Blue Sea, that was a power separate from Marines and Emperors, a title that spoke of ancient pacts and singular, terrifying authority.
She leaned her elbows on the cool railing, the worn leather of her tactical corset creaking softly. Should she tell the others? She had nothing but a name and a vague sense of threat from men who were safe in their hidden library. Spreading unspecified fear was worse than useless. It was poor leadership.
The sound of a hatch clanging open broke her reverie. A head of hair the color of a tropical bird market—vibrant pinks, blues, and greens—popped up from the stairwell leading to the interior.
"Hey!" Vesta Lavana sang out, her bright violet eyes scanning the deck before landing on Aurélie. "Food's ready! You better eat now before Jelly takes it all. He's already forming a secondary stomach. I think. It's hard to tell with the wobbling."
Aurélie's hand instinctively went to the hilt of Anathema, a gesture that was both protective and habitual. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Coming," she said, her voice regaining its usual steady timber. "That bottomless pit of a jellyfish is a worthy adversary at meal times. I shall require a strategy."
Vesta grinned, her rainbow hair catching the dimming light as she disappeared back below with a flutter of her colorful sleeves. Aurélie took one last look at the horizon where their path lay, the name 'Grutte Pier Dorian' settling in her mind like a hidden blade. Then, squaring her shoulders, she followed the sound of clattering cutlery and Jelly Squish's infectious, echoing giggle, descending from the tense silence of the deck into the chaotic, living heart of the ship.
*****
The Calm Belt lived up to its name, a vast, silent desert of glassy water that stretched to every horizon, broken only by the occasional spine of a drifting sea king. Through this unnatural stillness, their retrofitted submarine cut a path of pathetic struggle. It was less a vessel and more a wounded metal whale, its outer hull patched with mismatched plating that groaned with every labored push of its overtaxed engines. Inside, the air tasted of recycled sweat, stale sea rations, and the sharp, metallic hint of anxiety.
On the cramped forward deck, the crew of the retrieval team gathered, each reacting to their slow-motion approach in their own way.
Jannali Bandler leaned over the rust-spotted railing, her stylish headscarf fluttering slightly in the sluggish, warm breeze. Her large, expressive brown eyes were narrowed, scanning the green smudge of Lagoonia as it grew from a line on the horizon into a chain of low, palm-fringed atolls surrounding a brilliant turquoise lagoon. She squinted, "Would you look at that," she muttered, her voice carrying the distinctive, melodic cadence of an accent. "A proper tropical postcard, that is. But my ears are itch'n… the wind's whisperin' someth'n dodgy." Then, pointed a toned arm. "What the bloody hell is a World Government tub doing all the way out here?" she muttered, her accent clipping the words. "This is the back arse end of Paradise. Doesn't make a lick of sense."
Beside her, Atlas Acuta crossed his broad arms, his rust-red fur spotted like a leopard's in the harsh sunlight. He didn't even bother to look at the ship. His sapphire-blue eyes, slit-pupilled and faintly glowing with restrained energy, were fixed on the island itself, assessing it like a predator gauging a new hunting ground. "Does it matter?" he rumbled, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "We just need to snatch the fruit-holder up and bring him with us. Simplicity."
Jannali shot him a look, crossing her own arms and tapping one of her large golden hoop earrings. "And how d'you think that's gonna go, genius? Waltzin' up to a bloke and sayin', 'G'day, fancy a kidnapping?' He'll scream for the Marines before you can say 'Sulong.'"
Leaning against the railing a few feet away, Marya Zaleska let out a soft breath that wasn't quite a laugh. She was a study in casual contrast to the tropical setting: her signature leather jacket, emblazoned with the faded Jolly Roger of the Heart Pirates, was unzipped over a simple grey shirt. Her denim shorts and tall combat boots were practical, but the way she rested her chin on her folded arms was almost peaceful. "If I tell him we can give him a ride home…" she offered, her voice calm and low, her gaze distant and observant.
"Home?" Jannali scoffed. "We're in a leakin' tin can with nine hours of air, love. Our 'home' is a busted dreadnought sippin' battery juice in a sea of monsters. Not exactly a sellin' point."
Eliane Anđel was kicking her feet, her practical boots scuffing the air. Her silvery hair, tied in a high ponytail, streamed behind her like a banner. She had her eyes closed, face tilted to the sun, inhaling deeply. "I can smell it from here. Lagoonia… there's turmeric, smoked paprika, ghost peppers, and… overripe mango? Their market must be incredible." Her hands, small and nimble, flexed with a chef's restless energy.
The mood was suddenly, violently, interrupted by a flash of color and a dramatic strum. Vesta Lavana struck a pose by the hatchway, her rainbow-colored hair a vibrant shock against the drab metal. She held her guitar, Mikasi, which today had chosen the form of a sleek, pearlescent ukulele. "This place looks perfect for a—" she began, her voice soaring with theatrical potential.
"Ah, hell no, mate!" Jannali cut in, waving a hand without turning. "We are not stayin' long enough for all that poncin' about!"
Vesta was undeterred, her bright violet eyes sparkling. She floated over, the small Sky Islander wings on her back—visible only when she was immersed in music—giving an excited little flutter. "It's all about the venue! You shop, I perform! We can draw a crowd, maybe get some local berries, trade for supplies with the power of song! I've been workshopping a new ballad, 'Ode to a Calm Belt Breeze,' it's got a real melancholic bridge—"
Atlas let out a short, genuine chuckle, a rough sound like grinding stones. "Songbird, the only crowd you'll draw is the one forming a lynch mob. Pipe down."
Their bickering was pierced by a small, curious voice. "What kind of ship is that?"
Everyone turned. Eliane Anđel was perched on the edge of the deck, her petite frame almost swallowed by her oversized white chef's jacket. She was kicking her booted feet over the side, watching the water blur beneath them. Beside her, Jelly Squish had molded his gelatinous blue body into the shape of a giant eyepiece, his cartoonish face pressed against his own translucent flesh as he cooed at the silhouettes of curious fish keeping pace with the sub. "Bloop! Fast friends!" he giggled.
Eliane wasn't looking at the fish. She was pointing a small, flour-dusted finger toward the lagoon's main entrance, where a long, straight stone pier jutted out from the main islet of Fongafale.
Following her finger, the crew's banter died.
Docked side-by-side in an uneasy truce were two vessels. One was a Navy warship, its hull pristine white, the blue seagull of the World Government stark and authoritative on its sails. It sat in the water with bureaucratic arrogance. Moored next to it, like a mangy dog chained to a purebred hound, was a pirate ship. Its hull was patched with mismatched timber, its sails faded and torn, sporting a Jolly Roger of a Lion with a Red Mane.
Marya's calm demeanor hardened. "Damn it," she cursed, the word quiet but sharp. "That's a Navy ship."
Atlas groaned, rolling his neck until it cracked. "What the hell are they doing here? A backwater like this?"
"Look there," Jannali said, her voice losing its sarcastic edge and gaining a tracker's focus. "That's a pirate flag. Not a big-league one, but still. Something's got both cats in the same bag, and they're not scratchin' each other's eyes out. That's a worry."
Vesta leaned far over the rail, her multicolored hair falling like a curtain. "Do you think they like music?" she asked, genuine curiosity in her tone. "A Navy choir? A pirate shanty? The cultural exchange could be—"
Atlas cocked a brow at her, his tufted lynx-like ears twitching. "I don't think we should find out, Song Bird. Last time I checked, Marines arrest pirates, and pirates sink Marines. There's no third option for a concert."
Marya pushed off the railing, her movement decisive. She gave the conflicting ships one last, long look, her golden eyes—so like her father's—missing nothing: the lack of activity on the Navy deck, the handful of figures lounging on the pirate ship, the general tense stillness hanging over the port. "I agree," she said, her tone leaving no room for debate. "We need to get what we came for and get out." She turned and made for the hatch leading back into the groaning interior of the submarine. "I'll find us some place secluded to dock. Everyone, get ready. Jannali, Atlas, Eliane, Vesta—the market is your priority. Find food, fresh water, medical supplies, anything that isn't bolted down. Be quick, be quiet."
As she disappeared inside, the others were left on the deck. The silence was filled by the submarine's pained metallic sighs and the gentle lap of the Calm Belt's unnervingly placid water against the hull.
Jannali let out a long breath, glancing at the shopping list materializing in her mind. "Right. A food run. In a town with a Marine garrison and a pirate crew on shore leave. What could possibly go wrong?"
Eliane, however, had a different focus. Her blue eyes were wide, not with fear, but with burgeoning excitement. She clutched the straps of her small satchel, already imagining the scents of a foreign market. "I heard they grow a special swamp taro here… and the fish! Fresh lagoon fish, right from the water! Oh, I hope they have spicy peppers!"
Vesta strummed a hopeful chord on Mikasi, who vibrated softly in agreement. "I'll find the rhythm of the marketplace," she declared. "Music is the universal currency!"
Atlas merely smirked, his hand resting on the collapsed form of his seastone mace, Stormclaw, at his hip. "You all have your fun. I'll make sure the fun doesn't get interrupted." His gaze drifted back to the idle pirate ship, a competitive fire igniting in his eyes. "Might even see if any of those sea-scum are worth the time."
Below, Jelly finally pulled himself from his piscine reverie, reshaping into his default wobbly humanoid form. He blinked his starry eyes at Eliane. "Food run? Do they have… jelly?" he asked, hopeful.
Eliane giggled, a sweet, light sound. "Maybe! But we have to be careful, okay? Like Marya said."
"Aye, sir! Careful and wobbly!" Jelly chirped, saluting and melting part of his arm in the process.
The submarine limped on, turning slowly to skirt the main port, seeking the island's hidden, quieter side. The lush greenery of Lagoonia beckoned, a postcard of peace that belied the tension docked in its harbor and the desperate, time-sensitive hunger of the strange crew now approaching its shores. The mission was simple: grab a Devil Fruit user and grab some groceries. In the world of the Grand Line, simple plans were just the prelude to beautiful, chaotic disaster.
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