The marketplace of Fongafale was a symphony of vibrant chaos, a stark contrast to the silent dread of the Calm Belt. The air, thick with the scent of salt, sun-baked coral, and the rich, earthy smell of pulaka taro, carried a cacophony of bartering voices, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of pandanus leaves being woven, and the distant, melodic hum of a hymn from the Morning Star Church. Stalls crafted from driftwood and fraying canvas overflowed with the island's bounty: glistening silver fish piled high on palm fronds, pyramids of hairy brown coconuts, and bolts of tapa cloth stamped with intricate patterns of eels and flounders.
At the heart of this river of life, the Marya's Crew moved like a peculiarly shaped stone causing ripples.
"Right, focus, you lot," Jannali declared, her eyes scanning a stall hung with dried herbs with the intensity of a cartographer charting a new coast. She tapped her golden hoop earring. "We need calories that keep. Salted fish, hardtack, rice if they've got it, and every damn lemon you can find. Scurvy's not a good look on anyone."
Atlas walked beside her, his towering, lynx-spotted frame causing vendors to instinctively straighten their wares. He ignored the food, his sapphire gaze instead tracking the movements of the people—the tense set of a fisherman's shoulders, the too-casual loitering of a man by a stack of crates. "This place is nervous," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Like animals before a quake."
"It's the ships in the harbor, genius," Jannali replied, picking up a knobby root and giving it a skeptical sniff. "Makes everyone jumpy. Just keep your fur on and look pretty."
A few steps ahead, Eliane was in a state of pure, wide-eyed bliss. She floated from stall to stall, her petite frame almost disappearing behind a growing armful of produce. "Oh! These peppers! The color is like fire!" she exclaimed, holding up a vibrant red chili to the sun. She leaned in, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of its aroma, a beatific smile on her face. "Smoky, with a hint of the sea air… perfect for a lagoon fish broth!"
Vesta, meanwhile, was attempting to conduct commerce through performance. She'd settled near a stall selling intricately crocheted 'kolose' hats, her rainbow hair a dazzling lure. Mikasi, her guitar, had shifted into the form of a small, twin-headed drum that she beat with her palms, producing a complex, hopping rhythm.
"Tales of the tide and the sky-so-blue!" she sang, her voice cutting through the market din with practiced clarity. "A song for a hat, how's that for you?" The elderly woman weaving the hats looked up, scowled, then cracked a toothless smile and waved her off with a chuckle, tossing a small hat towards her anyway. Vesta caught it with a flourish and placed it on her head at a jaunty angle. "See? Music is currency!"
Atlas shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "You're going to get us charged with disturbing the peace, Songbird."
"Nonsense! I'm establishing diplomatic relations!"
Marya and Jelly lingered at the rear of their little procession. Marya's golden eyes, so often distant, were actively scanning—not just for threats, but for anything that might hint at their target. Her calm demeanor was a steady anchor in the lively chaos. Jelly, however, was a beacon of wobbly distraction. His azure body jiggled with every step, leaving faint, glittery footprints on the packed earth.
"Bloop! Shiny! Bloop! Round!" he giggled, his attention snagged by a basket of polished shells, then by a fluttering rag, then by the tantalizing, greasy smoke wafting from a food stall tucked down a narrow alley.
"Jelly," Marya said, her voice low. "Stay close."
But the smell was too powerful. It was a rich, savory, meaty aroma that spoke directly to Jelly's simple, gelatinous soul. "Good smells…" he murmured, his starry eyes glazing over. "Yummy smell…" Like a blue, jiggling compass needle, he pivoted and began bouncing with purpose away from the group, down the shadowed alley.
Marya let out a soft sigh, a faint, exasperated smirk touching her lips. 'Distraction,' she thought. But a familiar, protective instinct twinged. He was, in his own utterly ridiculous way, her crew. "Jelly," she called again, but he was already rounding a corner. With a last glance at the others—Jannali was now haggling fiercely over a sack of rice, Atlas looming behind her like a menacing statue—Marya turned and followed the bouncing blue trail.
The alley opened into a small, dusty square dominated by a squat building with a faded sign depicting a stylized fish. The source of the smell. But it wasn't the restaurant's kitchen that held the crowd's attention. Two dozen people were packed shoulder-to-shoulder at its entrance, a wall of murmured tension.
Jelly, oblivious, wobbled through the forest of ankles like water through reeds, zeroing in on a waitress who had just emerged with a tray laden with golden, fried chika rolls. "Hello, food!" he chimed.
Marya stopped at the crowd's edge. The atmosphere here was different from the market's nervous energy. This was the rapt, hushed focus of spectators at a high-stakes duel. She leaned towards a man in a woven pandanus hat. "What is going on?"
He glanced over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off the interior for long. "Some blind guy is gambling against Jeanne 'La Lionne' de Clisson," he whispered, as if saying it too loud might jinx the scene.
Marya raised a brow. "What is the significance?"
Five sets of eyes swiveled to look at her as if she'd just asked why the sky was blue. "You must not be from around here," a woman said, her voice tinged with pity.
"I am just passing through," Marya replied evenly, her gaze drifting past them to try and glimpse the interior.
"Jeanne 'La Lionne' de Clisson," the man said, puffing his chest slightly with local pride, "is part of Grutte Pier Dorian's fleet. These are Sovereign's waters. She runs the border patrol. That's her ship, the Black Revenge, next to the Navy tub."
Another local, a younger man with sharp eyes, chimed in. "Yeah, but that blind guy… I think he's one of those World Noble Fleet Admirals."
"How can you tell?"
"Look, he's got a Navy coat over his shoulders. And that aura… feel it?"
A low murmur of agreement passed through the crowd. The idea settled over them like a cold fog. "Why would the Navy come here?" an old woman asked, her voice trembling. "Do they want a war with the Sovereign?"
The group collectively gasped, the terrifying possibility now voiced.
Marya sighed internally. Politics. Always a complication. "Maybe it has to do with the shipwreck," another spectator offered, trying to make sense of it.
Marya's head snapped around. "Shipwreck?"
The man nodded, eager to share the gossip. "Yeah. There was this… fancy World Government ship. Wrecked on the Te Motu Foliki, the Sandspit Isles, out on the eastern shore. The survivors were brought here to the mainland."
"One of them was a Celestial Dragon," the woman added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And…"
The group shared an awkward, collective wince. Marya's eyes narrowed. "And what?"
The man rubbed the back of his neck, reluctant. "Well… when the Celestial Dragon demanded to be returned to the Holy Land, Jeanne told him… she told him he'd need to prove his 'divine influence.' Said if he could survive the game, they'd consider his demands."
Marya's brow arched. "Game."
A local with a mischievous smirk couldn't help himself. "They turned it loose in the Sunken Ruins. Said they're 'hunting' it."
Marya's jaw flexed, a minute tightening of muscle. A Celestial Dragon, loose in ancient ruins, being hunted for sport by a vengeful pirate. It was a level of audacity that was either suicidal or brilliantly chaotic. "Where are these ruins?"
"You'd have passed 'em if you came from the south-east," the sharp-eyed youth said. "Two small islets. Big, green-stone structure, half in the water. Can't miss it."
Marya gave a single, curt nod. Her plan reformed instantly. The Devil Fruit user might be there, drawn to the chaos or the prize. She needed a boat.
A collective gasp from the restaurant crowd pulled her attention back. Through the press of bodies, she saw Jelly, having finally reached the waitress. With a happy "Bloop!" he stretched his mouth to an impossible width and engulfed the entire tray of chika rolls in one go, chewing with a sound like a happy mudslide.
"Jelly," Marya called, her voice cutting through the startled silence.
Every head in the square turned to look at her—the stranger in the Heart Pirates jacket. Jelly swallowed with a final, resonant gulp and bounced towards her, his body now faintly smelling of spicy filling. "Bye-bye, food lady!" he chimed to the stunned waitress.
Marya turned on her heel, combat boots crunching on the gravel, and made for the main thoroughfare that would lead to the Grand Lagoon Port, Jelly bobbing happily in her wake.
Inside the restaurant, the air was thick with the smell of stale ale, grilled fish, and intense concentration. At a central table, two figures sat in a pocket of stillness.
Jeanne de Clisson sat tall, her amber eyes fixed on her cards with the focus of a cannoneer sighting a target. Her silver battle-braid lay over one shoulder like a length of chain. Across from her, Fujitora's scarred face was placid, his sightless eyes aimed at the table as if observing a fascinating insect. His Navy coat was draped over the back of his chair.
"It is your turn, Navy man," Jeanne said, her voice a low, confident purr.
Fujitora's head tilted a fraction, as if listening to a distant tune. "I call," he stated.
The cards were flipped. Jeanne's lips curled into a fierce, triumphant smile. "The sea favors the bold. I win."
Behind her, Vitus Quinctilius Varo stood like a stone pillar. He wore his obsidian lorica segmentate even indoors, his elongated Long-Arm limbs resting at his sides. He placed a heavy, gauntleted hand on Jeanne's shoulder. "A textbook maneuver, Captain. Flawless."
Fujitora grunted, a sound of genuine, resigned appreciation, and pushed himself to his feet, gripping his walking stick. "It appears the whims of fate have granted me other business to attend to." The surrounding crowd of pirates and locals let out an audible, collective groan of disappointment; the spectacle was ending.
"Your luck is running thin!" Jeanne called after him, leaning back in her chair, the lioness-tooth necklace at her throat catching the light.
Vitus leaned down, his voice a gravelly murmur only for her. "The Navy retrieves splinters. We hold the compass."
Jeanne gave a slight, acknowledging nod. "No worries. They can salvage all the pieces they want. They won't win the prize."
Fujitora tapped his way through the crowd, which parted for him with a mixture of respect and unease. He paused at the doorway, his blank gaze turning unerringly in the direction Marya had just gone. He addressed a villager still buzzing with excitement. "Pardon. The woman who was here a moment ago… who was she?"
The villager, flustered to be addressed by an Admiral, stammered, "That? Oh, think she was just some random passer-through. Asked about the ruins, then left with her… wobbly blue friend."
Fujitora's expression remained unchanged. "I see. Thank you." He stepped out into the square, where two Marine officers fell into step beside him, their faces grim.
"Sir," one reported. "The pirates are honoring the non-aggression pact for the salvage operation. We've recovered most of the Divine Wind's passengers and crew. But… the Dragon is still unaccounted for."
Fujitora's grip tightened on his stick. "I believe I know where the 'heavenly one' has been taken."
The Marine paled. "The Sunken Ruins? Captain, that's sovereign pirate territory. If we go in there—"
"We are not 'going in'," Fujitora interrupted, his voice heavy. "I am. You will secure the perimeter and continue the salvage. The balance here is more fragile than this island's coral." He began walking, his steps steady and sure, guided by a sense that had nothing to do with sight. The game on the island had just become exponentially more complicated, and a new, unknown piece—a woman with a jellyfish and the mark of the Hearts—had just strolled onto the board.
-----
The late afternoon sun on Lagoonia was a forgiving, golden blanket, but the air outside the restaurant thrummed with a tension no warmth could soothe. Jeanne de Clisson stepped into the square, the heavy tread of her boots scattering a trio of chickens pecking at discarded coconut husks. The scent of the sea was undercut here by the greasy, comforting aroma of fried food from the kitchen and the sharper, more volatile smell of human anticipation.
Beside her, Vitus Quinctilius Varo moved with a stiff, mechanical grace, the plates of his obsidian lorica segmentate clicking softly. His elongated arms hung with a soldier's patience. "The Navy's salvage teams are operating with… acceptable parameters, Captain," he reported, his voice a low, gravelly monotone. "They focus on the wreckage of the Divine Wind. Their perimeter is tight, but they show no aggression toward our positions. It is a procedural exercise. They seek to recover their lost lamb without provoking the wolf."
Jeanne's amber eyes, sharp as flint, scanned the square. "They know the lamb is in our woods. They're just deciding how many hounds to lose fetching it." Her gaze was drawn to a ripple of movement at the mouth of the main market alley. A villager, a young man with a basket of taro, was practically jogging in that direction, his face alight with excitement.
"You," Jeanne called, her voice cutting through the humid air. The villager skidded to a halt. "What is going on?"
The man shrugged, grinning. "Some random girl is playing music near the weaver's stalls! Everyone says it sounds amazing!" He didn't wait for a dismissal, darting off toward the growing murmur of a crowd.
Jeanne's brow furrowed. "A musician. Interesting." In her experience, random, amazing things were rarely random and never just amazing. They were preludes, distractions, or weapons. She glanced at Vitus. "Let's go."
"Yes, Captain."
They moved through the winding paths of Fongafale, the traditional pandanus-thatch roofs giving way to the vibrant chaos of the open-air market. The usual cacophony of bartering had been transformed, overtaken by a new, powerful sound. It wasn't the gentle, hymn-like music of the island; this was a living, pulsing rhythm that tapped directly into the spine. It was a folksy, intricate melody from a stringed instrument, backed by a percussive heartbeat that made the very dust on the ground vibrate.
A crowd had formed, three or four people deep, around a splash of impossible color. Vesta Lavana, her rainbow hair a blazing banner under the sun, was in her element. She danced a small, hopping step, her Sky Islander wings—visible in her musical fervor—fluttering like crystalline petals. In her hands, Mikasi had taken the form of a complex, twelve-stringed instrument that glimmered like mother-of-pearl. Her voice, clear and strong, wove through the chords, telling a tale of sky whales and cloud currents. She struck a final, dramatic pose, one leg extended, head thrown back, and the crowd erupted. Coins and small trinkets—a carved fish hook, a bright kolose flower—rained gently around her feet.
Jeanne stopped at the back of the crowd, crossing her arms and cocking a hip. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of cool assessment. Beside her, Vitus's stern demeanor underwent a subtle shift. His head, usually held rigidly still, began a faint, unconscious bob. His sandaled foot, encased in its iron-studded leather, tapped a steady, quiet rhythm against the packed earth. For a moment, the weight of the Three Lost Fleets seemed to lighten.
"Who is she?" Jeanne asked, her eyes not leaving the performer.
Vitus, his gaze locked on Vesta's flying fingers, didn't hear. The music—a clever, ascending run of notes that mimicked a bird's flight—had ensnared him. A faint, almost smile touched his lips.
"Vitus!"
He jolted as if struck, his posture snapping back to ramrod stiffness. The future-seeing tactician had been caught utterly in the present. "My apologies, Captain! I… I don't know. I can ask around."
Jeanne shook her head, a flicker of irritation in her eyes. "No."
Her attention was snagged by a new, familiar sound cutting through the musical afterglow: the sound of exasperation. A tall, athletic woman with a proud afro and a stylish headscarf was pushing through the crowd, her large golden hoop earrings swinging. Jannali Bandler planted her hands on her hips, her accent slicing through the applause. "Vesta! That's it, time to go! We've got a list as long as me arm and you're here cursin' the locals with your… your showtunes!"
Vesta, beaming, ignored her, soaking in the adoration. She strummed a hopeful chord. "But my fans are so happy! One more song! This one is from my favorite artist, it's called 'Bone to Be Wild,' it's got a real gritty, undead vibe—"
The crowd, sensing more free entertainment, roared its approval.
Jannali groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We're supposed to be layin' low! This is the opposite of stealth, you drongo! This is… this is broadcastin' our location with a brass band and fireworks!"
Vesta merely winked, struck a power chord that physically pushed several people back a step, and launched into a roaring, foot-stomping intro that was all driving rhythm and shrieking melody. The crowd lost its collective mind.
Jeanne's eyes, predatory and keen, narrowed. They followed Jannali as the frustrated woman threw her hands up and stalked away from the musical epicenter, toward a vegetable stall. There, two more figures stood out like landmarks in a flat sea. A petite girl in a chef's jacket was meticulously inspecting a basket of fiery red chilies, her face a picture of culinary devotion. And looming beside her, a rust-furred Mink with an air of lazy danger, his arms crossed, watching the crowd with the bored focus of a lynx watching mice play. His eyes, blue and slit-pupilled, briefly met Jeanne's across the distance. There was no recognition, only a flat, assessing gaze that then moved on, dismissing her as part of the scenery.
"What is it, Captain?" Vitus asked, his voice back to its usual funeral-director cadence.
Jeanne didn't answer immediately. Her mind was a tactical map. A flamboyant, incredibly skilled musician. A pragmatic, sharp-eyed tracker-type. A child chef. A combat-ready Mink. They didn't fit. They weren't a local band, and they sure as hell didn't have the worn look of traders. They were a unit, and a disjointed one at that.
"A hunch," Jeanne finally said, her voice low. "Keep up."
She didn't push through the crowd; she moved around its edge, a shadow in black and crimson, her path smooth and deliberate. Vitus fell into step behind her, his long limbs making his stride deceptively fast. They were hunters on a new scent, and the game on the island, already complex, had just introduced a wild, colorful, and very noisy new variable.
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