The turquoise embrace of Lagoonia's great lagoon gave way to a deeper, colder blue as Marya's stolen skiff cut eastward. The water here, near the outer ring of the atoll, had a different personality. It was less the playful, sun-dappled shallows of the market and more a silent, ancient warning. The consistent, warm breeze that had filled her sail now carried a faint, mineral chill and the wet-stone scent of something ancient.
At the bow, Jelly Squish had molded his upper body into the shape of a giant, wobbly figurehead, his azure form quivering with the skiff's every motion. "Breeeeeezy!" he cooed, his voice a happy gust. He leaned so far over that his starry-eyed face nearly skimmed the water's surface. A silver-scaled fish, curious about the blue intrusion, leaped from the waves. In a blur of motion, Jelly's mouth stretched into a wide, cartoonish grin and snapped shut with a loud, comical GULP. He bobbed back upright, a distinct fish-shaped bulge traveling down his gelatinous throat.
Marya, one hand resting lightly on the tiller of the simple lateen-rigged boat, shook her head. A faint, genuine smirk touched her lips, there and gone like a fleeting shadow. The sheer, ridiculous simplicity of Jelly's existence was a quiet antidote to the coiled tension in her own gut. She adjusted the worn hemp sheet, the sail catching the wind with a soft thump, and the skiff surged forward.
"Bloop! Broken buildings!" Jelly chirped, pointing a mitten-shaped hand.
Marya's golden eyes lifted. There, on the horizon, the two small islets rose from the sea. They were not like the lush, palm-covered motus of the main lagoon. These were spines of dark, volcanic rock, crowned with the corpse of a structure. The Sunken Ruins. Even from a distance, they looked wrong. The stone was a strange, slick greenish-black, unlike any coral or bedrock native to the archipelago. It was carved into massive, geometric blocks, now slumped and tilted at insane angles, half-swallowed by the hungry sea. Vines, thick as pythons, strangled the stones, and the air above them wavered, as signaling an lost message.
And on the nearest rocky shore, a sloop was moored. Its black hull and the blood-red sail currently furled identified it instantly: the Black Revenge's landing party. The same Jolly Roger, snapped in the wind from its mast. Marya's jaw flexed, a tiny, hard knot of muscle tightening near her ear. So, the hunters were already here. Her hands moved with a calm certainty, adjusting their approach to skirt the islet, seeking a landing away from the pirate vessel. The skiff, responsive and light, heeled over, salt spray kicking up to kiss her face.
"Wheeeeee!" Jelly cried out, delighting in the increased speed, his body wobbling wildly like blue flame.
She found a narrow fissure in the rock on the opposite side of the islet from the pirate sloop, a concealed inlet where the water was still and dark. Guiding the skiff in, the only sounds were the lap of water against stone and the distant, mournful cry of a seabird. The air in the inlet was cold, still, and carried a profound silence that swallowed sound. Marya secured the line to a jagged rock, her movements economical and quiet. Her combat boots found purchase on the slick stone.
She didn't speak. She simply closed her eyes, drawing in a long, slow breath, centering herself, to be the still pool that reflects the moon, not the rippling water. When she opened them, the world had shifted. Her Kenbunshoku Haki unfurled from her like a silent ripple, seeping into the cracks of the rock, brushing against the roots of the clinging vines, tasting the air for the spark of conscious life.
The island was a painting of faint, swirling colors in her mind's eye. Ahead, near the heart of the ruins, was a cluster of vivid, aggressive auras—five of them. One burned particularly bright, a tall, raging flame of pride and violent intent. William Fitz-Alyn. She could almost hear the echo of his thoughts: frustration, impatience, the thrill of the hunt. He was barking orders, his voice a distant, physical echo that matched the mental image.
But Marya was not looking for the hunters.
She deepened her focus, letting her awareness diffuse, becoming finer, seeking not the roaring flames but the guttering, hidden spark. She filtered out the pirates, the scuttling crabs, the nesting birds. And there, tucked within the labyrinth of fallen stone and thick, prehistoric ferns—a small, tightly coiled presence. It was a peculiar aura, flickering wildly between two states: one was a faint, childish ember, shimmering with fear, petulance, and a staggering sense of entitlement. The other was something else entirely—a dormant, majestic, and terrifying power that slept fitfully around that tiny core, like a sleeping tiger with a kitten's heartbeat.
A smirk, cool and knowing, graced Marya's lips. Found you.
She turned. Jelly was on the pebbled beach, utterly engrossed in a standoff with a large, grumpy-looking hermit crab. He had shaped himself into a perfect, wobbly replica of the crab, mirroring its every sidestep.
"Jelly," Marya called, her voice low but carrying.
Jelly's crab-form popped, reforming into his usual shape. He looked up, his starry eyes wide. "Friend-crab is shy!" he whispered loudly.
"New adventure," Marya said, jerking her head toward the looming green-black stones of the ruin.
That was all the invitation needed. Jelly bounced once, twice, and on the third bounce, landed with a soft splat on Marya's shoulder, molding himself into a wobbly, azure pauldron. "Adventure!" he whispered, vibrating with excitement.
Without another word, Marya moved. She didn't run; she flowed. Her steps were silent, her body weaving through the jagged landscape with an effortless, predatory grace. One moment she was on the beach, the next she was a shadow among shadows, the dark green stone and thick foliage swallowing her and her jellyfish companion whole. The hunt within the hunt was on.
-----
The heart of the Sunken Ruins was a cathedral of dead stone and suffocating silence. The strange, greenish-black blocks, carved with glyphs worn smooth by millennia of tides, formed narrow canyons that swallowed the sound of the sea. Here, the air didn't move; it clung, cold and damp, to the skin.
Pinned against a colossal, slanted slab was the quarry. Sanza Kaplan Figarland, in his Byakko form, was a vision of majestic terror reduced to pitiful fear. His fur, usually a luminous white, was matted with grime and salt. The three flowing tails that spoke of his mythic lineage were tucked tightly between his legs. His golden horns were dull against the dark stone. He was cornered, a magnificent tiger cub scuffling backwards, his claws scraping uselessly on the slick rock as he tried to find purchase to flee over the top.
Looming before him, blocking the only exit from the stone cul-de-sac, was William Fitz-Alyn. The Long-Leg tribesman filled the passage, his height exaggerated in the confined space. A fierce, triumphant grin split his red beard. Behind him, four of his pirate crew members fanned out, cutlasses and pistols gleaming dully in the filtered light.
"There's the wee lamb," William boomed, his voice echoing off the stones. He rested the massive, vlade of his "Lion-Trap" sword on his shoulder. "All done scramblin', are ye? We've got you now, boy! Thought you could play hide-and-seek with the Black Revenge?"
Sanza swallowed hard, a childlike gulp coming from the tiger's maw. A low, terrified whine escaped him. This wasn't a game of strategy anymore. This was the raw, physical threat his small body had always feared.
Before William could take another taunting step, the air in the canyon shifted.
It wasn't a sound. It was a vacuum, a momentary stillness that made the ears pop. One moment, the space between William and the cowering tiger was empty. The next, it was occupied.
Marya Zaleska stood there, boots planted firmly on the ancient stone, having moved with a silence and speed that left afterimages. Her stance calm, but her golden eyes held the focus of a drawn blade. In her hand, the obsidian length of Nisshoku was a line of absolute darkness against the green stone, its crimson runes emitting a faint, hungry glow.
Plummeting from above with a cheerful splat, Jelly landed beside her, bouncing into a wobbly parody of a fighting stance. "Fun games!" he chirped, completely misreading the deadly tension.
Sanza's tiger jaw went slack. His bulging eyes traveled up from the boots, past the denim shorts and Heart Pirates jacket, to the stoic, arresting face framed by raven hair. The fear in his eyes fractured, splintering into pure, unadulterated shock. The majestic form flickered, unstable. He stammered, the words coming out in a child's voice from the beast's throat. "B-big… Bro…?"
Marya ignored him. Her entire world had narrowed to the tall, red-haired pirate before her. He was an obstacle. A loud, colorful, irritating obstacle between her and the key to the Gate of Lethe.
"Finders keepers," she said, her voice flat and cool, cutting through the damp air. "Think I'll be walking off with this prize."
William Fitz-Alyn's grin vanished, replaced by a snarl of incredulous rage. "What the hell are you doin'? Who are you, to stroll into my hunt?" His knuckles turned white around the hilt of his living sword.
Marya didn't answer with words. She answered with motion. With a calm exhalation, she shifted her weight. The air around Nisshoku warped, shimmering with a deep, black-purple aura—the manifestation of her advanced Armament Haki, Ryuo. She didn't make a grand, theatrical swing. It was a single, devastating, horizontal arc, a perfect expression of the stroke that ends the conflict.
There was no clang of metal. A crescent of concentrated, repelling force, visible as a ripple in the world itself, erupted from the blade. It hit William and his four crewmen not like a wave, but like the hand of a giant. The air cracked.
One moment they were there. The next, they were five ragdolls hurtling backwards through the canyon, crashing through thick curtains of vines, and vanishing over the far edge of the ruin with a chorus of shocked yells that quickly faded. Distant, successive splashes echoed from the surrounding sea.
Marya watched them go for a heartbeat, then let the tension in her shoulders ease by a fraction. Obstacle removed.
She turned. Sanza's Byakko form was shimmering, collapsing in on itself. The white fur receded, the tail and horns dissolved into motes of light, leaving behind the small, grimy figure of an eight-year-old boy. He stood there in his ruined noble tunic and bomber jacket, his red mod-style red hair plastered to his forehead, his heavy Gallagher eyebrows drawn together in utter confusion. Tears, held back by pride during the chase, now welled in his eyes and traced clean lines through the dirt on his cheeks.
With a soft shink, Marya sheathed Nisshoku at her back.
The sound broke the spell Sanza was in. With a choked sob, he leaped forward, not as an attacker, but as a child seeking harbor. He collided with Marya, small arms wrapping tightly around her waist, his face buried in her leather jacket. He trembled violently.
"Big bro," he cried, his voice muffled by the fabric, all aristocratic pretense shattered. "You came! You… you came for me?"
Marya's body went rigid. This was not part of the plan. A Celestial Dragon, a Mythical Zoan user, was now clinging to her and weeping. She looked down at the mop of red hair, a confused and deeply uncomfortable frown on her face. Gently, but firmly, she pried his arms loose and held him at arm's length. "I am not your bro," she stated, her tone careful but final.
Sanza looked up, sniffling, his fists still clutching the lapels of her coat. His tear-filled eyes scanned her face—the sharp angles, the golden eyes, the severe beauty. His own expression cycled from desperate hope to dawning realization to offended bewilderment. He blinked, sniffled loudly, and said, "You… you aren't my big bro."
Jelly, who had been observing the human drama with fascination, bounced closer. "New friend!" he announced happily.
Sanza's nose wrinkled, his innate aristocratic disdain resurfacing through the tears. He stared at Marya, his gaze intensifying. "Why," he demanded, his voice regaining a shred of its usual imperiousness, "do you have my big brother's face?"
Marya blinked slowly. This was becoming absurd. She let out a short sigh, the sound of someone dealing with a malfunctioning tool. "We should go. Before your friends in the water regroup."
But Sanza Kaplan Figarland was not to be dismissed. He hopped back, planting his small feet squarely on the ancient stone, and put his fisted hands on his hips. The pose was comical, but his eyes blazed with a demanding fire. "Answer my question! At once! I am Sanza Kaplan Figarland! My father is—"
"Shamrock Figarland of the God's Knights," Marya finished for him, her brow furrowing as she crossed her arms. The name meant danger, a world of trouble she didn't need. "I know. And that's exactly why we're leaving."
She began to turn, to walk back toward the hidden skiff.
"No!" Sanza shrieked, his frustration boiling over. His face flushed a brilliant red. He stomped a foot. "Why do you look like my big brother, Micah?!"
The name hit the cold, dead air of the ruins and stuck there.
Marya froze.
Not a pause, not a hesitation. A full, complete arrest of all motion. Her back was to him, her shoulders locked. The gentle lapping of the sea against the far rocks sounded like thunder in the new silence.
Very, very slowly, she turned. Her golden eyes, usually so distant and observant, were now wide, the rings within them stark. All the calm, all the stoic detachment, had been wiped clean, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Her voice, when it finally came, was lower than a whisper, yet it carried through the canyon with the weight of a collapsing world.
"What did you just say?"
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