Deep within the bowels of Gora-Gora Island, in a cavern so vast its ceiling vanished into a false, crystalline night, the Dreadnought Thalassa rested in the grip of ancient magic and older machinery. This was Sector Zero: The Triple Ten Gate, a cathedral of forgotten engineering. The air was cold and still, carrying the scent of cold stone, spent lubricants, and the ghost of centuries-old sea-ventilation. A low, rhythmic clank-thump-whir echoed through the space, the sound of the Karakuri automatons—the Ship-Wrights of Yore—as they swarmed over the Thalassa's shattered hull. They moved with a silent, single-minded purpose, their single brass lenses glowing with faint amber light as welding torches spat silent, blue-white stars that cast long, dancing shadows.
Away from the repair symphony, the Abyssal Glider: Model 0 hung suspended in a cradle of magnetic clamps. It was less a ship and more a sculpture of predatory elegance, a manta ray forged from an alloy that absorbed the scant light. Its surface was a vacuum, a slick, pitch-black skin that felt strangely warm to the touch and gave back no reflection.
"I don't see a hatch," Charlie Leonard Wooley declared, his voice bouncing around the Glider's smooth underbelly. He was pacing, his boots clicking on the polished rock floor, his pith helmet practically vibrating with academic frustration. "A vessel of this presumed sophistication must have an ingress point! A seam, a glyph, a pressure plate—something!"
Galit Varuna, 'The Young Tide,' had already split off to the port side, his long neck craning in a fluid S-curve as he scanned the hull for tactical weaknesses. Bianca Yvonne Clark stood at the starboard bow, her magnifying goggles pushed up into her messy black bun. She wasn't looking with her eyes so much as listening with her entire body, one grease-stained hand hovering inches from the dark metal.
"Like, over here," she said, her words a distracted mumble.
Charlie scurried over, his satchel flapping. "Did you find it? Ahem! Is there an inscription? A manual release?"
Ember, lingering a few steps back with Aurélie, watched with her mismatched eyes—one ice, one gold. She was in one of her rare, clear states, the phantom voice of her brother Josiah a faint echo. The oppressive, silent grandeur of the place felt heavier than any explosion. Aurélie Nakano Takeko stood with her usual poised stillness, a silver-haired statue in black tactical leather, her hand resting lightly on the cursed hilt of Anathema at her hip. Her steel-gray eyes tracked everyone, the mission parameters ticking behind them like a metronome.
Bianca didn't answer Charlie. Instead, she reached up and pressed her palm hard against a seemingly seamless section of the hull. For three long seconds, nothing happened. Then, a deep, internal thrum vibrated through the floor. A hairline fracture of soft blue light appeared in the blackness, outlining a perfect oval. With a sigh of pent-up atmosphere that smelled of stale, metallic air, the hidden door hissed outward. A series of short, black steps descended silently from within.
Galit jogged back to join them, his emerald eyes wide. "How did you know?"
Bianca smirked, wiping her hand on her overalls. "It's, like, a design thing. The flow of the alloy has a, like, almost imperceptible ripple pattern here. Means internal reinforcement framing. Means, like, a structural weakness they had to hide. Means a door." She shrugged as if she'd just pointed out a cloud that looked like a bunny.
"WELL DONE!" Charlie shouted, and didn't wait. He scrambled up the steps, his voice already echoing from within. "The preservation is immaculate!"
Aurélie shook her head. "We'd better find him before he…"
A distant, metallic bang echoed from inside, followed by a yelp.
"Too late," Galit murmured, a wry twist to his mouth.
"I'M QUITE ALRIGHT!" Charlie's voice floated down, tinged with pain and excitement. "MERELY A LOW DOORFRAME! THE ANCIENTS WERE APPARENTLY A SHORTER PEOPLE!"
Bianca led the way up, her boots clanging on the strange material. Inside, the Glider was all sweeping, organic lines and empty spaces. "Like, why is this here?" she mused aloud, her voice hollow in the tight corridor. "This is, like, the most advanced tech I have ever seen. So why is it, like, sitting in dry dock and not, like…"
"Used in the final conflict," Galit finished, his fingers tracing the wall. It felt like polished stone, yet faintly warm.
Ember, bringing up the rear, spoke softly. "Maybe it isn't finished." Everyone turned to look at her. She shrank back slightly, then gestured vaguely at the surroundings. "I mean… it looks pretty. But maybe it's missing something."
Bianca tilted her head, her goggles catching the faint ambient light. "Like… yeah. That, like, makes sense."
"Perhaps we can ask," Aurélie suggested, her tone flat.
"I don't know that we can," Galit replied, pointing a finger upwards. "Look. The guide-lights." They all glanced up. Tiny, embedded lines of blue light ran along the ceiling joints, but their glow was sickly and dim, flickering like dying fireflies. "The entire facility is on minimal power. Just enough for the basic automata and life-support. This ship… it's a tomb on standby."
"Like, yeah, you're right," Bianca agreed. "It's like… a gorgeous corpse."
Charlie bounded around a corner, his face flushed. "You have GOT to come and see this! The engineering! The layout! It's a paradigm shift in pre-Void Century naval architecture!"
Aurélie, Ember, Bianca, and Galit shared a humored glance. "Like, yeah," Bianca said, deadpan. "Like, show us what you, like, found."
Charlie led them to the heart of the vessel: the engine room. It was a spherical chamber, dominated by a complex lattice of conduits and crystalline housings that all converged on… nothing. A vast, spherical emptiness sat at the room's core, a nest of connection ports and receptor claws waiting to embrace a heart that was not there.
Bianca let out a low whistle. "Like… this is amazing." She approached the empty space, peering into the socket. "And, like, super obvious."
Charlie pointed a dramatic finger at the emptiness. "Bianca! What, in your professional opinion, should be here? I must know!"
"Like, I think it's, like, supposed to be the power source," she said, as if answering what color the sky was.
"PRECISELY!" Charlie exploded, his hands flying up. "Now, hypothesize with me! What if the power source was a concentrated, stabilized energy form? What if it was the very same theoretical substrate as the Mother Flame referenced in the forbidden texts?"
Bianca blinked. "Like, yeah, okay. But, like… so what?"
Charlie's face fell into an expression of profound offense. "So what? Do you comprehend the implication?!"
"Like, yeah," Bianca rolled her eyes, gesturing at the socket. "The Mother Flame was, like, a battery for this thing. A real fancy one."
"More than just that!" Charlie insisted, pacing. "They could adapt a single energy source for multiple functions—propulsion, life-support, weaponry! That means the Mother Flame's output was universally adaptable!"
Bianca waved a dismissive hand, a wrench she'd pulled from her holster glinting. "Like, that's not that big a deal. That's, like, being excited that fire can, like, be used for, like, heat and light. It's still just fire."
From the doorway, Ember spoke up, her head cocked. "So where is it?"
Bianca blinked. Charlie froze, then slowly turned, a grin spreading across his face. He pointed directly at Ember. "EXACTLY! That is the paramount question! Where is it? Its absence implies the power source was designed to be modular. Interchangeable. Removable without catastrophic systems failure!"
"So, like a torch you can, like, take the flame out of," Bianca sighed, unimpressed.
"Can a 'simple torch flame,'" Charlie retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "power an entire civilization from a single, minute source with potentially infinite output? This isn't a torch, it's a cornerstone! And it's missing!"
"Like, I see your point," Bianca said, her patience thinning. "But look." She waved her wrench at the dead conduits. "This thing is, like, stuck. It's all, like, pretty and shiny, but it's, like, a giant, black paperweight."
Charlie, nodding enthusiastically, "Can we adapt another power source?"
She didn't let him finish. "Like, no! This is so, like, advanced, there's no way. It would, like, take a team of genius engineers a lifetime to even start, and that's, like, if we had the schematics. Which we, like, don't."
Aurélie cleared her throat, the sound crisp in the chamber. "The strategic value of this information is noted. I will ensure it is relayed to the appropriate individuals for analysis. They will determine the optimal course of action. In the meantime," she fixed Charlie with a look, "perhaps a thorough documentation is in order."
Charlie was already bouncing on the balls of his feet. "RIGHT! Documentation! Photographic evidence! Topological scans!" He dove into his satchel, retrieving a camera-snail that blinked sleepily. Immediately, the chamber was lit by the frantic, stuttering flash of the snail's bulb, illuminating the eerie emptiness of the engine core in stark, frozen glimpses.
Flash. The empty socket. Flash. Charlie's ecstatic face. Flash. Bianca's exasperated eye-roll.
"You may wish to capture video logs as well," Aurélie suggested, but Charlie was already gone, disappearing down another corridor, the flashing light marking his path like a strobe.
Galit let out a controlled breath. "Shall we attempt to locate the command deck? A tactical overview would be valuable."
Aurélie nodded, and they left the heartless engine behind.
The command deck was a wide, shallow bowl of a room, facing a vast, blank view-screen. The control surfaces were minimalist: smooth, dark panels with no buttons, only faint, dormant glyphs. It felt less like a bridge and more like a meditation chamber for a machine.
"It's, like, a shame," Bianca murmured, running a finger over a dustless panel. "But, like, I don't think this thing was, like, designed with a large crew in mind. Maybe, like, one, two operators max."
Galit nodded, his long neck sweeping as he assessed sightlines. "You're correct. This is a scout. A blade, not a broadsword. For rapid, silent deployment. Not for long voyages."
They all turned at the sound of a high-pitched squeal from outside the ship. It was Charlie's voice, but stripped of its academic bravado, pure surprise.
Bianca groaned. "Like, seriously?"
Aurélie and Galit were moving first, weapons not drawn but hands on hilts—Anathema for her, the twin Vipera Whips for him. Ember and Bianca followed closely as they descended the black steps back into the cavern.
The scene that greeted them was absurd. Charlie stood at the base of the steps, his hands held up in placating surrender, his pith helmet slightly askew. Facing him were three of the most bizarre individuals they had ever seen.
There was a boy, barely three feet tall, dressed in a makeshift military tunic and a cape of iridescent black feathers, a rusted iron pot on his head. He held a comically heavy-looking gold-capped saber pointed shakily at Charlie. "Who are you?" the small commander demanded, his voice trying for sternness but cracking with youth. "And what is your business in the Sacred Vein?"
"We are explorers!" Charlie squeaked, trying to regain his composure. "Academic personnel! We are merely—"
"The metal fish has steps!" exclaimed a second figure, a boy with wild copper hair and a scarf dyed rusty red. He was edging toward the Glider's staircase with naked curiosity, his massive nose twitching.
"Perhaps it's a trap, Tori-Rick!" hissed the third, a girl with ink-stained white hair tied in scroll-like buns. She peered from behind the military-caped boy, adjusting multiple-lensed goggles. "Maybe the fish ate him and then spat him out! The ledger mentions predatory metal constructs in the deep-dark!"
All three gasped in unison, their bulbous noses flaring. The copper-haired one—Nito-Dunc—whispered, "Is it true? Did the metal fish spit you out?"
The commander, Tori-Rick, glared with renewed suspicion. "Why would the metal fish spit you out? Did you give it indigestion?"
Charlie sputtered, utterly derailed. "Absolutely not! This is not a fish, it's a submersible vessel of incalculable historical—!"
Aurélie and Galit stepped down the rest of the way, their taller frames imposing a sudden new dynamic. Nito-Dunc and Gin-Becy let out synchronized "Eeps!" and scrambled to hide behind Tori-Rick, who bravely stood his ground, though his grip on his oversized saber tightened.
"We mean no harm," Aurélie said, her voice cool and even, her hands raised, palms open. "Our vessel was damaged. We came here so it could be repaired." She pointed across the cavern to where the Karakuri swarm continued their work on the Dreadnought Thalassa, its whale-like silhouette now sporting fresh, silvery weld-lines.
The three Ruru-Gin short-horned-trolls turned their heads in unison. Their eyes went wide.
"Ooooh," they breathed together.
"A metal whale," Nito-Dunc said, awe-struck.
Galit kept his posture relaxed but ready. "And who are you?"
Tori-Rick puffed out his chest, momentarily forgetting his confrontation. "I am Tori-Rick, Field Commander of the Ram Riders! And we…" He trailed off, his fierce expression melting into confusion. He looked at his companions. "What… what is it we are doing?"
Nito-Dunc shrugged, equally lost. "Should we…?"
Gin-Becy jolted as if struck by lightning. "The Rodeo! We forgot the Great Moss-Goat Rodeo! The Pit Boss is judging the vertical climbs at the high sun-hour!" She tugged on Tori-Rick's feather cape. "We'll lose our standing! The ledger clearly shows our unit's attendance is down thirty percent this season!"
Tori-Rick's face fell into comical despair. The mighty commander, caught between duty and festival. He looked from the intruders to his friends, his mission completely evaporating in the face of missed festivities. The ancient, world-altering technology around them meant less than a goat-riding competition.
In that moment, standing between a dead god-ship and a living relic, surrounded by the ticking of ancient clocks and the panic of forgotten goat-herders, the crew of the Thalassa felt the profound, hilarious, and deeply ominous truth of Gora-Gora Island. Its secrets were not just buried. They were being cheerfully, obliviously, guarded by child-sized, shaggy haired trolls who were about to be very late for a party.
The absurdity hung in the cavern's cold air, thicker than the scent of stone and old metal. Galit Varuna, assessing the three small figures with the tactical eye of a born analyst, cocked a hip and let a faint, wary smile touch his lips. "And who are your companions, Commander?"
The girl with the scroll-bun hair cleared her throat, stepping out from behind Tori-Rick with a sudden, formal dignity. She adjusted the many-lensed goggles perched on her forehead. "I am Gin-Becy. Keeper of the Forbidden Ledger and Chief Archivist of the Sector Zero Inventory." She said it with the grave seriousness of a fleet admiral announcing his title.
The copper-haired boy grinned, pointing a thumb at his own chest. "I'm Nito-Dunc! Expeditionary Scout and Lore-Hunter of the Deep! I found seventeen new lava tubes last season!" His pride was as bright and uncomplicated as a polished gear.
Aurélie gave a slight, graceful tilt of her head, her silver hair shifting like mercury. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
Charlie, unable to help himself, leaned forward, his academic curiosity overriding the surreal context. "Fascinating. Are you indigenous to this landmass? Native to this island?"
All three Ruru-Gin blinked in unison. Gin-Becy's head tilted like a confused bird. "Island? What is an 'island'?"
Charlie's eyes lit up. He drew a deep breath, his chest puffing out. "Ahem! An island is a sub-continental landform, surrounded entirely by a contiguous body of water, in this case, the Grand Line's—"
His tutorial was cut off as Bianca and Ember emerged from the dark hatch of the Abyssal Glider. The sudden appearance of two more strangers made the Ruru-Gin jump back as one, a synchronized gasp echoing in the cavern.
"There are more of you!" Tori-Rick exclaimed, his grip tightening on his saber.
Ember, a fragile clarity still holding in her mismatched eyes, let out a soft, genuine chuckle. It was a sound like rustling paper, unexpected and soft. "Yeah. Want to be friends?"
Gin-Becy, Nito-Dunc, and Tori-Rick exchanged a look—a rapid, silent conversation conducted with raised eyebrows, twitching noses, and slight head tilts. The concept of 'friend' clearly warred with 'potential metal-fish regurgitation.' Nito-Dunc shrugged, his wild hair bouncing. "Okay!"
Gin-Becy perked up, an idea visibly dawning. "I know! You should come to the Rodeo! It's the Great Moss-Goat Vertical Rodeo! The Pit Boss is judging!"
Galit raised a single, skeptical eyebrow. "Rodeo."
Nito-Dunc nodded vigorously, already turning. "Yes! We should go, or the good viewing spots will be taken by the Rust Slums team!" He began shuffling away, followed by Gin-Becy who was muttering about ledger entries for guest attendance.
"Yes, or we will miss the opening ceremony!" Gin-Becy called over her shoulder, scurrying toward the cavern wall where three hulking shapes were tethered.
The crew of the Thalassa was left in a baffled semicircle. Aurélie, Bianca, Charlie, Ember, and Galit exchanged a silent mosaic of confused expressions.
Galit let out a controlled breath, his long neck unkinking from its tactical coil. "They appear harmless. And profoundly… forgetful."
Bianca crossed her arms, a wrench still loosely held in one hand. "So, like, that sounds cool and all, but I don't want to, like, leave the ship. The automata are, like, seventy percent through the primary hull patches. I wanna, like, supervise."
Galit nodded. "My thoughts align. Our priority is the Thalassa's readiness. This… festival is a local diversion."
Ember piped up, her voice quiet but clear. "I can go. It sounds… fun." She said the word as if testing its flavor, a small, hopeful smile touching her scarred lips.
Charlie cleared his throat, striking a scholarly pose. "In the interest of academic anthropology and the documentation of a truly isolated subterranean culture, I believe it is our duty to—"
"I will accompany them," Aurélie cut him off with a sigh that was barely more than a sharp exhale. Her steel-gray eyes met Galit's. "A show of good faith. And to ensure our 'friends' don't accidentally mention us to the wrong 'Pit Boss.' You two," she nodded at Bianca and Galit, "guard the ship. Continue documentation."
By the cavern wall, the Ruru-Gin had mounted their steeds. They weren't horses, but Gora-Gora Rams, colossal beasts with shaggy, iron-grey wool and curling horns that gleamed like magnetized stone. Their hooves were broad and dark, clinging to the rock floor with an unsettling solidity. Tori-Rick, perched on the largest ram, looked back. His brow, visible under his pot-helmet, furrowed. The gears of his duty-driven mind visibly creaked back into motion.
"Hey! Wait!" he called, trotting his ram back toward the group. The beast moved with a gentle, clacking sound. "What is it you are doing here again? In the Sacred Vein? This is a restricted… um… zone?"
Ember covered her mouth, another chuckle escaping. "We're friends. Remember?"
Tori-Rick blinked. He cocked his head, his tiger-striped hair shifting. The struggle on his young face was comical and almost touching. Duty, suspicion, rodeo excitement, and now friendship all warred behind his eyes. Finally, he shrugged, his entire small body slumping in acceptance. "Oh. Right! Okay!"
"Come on! The ceremony horn will sound!" Gin-Becy called, already turning her ram towards a wide, arched tunnel mouth in the cavern wall. Nito-Dunc was on her heels, his long, rusty scarf flapping.
With a chorus of "Bahahaha!" they trotted into the dark tunnel.
Tori-Rick glanced at Aurélie, Charlie, and Ember. "Okay! Follow me! Stay close to the walls—the ceiling drips sometimes and it's not water!" He urged his ram after his friends.
Aurélie, with the fluid grace of a predator, fell into step. Charlie scrambled after, his satchel bouncing, his camera-snail already peeking out. Ember walked beside him, her steps light, her eyes taking in the false-starred ceiling with something like wonder.
Aurélie looked over her shoulder at Bianca and Galit, who stood by the silent, black bulk of the Glider. "We will do our best to maintain contact. Monitor the repair progress."
Bianca waved a grease-stained hand, a smirk playing on her lips. "Have fun at the Rodeo! Don't blow anything up!"
Aurélie fixed her with a glare that could have frosted glass, but Bianca's chuckle followed them into the tunnel, mingling with the fading clack-clack of ram hooves and the distant, echoing call of the Ruru-Gin, already arguing about the best route to the stadium.
The scene left behind in the Triple Ten Gate was one of stark contrast: the incredibly advanced, dead technology of a lost war, and the vibrant, chaotic, and oblivious life that now guarded it. The laughter echoing from the tunnel wasn't just commercial; it was the sound of a lock that didn't know it was a lock, and the ominous creak of a door that had just been cheerfully, unknowingly, pushed ajar.
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