The salt-tinged air of the open sea carried the last warmth of the day as it bled into the indigo embrace of evening. Above the Dreadnought Thalassa, a full moon hung, a colossal silver coin against the deepening velvet of the sky, its light painting the submarine's retracted deck in monochrome. The Aetherium Terrace, that marvel of articulated hull plates and locking trusses, was a vast, silent stage. From the central integration platform, a wonder unfolded. The Celestial Tideglass, its moon-steel facets reflecting the lunar rays, had come to life. At its heart, the Tear of the Abyss—a black opal cradling whispers from the age of sea devils—had fractured into a million points of cold fire. It cast a spectral, shimmering image into the air above it: a rotating globe of the Blue Sea, etched with coastlines and dotted with islands. Across its surface, like a constellation fallen to earth, countless points of soft light pulsed with a gentle, rhythmic glow. Each was a Devil Fruit, their locations laid bare in a cartography of power.
The scene on the deck was a tapestry of quiet industry against this cosmic backdrop. Near the stern, Vesta Lavana sat cross-legged, her rainbow hair a muted cascade in the moonlight. Her fingers moved across the strings of Mikasi, the living guitar emitting a soft, melancholic melody that wove around the ship's ambient sounds—the creak of the deck, the gentle lap of water against the hull. The instrument occasionally gave a playful, autonomous warble, shifting its tone minutely, to which Vesta would only smile and adjust her playing.
Sanza Kaplan Figarland, his modish red hair a messy crown, was using the deck's low railing as his personal gymnasium. He swung from it with a child's reckless grace, his small form a pendulum against the starry sky. Jelly Squish, a wobbling azure blob of perpetual cheer, bounced nearby in a game that defied all known rules of physics or sport. With a delighted "Bloop!", he launched himself, aiming for Sanza but instead smearing his gelatinous form across the boy's forehead with a soft splutch. Sanza didn't falter in his swing. "Gross," he muttered, the words lacking real heat, his Gallagher eyebrows dipping in a practiced scowl before a grin broke through. "You don't even know how to bounce right! That was way too high!"
On a clearer patch of deck, Eliane Anđel, her silver ponytail swinging like a metronome, held a bamboo practice sword. Her face was a mask of fierce concentration, her olive skin sheened with a light sweat as she executed careful, rehearsed strikes. Each movement was clean, born of a chef's knife-discipline applied to a new form. "Don't trip," Sanza called out mid-swing, his voice sing-songed.
Eliane's next strike faltered. She planted her feet, her blue eyes flashing. "Quiet! I have to stay focused!" she snapped, the halo-like flame on her back giving a brief, involuntary flicker before she wrestled it down, her cheeks flushing.
Leaning against the portside railing, Bianca Yvonne Clark had a screwdriver gripped between her teeth as she used another to poke at a tangle of wires in her palm. Her floral top peeked out from under grease-stained overalls, and a pencil was speared through her messy bun. "This blender's gear is, like, totally bent," she mumbled around the tool, her hands moving with a confident, if chaotic, energy.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko occupied a small crate as if it were a throne. Dressed in her signature black tactical leathers, her silver hair a waterfall in the moonlight, she was the picture of stoic focus. A worn leather notebook rested in her lap, a charcoal pencil poised in her gloved hand. Her steel-gray eyes stared at a blank page, the weight of anticipated poetic failure holding her still. The cursed blade, Anathema, rested on her hip, a silent, sleeping threat.
Opposite Bianca, Atlas Acuta leaned with a predator's ease, one hand holding a massive leg of roasted meat. He tore a chunk off with his teeth, his rust-red fur and black spots a shadowy pattern in the low light. His sapphire-blue eyes, slit-pupiled, tracked the others with lazy amusement. He chewed, swallowed, and called out to the group at the globe, "So? Where to next, boss?"
The core of the activity swirled around the glowing projection. Charlie Leonard Wooley was in a state of academic apoplexy. His pith helmet sat slightly askew on his head as he paced around the spectral globe, his round wire-framed glasses reflecting the swirling sea currents and pulsing lights. He kept clearing his throat, a sharp "Ahem!" that punctuated the night. "The cartographic projection alone… it defies the Mercator principle! The geospacial triangulation implied by the ley-line integration… Ahem! This was under Ohara? The whole time? The epistemological loss is catastrophic!"
Galit Varuna, his long neck held in an observant S-curve, didn't look up from the tactical slate he was sketching on. "Not all of it. Just a part." His voice was a rapid, focused murmur. "Wind patterns around the Florian Triangle suggest heavy, consistent fog banks. Currents are… chaotic there."
Charlie's head snapped toward him. "But the transference of Poneglyphic syntax into a real-time astral-cartographic interface… Ahem! The Hieroglyphica principles suggest a sympathetic resonance between celestial bodies and—"
"Looks like two of the fruits," Jannali Bandler interjected, her voice a warm, rolling contrast to Charlie's clipped tones, "are sittin' right in Wano. Bit of a sticky wicket, that." She stood with her arms crossed, her afro a proud silhouette, her large brown eyes missing nothing as they scanned the ancient script flickering around the fruit sigils.
Charlie whirled to face her, his satchel spilling a scroll. "You can read the ideograms? The consonantal root system? Ahem! Which gate does it resonate with? The fourth? The ninth?"
Marya Zaleska stood at the epicenter, a still point in the storm. Her long raven hair, so like her father's, was pulled back. She wore her uniform of defiance: the leather jacket with its faded Heart Pirates insignia, denim shorts, tall combat boots. Her golden eyes, ringed like Mihawk's, were fixed on the Wano marker, cool and calculating. She leaned her weight on one hip, the cursed sword Nisshoku a familiar, heavy presence on her back. "Yeah," she said, her voice flat, cutting through Charlie's frenzy. "That's Kaido's territory." She shifted her gaze to meet Jannali's. "I don't know that I want to take on one of the emperors right now."
Galit smirked, not looking up from his slate. "Considering what we just went through, that's probably a smart call."
From the railing, Atlas called out around a mouthful of meat, "What's wrong, noodle-neck? You scared?" He grinned, his teeth sharp
Galit's head snapped around, his emerald eyes narrowing. His neck, usually fluid, coiled tighter. "You were unconscious for most of it, fur-ball!"
"Just means I didn't see you struggle," Atlas shot back, his nub giving a single, smug flick.
Galit shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh that spoke of long-suffering patience. "Unbelievable."
Marya's attention returned to the globe. Her jaw tightened. "There are two more islands. Tawantin and Ushirika." She let out a breath, a soft, weary sound that carried the weight of the Grand Line.
Atlas perked up. "What is it, boss?"
"The locations," Marya said, her voice low. "Tawantin is in the Florian Triangle. And Ushirika is in the New World." She paused, her shoulders slumping a fraction. "Specifically, my uncle's territory."
Aurélie's head snapped up from her notebook, her silver hair catching the light. "Shanks?"
Marya gave a single, tight nod. Vesta's music, a gentle accompaniment to the scene, stopped abruptly. She jumped to her feet, Mikasi letting out a confused twang. "But that's a good thing!" she chirped, her multicolored hair brightened. "You can tell him about Uta! He'd want to know, right?"
"HE WOULD ALREADY KNOW IF HE ANSWERED MY CALLS!" Marya's retort was a sudden crack in the night, sharp and raw. The words hung in the air, stark and personal. She closed her eyes for a moment, the stoic mask slipping to reveal a flash of deep, frustrated hurt. When she opened them, the calm was back, brittle but present.
Atlas chuckled, a low rumble. "Cool. We get to see an emperor."
Marya rolled her golden eyes, a gesture of pure, exasperated theater. "Anyway," she continued, steering the conversation back with force, "Tawantin looks closest. The Florian Triangle."
Eliane had stopped her practice. She was staring at the glowing globe as if in a trance, her bamboo sword hanging forgotten at her side. She walked forward, steps hesitant, drawn by the pulsing light near the Calm Belt. "This is where we are, right?" she asked, her voice small, pointing at their own blinking sigil near the deck.
Galit glanced at his slate. "Yeah."
Eliane's finger traced an invisible line through the air to the thick, mist-shrouded symbol for the Florian Triangle. "This is where we are going?"
Charlie, momentarily distracted from his crisis, blinked. "Why do you ask, young lady? The navigational calculus, while complex, is hardly—"
Eliane didn't let him finish. She drew herself up to her full, petite height, pushed her shoulders back with a resolve that inflated her small frame, and marched straight up to Marya. She looked up, her face a portrait of deadly, twelve-year-old seriousness. She raised a hand, as if requesting an audience with a queen.
Eliane took a steadying breath. "I have a request."
Marya looked down, one eyebrow arching. "Okay," she said, her tone dry. "Go on."
The deck grew quiet. Vesta froze, mid-step. Bianca paused her tinkering. Even Sanza slowed his swinging, watching. Jelly vibrated with silent excitement.
"I would like," Eliane announced, her voice clear and firm, "to try and find the Lion Sea-King."
A beat of silence.
"The Lion Sea-King?" Marya repeated, her expression unreadable.
Eliane nodded, her ponytail bouncing. "Yes! It's a rare delicacy. Only a few chefs in the world have ever mastered its preparation. Catching it… preparing it… it would be a… a pinnacle achievement." Her eyes shone with a passion that was almost tangible.
Sanza, having dropped from the railing, sauntered over. "It's just a giant fish. What's so special about this thing?"
From the shadows near the hatch, where he had been quietly grinding dried herbs with a mortar and pestle, Dr. Zip H. Scatyl spoke up. His voice was soft, sibilant, and carried a clinical chill that lowered the temperature. "The child is correct." All heads turned. The pale ogre adjusted his small, forward-pointing horns, his yellowish eyes unblinking. "The hepatic lipids of the Leo abysses render into a finishing oil with remarkable… anesthetic properties. A fascinating specimen. I, too, would welcome the opportunity for closer study."
Galit interjected, his tactical mind already running scenarios. "That particular Sea-King's a challenge to catch. They use the Roaring Current as a defense. Can manipulate water flow, throwing a ship off course."
Atlas's ears twitched. He swallowed his last bite of meat. "Sounds like fun."
Eliane's face lit up. She pointed a determined finger at a specific, detailed mark on the glowing map, a tiny, fierce-looking lion icon near the edge of the Calm Belt. "This is the most well-known location! The Pride of the Tide! It's… it's on the way to the Florian Triangle!"
Jannali leaned in, her expression turning wry. "Little chef, that icon's sittin' in the Calm Belt. No winds, no currents, and more Sea-Kings than you've had hot dinners. That's not a detour, that's a whole new mission."
Charlie began to sputter, "Ahem! The temporal and resource expenditure would be considerable! Our trajectory would require a complete recalibration, accounting for the absent coriolis effect and the increased probability of megafauna encounters! We should, ahem, undertake a rigorous cost-benefit analysis before—"
Eliane spun. She didn't look at Charlie, or Jannali, or Galit. Her eyes, wide and blazing with a desperate hope, locked onto Marya's. The pleading determination in them was a physical force. "Please." The word was a whisper, then a firm declaration. "I don't know when I will have another opportunity. Everyone here is strong! I know we can do it!"
Marya's jaw flexed. The stoic guardian, the calculative strategist, faced the unwavering, culinary dream of a twelve-year-old girl. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to stand her ground, to cite the logic, the danger, the distraction. But Eliane's expression shifted. The pleading melted into something else: a cute, indomitable resolve. It was the face of a child believing utterly in the strength of her newfound family. It was a look that bypassed Marya's guarded walls and went straight for the secret, soft spot she reserved for things of pure, determined spirit.
Aurélie, watching from her crate, saw the struggle play out across Marya's face—the tightening around the eyes, the subtle battle between duty and something softer. A low, unexpected chuckle escaped the swordsman's lips. Bianca, catching it, looked from Aurélie to Marya and let out a snort of laughter, quickly disguised by a cough into her hand.
Vesta cocked her head, confused. "What? What's so funny?"
Marya's internal war ended with a sudden, full-body sigh of defeat. Her shoulders slumped, not in weariness, but in surrender. "Okay," she said, the word blunt and heavy. "Fine. We will hunt for this sea king."
Eliane's beam of triumph could have outshone the moon. She jumped up and down, a whirlwind of joy. "Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you!"
Jannali shook her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Stone the crows," she murmured, her lilt rich with amusement. "Not so tough after all, are ya?"
Galit's smirk was instant. "Tide's turning, captain."
Marya scowled at them both, but there was no real malice in it, only the irritation of someone whose stern image had just been publicly crumpled. "Shut up," she grumbled, the ghost of a smirk touching her own lips. "And plot the course."
Galit was already tapping his slate, his fingers a blur. "Already on it."
In that moment of collective, lighthearted relief, a single sheet of newsprint, carried by some capricious evening breeze from a passing delivery gull, fluttered down from the dark sky. It spiraled, a white leaf against the blue-black, and landed with a soft pap at Vesta's feet.
She blinked, looked down, and reached for it. Her eyes scanned the bold headline, and her entire body went rigid. A gasp, sharp and sudden, tore from her throat. Then a squeal, high-pitched and bursting with pure, undiluted shock, shattered the calm of the deck.
Every single head turned. Every activity ceased.
Vesta was bouncing on the balls of her feet, her rainbow hair a vibrant shock of color. She held the paper aloft with trembling hands, her violet eyes wide as saucers. Her mouth worked, but for a second, only stunned squeaks emerged. Finally, she found her voice, shouting a name that carried the weight of legend, a name that was both a beacon and a storm, into the vast, waiting night.
The newspaper flapped in her grip, its headline screaming the impossible to the moonlit sea. Vesta holds the paper up for them to see, announcing, "THE STRAW HATS ARE IN THE PAPER!"
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