The sea sighed beneath a mended sky, its surface glinting like shattered sapphire in the wake of the storm. Jelly "Giggles" Squish bobbed atop the submarine's hull, his gelatinous body shimmering with leftover rain droplets. He'd fashioned himself into a makeshift mast, one wobbly arm raised as a sail while the other conducted an invisible orchestra. His voice—a cross between a kazoo and a seagull's squawk—carried across the waves:
"Yo-ho, bloop-ho! A jelly's life is squishy-squish!
Steal the moon, drink the stars, and flip a fishy dish!"
The submarine beneath him groaned, its mercury-pitted hull still dribbling iridescent streaks into the water. Jelly didn't mind the smell (sparkly toxins were his favorite cologne). He was mid-chorus—"Don't be salty, be jeLLYYYY!"—when a shadow swallowed the sun.
The Red Force cut through the sea like a blade through silk, its crimson sails billowing with the swagger of a crew that owned the horizon. At the prow, Yasopp squinted through his rifle's scope. "Cap'n! There's a… blue thing singing show tunes on a tin can!"
Shanks, lounging against the mast with a half-empty cask of rum, grinned. "A thing, eh? Let's see if it's friend-shaped!"
Benn Beckman exhaled a smoke ring, the scent of sea salt and gunpowder trailing his sigh. "Or a new type of sea king that's forgotten how to terrorize."
Lucky Roux, already chewing on a ham hock the size of his head, mumbled, "If it's edible, dibs."
The crew hauled the submarine aboard with a chorus of creaks and grunts, the sub's hull leaving a glittery smear on the deck. Jelly flopped onto the planks with a wet splortch, morphing into a wobbly puddle before springing upright. "Bloop! New friends! Hi, shiny-hat-man!" He saluted Shanks, his bandana slipping over one starry eye.
Shanks crouched, tilting his head. "And what're you supposed to be?"
"Jelly Squish! Professional… uh…" Jelly's body quivered into the shape of a poorly rendered sword. "Stabby-friend assistant!"
Benn raised an eyebrow. "It talks. Sort of."
Building Snake, his serpent tattoo coiling as he moved, ran a hand over the sub's hull. "This plating… Consortium issue. But the modifications—" He paused, scraping a finger over chipped paint of the Heart Pirate's Smiling insignia. "What is this all about?"
Shanks' smile faded. He pressed his palm to the sub's cold metal, his Haki humming faintly. "What would one of their submarines be doing all the way out here? This looks like one of the little Marya left in, last, we…"
"Not little," Jelly corrected, inflating his chest. "Stabby friend Marya is fierce. And grumpy-sword-man is… grumpy!"
The crew froze. Shanks' gaze sharpened. "Marya? Dracule Marya?"
Jelly nodded so vigorously his body rippled. "Aye-aye! We fought spinny knights and shiny rocks and—oh! Grumpy-sword-man left his hat!" He extruded a gelatinous arm, pointing to the sub's hatch.
Inside, the sub was a chaos of strewn charts, empty tea tins, and a single black hat perched on a rusted hook—Mihawk's signature wide-brimmed fedora. Building Snake sifted through papers plastered to the floor, revealing pictures from their last visit with the Consortium: Marya with Shanks at the festival, dressed in her kimono with her friends; an aged family photo of Mihawk holding Marya with her mother at his side; and a doodle of Jelly as a blobby knight.
"They were here," Shanks murmured, picking up a Vivre Card fragment tucked under a mug labeled Property of the Grumpiest. The paper pulsed weakly.
Hongo, adjusting his medical goggles, peered at Jelly. "This… creature reeks of Vegapunk's tinkering. And mercury. So much mercury."
"Sparkly soup!" Jelly chimed, reshaping into a teapot. "Want a sip?"
Lucky Roux gagged. "Pass."
Shanks stood, the Vivre Card warming in his palm. "Limejuice! You still got Marya's full card?"
The lanky pirate nodded, pulling a folded square from his coat. The paper fluttered eagerly, its edges glowing. "Been keeping it safe since our last visit. Figured we would need it sooner or later. Feisty kid."
Shanks' grin returned, edged with mischief. "Ben? Feel like hunting a couple of grumpy swordsmen?"
Beckman lit a fresh cigarette. "Better than listening to Bonk Punch's new album."
The crew roared with laughter as Bonk Punch struck a dramatic chord on his guitar. "Philistines! This is art!"
Jelly, now mimicking Shanks' stance (with mixed success), bellowed, "Bloop! Adventure time!"
As the Red Force pivoted toward the horizon, Jelly glued himself to the mast, singing a revised shanty:
"Yo-ho, stabby-ho! Chase the grumps, don't be slow!
Find the hat, find the shadow, and make some mercury go BOOM!"
Shanks chuckled, watching the Vivre Card twitch northward. Somewhere out there, Mihawk was scowling at the sky, and Marya was probably stirring up trouble. Same old chaos.
Just how he liked it.
*****
Dawn crept over Angkor'thal like a cautious thief, painting the mangrove channels in hues of bruised lavender and gold. The air buzzed with residual Haki, a static hum that made Marya's Void veins itch where they traced her wrists—a reaction to the Black Seastone dust lurking beneath the jungle's mossy carpet. Juro adjusted his pack, its contents clinking with enough seastone weaponry to arm a small rebellion and cleared his throat for the third time in as many minutes.
"So, uh… these mangroves?" he began, gesturing to the towering trees whose roots twisted into petrified serpents. "Their sap glows because it's infused with moonlight essence. Lunarians used it to write love letters. Or… battle plans. Maybe both?" He glanced at Marya, who was scanning the canopy for threats. "Romantic, right?"
Mihawk, trailing behind with Yoru slung casually over one shoulder, smirked. "Do regale us with more horticultural courtship rituals, blacksmith."
Marya ignored them both, her boots crunching over bioluminescent fungi that pulsed like oscillating circuits. A faint shimmer caught her eye—a vein of luminescent sap oozing from an aqueduct fragment. She crouched, gloved finger hovering above it. "This the petrifying kind?"
"Only if you lick it," Juro said, too quickly. "Which I don't recommend. Unless you want your tongue to turn into a paperweight. Which… you don't. Probably." His scales flushed cobalt as Mihawk snorted.
The trio pressed deeper, the jungle's humidity clinging like a second skin. Mihawk's blade sliced through a petrified root, its core sparking with ancient Lunarian alloys. "Charming décor," he remarked, flicking a glowing splinter from Yoru's edge.
Juro seized the opening. "These ruins? They're older than the Void Century. The Lunarians built them as a sanctuary—alliance of dawn and all that. But then the World Government—"
A sudden crack echoed through the trees. The ground trembled, and from the shadows emerged three Living Stone Guardians—Apsara dancers frozen mid-twirl, their seastone-tipped spears gleaming with malice. Mihawk sighed, as if inconvenienced by a misplaced teacup.
"Finally," Marya muttered, mist already curling from her fingertips.
The guardians lunged. Mihawk parried a spear thrust with a lazy flick of Yoru, the clash ringing like a cathedral bell. "You'd think they'd learn to accessorize," he said, carving a glyph into a statue's spear. It wobbled, joints screeching.
Juro ducked a sweeping strike, his hammer sparking against stone. "Third glyph on the shaft! It's their weak—oof!" A guardian's elbow sent him sprawling into a puddle of luminescent sap.
Marya's mist swirled forward, tendrils seeping into the statues' cracks. The Void Moss powering them writhed, its parasitic tendrils shriveling under her influence. The nearest guardian shuddered, its head lolling like a marionette with cut strings. "They're puppets," she observed. "Powered by mold."
"Sacred mold," Juro corrected, scrambling up and wiping sap from his scales. "Used in ancient rituals to… uh… commune with sea slugs? Mira's lectures get fuzzy after rum."
Mihawk decapitated the last guardian with a flourish, its head rolling to Juro's feet. "A trophy for our poet."
As the statues crumbled, Marya knelt, plucking a strand of Void Moss from the debris. It squirmed, emitting a faint whine. "This is what the WG uses for interrogations?"
Juro nodded, inching closer under the guise of examination. "Yeah. Eat it, and you'll spout ancient prophecies… right before forgetting your own name." He grinned, tentatively. "Kinda like talking to Mira!"
Marya stood, tucking the moss into a vial. "Useful."
Juro's smile faltered. "So! The Arch of Tartarus' Shadow is just past those ferns. It's, uh… super cursed. But don't worry! I brought… uh…" He patted his pack, producing a jar of pickled eels. "…Snacks?"
Mihawk raised an eyebrow. "Planning a picnic with the Sea Devourer?"
"They're for strength," Juro muttered, cheeks blazing.
Marya was already walking, her voice trailing back. "Save them for the guardians. They'll need comfort after we dismantle their temple."
Juro deflated, shoulders slumping. Mihawk clapped him on the back, nearly knocking the eels into the sap. "Fear not. Even stone dancers appreciate… fermented courtship."
As they vanished into the gloom, the jungle hummed louder—a melody of liberation etched into the roots, waiting for dawn's true heirs to awaken it. Somewhere ahead, the Arch of Tartarus' Shadow loomed, its secrets itching to unspool.
And in the canopy above, Tavi and Kip crouched, scribbling a makeshift bounty poster titled "World's Worst Flirt—10 Berries Reward."
The Temple of Dawn's Echo rose from the jungle like a skeletal hand clawing toward the sky, its sandstone spires choked by serpentine roots that pulsed with bioluminescent moss. The air thrummed with residual Haki, a low, resonant hum that made Marya's teeth ache and the Void veins along her wrists shimmer faintly—a reaction to the Black Seastone dust embedded in the temple's mortar. Juro tripped over a loose flagstone, catching himself on a bas-relief of Nika mid-dance, his scales flushing as Marya strode ahead without glancing back.
"See this?" he blurted, tracing the sun god's chiseled grin. "The carvings… they're aligned with lunar tides. Lunarians timed their rebellions to the moon's phases. Poetic, right? Like… cosmic choreography!"
Mihawk brushed past him, Yoru's tip scraping a melody from the moss-slick stones. "Your definition of 'poetry' remains as mystifying as your courtship strategies, blacksmith."
Marya paused, her gloved hand hovering over a relief of Minks in Sulong form. Their poses—arms raised, claws splayed—mirrored a sketch in her mother's notebook, the one she'd buried years ago. The stone felt unnaturally warm, vibrating faintly as if humming a forgotten hymn. "These aren't just carvings," she murmured. "They're instructions."
A sudden tremor shook the temple, dislodging centuries of dust that glittered like powdered starlight. Temporal mists seeped from cracks in the walls, thickening into a silvery haze that blurred the edges of reality. Mihawk's golden eyes narrowed, and with a flick of his will, Conqueror's Haki lashed out—a pressure wave that split the mists like curtains, revealing the inner sanctum.
The chamber was a cathedral of decay and defiance. Vines strangled a massive Poneglyph at its center, their tendrils threaded with Void Moss that writhed away from Marya's approach. The air reeked of petrichor and myrrh, undercut by the acrid tang of seastone corrosion. Above, the ceiling yawned open to a shaft of dawn light, illuminating a mosaic of the Three-Eyed Tribe, Lunarians, and Minks clasping hands under Nika's crescent grin.
"Charming," Mihawk drawled, plucking a luminescent beetle from his sleeve—its carapace etched with miniature glyphs. "Even the wildlife here is didactic."
Juro edged closer to Marya, brandishing a seastone chisel like a bouquet. "The Alliance of Dawn! It's real! The Poneglyph says they needed all three tribes' bloodlines, plus Nika's heir, to reopen the Gates of Lethe. Which, uh… might be you? Since you're, y'know… Special and all…"
Marya ignored him, her fingers brushing the Poneglyph's weathered surface. The vines recoiled, their Void Moss hissing as her touch activated latent carvings—a map of Tartarus's Maw, its pathways shifting like living ink. "This isn't a historical record. It's a blueprint."
Mihawk leaned against a crumbling pillar, amused. "How fortuitous. Shall we rebuild a prison for the Sea Devourer as a team-building exercise?"
Before Juro could stammer a reply, the ground shuddered again. From the shadows, stone beetles skittered in unison, their shells clicking out a rhythm that echoed Nika's drums. The mosaic above rippled, its figures twisting into new poses—a dance that mirrored Marya's mother's sketches.
"We're not alone," Marya said, mist coiling around her boots.
Juro squared his shoulders, nearly dropping his chisel. "Probably just… uh… echoes of the past! Harmless! Mostly!"
A section of wall groaned open, revealing a hidden alcove where a Lunarian spear rested, its haft wrapped in Three-Eyed Tribe hieroglyphs. Mihawk raised an eyebrow. "A gift shop, perhaps?"
As Marya reached for the spear, the beetles surged into a swirling vortex, their clicks harmonizing into a shanty that made Juro's gills flare in recognition. "It's… the Dance of Unchained Tides! Haven's pirates hum this when they're drunk!"
Mihawk sighed, sheathing Yoru. "How quaint. We pirouette our way to enlightenment."
The temple's stones began to grind, realigning into a staircase that spiraled into darkness. Marya descended without hesitation, her silhouette swallowed by the gloom. Juro hurried after, tripping on a root that conveniently resembled a heart pierced by an arrow.
"Subtle," Mihawk remarked, following at a leisurely pace.
Above, in a crevice dusted with glowing spores, Tavi and Kip high-fived, adding "Fell down stairs confessing love - 50 Berries!" to their bounty poster.
The Hall of Whispers smelled of petrified incense and the iron tang of centuries-old blood, its vaulted ceiling dripping with bioluminescent lichen that cast jade shadows over mosaics of gods and traitors. Marya's boots clicked against tiles inlaid with Lunarian script, each step triggering a ripple of ghostly whispers that skittered like beetles across the walls. Juro lagged behind, tripping over a loose stone carved with intertwined serpents—a symbol of broken alliances, or perhaps a really bad omen for first dates.
"Watch your step," Mihawk said, not turning around. "The floor's riddled with metaphors."
Juro flushed, steadying himself against a mural of the Forest God—a treant with bark like molten gold, its branches throttling a serpentine Hel. "This! This is the betrayal!" he announced, too loudly. "The Forest God sold out Hel and Ginnungagap during the sealing ritual! See how Hel's soul becomes a Devil Fruit? And Ginnungagap's rage fused with the Sea God? It's… uh… tragic!"
Marya tilted her head, her Void veins flickering as she traced the mosaic. The tiles shifted under her touch, rearranging to show Hel's fractured soul dissolving into a thousand Devil Fruit seeds. "Not tragic. Practical. Betrayal's just another currency here."
Before Juro could rebut, the temporal mists thickened, clotting the air with the briny stench of a long-dead ocean. A spectral argument erupted—Joy Boy, translucent and glowing, towered over a Lunarian smith hammering a blade of star-metal. "The Gate demands balance!" Joy Boy roared, his voice crackling like a storm. "A noble's blood for a king's, a relic for a lie!"
Mihawk yawned. "Charming. Even ghosts here are melodramatic."
Juro edged closer to Marya, gesturing to the smith's anvil. "That's Tartarus-forged iron! My mentor on Fish-Man Island taught me to work it. It's, uh… fickle. Like… love?" He winced at his own analogy.
Marya didn't glance up. "Iron doesn't blush when you strike it."
The vision dissolved, leaving behind a single phrase etched in glowing sap on the wall: "Beware the Keybearer's Pride." Juro squinted. "Is that… a riddle? Or a warning?"
Mihawk smirked, plucking a whispering vine from the ceiling. It recoiled, hissing a warped rendition of Binks' Sake. "The wall's judging you. Harshly."
As they pressed deeper, the mosaics grew more chaotic—Lunarians with wings of fire hurling star-metal at Minks mid-Sulong, their claws raking the sky. The air buzzed with residual electro, raising the hairs on Juro's arms. "This corridor's a battery," he muttered, pulling a seastone rod from his pack. "Stores ancient lightning. Could power a fleet!"
"Or roast a fool," Mihawk said, as Juro's rod sparked, singeing his eyebrow.
Marya paused at a mural of Nika, his silhouette cracking chains that morphed into vines. The tiles here were warm, humming a tune that matched the rhythm of her mother's sketches. She pressed a palm to the wall, and the vines slithered aside, revealing a hidden alcove cradling a corroded crown—its jewels replaced with petrified Void Moss.
"A relic for a lie," she murmured.
Juro leaned in, his shoulder brushing hers. "It'd look… uh… regal on you?"
Mihawk snorted. "As regal as a seagull in a powdered wig."
Suddenly, the floor shuddered. Stone panels flipped, transforming the hall into a labyrinth of sliding walls and trapdoors. Juro yelped, grabbing Marya's arm as a section of floor vanished beneath him—revealing a pit of luminescent eels that chirped like songbirds.
"Subtle," Mihawk drawled, balancing on a narrow ledge. "The temple's matchmaking efforts are… enthusiastic."
Marya shook Juro off, mist curling from her fingertips to solidify the eels into a bridge. "The Gates are close."
As they crossed, the eels' chirps harmonized into a shanty about doomed love, their bioluminescent bodies pulsing in time. Juro's scales turned the blue of a mortified lobster.
Above, in a ventilation shaft dusted with spores, Tavi and Kip high-fived again, adding "Eel Serenade - 100 Berries!" to their bounty poster.
And far below, the Gates of Lethe creaked, their hinges weeping rust that tasted of salt and forgotten oaths. They waited—not for a hero, but for a woman who'd carve her own path through the noise, one dismissive step at a time.