Kuraigana Island hung in the perpetual twilight of its own making, its jagged cliffs shrouded in a mist that reeked of iron and damp moss. Crumbling stone ruins, their edges worn smooth by centuries of rain, dotted the landscape like the vertebrae of some long-dead Goliath. At the heart of this desolation stood a castle, its spires clawing at the ashen sky, where Dracule Mihawk, the man who had carved his epithet into the world with a blade, paced the courtyard. His boots echoed against the flagstones, the only sound in a world that stood in eerie silence.
Roronoa Zoro, sweat-soaked and bleeding from a fresh lattice of cuts, knelt in the center of the courtyard, his three swords laid before him like offerings. The scars on his chest heaved as he glared at the ground, his breath crystallizing in the chill air. Mihawk had just disarmed him—again—with a flick of Yoru's tip, the black blade humming faintly as it returned to its sheath.
"Your footwork is predictable," Mihawk said, his voice a low timbre that carried over the wind. "You think like a brawler, not a swordsman."
Zoro opened his mouth to retort, but a shrill trill cut through the silence. From the shadowed archway of the castle, a Den Den Mushi stirred, its shell mottled in the Navy's stark white and blue. The snail's eyes bulged, mimicking the stern expression of the officer on the other end.
Mihawk's golden-ringed eyes narrowed. He had not received a summons from the World Government in weeks—not since the War of the Best loomed like a storm on the horizon. With deliberate slowness, he crossed the courtyard and lifted the receiver.
"Mihawk," the snail intoned, its voice crisp and bureaucratic. "Sabaody Archipelago. Bartholomew Kuma has been sighted defending the Straw Hat Pirates' vessel. You are to subdue him and secure the ship. Marine reinforcements will rendezvous with you at Grove 42."
A beat passed. Somewhere in the mist, a crow cawed, its cry swallowed by the damp air.
"Why me?" Mihawk's tone was ice wrapped in velvet.
"You are… available," the officer replied, the hesitation slight but deliberate. The unspoken truth lingered: the other Warlords were either scattered, rebellious, or too entangled in the World Government's fragmented politics.
Mihawk's gaze drifted to Zoro, who had risen to his feet, curiosity piercing through his usual scowl. The younger swordsman's grip tightened on Wado Ichimonji, his knuckles whitening.
"And if I refuse?"
The Den Den Mushi's expression hardened. "The Straw Hat's crew is a symbol. Letting their ship survive emboldens rebels. You understand… symbols."
Mihawk's lips thinned. He did. Symbols were the currency of fear and hope, and he had built his legend on both. The receiver clicked as the call ended, leaving the courtyard steeped in silence.
Zoro wiped blood from his chin. "Since when do you take orders?"
"Since they amuse me," Mihawk said, turning toward the armory where his coffin-shaped sloop, the Night Lament, lay anchored. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Or did you think I trained you out of charity?"
Zoro's eye twitched, but he said nothing.
*****
The rendezvous point was a skeletal windmill stripped of its blades, its brick husk overlooking a canal choked with the debris of celebration—shattered Sanguine Lily vats repurposed as firepits, their neon-pink residue mingling with the smoke of roasting fish. The air reeked of burnt sugar and salt, the aftermath of freedom tinged with the metallic bite of lingering toxins. Farmers and rebels huddled around makeshift tables cobbled from driftwood and rusted hull plates, their laughter brittle, their hands trembling as they raised mugs of brackish ale. A child plucked at a lute strung with salvaged fishing line, the notes quavering like the pulse of a fever dream.
Bram Van Leeuwen leaned against the windmill's splintered post, his tattooed arms crossed as he watched the crowd. Beside him, Marya stood motionless, Eternal Eclipse strapped to her back, her golden-ringed eyes scanning the disoriented islanders. A woman nearby clutched a wilted tulip to her chest, murmuring to the petals as if they held answers.
"They're still half in the nectar," Bram muttered, nodding to a man retching neon bile into the canal. "Like ghosts haunting their own bones."
Marya tilted her head, observing the convulsion with detached curiosity. "The mind clings to what it knows. Even poison."
Across the clearing, Law paced like a caged beast, his fur-lined coat streaked with soot and seawater. Bepo, Uni, and Clione hovered nearby, their celebratory grins fading as their captain's impatience sharpened the air.
"We need a ship," Law snapped, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. "Today."
Willem Van der Zee emerged from the throng, his sunken eyes shadowed by the brim of a starched black bonnet—Doflamingo's old mandate, now a relic. "There are no ships fit for the New World here. Only fishing skiffs and dredge boats."
Dr. Elsa Visser pushed forward, her lab coat stained with algae and hope. Hendrik Van Berg followed, a silent shadow. "The toxins have bonded to their nervous systems," she said, ignoring Law's glare. "Full recovery could take years. And if Kaido or Doflamingo retaliates—"
Marya interrupted, her voice a blade sheathed in ice. "Leave. A moving target is harder to burn."
Hendrik stepped closer to Elsa, his calloused hand brushing hers. "There's a village in the South Blue… rumors of a girl with her eyes."
Elsa's breath hitched.
"A lead," Hendrik said quietly. "Nothing more."
Law slammed his fist on a rotting barrel, sending a swarm of bioluminescent beetles skittering into the air. "I don't care about your damned leads! I need—"
"—a ship," Marya finished, tilting her head. "And they need their minds. A fair trade, yes?"
The clearing fell silent. Even the lute stalled.
Law's jaw flexed. "You want me to play surgeon? Fine." He unsheathed Kikoku, the nodachi's blade glinting under the soap-bubble moon. "But you bring me a ship first. No vessel, no cure."
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. A fisherman dropped his mug, the ale foaming over his boots. Willem exchanged a glance with Bram, who nodded once and vanished into the shadows.
Minutes later, the crunch of gravel underfoot announced Fenna Van Dijk's arrival. The smuggler swaggered into the firelight. Her coat—a patchwork of Marine uniforms and pirate silk—swirled around her as she tossed a ring of rusted keys to Law.
"The Vlissingen," she said, grinning like a knife wound. "Cargo hold's full of black-market den den mushis, but she's seaworthy."
Law caught the keys, his gaze slicing to Willem. "And the toxins?"
Willem gestured to the crowd. "You have your ship. Now save them."
Marya watched as Law's Room bloomed over the clearing, blue light swallowing the firepits and wide-eyed faces. Farmers stiffened as his scalpel fingers danced, extracting ribbons of neon poison from their veins. A child giggled as hers took flight, a shimmering eel that dissolved in the salt wind.
"Impressive," Marya murmured, noting the precision of his cuts. "You could carve empires with that power."
Law didn't look up. "I carve survival. Nothing more."
As the last toxin dissipated, the lute resumed, its notes steadier now. Hendrik and Elsa melted into the crowd, their whispers of her daughter and South Blue swallowed by the rising song.
Fenna sidled up to Marya. "You lot owe me," she said, though her tone was light, almost fond.
Marya's gaze drifted to the horizon, where storm clouds churned—Kaido's answer, or Doflamingo's. "Debts are a distraction," she said. "But destruction… that's a language even kings understand."
As the Vlissingen's anchor rose, Law's crew filed aboard, their shadows long in the firelight. Marya lingered on the dock, her blade humming with Void energy.
"Coming?" Law called, impatience edging his voice.
She smiled, faintly. "Yeah," she looked over her shoulder as she walked the gangplank onto the deck. "Some storms are worth watching."
Behind her, the islanders danced, their steps unsteady but their voices clear, singing an old folk hymn to a future they could finally taste.
The wind carried the melody over the waves, where it tangled with the creak of the Vlissingen's hull—a dirge and a lullaby, both.
*****
The sea was a tempest's masterpiece—waves clawing at the sky, rain slashing sideways like knives, and thunder growling like an angry god. In the churning black water, a figure floated lifelessly, his Marine coat billowing around him like a shroud. Vergo's face, usually a mask of bureaucratic indifference, was pale and slack, a deep gash across his temple weeping crimson into the saltwater. His bamboo Jitte, still clutched in one limp hand, bobbed beside him like a skeletal finger pointing accusingly at the storm.
Smoker spotted him first.
"Hard to starboard!" he barked, his voice cutting through the gale. The G-5 crew scrambled, their boots slipping on rain-slick decks as the ship lurched. Tashigi gripped the rail, her glasses fogged with spray, but her eyes narrowed at the sight.
"Is that… Vergo?" she shouted over the wind.
Smoker didn't answer. He vaulted over the rail, his body dissolving into smoke before hitting the water. The sea hissed where he touched it, steam mingling with the downpour as he materialized just long enough to haul Vergo's sodden form into his arms. A wave crashed over them, but Smoker's logia form flickered, reforming on deck with a wet thud.
The crew recoiled. Vergo's uniform was in tatters, the once-pristine white stained with blood and brine. His fingers, still curled around the Jitte, were blue with cold.
"Why is he out here?" a grizzled ensign spat, knuckles whitening on his cutlass. "Can we save him?"
Smoker ignored him, dropping Vergo onto a rain-soaked bench. Tashigi knelt, her sword clattering beside her as she pressed two fingers to Vergo's throat. "Weak pulse. Hypothermia. Maybe internal injuries."
"He'll live," Smoker growled, lighting a fresh cigar with a flick of his flint. The ember glowed like a predator's eye in the storm's gloom. "For now."
The crew muttered, their concern hanging in the air. Vergo is the G-5 Vice Admiral in the Marines. He is the reason they have a purpose. Yet here he was, breathing ragged, broken breaths, his infamous stoicism drowned by the sea.
Tashigi peeled back Vergo's coat, revealing a lattice of scars and fresh bruises. "These aren't just from the waves. Someone worked him over good."
Smoker exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it shred in the wind. "Who," he muttered. His eyes narrowed as he considered the myriad possibilities. "Who cuts this clean? His armament Haki is unmatched."
A flash of lightning seared the sky, illuminating Vergo's face as his eyelids fluttered. For a heartbeat, his gaze met Smoker's—hollow, yet still defiant. Then his head lolled back, a trickle of blood threading from his lip.
Tashigi stood, wiping her hands on her coat. "We should get to the infirmary."
*****
The Paper Serpent cut through the neon-frothed waves of the New World, its sails billowing under a sky streaked with auroras from nearby islands. Captain Umeko Ozias stood in the shadow of the ship's figurehead—a serpentine dragon with scales carved from Wano lacquer—his dark eyes fixed on the Den Den Mushi in his clawed hand. The snail's face contorted into Donquixote Doflamingo's trademark grin, its voice a venomous purr.
"Fufufu… You've done well, Umeko. Half the Heart Pirates rot in your brig, and their sub rusts in your hold. Once Vergo confirms Trafalgar's corpse, this farce ends."
Static crackled in Umeko's ram horns, a storm contained. He glanced at the dartboard nailed to the mast, each of his trophies—Marine insignias, pirate flags—trembling in the salt wind. "Kaido might prefer them broken in Wano's mines," he rumbled, the words grinding like tectonic plates.
Doflamingo's laugh slithered through the receiver. "And deny the world a show? Take them to Sabaody. Let the nobles bid on their despair."
The line died. Umeko crushed the Den Den Mushi in his fist, its shell fragmenting like brittle bone. On the deck below, Akako Zinnia twirled her hammer, singing an off-key shanty to her stuffed Baretto plushie. Ozul Crow knelt beside the railing, muttering incantations to the constellation Orion as he folded a paper doll from a Marine's surrender letter. Amaru Valentine lounged in the crow's nest, shuffling a marked deck of cards, his Hawaiian shirt pristine against the grime of battle.
"Akako. Ozul. Amaru," Umeko barked. The crew froze, their quirks momentarily subdued by the gravity in his voice. "Set course for Sabaody. We're selling cargo."
Akako's ponytails bounced as she saluted. "Aye, Captain! Baretto loves shopping trips!" She spun, hammer slamming the deck with a BOOM that sent a heart-shaped crater rippling through the wood. The ship lurched, nearly upending Ozul's astrolabe.
"Mars in Aries demands balance!" Ozul hissed, steadying his telescope.
Amaru blew a kiss to a passing seagull. "Don't worry, darlin'. I'll win back your loot at the auction."
In the brig, the air reeked of mildew and defeat. Jean Bart's massive frame strained against the seastone chains bolted to the wall. Ikkaku spat a glob of blood onto the floor, her goggles cracked. Penguin and Shachi huddled together, their usual banter replaced by grim silence.
"Sabaody," Shachi muttered, pressing his ear to the rusted door. "They're taking us to the slave blocks."
Penguin tugged at his bill-shaped hat. "Captain'll come. He's… he's gotta."
Jean Bart's chains clanked as he leaned forward, his voice a gravelly growl. "Law's smart. But Sabaody's a graveyard for hope."
Ikkaku kicked the wall, her boot leaving a dent. "We ain't waiting for a miracle. Distract the guards. Steal keys. Something."
Above them, the floorboards creaked. Akako's voice trilled, "Oopsies!" followed by a cannonball tearing through the ceiling and embedding itself in the brig's far wall.
"Or," Shachi grinned weakly, "wait for her to blow a hole in the ship."
On the quarterdeck, Umeko stared at the horizon, where Sabaody's bubble domes glimmered like false jewels. A paper doll fluttered onto his shoulder—Ozul's work, its origami face etched with Kaido's Jolly Roger.
"The stars whisper caution," Ozul intoned, appearing beside him. "Saturn's rings fracture."
Umeko flicked the doll into the sea. "Stars don't steer ships."
Amaru materialized at the rigging, his sniper rifle Lady Luck slung over his shoulder. "Bet you 100,000 Berry Law's already dead."
"No." Umeko's horns crackled, static lifting his trench coat like dark wings. "Debts aren't settled that easily."
As Sabaody loomed, the captured Heart Pirates' whispers melded with the creak of the Paper Serpent's hull—a chorus of dread and defiance.