The humid night air of Nouvèl Orléon clung like wet velvet, thick with the scent of jasmine, decay, and distant salt. La Place des Masques lay deserted after the battle, its gaslit chandeliers casting long, distorted shadows over the cracked mosaic tiles and the shattered obsidian remains of Saint Lysander's statue. Beneath the fractured gaze of the gilded tyrant's toppled head, two figures moved like ghosts through the rubble.
Capitaine Jolene "Ironjaw" Martel's mechanical jaw clicked softly with each step, the polished World Noble gold gleaming dully under the moon. Her blood-red Marine coat, now permanently stained with bayou silt, rustled against legs caked in dried marsh mud. Beside her, Vice Admiral "Bayou" Boudreaux was a gaunt silhouette in his moss-green uniform, his voodoo-grafted gator claw flexing restlessly. The scent of Soul-Sugar withdrawal clung to him—sour sweat and burnt ozone.
"Here," Jolene whispered, kicking aside a chunk of gold-plated debris to reveal the spiral staircase fused with living cypress wood. The steps pulsed with faint blue algae-light, breathing out air that smelled of wet limestone and ambrosia-laced grave dirt. "You bring the fireworks, Boudreaux? Or just more excuses?"
Boudreaux hefted a weathered satchel, its contents clinking ominously. "Enough charges to crack a vault. Now move. I don't appreciate dawdlers." His voice was a sandpaper rasp, eyes darting to the murals writhing on the chamber walls—Achlys weeping Soul-Sugar diamonds, Saint Lysander stealing her lyre. The dissonant jazz hum of corrupted Orphean melodies vibrated in their bones.
They descended into the island's ribcage. Petrified mangrove roots threaded with veins of Living Gold formed the walls, bioluminescent fungi dripping like spectral chandeliers. At the chamber's heart, the Black Poneglyph loomed—obsidian bleeding trapped starlight, its base crusted with humming Soul-Sugar crystals. Jolene traced a glyph of the bound goddess, her mechanical jaw whirring. "Where d'you want the—?"
Light exploded.
Not torchlight—living light. The algae on the steps flared cerulean, then crimson, then gold, flooding the chamber in a kaleidoscopic cascade. Shadows peeled back from the Poneglyph's far side, revealing five figures materializing from the gloom like vengeful spirits.
Dracule Mihawk stood closest to the stone, one hand resting lightly on Yoru's hilt. His golden eyes were twin blades in the algae-glow, utterly still. Beside him, Benn Beckman leaned against the petrified roots, a rifle propped carelessly over his shoulder, cigarette smoke coiling around his weathered face. Marya Zaleska stood slightly apart, her posture relaxed but observant. Eternal Eclipse rested against her leg, its obsidian blade drinking the light. Her golden eyes—mirrors of her father's—flickered over Jolene's satchel of explosives, calculating trajectories, weaknesses. Shanks, bandages visible beneath his open shirt, leaned on Gryphon with theatrical nonchalance. And Moxy-Rouge, crimson tignon stark against the gloom, cradled her Petit Roi doll. The enchanted red thread binding it pulsed like a captured heartbeat.
"Evenin', Jolene! Boudreaux!" Shanks' grin was a slash of white in the semi-darkness, flippant as a carnival barker's. "Fancy meetin' you here. Admiring the local art?"
Boudreaux froze. His gator claw screeched against the Living Gold vein in the wall as he whirled on Jolene, fury twisting his gaunt features. "You DOUBLE-CROSSING—"
Thwack! A coil of azure gelatin shot through the air. Jelly "Giggles" Squish, materializing from a shadowed alcove, wrapped his morphing body around Boudreaux's wrists. "Bloop! No squishy tantrums, Mister Grumpy-Pants!" The Vice Admiral snarled, struggling against the rubbery bonds.
Ben's rifle didn't move—it simply was aimed at Boudreaux's forehead, the barrel a cold, dark eye. "Easy," Ben drawled, smoke curling from his lips. "The lady asked you a question, Vice Admiral."
Shanks pushed off Gryphon, wincing only slightly. "Why don't we have a little chat? About blackmail ledgers. Soul-Sugar routes. Celestial Vanguard connections." He tapped the Poneglyph. "This stone's got stories. So do you."
Boudreaux spat, the glob sizzling against a glowing root. "Go to hell, Red-Hair. You think the Krewe's court matters? The Vanguard owns shadows deeper than this swamp!"
Marya's voice cut through, cool and precise as a scalpel. "Irrelevant." Her gaze remained fixed on Boudreaux, analytical, devoid of malice but also empathy. "Your explosives suggest intended destruction. Standard Marine-issue charges. Inefficient against Void Century obsidian." A pause. "Panic makes poor strategy."
Moxy-Rouge stepped forward, the cowrie shells on her gown whispering secrets. Her violet eyes glowed faintly. "The island remembers your bargains with lesser spirits, Bayou. The whispers in the mist. The orphans fed to Husk Soldiers." Petit Roi's stitched eyes seemed to bore into him. "Speak. Or Les Guédés will sing your sins to the swamp."
The chamber pressed in—the weight of the Poneglyph, Mihawk's silent judgment, Ben's unwavering aim, Jelly's cheerful restraint. Boudreaux's defiance cracked. Words tumbled out—a choked confession of Vanguard payoffs, smuggled Devil Fruit users destined for "Husk Soldier conversion," Soul-Sugar profits funding black ops, the hit list targeting even the Five Elders. He named drop points in the Forgotten Marshes, corrupt Marine liaisons, the Vanguard's Reality Anchor project hidden beneath Mariejois. The algae-light seemed to dim with each revelation, the murals of Achlys weeping brighter.
Ben lowered his rifle fractionally. "Well, Chief? What's the play?"
Shanks' smile turned razor-thin. "Oh, I think the Krewe's earned the honors."
Moxy-Rouge nodded, Petit Roi's thread flaring crimson. "Oui. Krewe du Roi decides. Tonight." She turned her piercing gaze to Jolene, who stood rigid, her mechanical jaw clenched. "You too, Ironjaw. Your orphanages bought with blood-sugar coin? That ledger swings both ways. We convene at La Maison Rouge. At midnight." She glanced at the algae-choked staircase. "Ben. Escort our guests. The bayou has ears... and teeth."
As Ben nudged Boudreaux forward, Jelly bouncing beside him with a cheerful "Bloop! Walkies!", Jolene cast one last look at the Poneglyph—the source of her power and her potential downfall. Mihawk's hand hadn't left Yoru. Marya's eyes tracked a droplet of moisture tracing a glyph of betrayal on the stone. Shanks exhaled, the sound almost lost in the chamber's ancient sigh. The cost of Nouvèl Orléon's freedom lay bare in the algae-light—a tangled web of greed, desperation, and a goddess's stolen tears. Judgment awaited in the floating quarter, under gaslit chandeliers and the watchful eyes of spirits. The real reckoning had just begun.
*****
The humid air inside La Maison Rouge hung thick as swamp breath, saturated with conflicting scents: expensive absinthe, stale cigar smoke, the faint metallic tang of blood from old duels, and the cloying sweetness of Soul-Sugar crystals hidden in pockets. Gaslit chandeliers, their flames flickering in glass shades shaped like weeping skulls, cast long, dancing shadows across the grand salon-turned-pirate den. Plush velvet settees, remnants of the brothel's gilded past, were crammed alongside scarred oak tables and barrels of rum. The Krewe du Roi assembled in uneasy clusters, their reflections warped in the gilded mirrors lining the walls.
Moxy-Rouge stood at the head of a massive mahogany table scarred by knife fights and spilled liquor, her crimson tignon a stark beacon in the dim light. Petit Roi rested before her, its stitched eyes seeming to survey the room. To her left sat the Krewe's inner circle: Remy "Riff" Leclerc, his wiry frame hunched, fingers absently tracing the glowing voodoo symbols etched on his trumpet "La Sirène." Beside him, Granny Zéphyrine perched precariously on her whalebone stilts, skeletal mask casting eerie shapes on the ceiling. Ignace "Spark" Baptiste vibrated with nervous energy, his wild afro crackling faintly, leather apron stuffed with volatile vials. Sébastien "Silk" Moreau occupied a chaise lounge, his brocade suit immaculate despite the hour, a silk handkerchief held delicately to his nose as if warding off the room's moral decay. Capitaine Jolene "Ironjaw" Martel leaned back in her chair, mechanical jaw clicking rhythmically, one polished boot resting arrogantly on the table's edge. The spectral form of Lady Evangeline Desmarets hovered near the grand piano, translucent and dripping phantom absinthe, her lace veil obscuring her face but radiating bitter contempt.
Opposite them, Shanks occupied a deep armchair, Gryphon leaning against it, his expression watchful but weary beneath the bandages. Ben Beckman stood sentinel-like behind him, rifle slung over one shoulder, a thin cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke curling towards the chandeliers. Mihawk stood apart, a statue of obsidian near a curtained window, Yoru a silent extension of his will. Marya leaned against the wall beside him, Eternal Eclipse resting against her leg, her golden eyes scanning the room with detached, analytical calm. Jelly "Giggles" Squish bounced slightly near Ben, his azure form shimmering, occasionally whispering "Bloop!"
The centerpiece of the room, however, was Vice Admiral "Bayou" Boudreaux. Bound in thick ropes reinforced with shimmering voodoo threads Moxy had woven into the fibers, he knelt on the ornate rug, Jelly's gelatinous form loosely coiled around his voodoo-grafted gator claw, effectively muzzling it. His moss-green coat was torn, tricorn hat askew, revealing sweat-slicked hair and eyes burning with a mixture of fury and Soul-Sugar withdrawal. A collective murmur, tense and expectant, filled the room.
"Why the midnight summons, Reine Voodoo?" Remy rasped, his voice like gravel rolling in a brass cup. "The plaza still smokes. We buryin' kin, not holdin' parley."
"Aye," Spark chimed in, a nervous spark popping from his afro. "And who's the trussed-up gator bait?" He gestured towards Boudreaux with a bandaged hand. "Smells like trouble and cheap Marine cologne."
Moxy-Rouge raised a hand, the cowrie shells on her gown clicking softly. The room fell silent, the only sounds the crackle of the chandeliers and Boudreaux's labored breathing. "We gather," she began, her voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of the bayou itself, "because the earth beneath our feet screamed its truth tonight. What we found under Saint Lysander's broken pride…" She paused, letting the image of the hidden chamber solidify in their minds. "It changes everything."
She turned her violet gaze, now glowing faintly, across the assembled Krewe. "For generations, we believed. We poured rum, danced the endless night, whispered pleas to the Mist Mother. We thought her a protector, a giver, her 'tears' – the Soul-Sugar – a bitter blessing for our survival." Her voice hardened. "The Poneglyph revealed the lie. Achlys is no benevolent deity. She is a prisoner. Bound. Enslaved. Her divine essence siphoned, her sorrow crushed into the crystals that fuel our markets and rot our souls."
A stunned silence descended, thicker and heavier than the humidity. Granny Zéphyrine tapped her stilt sharply on the floorboards. "Prisoner? Bound? By who?"
"By us," Moxy stated flatly. "By the ancestors who bargained with Les Guédés. By Saint Lysander who twisted the chains tighter. And by those," her gaze locked onto Boudreaux, "who profit from her eternal torment." She gestured towards the bound Marine. "Vice Admiral 'Bayou' Boudreaux. He is the architect of the Soul-Sugar pipeline off our island. He fed the Celestial Vanguard, funded their abominations – Husk Soldiers built from stolen lives – with her stolen suffering."
The revelation detonated. Jolene slammed her mechanical foot down, splintering the mahogany table edge. "Exploited?! You expect us to weep for a goddess? That 'suffering' is the lifeblood of this island! It pays for the cannons that keep the Marines at bay, the rum that soothes the pain, the gold that rebuilds what they destroy!" Her voice was metallic fury. "So what if she's bound? She made the sugar! It's ours to sell!"
"Ours?!" Silk Moreau scoffed, adjusting his cuffs with disdain. "While he," he pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Boudreaux, "sold it to the highest bidder? Including the monsters who turn children into Husk Soldiers?" His cold eyes swept the room. "We control the source. We control the trade. We cut out the middleman," he gestured contemptuously at Boudreaux, "and deal directly with the Vanguard. Double the profit, half the risk. Pragmatism, mes amis, not sentiment."
Remy blew a low, mournful note on his trumpet, the sound vibrating with disapproval. "Profit? You hear the cries in the marsh, Silk? That ain't just wind. That's her. Drowning in sorrow we peddle like cheap gin. We become Lysander, just with better tailoring."
Lady Evangeline's spectral form rippled, her voice a chilling whisper that seemed to emanate from the piano strings. "Fools! You squabble over crumbs while the true prize rots! The brothel's glory... my glory... faded while you peddle divine misery! Free her! Let her wrath consume the Krewe, the Marines, all who defiled this place!" Phantom absinthe dripped, sizzling slightly where it hit the floor.
Spark fidgeted, sweat beading on his forehead. "Free a pissed-off goddess? You wanna turn Nouvèl Orléon into a crater? Bad idea! Boom!" He mimed an explosion with his hands. "We need the sugar! My fireworks... the defenses...!"
Granny Zéphyrine's skeletal mask tilted. "The bayou remembers the bargain. Break it, and L'Esprit drowns us all. But keep it... we drown in her tears anyway." Her voice was ancient and weary. "No good path. Only choices soaked in mud and regret."
The debate raged – pragmatism versus morality, survival versus sacrilege, greed versus a fear as deep as the Forgotten Marshes. Voices overlapped, accusations flew, the air thick with tension and the cloying scent of Soul-Sugar emanating from nervous Krewe members. Shanks watched, his expression unreadable, fingers drumming lightly on Gryphon's pommel. Ben remained an immovable pillar of smoke and stoicism.
Marya observed it all, her golden eyes moving from Jolene's defiant rage to Silk's cold calculation, from Remy's troubled frown to Evangeline's spectral fury. She absorbed the arguments, the fear, the greed – not as a participant, but as an analyst assessing flawed variables in a chaotic equation. The intricacies of Nouvèl Orléon's economy, the Krewe's internal power struggles, the moral anguish over the goddess – they were distractions from the core truths: a weaponized deity, a compromised Marine, and the dangerous knowledge etched on the Poneglyph. The debate was circular, noisy, and ultimately irrelevant to her objectives.
Moxy sighed, a sound like wind through dead cypress, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This," she murmured, more to herself than anyone, "is going to be a long, long night."
Marya pushed off the wall, the movement fluid and silent. Without a word, without a glance at the arguing Krewe or the bound Boudreaux, she turned and walked towards the heavy, carved doors of the salon. Eternal Eclipse gleamed dully at her side.
Mihawk didn't hesitate. A shadow detaching from deeper shadows, he fell into step beside her, Yoru a silent companion. Their exit was swift, deliberate, cutting through the cacophony like blades through fog. The heavy door thudded shut behind them, muffling the rising voices.
Shanks watched them go, his easy smile gone, replaced by a flat, unreadable expression. He understood. The Krewe's squabbles were the rustling of leaves on a rotten branch. Marya and Mihawk sought the root. The real storm was gathering elsewhere, and the Red-Hair Emperor knew his role in this tangled bayou drama was shifting. He took a slow sip from a flask Lucky Roux had pressed into his hand earlier – the rum tasted like ashes and unresolved fate. The meeting continued, but the most decisive players had already left the table.
The oppressive humidity of La Maison Rouge gave way to the cooler, mist-laden air of the Floating Quarter as Mihawk and Marya walked side-by-side along the raised cobblestone streets. Below them, the bubble-stone canals shimmered faintly, reflecting the gas lamps and the distorted lights of revelry bleeding from second-story balconies. The scent of damp stone, night-blooming jasmine, and the distant, cloying sweetness of Soul-Sugar hung heavy. The rhythmic thump of a bass line and the mournful wail of a distant saxophone drifted from Le Quartier Flottant, a counterpoint to the tense silence between them. The aftermath of the Krewe's fractious debate felt like a physical weight lifted only by distance.
Mihawk moved with his customary predatory grace, Yoru a silent, familiar weight at his back, his long black coat stirring faintly in the night breeze. Marya matched his pace, her posture relaxed but observant, Eternal Eclipse secure behind her, its obsidian blade seeming to drink the dim light. Her golden eyes scanned the shadowed archways and wrought-iron balconies draped in crimson bougainvillea, not seeking threat, but cataloging the intricate, decaying beauty of a city built on sorrow. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts about bound goddesses, poisoned economies, and the messy, compromised survival of Nouvèl Orléon.
It was Mihawk who finally broke it, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the night sounds. "Your thoughts?"
Marya didn't answer immediately. She watched a lone rowboat drift silently through the canal ten feet below, its occupant lost in shadow. She exhaled slowly, a rare sound of visible contemplation. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice cool and clear, devoid of the frustration that might plague others. "I don't know what the right answer is." She stopped walking, turning fully to face him beneath the flickering glow of a gas lamp shaped like a weeping mask. The light caught the rings in her golden eyes, identical to his, and the faint, fading tracery of void-veins beneath her skin. "I don't know if there is a right answer."
Her gaze swept past him, encompassing the floating city. "This entire place," she gestured subtly with her free hand, "exists because of what was done in that chamber. Its wealth, its defiance, its very identity… centered around the exploitation of a being they once revered, then feared, then simply commodified." A flicker of analytical distaste crossed her features. "Even after dispatching the obvious oppressor, Lysander, they never grew past the foundation he helped solidify. They merely became… different kinds of jailers."
She shook her head slightly, a gesture of cold consideration, not despair. "And Jolene, Silk… they aren't entirely wrong in their pragmatism, however ugly. Releasing a being of pure, accumulated sorrow and divine wrath, after centuries of torment? It wouldn't solve the problem. It might well annihilate the problem, the island, and create catastrophic new ones across the Grand Line. Vengeance is a predictable outcome for such profound betrayal."
Mihawk watched her, his expression impassive, but his gaze sharp, assessing the logic and the unspoken turmoil beneath her stoic delivery. "So," he prompted, the single word hanging in the humid air. "What will you do?"
Marya looked down at her void veins, her fingers flexing almost imperceptibly. The dark veins seemed to pulse faintly in response. She considered for a long moment, the distant jazz melody swelling and fading. "For now?" she finally said, meeting his eyes again. "Nothing." A pragmatic finality settled over her. "The variables are too chaotic, the potential consequences too vast and unpredictable. Perhaps…" a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, "…a solution will present itself in the future. Or perhaps the problem will resolve itself through its own inherent instability." Her tone suggested she found the latter more likely.
Mihawk nodded slowly, a tacit acceptance of her assessment. "And do you intend to come back? To involve yourself further in this… entanglement?"
Marya cut him off before he could finish the thought, her voice firm, decisive. "I don't know." She held his gaze, a flicker of something akin to defiance in her eyes – not against him, but against the expectation of commitment. "I will see what comes. My path leads elsewhere first." Her gaze drifted past him, towards the docks visible at the end of the canal-lined street. The distinctive, coffin-like silhouette of the Hitsugibune was moored beside the sleek, newly-repaired lines of her own submarine. "I noticed your ship was docked."
Mihawk followed her gaze. "Yes," he confirmed. "And your vessel is repaired. Shanks intends to disembark tomorrow. You will be sailing to Elbaph." He stated it as fact, not question. "It is time for me to go as well. I depart in the morning."
A rare, genuine smirk touched Marya's lips, fleeting but unmistakable in the lamplight. It softened the sharp lines of her face, a glimpse of the daughter beneath the Mist Wielder. "I know," she said, the words carrying a weight of understanding that went beyond simple acknowledgement. A beat of silence, then, quieter, almost lost in the sigh of the bayou wind through the floating quarter: "I will miss you, though." The admission was stark, honest, stripped of sentimentality but profound in its simplicity. "Try not to die."
The corner of Mihawk's mouth twitched, the barest ghost of an answering smirk. "Same to you." He paused, then gestured with his chin towards a weathered, lantern-lit tavern perched precariously over the canal a few yards ahead. The sign, depicting a laughing gator playing a fiddle, creaked softly. "Want to get a drink? One… before the paths diverge."
Marya glanced at the tavern, then back at Mihawk. Her golden eyes held his for a moment, the shared understanding of imminent separation and unspoken bonds hanging between them. The chaotic moral quandary of Nouvèl Orléon, the enslaved goddess, the Krewe's squabbles – they receded, momentarily unimportant. Here, now, was simply a father and a daughter, warriors both, sharing a moment of quiet before sailing towards separate horizons and unknown storms.
"One drink," she agreed, her voice regaining its usual calm composure, but a trace of warmth lingering beneath. She fell into step beside him once more as they walked towards the flickering light of the Gator's Fiddle, the floating city murmuring around them, the weight of the world momentarily held at bay.