The seas surrounding Wano were silent. Not calm — silent.
It was an eerie, reverent quiet that stretched across the horizon, as if the world itself held its breath. No gulls cried. No waves dared to crash against the jagged cliffs. Even the storm clouds that perpetually cloaked the nation seemed to part before the ghostly vessel that had trespassed upon the sky.
The Donquixote galleon drifted not across the sea, but above it — floating weightlessly, carried by invisible hands. Beneath the ship's keel, the raging waters of Wano's surrounding maelstrom spiraled endlessly, a natural wall said to have swallowed whole fleets. Yet for the blind swordsman standing at the ship's brow, such obstacles were mere inconveniences.
Issho — stood with his staff sword planted before him, his calm face tilted toward the distant landmass below. His robes rippled in the thin, biting air, and around him the faint shimmer of distorted gravity danced like heat haze. With a subtle flick of his wrist, the massive galleon descended, gliding through the air as though carried on the wings of an unseen god.
To the east, the shadow of Onigashima loomed — dark, jagged, wreathed in cloud and legend. Issho could sense it all without seeing: the towering skull mountain, the flicker of countless lives below, the hum of weapons, the slumbering malevolence in the depths of the island.
At his side, Jinbei stood silently, the sea breeze whipping through his blue hair. His sharp eyes watched as Denjiro leapt from the deck, his form vanishing toward the distant cliffs and into the mists that shrouded Mogura Port.
With Denjiro gone, a stillness fell between the two men — broken only by the hum of the wind and the soft creak of the ship as it slowly settled beyond the cloud barrier. The blind swordsman reached into his robe and withdrew a small object — a curious transponder snail, its shell glistening with faint metallic hues.
"Here, Jinbei-kun," Issho said softly, extending the snail toward him. "You'll need this underwater. It'll allow you to take images of the thing I mentioned earlier."
Jinbei accepted the creature with a puzzled look. The snail blinked up at him, mechanical lenses adjusting with tiny clicks. Its presence carried a strange weight — as though it wasn't just an ordinary recording tool, but something more.
Even so, Jinbei's doubts deepened. He turned toward Issho, his massive hand tightening around the rail. The sea knight of the Sun Pirates was not easily shaken, but this — this was beyond anything he had imagined.
"Issho-dono…" he began, his voice low, edged with unease. "It is not that I doubt your words. But are you truly certain of this? That an ancient weapon lies hidden beneath Wano…? The same weapon that's driven half the world into madness at Water 7?"
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Jinbei swallowed hard, his throat dry. The mere idea of such a weapon existing here—in this isolated land, untouched by the tides of the world—was madness. And yet… the man before him did not seem the sort to jest about such things.
While the world tore itself apart searching for the mythical engine of destruction, this blind swordsman claimed to know exactly where one slept. Beneath Wano's impenetrable crust. Beneath the closed borders of a country that even the World Government feared to touch.
It was absurd. And terrifying. If Issho spoke the truth, then the Donquixote Family's roots reached deeper than any kingdom, deeper even than the Government's shadow itself.
Issho's smile was faint, unreadable. "Wouldn't you know whether I'm lying or telling the truth once you're down there, Jinbei-kun?"
His tone was calm—almost playful—yet beneath it lay an undeniable gravity. He turned his face toward the horizon where the sun broke faintly through the clouds, bathing the eastern cliffs in weak amber light.
"And I hope," Issho continued, "that you remember the promise you made me."
The warmth in his voice vanished. In its place came the weight of command.
"Not a word of what you see or learn during this voyage must ever leave your lips. Not to your kin, not to your comrades, not to any soul. Whether now… or in the future."
The air itself seemed to thicken, bending under his power. The wood beneath Jinbei's feet groaned—not from wind or wave, but from the subtle distortion of space itself. Even without sight, Issho's unseen gaze fell upon him like the pull of a star.
Jinbei nodded slowly, his expression grim. "Aye… I remember, Issho-dono. I gave you my word—and a man's word is his bond."
Issho's lips curved faintly upward. "Good. You remind me of someone I knew once before—steadfast even when faced with things far greater than yourself."
For a moment, silence reclaimed the deck. The ship hovered above the mists, the massive waterfalls of Wano cascading below like curtains of glass. From this height, even the fury of nature seemed small.
Jinbei turned the transponder snail over in his hand, the creature blinking up at him with a quiet mechanical chirp. It was a strange thing—part living, part machine—something only the Donquixote family could have crafted. A device designed to see what no man should.
His task was twofold. To find and record the red Poneglyph said to rest within Wano's depths.
And, if Issho's claims were true… to capture proof of something far greater. An ancient weapon, older than history itself.
Even thinking the words made Jinbei's chest tighten. "And if such a thing does exist down there…" he muttered, almost to himself. "Then the world above has no idea how close it stands to the edge."
Issho's blind eyes turned toward the sea below. "The world has always balanced on that edge, Jinbei-kun," he said quietly. "The only question that remains… is who will be the one to push it."
He lifted his hand. Gravity bent around his palm, the air rippling like a heat mirage.
The ship began to descend—slowly, deliberately—its hull groaning as it pierced the thick mist layers surrounding Wano. The light dimmed, and the air grew heavy. Beneath them, the world of sunlight faded into darkness.
Issho's voice was calm, but his words carried the weight of history.
"Go. The path to the depths lies below the eastern ridge. There, you'll find the caverns the samurai call Yomi no Kawa—the River of the Dead. Dive there, Jinbei-kun… and you'll see whether my words are folly or fate."
The ship tilted slightly, hovering just above the foaming sea. The faint shimmer of gravity lifted Jinbei gently from the deck, lowering him toward the waters below.
The fishman looked up one last time. The wind carried the smell of rain and earth. Issho stood motionless at the bow, robes fluttering, his head tilted toward the hidden mountains of Wano.
For all his serenity, Jinbei could sense something else beneath that calm—the burden of a man who saw too much, even without eyes. As Jinbei plunged into the dark waters below, the last sound he heard was Issho's quiet murmur, carried by the wind.
"Let us hope… that what sleeps beneath Wano never wakes."
The surface broke above him with a whisper—and then there was silence. Jinbei descended through the cool embrace of the water, his powerful strokes slow and deliberate. Tiny air bubbles streamed from his gills, spiraling upward like strands of silver thread that vanished into the dim glow above.
The light faded quickly, swallowed by the thick, rain-fed water. Unlike the salt-choked seas outside, this was something purer—freshwater, cold and heavy, the accumulation of centuries of rain trapped within the natural basin of Wano.
It wasn't an ocean Jinbei swam through. It was a tomb.
He had been in many seas across the world—deep trenches, sunless chasms, the shattered remains of lost islands—but never had he felt a silence like this. It was the silence of a nation buried alive.
As he adjusted his eyes to the dark, the faint shimmer of the transponder snail's light cast rippling patterns along the stone walls around him. The deeper he swam, the clearer everything became. Fishmen eyes, honed for the abyss, pierced the gloom—and what they revealed made Jinbei's heart still.
The geography began to take shape. Below him stretched a vast, terraced landscape—entire plateaus descending in layers toward the mountain's core. And upon each level, hidden beneath centuries of sediment and freshwater silt, lay the ruins of an entire country.
"By the tides…" Jinbei breathed, his voice muffled in the depths. "This… this was Wano."
The realization struck like a hammer. The true Wano Kuni—not the proud nation perched high upon its mountains, but an older, grander civilization that had once sprawled across the valleys and river plains now entombed beneath the water. The current Wano was merely its echo, surviving on the mountain peaks that had become islands after the deluge.
He swam lower, tracing the curved outline of a colossal torii gate half-buried in the silt. Its wooden beams, now fossilized, were wrapped in kelp and coral, the sacred rope of shimenawa still clinging faintly to the crossbeam like the remnant of a prayer.
Lanterns hung from broken eaves. Roof tiles scattered like scales. Entire streets, still paved with the old black stones, wound downward toward a central square where a massive pagoda stood half-collapsed, its spire piercing upward into the murk.
Jinbei's transponder snail clicked and whirred, recording everything. Each detail, each engraving, each ghost of a structure long swallowed by time.
He swam past an ancient marketplace, the skeletal remains of wooden stalls preserved by silt. Banners still clung faintly to poles—tattered, ink faded, the symbols of forgotten clans. Stone statues of samurai stood vigil over the drowned city, their faces eroded but proud, swords still raised in silent defense of a kingdom no longer living.
Jinbei slowed, his heart heavy. "So this… is how they closed their borders," he whispered.
He could see it now—the genius and tragedy of it all. Long ago, the samurai of Wano must have harnessed their mastery of engineering, forging immense barriers and channels to seal their land from the sea. They had isolated themselves not just politically but physically—building higher and higher, redirecting rivers, trapping rainfall over generations until the waters rose, consuming the old valleys whole.
They had literally drowned their own homeland to keep the world out. The water around him thickened with the taste of history. Every motion felt like trespassing upon sacred ground.
His mind returned to Issho's words—that beneath Wano lay not only a red Poneglyph, but something else. Something ancient. Something that had to remain buried.
A shiver coursed through Jinbei despite the cold. The idea of such power hidden here—beneath Kaido's fortress, beneath the samurai's feet—chilled him more deeply than the depths themselves.
He pushed onward. The snail's lamp flickered as the current grew stiller and the silt thicker. Ahead, the main mountain's submerged flank loomed—the same mountain that jutted into the sky above as Onigashima and the Flower Capital's twin peaks. The water's decreased salinity allowed Jinbei's vision to sharpen further. Every groove, every mark upon the rock, stood out as though etched in moonlight.
****
Fishman Island, Red Line
The plaza at the heart of Fishman Island was eerily quiet. Even the luminous corals that adorned the grand square seemed dimmer, their light paling beneath the three massive floating eel-ships that loomed above—their banners of the Ryugu Kingdom swaying gently in the ocean currents.
The once-crowded square, where thousands of citizens had gathered in years past to sign petitions for peace and equality, now felt hollow—a ghost of its former self.
At its center stood a massive glass box, clear as crystal and tall as a man. Once, it had brimmed with papers—thousands upon thousands of signatures, written in trembling hope. Now, barely a dozen sheets fluttered weakly within, their edges browned and curling from neglect.
Before it stood Queen Otohime, radiant even in sorrow. Her hands trembled as she pressed one against the glass, her reflection warped by the curved surface. Her other hand rested protectively on her swollen belly. Tears welled in her eyes but refused to fall, trapped like the hope she had kindled—fragile and flickering.
Behind her, King Neptune stood solemnly, his vast frame casting a long shadow across the plaza. His trident was absent. His crown tilted slightly, as if even it bore the weight of disillusionment.
"It's all right, Jamon…" he said softly, his voice carrying the gravity of the deep sea. "Perhaps we can forget about this Reverie. With your current condition, you should think about your health, Otohime. There will be other chances."
But his words found no purchase. Otohime's lips quivered as she stared at the empty glass box. A single tear broke free, sliding down her cheek to vanish in the water around them. "They've all lost faith… and it's my fault," she whispered. "All of it. I was the one who asked them to trust the surface—to trust them. I should have trusted him instead…"
Neptune said nothing at first. His heart ached at the sound of his wife's voice—the same voice that once stirred nations beneath the sea, the same voice that had turned even hardened pirates toward peace. But now, that voice was hollowed by regret.
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his massive palm steadying her trembling frame. "You did what you believed was right," he murmured. "But belief alone cannot feed the hungry. You wanted to give them hope… and instead, we gave them famine."
Otohime turned to face him then, her tears flowing freely. "Was I wrong, Neptune-sama? I only wanted our people to be recognized. To be seen as equals to humans, to walk under the same sun as them. The World Government promised—"
"Promised?" Neptune's voice hardened, not with anger, but with pain. "They promise the world, Otohime… but they have never kept their word to anyone but themselves."
He gestured toward the empty plaza—the cracked coral tiles, the withered banners, and the silence of a people who had once chanted her name. "Look around you. Do you see the joy of those you wish to liberate? Do you hear laughter or even song? No. You hear silence—the silence of stomachs that rumble and hearts that have stopped believing."
Otohime's lips parted, but no words came. She turned back toward the glass box, her reflection now distorted by the ripples of her tears. "It's still a start," she said softly, almost pleadingly. "Even if it's just a decree, even if it changes nothing today… maybe it will plant a seed for tomorrow. Maybe one day, they'll see us for what we are…"
Neptune closed his eyes for a moment, then exhaled a heavy sigh—bubbles rising slowly from his lips. "You never think like a queen, Otohime," he said quietly. "You think like a saint. And saints are loved only until the world demands miracles."
He stepped closer, his tone grave but measured. "Tell me, my queen—if the World Government announced tomorrow that fishmen are equal to humans, do you believe they would honor it? Do you think they'd welcome our kind to the surface with open arms? Or do you think they'd send their hunters wearing smiles instead of shackles?"
"It's a start," she repeated, her voice breaking.
Neptune's expression softened—sorrow mixing with frustration. "A start? For whom, Otohime?" His voice deepened, echoing through the empty square. "For us, who dine in coral palaces and sleep under silk? Or for those who sleep in shipwrecks, scraping for crumbs? For the children who haven't seen the sunlight, who drink the runoff of our waste because they cannot afford fresh water?"
Otohime flinched as though struck. Her hand instinctively went to her belly.
"You speak of peace and equality," Neptune continued, his tone now a quiet rumble, almost mournful. "But you have never walked among those who suffer. Not truly. You've seen their faces, yes—but you've never felt their pain. You've never heard a mother weep because her child went missing to human traffickers. You've never seen a father return from the surface without his arms because he dared to fish too high."
His gaze drifted to the empty petitions. "You call this the weight of a dream. But it is they who carry that weight—every day. And they're tired, Otohime. Tired of believing in the dreams of those who never have to bleed for them."
The queen's shoulders trembled. Her tears floated away, glimmering in the dim light. "If I give up now… then who will fight for them, Neptune? Who will teach our children that they can live in a world without fear? If we surrender our ideals, what will remain of us?"
Her voice cracked, but her eyes—red and swollen—still burned with conviction. "I am willing to risk my life for that dream. Even if I must die for it."
Neptune's great hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Yes… easy words for those who do not go hungry." His tone was sharp, but the grief behind it was palpable. "We speak of sacrifice as though we know its taste. But we don't. We live in gilded halls, with guards at every gate and feasts on every table. It is not our children who starve, Otohime. It is theirs."
He looked down at her, and his voice softened again, breaking. "You want to save our kind, I know. But salvation cannot come from those who built their thrones atop our chains. You cannot change the hearts of men who never saw us as people to begin with."
Otohime wept openly now, clutching the glass box as if to steady herself. The remaining petitions drifted within, dancing in the current—silent witnesses to her broken dream.
Neptune's gaze fell upon her gently. He wanted to comfort her, to take back the harshness in his words—but he knew that would only wound her more. The truth, once spoken, could not be undone.
"I only wish you could see the world as I have," he whispered finally. "You would understand why even the kindest dream can drown."
For a long moment, there was only silence—the faint hum of the eel ships above, the crackle of coral lanterns flickering weakly in the current. Then, Otohime straightened. Her tears had not stopped, but her expression hardened with quiet resolve. "Then I will learn to swim through that storm," she said softly. "Even if I must drown alone."
Neptune closed his eyes. The king in him wanted to argue. The husband in him wanted to beg.
But the man in him—the one who loved her more than the sea itself—could only bow his head.
"Then may the tides be gentle to you, my queen," he murmured. "Because the world above never will." And beneath the still glow of the corals, the glass box stood half-empty—but still not empty enough to bury a dream.
Otohime wiped the tears from her face, her slender fingers trembling. The saltwater around her shimmered faintly, mirroring the wavering light in her eyes. Though Neptune's words still echoed in her heart, she could not — would not — let them break her resolve.
"No," she whispered to herself, her voice soft but steady. "If I give up now… everything will have been for nothing."
She straightened, fixing her crown gently as if reasserting her purpose. Around her, the plaza stood silent save for the faint hum of the coral lanterns and the distant calls of the marketplace. Then, she reached into the glass box, gathering the remaining petitions — a mere handful now, so light they could fit within her arms, yet heavier than any burden she had ever carried.
Her guards exchanged uneasy glances as their queen — radiant, heavily pregnant, and exhausted — began walking toward the market district. Neptune followed a few paces behind, saying nothing. His expression was a sea of sorrow and resignation.
The marketplace was a world apart from the regal corridors of the palace. Once it had been bustling — schools of merchants swimming through colorful coral stalls, laughter echoing between shell-built arches, and families gathering around glowing jellyfish lamps. But now, the colors had dulled. The coral tiles were chipped, the shops worn thin by time and hunger. The air, even underwater, felt heavy — stagnant with unspoken bitterness.
As Otohime entered, the murmurs spread like ripples.
"Her Majesty…"
"The Queen…"
Every head turned, and every back straightened in a polite bow. The fishmen greeted her with forced smiles — gestures born not of devotion, but of obligation. Otohime, ever gentle, returned each smile with warmth, clutching her stack of petitions.
"My friends," she began softly, "I know times have been hard, but I still believe in the dream we share — a future where fishmen and merfolk can live under the sun as equals—"
But before she could finish, the crowd began to disperse. A shopkeeper suddenly remembered a "delivery to make." A pair of young fishmen excused themselves, muttering about "urgent business." Even the old coral-seller who had once praised her speeches now pulled down her shutters, bowing apologetically before vanishing behind them.
It was like watching the tide pull away from her. Neptune watched in silence, his eyes dark with the pain of recognition. His queen — the heart of their nation — was being avoided like a plague. Still, Otohime pressed on, her smile unwavering. She approached stall after stall, her hands outstretched with the petitions.
"Please, sign this. For the future of our children."
Some accepted, smiling stiffly, folding the parchment and slipping it away with no intention of ever reading it. Others mumbled excuses, bowing and retreating. A few, the boldest, refused outright — their voices tight with resentment but still tinged with respect.
One muttered, "We've had enough of promises, Your Majesty. Promises don't fill empty stomachs."
A nearby soldier stepped forward, his trident glinting. "Mind your tongue before the Queen—"
But Otohime raised her hand gently. "It's all right," she said softly. "He has the right to speak his heart."
Her voice carried no anger — only a kind of quiet grief. Then she turned, continuing her walk through the thinning crowd.
Neptune followed, each step feeling heavier than the last. He saw what she could not — the looks that trailed her, not of hatred, but of loss. The people did not despise their queen. They pitied her. They pitied the woman who still dreamed of light while they had learned to survive in the dark.
At the far end of the marketplace stood a dilapidated coral stall, its structure cracked and worn. The shelves were nearly bare — just a few scraps of seaweed bread and wilted coral fruit.
Before it, a mermaid stood, her scales dulled by exhaustion. A tattered cloth wrapped around her waist, and a young child was bound to her back with braided seaweed and an old shell strap. The child slept fitfully, its small gills fluttering weakly against her skin.
The mermaid was haggling with the shopkeeper — her tone low but desperate. On the counter lay a small shell necklace, worn and chipped but clearly precious.
"It was my mother's," she murmured. "Please, just enough for a loaf of bread. And some milk, if you can spare it."
The shopkeeper's expression softened, but he shook his head. "I can't, miss. Not anymore. Prices have gone up. You'll have to try elsewhere."
Otohime's heart clenched. Without thinking, she hurried forward, clutching the petitions to her chest.
"My dear," she called gently, her tone bright and motherly. "Please, take this."
She produced a parchment, beginning her familiar words — the promises of recognition, equality, and a brighter tomorrow. But the mermaid barely looked at it. Her eyes — lifeless, sunken — turned to the Queen, recognized her, and then turned away again.
Her attention returned to the necklace, her trembling hands still pushing it toward the shopkeeper. Something inside Otohime faltered. She hesitated, remembering Neptune's words — the ones she had tried so hard to ignore.
Before she realized it, her hand lifted, gesturing toward her minister. "Let me pay for her," she said softly. "Please, allow me."
The shopkeeper froze. The soldiers bowed their heads. It was a simple act — an act of kindness. But the mermaid's head snapped up. Her voice, quiet yet cutting, pierced the stillness of the market.
"Did I ask you for alms, Your Majesty?"
Otohime's lips parted in shock. The surrounding merchants stilled. Even Neptune's breath caught. The mermaid turned to her fully now — her gaze sharp as coral shards. "You think I want your charity? That I wish to grovel before those who live in palaces while we starve in the shadows?"
Her tone wasn't cruel — it was steady, dignified, worn thin by struggle.
"I do not blame you, Queen Otohime," she said, her voice trembling with pride, "but you took something from us when you gave our future away to strangers above the sea. When the Donquixote family helped us, we earned our food. We worked for it. We had trade, purpose, pride. We did not beg for our meals—we made them with our own hands. That was freedom. That was dignity."
Her fingers curled around the necklace. "Now, you ask us to place our hopes in paper and promises. You ask us to depend on those who despise us. And you call that equality?"
The mermaid's eyes glistened, though no tears fell. "I would rather starve with my child than live fed by pity. Because if my son must live beneath the pity of others — he is not free."
Otohime stood frozen. The petitions slipped from her grasp, drifting slowly to the ground like falling petals. Her lips quivered, but no words came. In that single instant — in the proud defiance of one starving mother — she saw the truth her heart had refused to see.
The fishmen did not seek acceptance. They sought dignity.
Not recognition on paper, but the right to stand on their own feet, to live and die by their own strength. Otohime's hand went to her chest. A sharp pain spread beneath her ribs, stealing her breath. The world around her swam, her vision blurring.
"Your Majesty!" a soldier cried.
Neptune was at her side in an instant, catching her as she stumbled. Her face had gone pale, her hands trembling violently.
"The baby—!" someone shouted.
Pain surged through her body, fierce and sudden—labor pain. The petitions scattered through the current, each page spinning slowly away as if carried by the tide of fate itself. As Otohime was lifted in Neptune's arms, her eyes fluttered open weakly, searching for the mermaid—but the woman had already turned away, clutching her child, walking with head held high.
And Otohime understood, finally, through the haze of pain—that freedom was never given. It was lived. The queen's tears drifted upward, glimmering like stars in the dark water.