The last echo of Jannali's curse faded, swallowed by the unnerving quiet of the labyrinth. One moment she'd been mid-sentence, the stone around her humming with a thousand-year-old gossip only she could hear; the next, a seamless wall had slid into place with a soft, final thud, cutting her off from Marya, Aokiji, and the others. She was alone.
"Right, then," she muttered to the empty corridor, tapping a golden hoop earring with restless fingers. "Just you and me, is it? Reckon you've got a few stories to tell." The cloud-stone walls, threaded with faintly glowing seams of Pyrobloin, seemed to lean in closer. The air felt thick, heavy with the latent energy of Seastone, a constant, low-grade hum that itched at the edge of her senses. It was like being stuck inside a sleeping, stone giant.
She moved with a hunter's cautious tread, her heeled sandals making barely a whisper on the cool, smooth floor. The path branched, twisted, and doubled back on itself, a maddening puzzle of glowing arches and dead ends. The 'voice' of this place was a tangled chorus—the ancient pride of the architects, the whispered fears of countless seekers, the sheer, stubborn will of the stone itself. It was a lot to sift through.
Then, a flicker of movement ahead—a small, fleeting silhouette turning a distant corner.
A grin split Jannali's face. "Eliane! You little ripper!" she called out, her voice bouncing cheerfully down the passage. When there was no answer, she added with a growl, "And Jelly, when I get my hands on you, you mutant jellyfish, I'll use you to polish my spear!"
She broke into a run, the retractable shaft of Anhur's Whisper a comforting weight on her hip. She rounded the corner, expecting to find the two wayward kids looking sheepish.
Instead, she skidded to a halt. The passage didn't just end; it was sealed by something that wasn't quite a wall. A shimmering, wavering curtain of energy, like heat haze made solid, stretched from floor to ceiling. It pulsed with a soft, internal light, and the air around it tasted of static and old, old memories. Through it, she could just make out the continuation of the corridor, a tantalizing glimpse of freedom. A large, beautifully cut crystal, its facets catching the wall's glow, floated serenely at the chamber's heart.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Jannali groaned, planting her hands on her hips.
Encircling the crystal were three stone figures, standing in a silent, patient triangle. To the left was a woman, her head bowed and hands covering her face, the very curve of her shoulders speaking of a sorrow so deep it had turned to stone. Opposite her stood a warrior, shield at his side, his features carved into an expression of grim, unbreakable determination. And between them, frozen in mid-skip, was a child, its face upturned in a silent, joyous laugh.
Jannali's eyes, large and perceptive, scanned the room. She ignored the obvious—the glowy wall—and looked for what wasn't being said. Her gaze caught on a line of script carved with exquisite subtlety into the wall beside her. She leaned in, her afro brushing the cool stone as she traced the words with a finger.
"To walk the path of thought, the three must see the One."
"Righto," she whispered, a slow smile dawning. "Not a brick wall. A brain teaser." This was her kind of language.
She closed her eyes, tilting her head as if listening to a distant melody. But she wasn't listening with her ears. She reached out with that other sense, the one that heard the stories in the wind and the secrets in the sea. She let the 'voice' of the chamber wash over her, sifting through the general hum of ancient magic for the specific frequencies of the three statues.
The weeping maiden hit her first. A wave of grief, so sharp and fresh it stole her breath. It was the color of a twilight sky just after the sun has vanished, a deep, bruised violet. Hidden beneath the raw pain was a sharper, darker note: the sting of betrayal.
"Someone did you dirty, love," Jannali murmured, her own heart aching in sympathy. "Proper dirty."
She shifted her focus to the warrior. His 'voice' was a steady, resonant drumbeat of will. It was the unyielding solidity of a mountain, the shape of a pyramid in her mind—a strong, foundational triangle. His resolve was a shield, not just for himself, but for something… or someone.
Lastly, she turned to the laughing child. Its 'voice' was a burst of sunlight, a pure, uncomplicated delight that made her want to smile. It was the sound of a single, deep, resonant bell being struck, the kind of chime that vibrates in your chest and chases all the shadows away.
"Okay, you three," she said, opening her eyes and addressing the statues as if they were old mates. "You've had your say. Now it's my turn to sing back to you."
This was the tricky bit. It required a level of mental multitasking that would make a circus juggler weep. She had to hold all three of those distinct emotional signatures in her mind at once—the grief, the resolve, the joy—and project them back to their sources, all while perfectly aligning the hidden clues she'd uncovered.
Taking a deep breath, Jannali focused. She imagined the violet twilight of the maiden's sorrow and sent that feeling winging back towards the bowed stone figure. Simultaneously, she fixed the unshakeable, triangular strength of the warrior's will in her mind and pushed it towards him. And all the while, she held onto the bright, bell-like chime of the child's joy, letting it fill the spaces between the other, heavier emotions.
For a terrifying second, the central crystal flared, a bright, angry pulse that made her wince. Her concentration had wavered, the grief threatening to overwhelm the joy.
"No, you don't," she gritted out, tapping her earring furiously. "Come on, Bandler. Think of a perfectly cooked meat pie. Think of a chika roll so spicy it makes your eyes water. Think of… of the wind in your hair on a high place."
She steadied herself. The three statues began to glow, each with their own soft light—violet, a steady white, and a warm gold. The 'voices' in her head fell into a harmonious chord.
"Now for the grand finale," she whispered. "The three see the One."
With a final, monumental effort of will, she took the three clues—the color violet, the shape of a triangle, the sound of a low bell—and projected them not at the statues, but directly into the multifaceted Aether Crystal at the room's center.
A silent, psychic symphony erupted. The crystal absorbed in the three signals, its facets swirling with violet light, casting sharp triangular shadows, and emitting a deep, resonant BONG that was felt more than heard. The shimmering energy barrier rippled, the light within it swirling into a vortex before dissolving into a shower of harmless, fading sparks.
The way was clear.
Jannali let out a long, shaky breath, a bead of sweat tracing a path down her temple. "Well," she said to the now-dormant crystal, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. "That was a proper workout. Don't suppose you've got a cold one for me back there?"
She stepped through the archway, the path ahead once again a mystery. But for the first time since being separated, her grin was back, wide and genuine. This labyrinth wasn't just a trap; it was a conversation. And Jannali Bandler loved a good chat.
---
The grinding of stone against stone was not loud, but it was final. Vesta spun around, her rainbow hair a vibrant splash of color in the muted, internal glow of the cloud-stone corridor. The passage behind her, which had moments ago led back to Jannali's theorizing and the low murmur of the group, was now a solid, seamless wall.
"Um, guys?" Her voice, usually so full of theatrical projection, came out small, swallowed by the labyrinth's unnerving quiet. She took a hesitant step forward, her platform boots making no sound on the strangely absorbent floor. "Hey, guys? I know I'm new and all, but…" She trailed off, picking up her pace, her heart beginning a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She rounded a corner, hoping to see Marya's stern profile or Aokiji's lounging silhouette.
The new corridor was identical, empty, and curved away into shadow. A cold knot tightened in her stomach. "This isn't funny!" she called out, a tremor of genuine fear undercutting the statement. The only answer was the soft, almost imperceptible hum of the Pyrobloin-infused seams within the walls, a light that felt watchful rather than welcoming.
She was alone.
For a few panicked breaths, she simply stood there, the labyrinth's immense, intelligent silence pressing in on her. It was a silence that felt heavy, thick with the strange energy of the Seastone she knew was woven into the very rock. It didn't hurt her, not like it would a Devil Fruit user, but it was a physical presence, a weight on the air that made her skin prickle. She clutched the strap of her guitar case, the familiar bulk of Mikasi a sudden, profound comfort.
"Okay, Vesta," she whispered to herself, forcing a breath. "Path of Enlightenment. It's just a really, really bad venue. You've played worse." The joke fell flat, even to her own ears.
Driven by a rising urgency, she hurried forward, the labyrinth seeming to breathe around her, walls shifting in her peripheral vision like a waking dream. After several more turns that led only to dead ends or more identical passages, she stumbled into a chamber that made her skid to a halt.
It was a vast, circular room, so tall the ceiling was lost in a soft, radiant gloom. The air here was different; it seemed to listen. When she gasped, the sound didn't echo so much as it rippled through the space, causing the very light to waver, the air shimmering like heat haze over a desert. In the center of the chamber stood a massive, ornate door, sealed shut. Before it, set into the floor, were four circular depressions, each marked with a carved symbol she recognized from her obsessive study of Blue Sea culture: a graceful flute, a drum, a curling horn, and a violin.
Carved into the walls around them were lines of script, flowing and poetic. She moved closer, her performer's instinct to read an audience kicking in even here.
"The breath of a gentle king, sustained, without the pluck of string," she read aloud for the flute symbol. Her eyes darted to the next. "A sudden, bright command, a single hammer tap…" A drum. "The deep, dark heartbeat of a forgotten age…" A violin, but low. So low. "The brilliant, singing high note, clear and pure…" The horn.
A puzzle. A musical puzzle. A hysterical giggle bubbled in her throat. Of all the ways the universe could have tried to kill her, it had chosen the one thing she understood.
"Well, Mikasi," she said, unstrapping the case with suddenly steady hands. "Looks like we've got a callback audition." She lifted the guitar out. The wood, warmed by its case, felt alive under her fingers. "They want a one-woman orchestra. Think we can manage?"
The guitar, Mikasi, seemed to thrum with a playful energy of its own. She could feel its mischievous will, visceral-like curiosity, eager to play.
The problem was immediate. She couldn't play all four at once. A guitar couldn't make the sustained breath of a woodwind, nor the sharp, definitive crack of a drum. It couldn't plunge to the depths of a cello or soar to the piercing heights of a trumpet. Not in its standard form.
"Right. Toolbox time." She closed her eyes, focusing not on fear, but on the essence of sound. She thought of the gentle king's breath. Sustained. Airy. Her hands tightened on Mikasi's neck, and with a soft, fluid warping of wood and a faint, musical chime, the guitar collapsed and reformed into a sleek, polished wooden flute. "Okay, flute. Easy."
She put it to her lips and blew a clean, steady middle-C. The note hung in the listening air, pure and unwavering. As she held it, the well marked with the flute symbol began to glow with a soft, white light. But the moment she stopped for breath, the light faded.
"Persistent, aren't they?" she muttered. She needed a way to sustain it. Her eyes scanned the chamber, landing on a protruding lip of cloud-stone near the flute well. An idea, ridiculous and perfect, sparked. She played the note again, and while it resonated, she quickly wedged the flute's mouthpiece against the stone, angling it so her continued breath would keep the air flowing. It was clumsy, but it worked; the note continued, thin but steady, and the well's light glowed once more.
"One down." Now for the drum. "A sudden, bright command." She grabbed the still-fluting instrument. It resisted for a second, enjoying its solo, before melting in her grasp into a small, taut-headed snare drum with a pair of sticks tied to its side. She snatched a stick and brought it down in a single, sharp CRACK! The sound was a physical shock in the silent room. The percussion well flared with light and stayed lit. "They like confidence, huh?"
Two activated, two to go. But the flute's note, unsupported, had already died. She cursed, her heart sinking. She had to do this all at once.
"Think, Vesta! You're the walking encyclopedia, use it!" she berated herself. The low, heartbeat note and the high, brilliant one. She couldn't sing them—her voice was good, but not that good. She needed Mikasi to be in two places at once, which was impossible, even for a magical guitar.
Or was it?
A memory, half-forgotten, surfaced. Her grandfather, Kanthar, explaining a complex Dial mechanism. "It's not about the power, child, it's about resonance. A vibration, once started, can sustain itself in the right medium."
The labyrinth itself was the medium. The air here held onto sound.
A wild, daring plan took shape. She focused on the low, dark heartbeat. The deep string. She willed the change, and the drum shimmered, the wood stretching, the body swelling into the elegant, deep-curved form of a cello. Without a bow, she plucked the lowest C-string. The note boomed through the chamber, a profound, vibrating thrum that she could feel in her teeth. It was a sound with physical weight. As it resonated, she quickly, carefully, leaned the cello against the wall near its corresponding well. The massive body of the instrument pressed against the cloud-stone, and miraculously, the deep note continued to hum, the labyrinth itself seeming to hold the vibration, the string vibrating on its own. The well for the low strings ignited with a deep, amber light.
"Yes! You beautiful, brilliant piece of craftsmanship!" she exulted.
Now. The final note. The high, brilliant, singing purity of the brass.
She had nothing in her hands. Mikasi was currently a self-playing cello. The flute was dormant. The drum was gone.
"Mikasi, I need a favor! A big one!" she pleaded, staring at the cello. "A duet!"
She focused all her will, all her need, on the instrument. For a terrifying second, nothing happened. Then, the headstock of the cello, the very top of the neck, warped and bubbled. The wood spiraled, thinning, reshaping itself, while the body of the cello remained intact, still producing its foundational drone. From the neck of the cello, a second instrument grew like a bizarre, beautiful branch: a shining, brass trumpet.
It was an abomination of instrument design. It was the most wonderful thing she had ever seen.
She reached up, grabbed the trumpet, took a deep breath, and blew.
The note that came out was clear and pure, a brilliant, singing high C that cut through the chamber's heavy air like a laser. It was the voice of a hero, a declaration of victory.
The light in the final well, marked with the horn, blazed to life.
For a single, suspended moment, all four wells glowed—the steady white, the sharp yellow, the deep amber, and the brilliant gold. The symphony of light and sustained sound filled the room. Then, with a deep, satisfying thoom, the massive central door unsealed and swung inward.
The low cello drone faded. The trumpet in her hands melted back into the familiar shape of her guitar. Vesta slumped against the wall, her legs trembling, a giddy, breathless laugh escaping her. She hugged Mikasi close.
"We," she whispered into its polished wood, "are definitely getting a standing ovation for that."
The labyrinth, for now, was silent. But ahead, the path was open.
---
The shifting architecture of the Great Labyrinth didn't so much separate Eliane and Jelly as it curated a new, more exciting playground for them. While their guardians grappled with isolation and strategy, the two youngest members of the impromptu crew tumbled into a vast, hexagonal chamber, their laughter echoing off the strange, seamless material of the walls.
The air here was different—warmer, carrying a dry, mineral scent, like sun-baked clay and hot stone. The chamber's ceiling was a high, shadowy dome, but the floor was a dazzling mosaic of large, polished tiles, each one a different, vibrant hue: fiery orange, deep cobalt, sunny yellow, and grass green. The tiles were arranged in no pattern they could discern, a chaotic rainbow underfoot.
"Look, Jelly!" Eliane chirped, her silver ponytail swishing as she pointed a dramatic toe at the edge of the colored field. A wide, giddy grin spread across her face. "The floor is lava!"
Jelly Squish wobbled with delight, his translucent blue form jiggling like a happy pudding. "Only bounce on the color or melt!" he echoed, his voice a gleeful gurgle. His tiny red bandana seemed to perk up with his excitement.
"Race you!" Eliane declared, and without a second thought, she launched herself onto the nearest tile, a square of brilliant sapphire blue.
Her hop was light, practiced; the nimble-footed grace of a chef dancing around a busy kitchen translated perfectly to this absurd challenge. She leaped from the blue to a patch of sunny yellow, then pivoted to a deep emerald. Halfway across, she landed on a smaller, slightly uneven tile of vermilion. Her arms pinwheeled in a theatrical, exaggerated circle, a puff of flour drifting from the cuff of her miniature chef's jacket.
"Jelly, oh no!" she cried, her voice pitched high with mock terror. "I might fall into the lava!" She teetered precariously on one foot, her expression a perfect mask of feigned despair.
The performance was all the provocation Jelly needed. "Nooooo!" he wailed, his entire body compressing like a spring. "Don't let the Lava get you!" He launched himself into a high, wobbly arc, passing over a dangerous-looking stretch of plain grey stone to land with a soft splat on a large orange tile closer to her. "I will come and save you!"
He began bouncing toward her, a determined, jiggling blue beacon of rescue. But as he neared, Eliane suddenly snapped her arms to her sides, regained her 'balance' with impossible ease, and shot him a triumphant, cheeky look.
"Just kidding!" she sang, and with a powerful hop, she sailed right past him, her sturdy leather boots landing squarely on a safe green path he'd just vacated. "I am going to win!"
"No fair! You cheated!" Jelly bubbled, spinning around on his tile, his form morphing briefly into a puddle of indignation before reforming. "You can't beat me! Bloop!"
He rebounded with renewed, joyous vigor, his gelatinous feet leaving sticky, glittery patches on the tiles he touched. They cackled, a symphony of childish glee against the Labyrinth's ancient silence, their game a bright, irreverent spark in the heart of the solemn trial. They reached the far archway almost simultaneously, tumbling through into the next corridor in a heap of giggles and tangled limbs, completely unaware that the chamber behind them, a dormant test of agility and memory, had just registered their playful crossing as a successful, if utterly unorthodox, completion.
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