The Hall of Ash stretched before them like the hollow skull of some ancient god. The obsidian walls curved overhead in a perfect hemisphere, their polished surfaces reflecting the dim light in fractured fragments that danced across the floor. The scrying glass embedded in the stone caught the glow of their torches and threw it back in distorted echoes, creating the illusion of movement in the corners of their vision. The air was cold and still, heavy with the weight of centuries, carrying the scent of old fire and older death.
The floor was white.
A foot-deep layer of pale grey-white ash covered every surface, muffling their footsteps, rising in small clouds with each step. The stuff clung to their boots, fine as flour, and settled back to the ground in slow, drifting spirals. The ash had been disturbed recently—tracks led across the chamber, a tangle of footprints that converged and separated and converged again.
And there, rising from the center of the chamber, a bridge of crystallized ash glowed faintly, its surface smooth and solid, arcing toward a doorway on the far side of the room.
General Zahi Rukun stood at the threshold, his massive frame blocking much of the light from behind. His flowing silk tunic of deep jade green was immaculate despite the dust, and his clouded left eye shimmered with that faint green luminescence that appeared when he was thinking. His hand rested on Toshito's hilt, the kilij dark and patient at his hip. He did not move. He simply observed, his head turning in slow, deliberate arcs, cataloging the chamber, the ash, the bridge, the shadows.
Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba stepped past him, his stocky frame compact and sturdy, his dark blue feather boa wrapped loosely around his neck. His warm brown eyes swept the room with the sharpness of a predator who had learned to find threats in beauty. His hand rested on Kuroi's hilt, the kris's wavy blade hidden but ready.
Lieutenant Tori Miniku followed, her multicolored hair shifting through shades of deep brown and amber as she moved. Her large almond-shaped eyes—deep brown shifting to shimmering amber-gold—tracked the ash, the walls, the ceiling. She did not speak. She did not need to. A low, melodic hum escaped her lips, unconscious, the sound resonating off the obsidian and returning in soft echoes.
Lieutenant Mani Lucheres brought up the rear, his short, impossibly dense frame planted in that wide stance that made him look like a boulder dropped from a great height. His boots were silent on the ash, and his dark brown eyes swept the chamber with the cold assessment of someone who had learned to find weakness in everything. Suley hung across his back, the massive axe dark and heavy, and his brass knuckles gleamed on his hands.
Lieutenant Cleo Grahisto stood at the center of the group, her bronze eyes wide, her ink-stained fingers pressed against her lips. Her wide-brimmed olive-green fedora was tilted back, revealing her face, and her field satchel hung from her shoulder, the leather scarred from years of use. Her head swiveled slowly, taking in the obsidian walls, the scrying glass, the ash, the bridge.
Her voice came out as a whisper.
"This is... this is..."
Ataboy stepped closer, his warm brown eyes fixed on her face. "This is what, Lieutenant?"
Cleo turned to look at him. Her bronze eyes held his, and her voice carried the particular weight of someone who had spent a lifetime studying things that others had forgotten.
"This is remarkable." She gestured toward the bridge, toward the ash, toward the walls. "No one without a true understanding of this chamber and the relic should have been able to traverse this obstacle."
Zahi's clouded eye narrowed. His voice came out low and flat, the voice of a man who did not like uncertainty.
"What exactly are you saying, Lieutenant?"
Cleo met his gaze. She looked at Ataboy, at Tori, at Mani, each in turn. Her jaw tightened.
"We are not dealing with your run-of-the-mill treasure hunters." She gestured toward the tracks in the ash, toward the bridge, toward the doorway on the far side. "Whoever they are, they have deep knowledge and understanding of the Ancient Kingdom and its technology."
Mani's arms crossed over his chest. The thick scar on his right shoulder pulled tight with the movement. "That does not sound encouraging."
Cleo nodded, her bronze eyes still fixed on the bridge. The crystallized ash glowed faintly, casting soft light across her face. She stood in awe, her ink-stained fingers touching the pendant at her neck—the Ottoman coin from her grandmother, hidden beneath her shirt.
"It is remarkable," she said, her voice soft, almost reverent. "To think that there are others with access to forbidden knowledge and lost history." She paused, her head tilting. "The lingual root in the inscription suggests a level of understanding that even I have not... that even the Papaho scholars have not fully—"
Zahi moved.
His boots were silent on the ash, his massive frame cutting through the dim like a ship through fog. He stepped onto the bridge, the crystallized surface holding his weight without complaint. He did not look back.
"Let us keep moving."
Ataboy fell into step behind him, his hand still resting on Kuroi's hilt. "The tracks are fresh," he said, his voice carrying that warm, melodic cadence. "We may be able to catch up to them."
Tori followed, her humming growing louder, the melody weaving through the chamber like a thread through cloth. Her multicolored hair floated as if caught in an unseen current, and her eyes glowed faintly amber.
Mani brought up the rear, his short, powerful legs carrying him across the bridge with the steady rhythm of a weightlifter approaching the bar. He did not speak. He did not need to.
Cleo stood at the edge of the bridge for a moment longer, her bronze eyes fixed on the doorway ahead. The ash settled around her boots, soft and silent.
Then she followed.
The bridge glowed beneath their feet, and the Hall of Ash faded behind them, swallowed by shadow. Somewhere ahead, the ones who had come before walked through the darkness, their footsteps fresh in the dust, their secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Zahi did not hurry. He did not rush. He simply walked, his clouded eye fixed on the path ahead, his hand resting on Toshito's hilt.
The hunt was not over.
It had only begun.
*****
The main office of the Coast Guard Base smelled of old paper and the faint salt of the harbor, a combination that clung to the lungs and reminded visitors that this was a place of business, not comfort. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long golden rectangles across the wooden floor, illuminating dust motes that drifted in the still air. A tray of cookies sat on the low table between the couches, their edges browned to perfection, and cups of tea steamed in delicate porcelain cups.
King Vitis Koshu sat on one couch, his burgundy silk robes rumpled from a long day, his silver-gray hair escaping its practical tail in several places. His gray-blue eyes were fixed on Vesta Lavana with the intensity of a scholar who had stumbled upon a text he could not put down. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his teacup forgotten in his hand.
Orianne Seine stood behind the King, her silver-white bob immaculate, her pale blue eyes fixed on Vesta with a mixture of scrutiny and suspicion. Her ebony cane rested in her right hand, the silver handle pressed against her palm, and her leather portfolio was clutched against her chest. She did not sit. She did not relax. She watched
Phởlaurant Vanluc stood on the King's other side, his navy blue tunic crisp despite the heat, his warm amber-brown eyes narrowed. His hand rested on his sidearm—not threatening, just present. His jaw was set in a line that spoke of careful assessment.
Ember lay unconscious on the couch against the far wall, her neon-pink space buns flattened against the cushion, her tattered black-and-crimson Lolita dress bunched around her thighs. The Seastone cuffs on her wrists gleamed in the afternoon light, and her mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one gold—were closed. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths.
Vesta sat beside her, perched on the edge of the couch, her rainbow hair shifting through shades of pink and orange as she spoke. Her platform boots were tucked beneath her, and her bright violet eyes sparkled with the excitement of a storyteller who had found an audience. She held a cookie in one hand and a tea cup in the other, and she gestured with both as she spoke.
"And then, after Marya held her ground and fought with the God's Knight and the Navy, her uncle showed up!"
King Koshu blinked. His teacup hovered halfway to his lips.
"Her uncle?" He leaned closer, his gray-blue eyes wide. "And who is that?"
Orianne and Phởlaurant exchanged a look—a quick, wordless communication that spoke of years of working together. Their eyes narrowed in unison, their expressions caught somewhere between skepticism and caution. This sounded too good to be true.
Vesta grinned, her teeth white against the crumbs on her lips.
"The Red Hair Pirates!"
King Koshu's teacup stopped moving entirely. His jaw dropped. His gray-blue eyes went wide with disbelief.
Orianne's grip tightened on her portfolio. Phởlaurant's hand shifted on his sidearm.
King Koshu leaned forward until he was nearly falling off the couch.
"And then what?"
Vesta bit into her cookie, talking around a mouthful of crumbs. "The Red Hair Emperor is Marya's uncle, so he broke up the fight, and the God's Knight—"
She cocked her head, deep in thought. Her rainbow hair dimmed to a contemplative grey.
King Koshu interrupted, his voice sharp with impatience. "The God's Knight did what?"
Vesta blinked. "Oh, I was just thinking. That God's Knight and the Red Hair Emperor looked a lot alike."
Orianne's patience snapped. Her voice carried an edge of steel.
"What happened then?"
Phởlaurant glanced at Orianne with a smirk. King Koshu looked over his shoulder at her, and Orianne pursed her lips at both of them—a silent reprimand that needed no words.
Vesta swallowed. "Then the God's Knight just left!"
Phởlaurant's eyes narrowed. "He retreated?"
Vesta reached for another cookie, shrugged, and bit into it. Crumbs scattered across her lap.
"Yeah, I guess. We went to Tosu Island after that, and I—" She giggled, jumped to her feet, and clapped her hands together. "I got to play my first debut world concert!"
She squealed, spun in a circle, and her rainbow hair shifted through a cascade of colors—pink to orange to yellow to green.
---
The door creaked.
Everyone turned.
Anmarie Lotuslys stepped aside, her sharp hazel eyes fixed on the figures behind her. Her dark brown hair was tucked behind her ears, and her reading glasses hung from a silver chain around her neck. She stepped into the room, then gestured for the others to enter.
Marya filled the doorway.
Her leather jacket with the Heart Pirates insignia was unzipped, revealing a casual shirt beneath. Her denim shorts were practical, her tall combat boots silent on the wooden floor. Her long raven hair flowed behind her, and her golden eyes—her father's eyes, hawk-like and unreadable—swept the room in a single, assessing glance. Nisshoku rested across her back, the obsidian blade dark and patient.
Atlas Acuta stood beside her, his rust-red fur bristling in the warm air, his blue sapphire eyes tracking the room with the focus of a predator. His dual chui, Stormclaw and Thunderfang, hung crossed on his back, the Seastone cores dark and heavy. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was unreadable.
Vesta stopped mid-spin and hopped toward them, her platform boots thumping against the floor.
"Marya! You're here!"
Atlas chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Yeah, songbird. Looks like you made some new friends."
Vesta nodded, her rainbow hair bouncing. "Oh, yeah! Come on, we have tea and cookies too."
Orianne and Phởlaurant stood in stunned silence. Their eyes fixed on Marya—on the resemblance to her father, on the golden eyes that had haunted Marine reports for decades, on the sword that carried whispers of cursed power. They had heard the stories. They had not believed them until now.
King Koshu stood, clearing his throat. The sound snapped Orianne and Phởlaurant out of their trance.
Anmarie took the lead, her voice steady and professional.
"Allow me to introduce you." She gestured to Marya, then to the King. "Dracule Marya, this is King Vitis Koshu." Her hand moved to Phởlaurant. "Commander Phởlaurant Vanluc." Her hand moved to Orianne. "And Royal Assistant Orianne Seine."
King Koshu stepped forward, his expression warm, his hands extended in greeting.
"It is good to meet you. Your companion—" He glanced at Vesta, who bounced on the balls of her feet. "—was just telling us all about your adventures."
Marya's golden eyes narrowed. Her jaw tightened. She sighed.
"Charmed."
King Koshu's smile faltered at her lack of enthusiasm. He pressed on, his voice hopeful.
"Would you like to sit? Have some tea?"
Marya raised a brow. Her voice was flat, final.
"Actually, no. I am here to retrieve my companions and go. Nothing more."
King Koshu's face fell. His hands dropped to his sides, and his shoulders sagged.
Anmarie and Phởlaurant exchanged a concerned look.
Marya glanced at Ember, still unconscious on the couch, and addressed Atlas.
"Atlas, could you—"
Atlas nodded. "Sure thing, boss."
Marya turned to Vesta. "You ready too—"
Orianne's cane struck the floor.
The sound was sharp, commanding, a crack of authority that silenced the room. The silver handle gleamed, and the ebony shaft vibrated with the force of the blow.
Everyone froze.
Marya's golden eyes fixed on Orianne. Her hand moved to Nisshoku's hilt.
Orianne walked toward her, her cane clicking against the floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Her silver-white bob was immaculate, her tailored charcoal suit pressed to perfection. Her pale blue eyes held Marya's without flinching.
She stopped inches from Marya, close enough that her presence filled the space between them.
"You are certainly his daughter." She smirked. "There is no doubt about that." Her expression softened, just slightly. "But I see Elisabeta in you as well."
Marya blinked. Her hand fell from Nisshoku's hilt. Her golden eyes widened.
"You knew my mother?"
Orianne nodded, her smirk fading into something softer, something that might have been memory.
"Yes. You may not remember, but this is not your first time here."
She stepped away, walking back toward the couches, her cane clicking against the floor.
"You see, we have connections with the Holy Land. We supply them with food, but mostly we cultivate specific types of grapes that are needed for wine production. We have contracts with the Figarland family specifically, but also with others for various raw materials."
Marya's lips pursed at the mention of the family name. Her golden eyes narrowed.
Orianne stopped and turned, her pale blue eyes holding Marya's.
"That is why your father came here. He too has a connection with—"
Marya nodded, her voice flat. "Yes. I am aware of the connection."
Orianne's smirk returned. "Won't you have a seat? Let us talk."
Marya sighed.
Orianne chuckled, a low, knowing sound.
Marya walked to the couch and sat, crossing one leg over the other. Her hands intertwined over her knee, and her golden eyes fixed on King Koshu with the patience of an annoyed predator.
Vesta bounced beside her, reaching for another cookie.
Atlas stood with his arms crossed, a sentinel at the door.
King Koshu sat across from Marya, his expression a mixture of relief and anxiety. Orianne, Phởlaurant, and Anmarie took up sentinel positions behind the couch, their expressions shifting from suspicion to something that looked almost like hope.
Orianne's posture radiated pride. She had convinced Marya to sit. That was half the battle.
Marya's voice was flat. "I assume there is something you want."
Orianne chuckled, then cleared her throat to hide her amusement.
King Koshu sat as tall as his frame would allow. His voice was measured, careful.
"You may have noticed the large number of Navy vessels and personnel on and surrounding the island."
Marya nodded. "It would be hard to miss. We had an encounter when we arrived which scattered the crew."
King Koshu nodded. "Yes, well, you see, we have found ourselves in a bit of a conflict. In an effort to deter the World Government and other erroneous individuals from coming in and overpowering or claiming rights to the kingdom, we have always aligned ourselves with a balancing force or influence."
Marya blinked. Her expression remained unimpressed.
King Koshu cleared his throat and pressed on, his voice growing more urgent.
"You see, our most recent ally has fallen, and the World Government has decided to take advantage of our vulnerability. They are demanding back pay for their Heavenly Tax—an amount we do not have."
A bead of sweat rolled down his face. His hands trembled.
"If we do not pay this tax, they will enslave the people and essentially impoverish the kingdom."
Marya sat straight and tall. Her golden eyes held his.
"What exactly does that have to do with me or my companions?"
Vesta nibbled on a cookie, her eyes darting between the speakers, feeling the tension but not knowing how to respond.
King Koshu nodded, his head bobbing with nervous energy.
"Well, speaking with your companion, I am aware of your connection with the Red Hair Pirates and their emperor, Shanks."
Marya's golden eyes narrowed. "We are not a part of his fleet."
Atlas smirked. Vesta shrank a little.
King Koshu's head bobbed faster. "While that may be true, I would like to extend—"
The transponder snail in Marya's pocket rang.
The sound cut through the room, sharp and insistent. Marya's jaw flexed. She ignored it.
The room stood silent. The snail rang again.
King Koshu looked at her, his expression uncertain. "Do you need to take that?"
Marya sighed. Her eyes rolled upward. She pulled the snail from her pocket.
The snail had transformed. Its face now bore a scar over one eye, and its smile was wide and confident. Red hair, rendered in shell and flesh, swept back from its forehead.
Vesta bounced. "Oh, look, it's—"
She stopped when she saw Marya's glare.
She reached for her tea and took a sip, her voice sleepy. "It's for you."
Phởlaurant stepped forward, his voice low. "Are you going to answer that?"
Marya sighed and lifted the receiver.
Shanks' voice crackled through, warm and teasing.
"Hey, Marya. How's it going?"
Marya growled. "Uncle. Why have you called?"
Shanks chuckled. "What do you mean? Can't an uncle call in and check on his niece?"
Marya's eyes shifted to King Koshu, Orianne, Phởlaurant, and Anmarie. Their expressions shifted from confusion to validation.
Marya's teeth clenched. "Your timing is questionable. I have not forgotten—"
Shanks interrupted with a laugh. "How did you like all those crates of flags we gave you?"
Marya's eyes narrowed. "What did you just say?"
Shanks continued, oblivious. "You didn't notice? We gave you a bunch. Just in case—"
Marya growled. "In case of what?"
Shanks chuckled. "You know, in case you needed them for some reason."
Marya snapped. "I already told you we are not a part of your fleet!"
Shanks laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. So, how are things going at the Kura-Kura Kingdom? You making friends?"
Marya's lips pressed together. Her eyes shifted to King Koshu's pleading expression.
She sighed.
Shanks continued. "How is your musician? Does she have another concert planned?"
Vesta seized the opportunity. She leaned toward the snail, her voice bright.
"Hey, Mr. Red Hair! I am here with the King! Maybe we will have another concert here once we—"
She realized she might have said too much. Her hand flew to her mouth. She shrank back, apologetic.
Marya scowled.
Shanks chuckled. "The king, huh. Sounds like you are making friends." A pause. "Hey, Marya, don't forget about his favorite vintage. You know how much he likes it."
Marya's jaw flexed.
Shanks continued, his voice warm. "Anyway, I just wanted to call and check in. See you around, kid."
The transponder clicked. The snail went limp.
Marya's lips pressed together. She tucked the snail back into her pocket.
---
The room fell into awkward silence.
Orianne stepped forward, her cane clicking against the floor.
"What brought you here, child?"
Marya considered the question. Her golden eyes swept across the room, across the King, the Commander, the Vice Commander, the Royal Assistant. Then she decided.
"I am looking for someone. A power holder."
Phởlaurant's head cocked. "Really? Which power are you looking for?"
Marya's voice was flat. "Hebi Hebi no Mi, Model: Bhūta Kāla."
Orianne, Phởlaurant, and Anmarie exchanged a look—a shared recognition that passed between them in a single, silent moment.
King Koshu smirked.
Marya raised a brow. "You know where I can find them?"
King Koshu nodded. "Yes. We may be able to assist you."
Marya's lips curved into a smirk. "In exchange for my uncle's flag."
King Koshu nodded again, faster now, his hope rising. "It sounds like we may have a mutual agreement, then."
Marya nodded, smug. "Okay, you have a deal. You help me secure the power holder, and you can fly my uncle's flag."
Vesta jumped to her feet, her rainbow hair brightening to a cheerful gold.
"Then we can have a concert to celebrate!"
Atlas shook his head, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The tea grew cold. The cookies lay forgotten.
And somewhere in the harbor, the Navy circled, unaware that the balance of power on Kushi Island had just shifted.
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