The hatch of the submarine slammed shut behind Marya as she stepped onto the deck. The salt wind whipped her raven hair across her face, the strands catching the afternoon sun like threads of black silk. Her leather jacket with the Heart Pirates insignia creaked with each movement, the familiar weight of Nisshoku resting against her back. The golden, ringed eyes of Dracule Mihawk's daughter scanned the horizon, taking in the red cliffs of the Rampart, the distant herds of buffalo, the patchwork of green plains stretching toward the mountains.
She walked to the edge of the deck and gripped the railing. The metal was cold beneath her fingers, rough with salt and age. She closed her eyes.
Kenbunshoku Haki bloomed outward from her like ripples in still water, spreading across the island in expanding rings. She felt the heat of the buffalo herds, the trembling heartbeats of the native warriors hiding in the tall grass, the cold, orderly presences of the Navy soldiers stationed along the coast. Faint signatures, scattered and unfamiliar.
Then she found it.
A presence so familiar it stopped her breath. Yellow eyes, cold and sharp as cut glass. The same arrogant tilt of the head. The same coiled intensity that she had seen in her father's reflection a thousand times.
Micah.
Her eyes snapped open. The world around her dissolved into motion.
She disappeared.
---
The hatch to the deck burst open with a clang that echoed across the submarine's hull. Vesta Lavana tumbled through first, her rainbow hair shimmering with a cascade of color as she caught her balance. Her violet eyes swept the deck, searching.
"Where is Big Sis?" Sanza demanded, pushing past her with the imperious authority of an eight-year-old who had never been denied anything. His red hair was an uncombed mess, his armored Gundam-style space suit graphic t-shirt wrinkled from sleep. "I saw her come this way!"
Eliane Anđel emerged behind him, her silver hair pulled back in a practical braid. Her blue eyes carried that calm, watchful quality that always made her seem older than her twelve years. She scanned the empty deck with a practiced eye.
"She left us," Eliane said, her voice carrying a note of quiet resignation. "She is already gone."
Jannali Bandler cursed under her breath, her accent thickening with frustration. "Bloody hell, I hate it when she does this." She adjusted her headscarf, the fabric covering her third eye with practiced ease. Her golden hoop earrings swung as she shook her head. "She just vanishes without a bloody word. Leaves us standing here like a bunch of galahs."
Atlas Acuta pushed through the group, his rust-red fur gleaming in the afternoon light. He took a massive bite from a leg of lamb he had somehow acquired, grease dripping down his chin. Around a mouth full of food, he muttered, "She does this. She will come back."
Jelly Squish bounced past them, his translucent blue body wobbling with each cheerful leap. His massive, starry-eyed pupils sparkled with excitement as he took in the new surroundings. A tiny red bandana was tied around his head, and his seaweed belt flapped with each bounce.
"New island adventure!" Jelly squealed, with perpetual, bubbling enthusiasm that made everyone's eye twitch. "Bloop! New island adventure! I wonder if there are fish! I wonder if there are friends! I wonder if there are—"
"Jelly, mate," Jannali cut him off, her voice flat. "I love you, but I am going to need you to dial it back about ten notches."
Jelly's grin widened. "I cannot dial it back! I am permanently set to maximum! That is the factory setting!"
Vesta sighed, her rainbow hair shifting to a softer, more subdued palette. "Does anyone know where she went? Like, actually went? Not just 'she left us,' but a destination?"
Eliane shook her head. "She did not say anything."
Atlas took another bite of his lamb, chewing thoughtfully. "She always knows where she is going. Even when she does not tell us."
Sanza crossed his arms, his Gallagher eyebrows lowering into a scowl. "Vile woman. Leaving us behind without a proper briefing. I am not a dog to be left at the kennel while the master goes hunting."
Jannali snorted. "Mate, you are eight years old. You are basically a puppy."
Sanza's eyes flashed with indignation. "I am eight years old, yes, but I am also the future Supreme Commander of the God's Knights! Show some respect!"
Jelly bounced between them, his gelatinous body wobbling with each leap. "I respect you! I respect everyone! Even the grumpy ones! Especially the grumpy ones!"
Vesta shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips despite her frustration. "Should we wait for her?"
Eliane nodded, her gaze fixed on the distant plains.
---
Micah raced through the foothills, his boots barely touching the ground. The tall grass parted around him, bending and swaying in his wake. His yellow eyes tracked the golden deer and its rider, their forms growing smaller against the red cliffs of the Rampart. His hand made that slow, rhythmic sawing motion at his side—the Phantom Bowing Hand—a ghost of a gesture that betrayed the stillness of his focus.
Then he stopped.
The movement was so abrupt that his boots carved deep divots into the earth, spraying dirt and grass in all directions. He stood frozen, his head snapping back to look in the direction of the submarine. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. A cold knot formed in his stomach.
Garrett Hasapis pulled up behind him, his hazel eyes scanning the horizon. His hand rested on the hilt of his saber, Stinger, and the dry, clicking sound of chitinous legs scraped against the inside of the scabbard. His voice carried a sharp, questioning edge.
"What is it?" Garrett asked, his tone flat and controlled.
Micah shook his head, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. "Something is coming."
Garrett's eyes narrowed, his body tensing as he prepared for an attack. "Do you know what it is?"
Micah shook his head again, his voice trailing off into a whisper of pure astonishment. "I don't..."
He stopped speaking. His hand fell still at his side. The Phantom Bowing Hand went motionless for the first time in years.
"Impossible," he breathed.
---
Artie Grimly noticed the shift in the air before anyone else. His manic eyes widened, and his gold-plated den den mushi megaphone flew to his lips.
"Something is afoot!" he screeched, his voice cutting through the afternoon air like a blade. "I can feel it in my bones! The energy has shifted! The narrative is pivoting!"
He spun to face his camera team, his plum-colored velvet tailcoat billowing behind him. His massive, feathered tricorn hat sat at a rakish angle, and his eyes sparkled with theatrical excitement.
"We must be ready!" he shouted, his voice rising to an operatic pitch. "Hurry! I do not want to miss this! Whatever it is, it is going to be spectacular!"
The camera team scrambled into position, their equipment clattering against the stone. Lenses adjusted, dials turned, and the faint hum of recording equipment filled the air. They moved with the frantic energy of professionals who had learned that Artie's whims were not to be questioned.
Artie's voice boomed across the plains, a sound that set teeth on edge. "Get the wide shot! I want to capture the drama! The tension! The unexpected twist!"
---
Marya raced across the island, her form a blur of motion that left the landscape streaming behind her like water. The tall grass bent and swayed in her wake, parting around her like a wave. The wind screamed past her ears, carrying the scent of earth and grass and something else—something familiar.
As she passed groups of natives and Navy, they rubbed their arms in response to the sudden cold chill that marked her passage. A woman clutched her child closer. A man looked up, his eyes wide with confusion. A group of children stopped their play, their faces frozen in surprise.
Marya's golden eyes narrowed, her focus absolute. Her leather jacket flapped against her body, the Heart Pirates insignia striking the sun. Her boots pounded against the earth, each stride eating up the distance.
She did not slow down.
She did not stop.
She just kept running.
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