Crack… crack!
The Fishman trait activated.
Sharn's genetic code began to mutate wildly — the already drug-enhanced body evolving again. His strength and defense reached monstrous levels.
If before, through repeated awakenings, Sharn's power, vitality, speed, electric charge, and "Moon Lion" state had already surpassed human limits — now, with Fishman DNA added, he gained tenfold arm strength, tougher endurance, control over the water in the air, even the ability to breathe underwater.
Even though he was a Devil Fruit user who should be crippled by seawater, the Fishman trait meant he could still breathe and move underwater like Jack the Drought. He could now extract moisture from the air and weaponize it through Fishman Karate or Jujutsu.
His strength wasn't lessened — it grew despite the sea's natural curse.
Boom!
He instinctively gripped the massive vine beside him. With a light squeeze, the thick outer layer tore off like paper.
Energy began to drain fast — the stored reserves from the Tree of Knowledge were nearly spent. Normally, they'd last for days, but the fusion of a new bloodline consumed tremondous energy as his cells evolved.
Sharn leaned against the colossal vine, the mutant exoskeleton beginning to manifest.
Crack! Crack!
His limbs and bones contorted grotesquely — then straightened. Ten more snaps later, the sound faded.
His Mink blood, Fishman genes, and human core fused — he was no longer simply "human."
The exoskeleton hardened his defense to an absurd degree. Even Queen the Plague's mechanical blade wouldn't last a swing against it.
When the process ended, Sharn stood up, steam rising off his body, the white sea wind turning it into mist.
Above this point was the White-White Sea — the sky ocean. The air thinned, and the cold bit deeper.
"I'm hungry again…"
His stomach growled. His new body was a furnace — the stronger he grew, the faster he burned through energy. The reserves from Ohara were gone. He needed food, and fast.
"Captain! You don't look too good — do you need help?"
Molly had tied Olivia up and left her to the side, fork still pressed to the woman's neck, cheeks squeezed in worry.
"I'm fine," Sharn replied. "That big idiot Wolf won't die from a fall — it's only a few hundred meters. As long as Kaido and Moria are alive, we're good."
He steadied himself against the vine.
Their ship was lodged halfway up the cloud vine — a solid base formed from compacted clouds. Wolf wasn't there, having been too heavy and dropped halfway — likely somewhere on Upper Yard, the sky island half of Jaya.
The Meatball Fruit's teleportation was deceptively simple: it marked a location (like the Mark-Mark Fruit), chose a direction and time, then launched.
As long as direction and duration matched, all who were hit landed together — no need for complex coordinates.
Though Sharn hadn't had the Fruit long — only a few days since the battle with the Happa Navy in the Flower Country — he had already survived two major wars and countless nights of practice.
He never needed sleep; his evenings were for honing Haki, physical arts, and fruit control.
That was how he mastered his dragon form, refined the Meatball Fruit, and reached full-body Armament Haki hardening during the fight with Garp.
Now, he had two perfect "markers" — Flower Country and Ohara.
He could teleport between them anytime.
Behind him, Molly followed, dragging Olivia by the rope. The archaeologist was strangely calm — even bound, she didn't panic. She was quietly analyzing the place: a floating sky island above the clouds, vines linking to the heavens, strange cultures and ruins — possibly remnants of an ancient civilization.
What shocked her most wasn't the location but the man before her.
This pirate — so cunning, methodical, and terrifyingly strong — had been unknown days ago.
How could someone like this have hidden from the world?
"Captain," Molly asked, shaking Olivia slightly, "what should we do with this woman? Want me to toss her off the edge?"
"I'll just slap her back down to Ohara," Sharn said, already thinking of his marked points. "One hit and she's home."
"No!" Olivia shouted at last.
Her long white hair was damp with sweat, her mind still reeling.
She knew what the Meatball Fruit could do — but even Luffy's flight from Sabaody to Amazon Lily had taken three days and nights.
To think they'd flown from West Blue all the way to the sky above the Grand Line — it was insane.
Yet somehow, she was alive.
A woman nearly six feet tall, barely breathing, but alive.
"I'm Olivia of Ohara!" she said firmly. "Your crew needs a navigator!"
"I've observed your ship — you have no navigator, no real cook, no helmsman, no carpenter, and no sniper!"
"I can fill all those roles — navigation, marksmanship, and even basic cooking! Please take me with you! My fate's in your hands!"
Her scholar's instinct burned with curiosity.
This — the Sky Island — was something no archaeologist had truly studied firsthand.
The vine connecting to the White Sea, the possible ruins of Shandora, the culture, and the myths — all priceless clues to the lost civilization.
If she missed this chance, she might never find another.
She lifted her hunting rifle slightly — a sign she was no mere bookworm.
Sharn looked her up and down. He wasn't moved by her plea — but he did remember Molly's horrible "fish-fork cooking."
"…Can you cook?" he asked.
His stomach growled again.
"Of course! Not as well as a tavern chef, but—" Olivia blinked.
Ah. So that was it.
This crew didn't want a navigator. They wanted a cook.
What use was a navigator when their captain could literally slap them to the sky?
"You're hired," Sharn said. "Temporary cook, sniper, navigator, archaeologist — whatever works. Just feed us."
He collapsed on the deck, staring at the sky. "Please. We can't be killed, but we sure can starve."
"You may call me Olivia," she said, freed from her bonds. She picked up her rifle, jotting notes about the Sky Island's structure while searching for the galley.
She could tell — in this captain's mind, the most sacred crew position was chef.
Elsewhere on deck, Kaido and Moria were trussed up like rice dumplings, sunbathing for recovery.
"Maybe," Sharn murmured, glancing at them, "we still need a doctor."
The wind of the upper clouds wrapped around the vine endlessly.
Above them hung the Golden Bell — silent for four centuries.
"Who will be the next one to light the flame?"
Sharn flexed his fingers; he had the sudden urge to punch something.
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