Chapter 113

The air in Naylamp's Plaza hung thick with the acrid tang of seastone residue and the metallic bite of spilled mercury. Mirror Marcellus tutted, stepping daintily over the shattered remains of his glass clones, their fragmented reflections still whispering echoes of Mihawk's blade. His crystallized hair rang like wind chimes in a storm, each shard vibrating with suppressed rage. Nearby, Guillotine Gereon stood motionless, the shadowy vapor from Karma's chains curling around his judicial robes like smoke from a funeral pyre. The executioner's mask hid his face, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him—a statue straining at its pedestal. 

The transponder snail's shrill ring split the silence. 

Marcellus plucked it from his coat, its shell already frosted with a veneer of glass. "Darling, you've timed your call exquisitely," he purred, though his kaleidoscope eyes darted to Gereon. "We were just tidying up a… mess." 

The snail's face contorted, its features elongating into the gaunt, horned visage of Saint Jaygarcia Saturn. The Gorosei's voice oozed through the line, cold and syrupy, like oil over ice. "Report." 

Marcellus's smile tightened. "The Dracule brat and her fossilized father slipped through our fingers. A temporary setback, of course—" 

"You let them escape." Saturn's words were a blade pressed to the throat. The plaza's remaining mercury pools began to bubble, reacting to the fury in his tone. 

Gereon's chains clinked—a single, sharp note. Marcellus waved a hand, and a glass mirror materialized beside him, reflecting not their surroundings, but a star-charted cavity swirling above the ruins. "They've etched a map to Tartarus into the sky. Quite the lightshow, really. Coordinates are—" 

"Silence." The snail's eyes glowed crimson, and the ground beneath them trembled. Marcellus's glass creations cracked, hairline fractures spiderwebbing across their surfaces. "That gate is not to be opened. Not by traitors. Not by ghosts." 

Gereon's masked face tilted slightly, his silence louder than any protest. Marcellus's laugh tinkled, brittle. "Oh, we'll snip their little adventure short. But, ah, the elder Dracule… Warlord status does complicate things. Such tedious politics." 

Saturn's snarl distorted the snail's mouth into a grotesque maw. "Warlords are expendable. Mihawk is… meat." The word dripped with finality. "End them. Both." 

A beat. The mercury pools stilled, frost creeping over their surfaces. 

"And Commander Orpheus?" Marcellus inquired, inspecting his glass-encased nails. "Shall we send flowers to his widow?" 

"Irrelevant. His failure is his epitaph." 

Gereon's fist clenched, Karma's chain slithering across the tiles like a provoked serpent. The mention of Orpheus—loyal to a fault, reduced to a footnote—stirred something in his hollowed chest. A flicker of memory, perhaps, before the World Government scrubbed his mind raw. 

Marcellus sighed, theatrical as ever, but his glass hair had gone dull, its music muted. "To Tartarus, then. We'll return with their heads… and whatever's left of that delightful sword." 

The line went dead. The snail's shell shattered in Marcellus's grip, glass shards biting into his palm. He stared at the blood—opalescent, glittering with micro-shards—before flicking it away. "Rude," he muttered, but the bravado rang hollow. 

Gereon turned, Karma's chain retracting with a mournful creak. In the distance, the Titan-Sea King's roar echoed through the fissured sky, a dirge for what lay ahead. 

"Ready, old thing?" Marcellus asked, summoning a glass warship from the plaza's debris. It gleamed, fragile and deadly, a reflection of its creator. 

Gereon didn't nod. Didn't need to. The executioner's mask hid his smile—thin and sharp as a scalpel. 

Somewhere in the shadows between stars, Tartarus stirred. 

And the hunt began anew.

*****

The bar reeked of stale rum and burnt gunpowder, a symphony of clinking glasses and slurred sea shanties drowned out by the creak of the ceiling fan overhead. Casimir sat alone at the lacquered counter, his ivory-white coat pristine against the grime-stained wood. A silver quarter pirouetted over his knuckles, its edge catching the flickering lantern light like a predator's eye. The bartender—a hulking man with a kraken tattoo coiled around his throat—slid a glass toward him, the ice clinking like bones. Casimir didn't touch it. 

The transponder snail in his pocket trilled, its shell embossed with the Celestial Dragon's crest. He answered, the quarter freezing mid-spin. 

"Sir." The voice was crisp, devoid of warmth. "Coordinates 34° North, 142° East. The Dracules have surfaced. Detain or execute." 

Casimir's remaining eye—a cold, reptilian gold—narrowed. The eyepatch beneath it itched, the Seastone weave sewn into the leather humming faintly against his scarred socket. Marya. The name slithered through his mind, venomous and familiar. He could still feel the phantom sting of her kogatana, the way his blood had pooled black and glossy on the cobbled stones of Bootleg Island. 

"Understood," he said, monotone. The quarter resumed its dance, faster now. 

Behind him, laughter erupted. Teivel lounged at a corner table, his booted feet propped on the chair of a scowling fisherman. Gungnir leaned against the wall, its Wano-forged tip glinting like a smirk. A tattered rose hung behind his ear, petals browned at the edges. "C'mon, sweetheart," he drawled at a passing barmaid, voice rough as a hull scraping reef. "How 'bout a kiss for luck?" 

The woman spat in his ale. 

Teivel barked a laugh, throaty and unbothered, but his fingers tightened around the tankard. Across from him, Onyx fumbled with her starched collar, her cheeks flushed. Her heels—ridiculous things, gifted by Casimir to "correct her slouch"—snagged on the floorboards as she bent to retrieve a fallen napkin. Mr. Snips, her chibi Den Den Mushi, peeked from her breast pocket, antennae twitching. 

"S-Sorry," she mumbled, not to Teivel, but to the table leg she'd bumped. 

Casimir stood. The bar fell silent, patrons shrinking back as his coat swept the sawdust floor. He paused beside their table, the quarter now clenched in his fist. "Move," he said. 

Teivel arched a brow. "What's the rush? Finally got a date with Death?" 

"The Dracules." Casimir's voice was ice over steel. "We're hunting." 

Onyx stiffened, her hand drifting to Starfall, the Skypiean dials along its barrel glinting. "B-But protocol says we need backup if—" 

"Protocol," Casimir interrupted, "is a scaffold for the weak." He turned, coat flaring like a specter's shroud. "Or would you prefer to explain your hesitation to the Five Elders, Ensign?" 

Onyx's breath hitched. Teivel snorted, rising with a creak of leather. "Relax, Stumblebunny. Just another day babysitting royalty." He hefted Gungnir, its shaft notched with fresh tallies. "Hey, Casimir—bet I skewer the girl before you even blink." 

Casimir didn't look back. "You'll do as ordered. Or I'll feed you to the Sea Kings myself." 

The bar doors swung open, sunlight slicing through the gloom. Onyx tripped again, catching herself on Teivel's arm. He steadied her, rough but quick, his rose brushing her cheek. "Watch the heels, kid," he muttered. "Ain't no poetry in a broken ankle." 

Outside, the port buzzed with Marines loading crates of seastone cuffs. A news coo screeched overhead, a headline fluttering in its talons: SWORD OPERATIVE EXPOSED IN MARINEFORD. Casimir's jaw twitched. Replaceable, the Elders had said. Expendable. 

He palmed the quarter, its grooves biting into his skin. Not yet, he thought. Not while I still breathe. 

As they boarded the warship, its hull emblazoned with the World Government's crest, Onyx glanced back at the bar. The fisherman Teivel had taunted waved a middle finger, his grin missing three teeth. 

"Coordinates set," a navigator barked. 

Casimir stared at the horizon, where storm clouds coiled like a noose. "Full speed," he said. 

And the quarter spun, and spun, and spun.

*****

The air in Vergo's office hung thick with the acrid sting of cigar smoke and the metallic tang of polished steel. Maps of the Grand Line plastered the walls, their edges singed from Smoker's cigars, and a single porthole cast a jaundiced light over Vergo's desk. On it lay a cracked bamboo stick, its surface etched with three jagged notches—one for each humiliation at Marya's hands. Vergo traced them absently, his calloused finger lingering on the deepest groove. Nieuw Bloemendaal. The scream of seastone against her cursed blade. Her laughter, sharp as shrapnel, as she vanished into the mist. 

The transponder snail rang, its shell painted with the stark white of Marine HQ. Vergo answered, his voice a graveled monotone. "Report." 

"Coordinates 82° South, 12° West," crackled the voice of Fleet Admiral Sakazuki, each syllable molten. "The Dracules have resurfaced. You'll lead the strike. Dead. Or. Alive." 

Vergo's jaw tightened, the scar beneath his spectacles—a gift from Marya's Eclipse—throbbing as if freshly split. "Understood." 

Across the room, Smoker leaned against the doorframe, two cigars smoldering between his teeth. Tashigi hovered behind him, her sword Shigure unsheathed and gleaming as she polished it, her glasses slipping down her nose. The scent of oil and gunpowder clung to her uniform. 

"Problem, Vergo?" Smoker drawled, smoke curling around his words like a challenge. 

Vergo rose, his bamboo stick snapping into his palm with a crack that echoed like a gunshot. "Ready the ship. We depart immediately." 

Tashigi faltered, her cloth freezing mid-swipe on Shigure's blade. "Sir, the log pose hasn't stabilized for that region. The currents are—" 

"Unstable?" Vergo cut in, spectacles glinting. "Aren't you sworn to uphold justice, Ensign? Or does your courage dissolve with the tide?" 

Tashigi's cheeks flushed, but she sheathed Shigure with a click. "N-No, sir!" 

Smoker exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing. "Since when do you jump at HQ's leash? Thought you preferred… deskwork." 

The barb hung in the air. Vergo's grip on the bamboo stick whitened. He could still feel Marya's blade biting into his shoulder, her Void-tainted blood spattering his coat as she hissed, "Three times a fool, Marine." 

"The Dracules," Vergo said, slow and deliberate, "are a cancer. And I am the surgeon." He strode past them, his coat—stiff with dried salt and older blood—brushing Smoker's shoulder. "Delay again, and I'll recommend your transfer to paperwork." 

The hall outside echoed with the clamor of Marines preparing for war. Seastone nets coiled like serpents in crates, and the shrill cry of Den Den Mushi operators relayed orders. Vergo paused, the bamboo stick tapping a staccato rhythm against his thigh. Three notches. Never a fourth. 

In the dockyard, G-5's warship loomed, its hull scarred from past skirmishes with the Beast Pirates. Vergo boarded, his boots thudding against the gangplank. Below, Smoker muttered to Tashigi, "Stay sharp. He's not hunting justice—he's hunting her." 

Tashigi adjusted her glasses, her voice small but steady. "Do you think… he can beat her this time?" 

Smoker snorted. "Doesn't matter. We're not here for his pride." 

As the ship lurched forward, Vergo stood at the prow, the coordinates burning in his mind like a brand. The sea churned ahead, waves lashing the bow in sprays of frigid salt. Somewhere in that roiling dark, Marya waited—Eternal Eclipse hungry for another notch. 

Vergo's thumb rubbed the bamboo's grooves. Tonight, he vowed, the Void swallows you whole. 

And the ship plunged into the storm.

*****

The air in Sabaody's Marine briefing room hung thick with the brine of the archipelago's perpetual bubbles and the acrid sting of cigar smoke. Vice Admiral Venus Harlow leaned back in her chair, her prosthetic leg—cold, unyielding metal—tapping a restless rhythm against the floor. The sound echoed like a ghost of her old limb, the one Marya Dracule had cleaved off, its absence a phantom itch she could never scratch. Across the table, Sentomaru stood rigid, his massive axe propped against the wall, its edge glinting in the sickly green light of Den Den Mushi screens. 

"—reinforce the checkpoint at Grove 24," Sentomaru grunted, jabbing a meaty finger at a holographic map. Bubbles from the archipelago's canopy drifted through the open window, bursting against Kai Sullivan's glasses as he adjusted them with a practiced flick of his middle finger. His violin case lay open beside him, sheet music for some somber symphony peeking out beneath sniper rifle cartridges. 

The door slammed open. 

"Apologies for the delay!" Captain Nuri Evander breezed in, his Marine coat askew, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His flame-red hair stuck up in chaotic tufts, as though he'd flown through a hurricane. "Had to recalibrate my swing—aerodynamics, y'know? Did you know the Arambourgiania's wingspan could generate lift equivalent to—" 

"Sit. Down." Venus's voice cracked like a whip. Her silver cigar case snapped open, and she lit one with a flick of her lighter, the metallic casing catching the light. Nuri froze, his steel bat—engraved MVP—clattering against the chair he'd bumped. 

The transponder snail on the table rang, its shell painted with the stark crimson of Fleet Admiral Sakazuki's direct line. Venus answered, exhaling a smoke ring that coiled around the receiver like a noose. 

"Coordinates 9° North, 127° West," Sakazuki's voice seethed, molten even through static. "The Dracules. Pacifistas are yours. End them." 

Venus's prosthetic leg twitched, gears grinding faintly. "And Mihawk?" 

"Doesn't apply in this scenario. He's just another pirate." 

The words sent a current through her. Two times she'd faced Marya. Once, she'd crawled away in pieces. She could still smell the iron tang of her own blood pooling on the battlefield, the edge of Marya's blade hovering above her throat, that mocking whisper: "Run back to your masters, little raptor."

"Understood." She crushed the cigar into the ashtray, the embers hissing like a dying breath. 

Sentomaru crossed his arms, his shadow swallowing the map. "Pacifista Unit 07 through 12 are prepped. Don't waste 'em." 

Nuri perked up, twirling his bat. "Ooh, can I ride one? Imagine the grand slam I could—" 

"Focus," Venus snarled, rising. Her coat flared, revealing the glint of her prosthetic's joints. "Sullivan—scout the coordinates. Evander—air support. No deviations." 

Kai nodded, already scribbling wind calculations on his cuff. Nuri saluted, his wings—translucent membranes aching to stretch over bone—twitching beneath his coat. "Aye, Vice Admiral! Though, uh, technically, the Arambourgiania's optimal dive angle is—" 

"Move." 

As they filed out, Venus lingered, her hand brushing the scar on her cheek—a twin to the one on her leg. In the hallway mirror, her reflection stared back: a gilded raptor, feathers plucked. 

"Harlow." Sentomaru's voice softened, just barely. "Don't let that vendetta crack your armor." 

She didn't look back. "Armor's already cracked." 

Outside, Pacifistas marched in eerie sync, their laser eyes casting jagged shadows. Nuri soared overhead, his hybrid form silhouetted against the bubbles, while Kai tuned his rifle's scope, humming a Beethoven dirge. 

Venus adjusted her sleeve, the Seastone weave chafing her wrist. This time, she vowed, Dracule bleeds first. 

And the hunt began.

*****

The Midnight Claw listed in the churning waters of the New World, its sails patched with Syndicate-black canvas and its hull groaning like a wounded beast. Smoke curled from a crack in the deck where Ember's last "surprise" had nearly scuttled them. Kuro stood at the helm, his gloves stained with ash and blood, adjusting his cracked glasses with a trembling palm. The lenses caught the dying light of the sunset, casting fractured amber streaks across his face. Below deck, the stench of burnt antiseptic and seared flesh clung to the air—Souta's ink had boiled over during their retreat, scalding his arms, while Ember's left leg was wrapped in bandages soaked through with something not quite red. 

Ember perched on the railing, swinging her uninjured leg as she hummed a nursery rhyme. Her slingshot rifle, Helltide, lay disassembled in her lap, its gears smeared with gunpowder and dried syrup from the candy she'd looted in the chaos. "Ring around the ashes…" she sang, her voice brittle, before snapping her head toward the shadows. "Shut up, Josiah! I didn't ask you!" 

Souta leaned against the mast, his trench coat hanging open to reveal angry red burns snaking up his torso. His tattoos—a coiled serpent and a half-formed wolf—pulsed faintly, the ink dulled by exhaustion. He flicked a vial of seastone-infused pigment between his fingers, his gaze distant.

The transponder snail's shrill ring split the air. 

Kuro froze, his clawed hand hovering over the ship's wheel. The snail's shell had been painted Syndicate-black, its swirls twisted into a grotesque mimicry of the Masquerade's emblem. He lifted the receiver, his voice smooth, polished—Klahadore's voice. "Report received. Target remains… elusive. Complications arose." 

"Elusive." The Syndicate agent's words oozed through the line, distorted by static and something wetter, darker. "You promised the girl's heart in a jeweled box. Yet she breathes. Curious… for a man who claims to desire a seat at our table." 

Ember's humming stopped. Her good eye twitched, the prosthetic one whirring faintly as it focused on the snail. 

Kuro's gloves creaked as he gripped the receiver. "The Heart Pirates interfered. And Vergo—was unexpected, he had his own agenda? His Haki…" 

"Excuses are ash in the wind, Kuro." The agent's tone sharpened. "You wish to shed your pirate stench? Prove it. New target: Casimir." 

Souta's head snapped up. "The Vanguard? He's the one who hired us to kill Marya." 

"Do not question. Do." The snail's eyes bulged, veins throbbing. "Casimir's ambition exceeds his usefulness. Eliminate him. Or become a lesson for the next… aspirants." 

The line died. The snail deflated, vomiting black sludge onto the deck. 

Ember giggled, high and unsteady. She gripped the railing, her knuckles blanching. "Oooh, double-cross-y! Can I blow up his little alchemy lab? Huh? Can I?" 

Kuro ignored her, staring at the horizon where storm clouds coiled like a nest of serpents. His glasses slid down his nose again. Casimir. The man had eyes like a vulture and a taste for crucifying deserters. This was a test—a suicide order. The Syndicate was pruning dead weight.

Souta pushed off the mast, wincing as his burns stretched. "They're cleaning house. Casimir knows too much. And us? We're the brush." 

"We're better than this," Kuro hissed, his Klahadore facade cracking. He ripped off his gloves. "I didn't crawl out of Gecko Island's garbage to be a Syndicate errand boy." 

Ember hopped down, her boots splashing in the sludge. She twirled a Molotov hairpin, her grin all teeth. "But errand boys get to play with matches, right?" 

Souta sighed, flipping open his tactical briefcase. Maps spilled out, marked with inked annotations, and an envelope with Vivre Cards. Retrieving the one marked with Casimir's name. "Casimir frequents the bars in casinos. High security. But he's vain—he'll have a private suite. Ember, rig the vents. Kuro, you'll need to be… Klahadore again." 

Kuro's claws retracted with a metallic snick. He touched his glasses, the left lens spiderwebbed from Marya's blade. "And you?" 

Souta's tattoos stirred, the serpent slithering up his neck. "I'll be the shadow he never sees coming." 

The ship creaked, the waves below whispering of deeper things—of Mihawk's blade cutting through the mist, of Casimir's sneer, of the Syndicate's masks cracking to reveal hollow smiles. Somewhere, a crescent moon began to rise. 

Kuro adjusted his glasses. Again.