Chapter 125

The cobblestone streets of Haven of the Eclipse shimmered under the prevailing sun, bioluminescent vines beginning their nightly glow as Mihawk and Marya walked past the Driftwood Tavern. Through its grimy windows, patrons clinked mugs of Eclipse Rum, their laughter spilling into the street alongside the smell of charred squid skewers. Captain Veyla's voice cut through the din like a harpoon through waves. 

"Marya! Hawk-Eyes!" 

They turned. Veyla leaned out the tavern window, her brass eyepiece glinting, a star chart tattoo peeking from her rolled sleeve. A half-eaten smoked eel dangled from her hand, its scales glittering like misplaced jewelry. "Good to see you vertical," she said, tossing the eel to a stray seagull that squawked indignantly. "Garrick's been pestering me about your sub. Says the engine's a 'mechanical migraine.' You keeping it?" 

Marya's reply was flat. "Yes." 

"Figured. But that bubble-tech core's got him stumped. Needs parts even my scavengers can't sniff out." Veyla jerked her thumb toward the docks, where Finn and Lora's fishing boat bobbed, its nets overflowing with translucent jellyfish. "The Tide Twins might wrangle something… if they stop betting on who can hold their breath longer." 

Mihawk arched a brow. "How reassuring." 

Veyla smirked. "Also, Mira's been insistent about seeing you. Says the tides whispered your name. Or maybe it was the rum. Either way—" 

Marya groaned. "Another vision. Does it involve me nearly dying?" 

"This one involved a key," Veyla said, wiping eel grease on her coat. "And Shanks. He's been camped in her hut all afternoon, yapping about Joy Boy's 'comeback tour.'" 

Mira's hut was a claustrophobic tapestry of chaos—veils dyed with moonstone powder fluttered like spectral hands, and shelves groaned under jars of tidal sand, dried starfish, and suspiciously glowing seaweed. The air smelled of overstepped tea and desperation, the latter emanating from Mira herself as she clutched a cracked hourglass filled with black sand. Her bandaged third eye pulsed faintly, casting cerulean shadows on the wall. Shanks lounged on a driftwood stool, swirling a cup of tea that smelled suspiciously like rum. Mira hovered nearby, her gauzy veils fluttering as she nervously rearranged jars of tidal sand. 

"—so I told him, 'Joy Boy's not a person, he's a vibe!'" Shanks grinned, gesturing with his cup. "But you know how prophecies are—all 'chosen ones' and no punchlines." 

Mira's third eye twitched under its bandage. "Th-The drums… they're louder now. The key must be—" 

"Found!" Shanks interrupted, spotting Mihawk and Marya in the doorway. "Speak of the devil and his broody shadow!" 

Marya crossed her arms. "What's the 'key' this time? A spoon? A particularly sharp rock?" 

Mira flinched. "A conduit. The Void and the Dawn… they're threads on the same loom. Your mother's research—" 

"—is mine to decipher," Marya snapped, the black veins on her arms flickering. 

Shanks chuckled. "Easy, kid. Mira's just saying what we're all thinking: you're the poster girl for apocalyptic symbolism." 

Mihawk leaned against the doorframe, his gaze slicing to Shanks. "And you're the poster boy for wasted time." 

"Ouch." Shanks clutched his chest. "And here I was, offering to help your kid with her crashed submarine." 

"Hard pass," Marya said. 

Mira wrung her hands, a jar of sand slipping from her grasp. "The key is here," she whispered, her bandaged eye leaking blue light. "In the echoes of Nika's laugh. In the… the… Is your path clear?" Mira blurted, her voice a frayed thread. She'd been pacing since they entered, her veils snagging on a taxidermied seagull. "The tides churn… the wheel turns… the temple's heart skips." 

Shanks, perched precariously on a stool made of driftwood and poor decisions, grinned. "Skip? Sounds like it needs a rhythm section. I've got a guy on my crew who plays the spoons." 

Marya leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her golden eyes narrowing at a jar labeled Eclipse Moth Wings—Do Not Eat. "Define the Poneglyph. Now. Before I lose patience." 

Mihawk, meanwhile, stood like a sentinel of ennui beside a tapestry depicting the Three-Eyed Tribe's migration. He plucked a dried jellyfish from a bowl and let it dangle from his fingers. "Charming decor." 

Mira flinched, nearly upending a tray of seashells. "The Poneglyph… it's not just text. It's a lock. And the temple's missing its key." She gestured wildly to a mural peeling off the wall—a faded depiction of Lunarians and Minks dancing around a stone arch. "The Arch of Tartarus' Shadow! Its keystone was a… a teeth!" 

"A tithe," Marya corrected dryly. 

"Teeth, tithe—whatever!" Mira's bandage slipped, revealing a sliver of her glowing third eye. She yanked it back up. "Something was taken. A relic—a crown forged from Lunarian fire and Mink moonlight. Without it, the arch is just… rocks." 

Shanks stroked his chin, feigning deep thought. "So we're looking for a fancy hat?" 

"A crown," Mira hissed. "Worn by the alliance's leader during the Void Century. It's why the WG destroyed the temple—they feared its power!" 

Marya's brow twitched—the closest she came to intrigue. "And where is this crown?" 

Mira deflated, clutching her hourglass. "The tides… they only whisper 'beneath the eye that weeps gold.'" 

Shanks snorted. "Poetic. Useless, but poetic." 

Mihawk dropped the jellyfish back into the bowl with a plop. "This is why I avoid oracles. And tea." 

Captain Veyla chose that moment to thrust her head through the hut's bead curtain, her brass eyepiece askew. "Shanks! When you're done deciphering fairy tales, my tavern's got a cask of rum with your name on it." 

"Wouldn't miss it," Shanks called, saluting with a half-empty cup of Mira's dubious brew. 

Marya pulled a folded parchment from her coat—a rubbing of the temple's Poneglyph, its ancient spirals smudged with charcoal. "I transcribed the riddle. If the crown's location is here, I'll find it. Without pageantry." 

Shanks hopped up, nearly toppling the stool. "Where's your sense of adventure? C'mon, Hawk-Eyes—bet you ten barrels of Veyla's rum we find the crown before sundown." 

Mihawk's sigh could've wilted roses. "You'll be dead by sundown if you don't stop talking." 

"So that's a yes!" 

Marya pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is a waste of time." 

"Time! Yes!" Mira lunged forward, spilling black sand across the floor. It formed a vague shape—a bird? A squid? A very confused starfish? "The key is time! Or… timing! Or—" 

"—or we leave," Mihawk said, turning toward the door. 

Shanks slung an arm around Marya's shoulders, ignoring her death glare. "C'mon, kid. Where's your… whatever you have instead of fun?" 

Outside, the bioluminescent vines began their evening hum, a melody that almost sounded like laughter. Marya glanced at the charcoal smudges on her parchment, then at Shanks' idiot grin. 

"Fine," she muttered. "But if we die, I'm haunting you first." 

Mihawk strode ahead, calling over his shoulder: "Try to keep up, children." 

As they vanished into the twilight, Mira collapsed onto her stool, whispering to the seagull: "They'll need a bigger crown."

The jungle path to the Temple of Dawn's Echo was a gauntlet of bioluminescent thorns and petrified tree roots that coiled like skeletal fingers. Shanks led the way, humming a shanty off-key while swatting at fireflies that burst into prismatic sparks when touched. Mihawk walked a pace behind, his expression one of profound regret, as though the very air offended him. Marya trailed last, her boots crunching over gravel that glinted with flecks of Lunarian alloy—remnants of a battle fought centuries ago. 

"So!" Shanks called over his shoulder, ducking under a vine dripping with neon-blue sap. "After this dusty field trip, what's the plan? Raid a World Government vault? Hunt down a Sea King? Pirate brunch?" 

Mihawk's reply was a blade-sharp sigh. 

Marya ignored him, her gaze fixed on the temple's distant spires, their sandstone glowing faintly under the moon. The air thrummed with the temple's ancient energy, a vibration that made her Void veins itch. 

"C'mon, kid," Shanks pressed, grinning. "Even broody over here must have a thought. Right, Hawk-Eyes?" 

"I'm thinking of silencing you," Mihawk said. 

Shanks laughed, the sound scattering a flock of starlings from the canopy. Their wings left trails of bioluminescent dust in the air. "You two are worse than the time I sailed with a gaggle of mimes. At least they—" 

Marya snapped. 

One moment, they were trudging through the jungle. The next, the world dissolved into silver mist—cold, weightless, and humming with the dissonant choir of the Void. Shanks' laugh warped into a muffled "Bwuh?!" as the mist coiled around them, compressing space and time into a single, disorienting breath. 

They reformed in the temple's inner sanctum, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and forgotten incense. The Poneglyph loomed before them, its surface etched with spiraling Ancient text, half-shrouded by glowing vines that pulsed like veins. 

Shanks staggered, clutching his head. "Warn a guy next time! I left my stomach back at the mango stand." 

Mihawk straightened his coat with a disdainful flick. "Efficient." 

Marya ignored them both, stepping toward the Poneglyph. Her fingers brushed the glyphs, the stone humming beneath her touch.

"You gonna translate that, kid?" Shanks asked, juice dribbling down his chin. "Or are we just here to admire the interior design?" 

Marya's golden eyes flicked to him, unamused. "What roots drink the tears of the sky?" she recited, her voice echoing in the hollow chamber. The words seemed to awaken the air, stirring motes of dust that glittered like fractured stars. 

Shanks froze mid-bite. "Wait—you can read this?" 

"Obviously," Mihawk drawled, inspecting his nails. "Unlike some of us, she doesn't rely on guessing." 

Marya continued, the riddle unfurling like a cursed map: 

"Four keepers born of flame, sight, storm, and flame's denied… 

The tyrant's child must weep alone— 

A crown undone, a debt atoned…" 

Shanks whistled. "Cheery stuff. Sounds like a birthday party for Marines." 

Mihawk's lip curled. "Focus, if you're capable." 

"Three keys forged in star, beast, and bone: 

One charts the path where gods have flown, 

One beats where leviathans groan, 

One wears the face the world disowned…" 

Shanks tossed his mango pit into a fissure in the floor. "Leviathans, huh? Reminds me of that time I arm-wrestled a Sea King. Lost an arm, won a keg!" 

Marya ignored him, her voice steady as she pressed on: 

"The dancer laughs where shadows part— 

His joy the spark to mend the heart. 

But blood must flow from six torn veins: 

Sky's heir, moon's scorn, and D's old chains…" 

Shanks' grin faded. "D's chains? Joy Boy's fan club's getting complicated." 

"When heaven's stars align as one, 

Four shades shall rise where light has spun— 

Serpent's wrath, Condor's toll, 

Tiger's grace, and Tide's lost scroll…" 

Mihawk's brow arched. "Four guardians. How tedious." 

"Bound by chains of cosmic creed, 

Their oath unlocks what shadows bleed. 

Speak the price the Void demands, 

And sail where Lethe's gate commands." 

Silence fell, thick as the temple's humid air. Somewhere, water dripped, each drop echoing like a dying clock. 

Shanks scratched his stubble. "So… we need three keys, four guardians, six blood sacrifices, and a dance party? Typical Tuesday." 

Marya stood, brushing dust from her coat. "The crown is the first key. The 'tears of the sky' likely refer to Lunarian fire rain. The 'tyrant's child' could be a World Noble's descendant. The rest…" She hesitated, her stoic mask slipping for a heartbeat. "...is encrypted." 

Shanks barked a laugh. "Encrypted? You mean the ancient doom-poem isn't user-friendly?" 

Mihawk strode toward the exit, his boots crunching over shards of pottery. "We're done here. Riddles are for fools and dead men." 

"Aw, c'mon!" Shanks jogged after him, nearly tripping over a serpentine root. "Where's your sense of mystery? Adventure? Fun?" 

Marya lingered, staring at the glyph depicting a Lunarian queen crowned in flames. A debt atoned. Her mother's notebook had mentioned a "crown of ashes"—a relic forged to seal alliances and betrayals. 

"You coming, kid?" Shanks called from the temple's archway, backlit by moonlight. "Veyla's rum won't drink itself!" 

Mihawk paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Well?" 

Marya turned away from the Poneglyph, the Void veins on her arms faintly luminescent. "The crown isn't here." 

Shanks blinked. "How'd you—?" 

"The riddle." She paused, lips pursed, "I need time to research this." 

The trio emerged from the Temple of Dawn's Echo into a night alive with bioluminescent fireflies and the distant murmur of Haven's night market. The jungle path back to town glowed faintly underfoot, the petrified roots now studded with luminescent fungi that burst into prismatic sparks when stepped on. Shanks twirled a mango peel on his dagger, humming a shanty about a drunken kraken, while Mihawk's silhouette cut through the shadows like a blade through silk. Marya walked between them, her Void veins dimming to a faint silver as the temple's energy receded. 

"So," Shanks said, flicking the mango peel into a thicket where it startled a nesting bird into squawking flight. "Back to the Consortium's dusty shelves, then? Bet they've got a riveting book on 'How to Brood in Ten Easy Lessons.'" 

Marya's sidelong glare could've frozen magma. "No." 

"Oho!" Shanks grinned, sidestepping a creeping vine that lashed out like a territorial eel. "Falling out with your book club? Did someone dog-ear a page?" 

"It's… complicated," she muttered, dodging a dripping cluster of neon-blue sap. 

Shanks' grin softened, his tone sly. "Y'know, I've heard Elbaph's libraries make the Consortium look like a pamphlet stand. Giants' archives—centuries of secrets. Even stuff the World Government burned." 

Marya's steps faltered, just barely. "Elbaph?" 

Mihawk paused, his golden eyes narrowing. "Land of warriors and mead. You'd hate it." 

"Perfect!" Shanks clapped, scattering fireflies. "We'll swing by, grab a few thousand-year-old scrolls, maybe arm-wrestle a giant or two. Oh—and fix that metal tin can of yours. I know a guy who tinkers with engines. Calls himself 'The Gadget.' A little absent-minded, but handy." 

Marya stopped dead, the glowworms overhead dimming as if sensing her suspicion. "Why are you offering this?" 

Shanks shrugged, his scarred eye crinkling. "Can't an uncle help his favorite niece?" 

"I'm not your niece." 

"Eh." He plucked a glowing berry from a bush and popped it into his mouth. "Close enough." 

Mihawk exhaled, a sound that conveyed I'm surrounded by idiots. "Elbaph is a detour." 

"Detour?" Shanks gasped, mock-offended. "It's a scenic detour! Think of the sunsets! The mead! The—oof." He tripped over a root, face-planting into a patch of moss that emitted a startled puff of glittering spores. 

Marya stared down at him, her lips twitching. "...You're hopeless." 

"But generous!" Shanks rolled onto his back, grinning up at the star-streaked sky. "C'mon, kid. When's the last time you let someone help?" 

The question hung in the air, heavier than the humidity. Somewhere in the mangroves, a Three-Eyed Tribe oracle began chanting tidal predictions to a group of drunken sailors, their off-key harmonies blending with the creak of distant ships. 

Marya turned away, her voice clipped. "I'll consider it." 

Shanks sprang to his feet, clapping moss from his coat. "That's the spirit! We'll leave at dawn. Or noon. Or… whenever I'm sober." 

Mihawk strode ahead, tossing a parting jab over his shoulder. "Try not to drown in a puddle, Captain." 

As they neared the town's outskirts, the glow of the Eclipse Bazaar spilled into the jungle—lanterns shaped like crescent moons, the sizzle of skewered seaking, and the haggling cries of Mink traders. Marya's gaze drifted to the docks where her submarine lay, its hull patched and humming faintly.

The trio had barely stepped into the halo of the Eclipse Bazaar's lanterns—crescent moons bobbing on strings, casting dappled gold over stalls of Mink-forged trinkets and Fish-Man smoked eel—when a shadow lunged from the alleyway. 

"YOU." 

Hongo materialized like a vengeful specter, his ponytail wild, a syringe the size of a harpoon clutched in one fist and a bubbling vial of neon-pink liquid in the other. The scent of antiseptic and burnt sugar rolled off him in waves. Behind him, Bonk Punch and Yasopp lingered like guilty accomplices, the former clutching a ukulele, the latter conspicuously polishing a rifle that hadn't needed polishing in decades. 

Marya froze. Shanks grinned. Mihawk sighed. 

"Three days!" Hongo roared, jabbing the syringe toward Marya. "Three days unconscious, and you're sightseeing?!" 

"Technically," Shanks said, plucking a skewer of candied sea-king from a nearby vendor, "we were ruin-seeing. Big difference." 

Hongo's eye twitched. He rounded on Mihawk. "And you! Enabling this… this… recklessness!" 

Mihawk examined his nails. "I enabled nothing. She walks where she pleases." 

"She pleases to walk into early graves!" Hongo thrust the pink vial at Marya. "Drink. Now." 

Marya eyed the concoction, which fizzed ominously. "What is it?" 

"Dignity," Shanks whispered, dodging Hongo's swipe. 

"Sea urchin extract, moon moss, and powdered seastone," Hongo snapped. "For the Void veins. Drink." 

Marya took the vial, sniffed it, and discreetly tipped it into a passing raccoon's paw. The creature hiccuped, glowed purple, and scampered up a lantern pole. 

Hongo's scream could've shattered glass. "I'M SURROUNDED BY CHILDREN!" 

"Aw, c'mon, doc," Yasopp said, leaning against a stall selling Lunarian fire-coral necklaces. "She's fine! Look—standing, breathing, glaring… all vital signs!" 

Bonk Punch strummed a jaunty chord. "She's alive, alive, alive~!" 

"SILENCE!" Hongo brandished the syringe like a sword. "You—" He pointed at Shanks. "—are a bad influence. And you—" The syringe swung to Mihawk. "—are worse than a corpse. At least corpses stay put!" 

Mihawk's brow arched. "Flattering." 

Marya sidestepped toward a stall selling star charts, but Hongo blocked her path, his boots squelching in a puddle of spilled Eclipse Rum. "Where do you think you're going?" 

"To research," she said coolly. 

"To collapse," Hongo corrected. 

Shanks slung an arm around Hongo's shoulders, reeking of mango and mischief. "Relax, doc! We're taking her to Elbaph. Giants, mead, bed rest—" 

"Elbaph?!" Hongo's voice cracked. "That's a month by sea! She'll be dead in a week!" 

"A week?" Shanks gasped. "I had two days in the pool!" 

Marya pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm standing right here." 

Hongo ignored her, whirling on Mihawk. "Do something!" 

Mihawk glanced at Marya, then at the syringe. "...Duck." 

Marya dropped. Hongo lunged. Shanks yelped, tripping into a pyramid of bioluminescent coconuts that promptly exploded into glowing shrapnel. The market erupted—vendors cursed, Minks howled, and Lucky Roux, ever-helpful, began frying the scattered coconut chunks into "emergency snacks." 

"GET BACK HERE!" Hongo bellowed, slipping on a banana peel (courtesy of Yasopp's quick reflexes). 

Marya darted through the chaos, Mihawk cutting a path ahead with the sheer force of his disdain. Shanks brought up the rear, tossing berries to a swarm of neon parrots to create a distraction. 

"You're all insane!" Hongo roared, tangled in a net of dried seaweed a Mink fisherman "accidentally" tossed his way. 

"Love you too, doc!" Shanks called, saluting with a stolen bottle of rum. 

As they vanished into the labyrinth of glowing stalls, Marya's lips twitched—the ghost of a smirk. 

Mihawk side-eyed her. "Enjoying yourself?" 

"No," she lied. 

Above them, the moonlit vines hummed, and the sea whispered promises of chaos yet to come.