Chapter 126

The dawn painted Haven's coastline in hues of molten gold and violet, the tide pulling back to reveal a crescent of black sand littered with shards of bioluminescent coral. Marya and Mihawk stood at the water's edge, their swords clashing in a dance as old as the island's ruins—Eternal Eclipse against Yoru, steel ringing like a bell tolling the hour. The air smelled of salt and the faint ozone crackle of Haki. 

Mihawk deflected her downward strike with a flick of his wrist, sending a crescent of energy slicing through a tidal pool. The water hissed, cleaved fish floating belly-up. "Your footwork's improved. But your guard falters when you pivot left." 

Marya reset her stance, sweat glinting on her brow. "Noted." She lunged, her blade a silver blur, but he sidestepped effortlessly, the tip of Yoru grazing her shoulder. 

"Predictable," he said, though his tone lacked its usual edge. 

She narrowed her eyes. "Something's on your mind." 

He parried her next strike, the force of it sending a shockwave through the sand that startled a flock of crab-ravens into screeching flight. "Elbaph. Take Shanks' offer." 

Her blade froze mid-swing. "The Navy won't forget Angkor'thal. I need to disappear." 

"Disappear?" Mihawk scoffed. "Shanks' flag is a better shield than shadows. Even the Fleet Admiral hesitates to cross Red-Haired waters." 

She lowered her sword, the Void veins on her arms pulsing faintly. "You're not… coming." 

It wasn't a question. 

Mihawk sheathed Yoru, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the Red Force bobbed like a toy. "I have affairs to settle. The Warlord system is a crumbling farce. The Navy will demand… reassurances." 

Marya's jaw tightened. "Reassurances. Like my head?" 

He turned, his golden eyes sharp. "Like mine. My… independence has always been conditional." 

The words hung between them, heavier than Yoru's blade. A wave crashed, its foam glowing faintly as it receded, leaving trails of light like. 

Marya stepped closer, her voice low. "You're walking back into a cage." 

"Cages are for those who fear the dark." He tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Or have you forgotten who I am?" 

She hadn't. But the memory of her mother's notebook—pages stained with tears and blood—flashed in her mind. History repeats when you let it. 

"You'll get yourself killed," she muttered, kicking a shell into the surf. 

"Doubtful." 

"Arrogant." 

"Accurate." 

They stood in silence, the crab-ravens returning to pick at the stranded fish. Finally, Marya sheathed Eternal Eclipse, her tone brittle. "Why tell me this?" 

Mihawk adjusted his hat, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes. "You've spent years running from legacies. Elbaph's secrets… they might hold answers even the Consortium couldn't burn." 

She stared at him, the unspoken truth shimmering like heat haze—I won't always be here to watch your back. 

"Fine," she said finally, turning toward the town. "But if you die, I'm not attending your funeral." 

His chuckle followed her up the beach. "I'd haunt you for the insult." 

As she walked away, the dawn light caught the edge of Yoru's hilt, glinting like a promise—or a warning. The sea whispered neither.

The path back to Haven's harbor glittered underfoot, the cobblestones slick with bioluminescent algae that squelched like wet stars beneath their boots. Above them, the Red Hair Pirates' flag snapped in the dawn breeze—a grinning skull with a red eyepatch, stitched with threads of Lunarian gold that caught the light like a challenge. Shanks stood at the dockside bar's entrance, a half-empty tankard in hand, his grin brighter than the lanterns shaped like crescent moons swinging overhead. 

"Oi! Broody and Broodette!" he called, sloshing ale onto a snoozing seagull. "Ready to set sail? Tide's turning, and Beckman's got that look that says 'I'll keelhaul the next idiot who's late!'" 

Marya sighed, the sound drowned out by the clatter of Mink traders dismantling their stalls. "Yeah." 

Mihawk's lips twitched. "Eloquent." 

Shanks bounded over, his breath a fog of citrus rum and recklessness. "Great! We'll hit Nouvèl Orléon first—got a guy there who tweaks engines like they're ukuleles. Then it's off to Elbaph! Giants, mead, and enough cryptic carvings to make you swoon." 

Marya side-eyed him. "Thrilling." 

As they neared the docks, Juro emerged from his forge like a storm cloud, his cobalt scales glinting under the morning sun. He clutched a dagger wrapped in kelp, its hilt carved with… were those hearts? 

"Marya-san!" he blurted, nearly tripping over a crate of blackened seastone scraps. "You're—you're leaving?" 

She stopped, her Void veins flickering. "Yes." 

Juro thrust the dagger at her. "For protection! The blade's tempered with… uh… moonlight? Maybe? It's, ah… sharp." 

Shanks leaned into Mihawk's space, whispering loud enough to wake the dead. "Is he sweating?" 

"Like a monsoon," Mihawk murmured, amused. 

Marya took the dagger, her expression flat. "Thanks." 

Juro's tailfin slapped nervously. "When will you… I mean, could you—" 

Shanks swooped in, slinging an arm around Juro's shoulders. "She'll be back! Probably! Unless she gets eaten by a giant. Or marries one. You into giants, kid?" 

Marya's glare could've frozen the sea. "No." 

"Shame," Mihawk said dryly. 

Juro flushed deeper than the dawn sky. "I—I just wanted to—" 

"WE'RE LEAVING!" Hongo's roar echoed from the Red Force, where he stood on the gangplank brandishing a syringe the size of a harpoon. "UNLESS YOU WANT A DOSE OF 'SHUT UP AND BOARD'!" 

The townsfolk had gathered—Captain Veyla with her star-chart tattoos peeking from rolled sleeves, Mira wringing her veils, Finn and Lora arm-wrestling over a bet, and Tavi and Kip clinging to Jelly's gelatinous legs. 

"Do you hafta go?" Kip whined, his wooden sword, Seastinger, drooping. 

Jelly quivered, his bioluminescent tears splattering like glowing raindrops. "Bloop! Adventure calls! But I'll bounce back! Promise!" 

Tavi shoved a crumpled map into Marya's hand—a child's scribble of Elbaph with "X Marks the FUN!" in wobbly letters. "Don't die," she ordered, trying (and failing) to mimic Mihawk's scowl. 

Marya stared at the map. "...Thanks." 

Shanks herded them toward the ship, where Benn Beckman waited, cigarette smoke curling around his rifle. "All aboard?" 

"All aboard!" Shanks crowed, then whispered to Marya, "You've got a fan club." 

"Unfortunately," she muttered, boarding the Red Force with Mihawk close behind. 

Juro waved awkwardly from the dock. "Safe travels! And, uh… stab responsibly!" 

Mihawk snorted. 

As the crew hauled anchor, Lucky Roux barbecuing a sea-king on deck and Yasopp "accidentally" shooting a farewell firework into the sky, Marya stood at the stern, watching Haven shrink into a speck of glowing vines and tangled legacies. 

Shanks joined her, clinking his rum bottle against her arm. "Next stop—adventure." 

"Next stop," Mihawk corrected, sharpening Yoru nearby, "is me disembarking." 

Marya's gaze didn't waver from the horizon. "Try not to get beheaded by the Navy." 

"Try not to miss me," he shot back. 

The sea laughed, the Red Force cutting through waves that shimmered with the promise of chaos, camaraderie, and a certain blue-haired blacksmith's dagger clutched in a stoic girl's grip. 

Somewhere, a three-eyed gull squawked. 

Perfect.

The dawn sun stretched its golden fingers across the deck of the Red Force, painting the sails in hues of amber and rose. Angkor'thal was now a smudge of emerald and sandstone on the horizon, its bioluminescent vines fading into the morning mist. Marya leaned against the ship's railing, the salt-kissed wind tugging at her coat—a black canvas embroidered with the faint, jagged sigil of the Heart Pirates. Mihawk stood a pace away, sipping wine from a goblet etched with skull insignias, while Shanks lounged on a barrel, strumming a lute that was missing two strings. 

A shadow flitted overhead. 

"Incoming!" Yasopp called from the crow's nest, just as a News Coo swooped low, dropping a rolled newspaper like a bomb. 

Shanks caught it mid-air with a flourish, tossing a berry to the bird. "Thanks, pal! Tell Morgans I want a discount for loyal customers!" The Coo squawked indignantly and soared off, leaving a single feather spiraling onto the deck. 

Marya plucked the paper from Shanks' hand, her gaze skimming the front page. For a heartbeat, the rigid line of her mouth softened. 

"Well, well," Mihawk said, not looking up from his wine. "You're smiling." 

She blinked, schooling her features back to stone. "Am I?" 

Shanks leaned over her shoulder, his breath reeking of rum and recklessness. "Oho! 'Trafalgar Law Appointed as New Warlord of the Sea!' Didn't peg him for a government lapdog." 

Marya's fingers tightened on the paper. "He's not. It's strategic." 

Mihawk's golden eyes flicked to the Heart Pirate sigil on her sleeve. "His mark suits you. Subtle. If you enjoy announcing allies to every Marine within ten leagues." 

Shanks grinned, elbowing Mihawk. "Jealous, old man? Looks like your replacement's got style." 

"He's not my replacement," Mihawk said, swirling his wine. "He's a child with a scalpel." 

Marya folded the paper sharply. "He's competent." 

"Competent?" Shanks barked a laugh. "Kid, when I was his age, I'd already lost an arm and founded an empire. But hey, at least he's got a cool hat." 

Mihawk's smirk was a blade unsheathed. "And you agree, apparently." 

Marya shot him a glare that could've sunk ships. "We're acquainted. That's all." 

"Acquainted?" Shanks waggled his eyebrows. "That why you've got his logo stitched like a love note on your—" 

The paper smacked him in the face. 

"That's not it," Marya snapped, though a faint flush betrayed her. 

Mihawk sipped his wine, the ghost of a smile lingering. "Law's ambition will burn him. The Warlord system will not serve his intentions." 

"Says the man who quit," Shanks said, plucking the paper off the deck. 

"Sabbatical," Mihawk corrected. "There's a difference." 

Marya turned back to the sea, the Heart Pirate sigil on her sleeve catching the light. "Law knows the risks. He'll use the title until it's useless." 

Shanks draped an arm over her shoulders, ignoring her stiffening posture. "Y'know, if you two ever team up, the World Government's gonna need way more paperwork." 

She shrugged him off. "We're not teaming up." 

"Yet," Mihawk said, eyes glinting. 

The Red Force creaked, waves lapping at its hull as the crew's laughter mingled with the cries of gulls. Somewhere below deck, Lucky Roux bellowed about breakfast, and Bonk Punch's off-key shanty drifted on the breeze. 

Shanks stretched, his shadow long against the sunrise. "C'mon, Hawk-Eyes. Let's grab a drink. Celebrate the kid's new boyfriend becoming a bureaucrat!" 

"He's not—" 

But they were already gone, Shanks' laughter trailing behind. 

Marya stared at the horizon, Law's smirk from the newspaper photo seared into her mind. Strategic, she told herself. Always strategic. 

Yet as the sigil on her sleeve glinted, the sea whispered of alliances yet uncharted—and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips once more.