Chapter 149. Elbaph

The air in the Rootheart Chamber tasted of damp earth, ancient sorrow, and the faint, metallic tang of desperation. The chamber hummed with unease – a natural vault deep within the colossal roots of the Treasure Tree Adam. Bioluminescent fungi cast shifting crimson patterns on the walls, their light catching the fractures in Sigrun "Ghost-Foot"'s ashen skin. She leaned against cool stone, her 75-foot frame hunched, legs dissolving into trails of faintly sparkling starlight-smoke only visible in the gloom. A low, rhythmic tapping echoed as she nervously drummed lichen-wrapped fingers against her thigh, the sound like seeds in a rain stick. Her skull, hairless and colonized by the pulsing fungi, tilted towards the shadows, tendrils of lichen-hair subtly twitching, scenting the air. "Sulfur," she rasped, her voice like grinding stones. "Thicker than yesterday. Crawling up from the deep cracks near the Serpent's Spire. The Maw stirs."

Across the chamber, Valgard "Frost-Scribe" stood unnervingly still. At 88 feet, his glacial-blue skin seemed to absorb the crimson light, the intricate cracks within it shimmering with trapped prisms. Icicle dreadlocks clinked softly like mournful wind chimes, the tune discordant and cold. His eyeless face was covered by lenses of pure, clear ice, currently projecting a shimmering, three-dimensional map of Elbaph's Underworld onto the root wall before him. Grey, vein-like cracks pulsed ominously across the representation of Adam's bark. He absently licked a finger-claw, grimacing. "Burnt copper and... frostbite. The Taint isn't just spreading, Seeress. It's accelerating. My golems shatter within minutes near Outpost Serpent." He snapped a small icicle from his dreadlock, the sharp crack echoing. "The resonance field… it consumes them. Like it consumes hope."

Astrid Rootsinger, the smallest giant present at 65 feet, flinched at the sound. Jade-green hair woven with wilted winter bloom flowers framed her face. Her chameleon skin flickered with amber runic patterns – fear. Kneeling, she pressed a hand flat against the chamber floor, fingertips subtly rooting into the moss. She closed her eyes, listening. "Adam… he sings a dirge," she whispered, tears welling. "A discordant, pained thrumming. The groves near the surface… the Spring… their songs are choked with ash. It's worse than last week, Ylva. Much worse." A tiny rainbow puff escaped her nose as she sniffled, vanishing instantly.

Ylva the Sightless Seer sat on a worn stone dais, the focus of the gathering. Eighty feet of obsidian skin etched with glowing amber runes, her cloud-white afro, interwoven with 108 moonstone beads, seemed to dimly drink the chamber's light. Empty sockets wept slow, viscous trails of liquid starlight that pooled at her feet, forming ephemeral constellations that flickered and died. She clutched an ivory prophecy-staff, its rhythmic tapping matching Sigrun's nervous beat. "The threads fray," she murmured, her voice layered, ancient, resonant. "Golden light dims where shadow-knights tread with silent dread. Shatter-Dreams plague the Volva sisters. One clawed her eyes out this dawn, babbling of laughter in the emptiness." A fresh tear traced a path down her cracked cheek, hardening into a tiny, glowing dagger before falling. "The Harley's verse echoes in the crumbling stone: 'The Ward now blind, leaves threats behind.' Why now? What has shifted the balance?"

The deep, resonant voice of Jaguar D. Saul cut through the gloom. Former Navy Vice Admiral, his massive frame draped in simple Elbaph attire, leaned against a root, his expression grave. "The 'why now'…" he rumbled, his voice gentle despite its power, "…may lie buried deeper than the Underworld itself. Ohara's fragments spoke of cycles. Of the World Government's reach straining towards forgotten powers when their grip feels threatened. The Void Century… it wasn't just erased. It was contained. Contained by forces like…" he gestured vaguely towards the depths, "…the Guardian. Could their desperation be a sign? A sign that something, somewhere, has begun to unravel their carefully woven lies? That the container they built over the truth is cracking?" He looked meaningfully at Scopper Gaban.

The former Roger Pirate, a legend worn lean but still radiating coiled power, stood apart, arms crossed. His sharp eyes scanned the projected map, the weeping seer, the trembling floramancer, the ashen pathfinder, the glacial cartographer. He carried the weight of history, of secrets learned on the final voyage. "Containers crack when pressure builds," Gaban stated, his voice a low rasp like rope over timber. "Or when someone starts prying at the lid. We've seen the signs. Increased Marine patrols in the Calm Belts. Whispered rumors from the New World – whole islands gone quiet. And this…" He nodded towards the pulsing grey veins on Valgard's map. "This ain't natural decay. This is targeted. Weaponized." He paused, letting the grim reality settle. "Received word just before dawn. Via old channels. Encrypted Den Den call from a reliable source on the Red Force."

All eyes turned to him, even Valgard's icy lenses seeming to focus. Sigrun's fungi pulsed brighter crimson.

"Shanks," Gaban said, the name hanging heavy in the chamber. "He's making for Elbaph. Hard and fast. Says he's felt… disturbances. Ripples in the world's flow he can't ignore. Says he has… insights… about things stirring in the dark corners of history. Things tied to the roots of the world." He met Ylva's sightless gaze. "He'll be here within the fortnight. If anyone outside these roots can make sense of why now, it's him. He walks paths we don't. Hears whispers on winds we can't feel."

A complex silence followed. Hope, fragile and sharp, warred with deepening dread. Sigrun's tapping intensified. "A fortnight," she rasped. "Can Adam hold? Can the Ward?" Her smoke-feet swirled agitatedly. "The Huscarl moves like ghosts through the upper tunnels. Silent. Unseen by the Ward. They hunt… something. Or someone."

"Or they prepare," Valgard intoned, his icy map flickering as he zoomed it towards the obsidian spire fused to Adam's roots – Outpost Serpent. "For a final push. To shatter the Lock." He licked another claw. "Burnt copper… and anticipation."

Astrid shuddered, a tiny blizzard of harmless rainbow spores puffing from her hair. "We need the Tideglass fragment," she whispered, touching the cold floor again. "Its song… it could harmonize the dissonance. Purify the Taint. Adam believes it too." Her skin shifted to patterns of deep, worried green.

Ylva raised her head, starlight tears flowing freely now, crystallizing into small, sharp points before vanishing into the gloom. "The Heart of the Gorge whispers promises through Sigrun's smoke. The Tideglass glimmers in drowned Ohara's ruins. Shanks sails with winds of fate at his back." She tapped her staff – tap… tap… tap. "The pieces move. The board is set. Pray the Lady sleeps her endless sleep…" Her voice dropped to a chilling whisper, echoing the prophecy, "Lest the world her wrath shall reap."

Above them, deep within the living wood of the World Tree, a tremor ran through the roots – A silent scream echoing their fear. The crimson fungi on Sigrun's skull flared like warning beacons. The "why now" remained shrouded, but the countdown, marked in fading golden light and spreading grey corruption, had undeniably begun. The shadows beneath Elbaph were deepening, and the arrival of a red-haired Emperor was their only flicker of light on the horizon.

*****

The afternoon sun beat down on the Red Force, turning the deck into a warm stage for a spectacle of gluttony. The air hung thick with the intoxicating aroma of roasting meat – a symphony of sizzling fat, crackling skin, and rich spices that made even the seabirds circle hopefully. At the epicenter, on a long trestle table groaning under its burden, lay the spoils of Lucky Roux's latest culinary conquest: ten whole Giant Boar Boars, each the size of a small barrel, glistening with honey-glazed skin, surrounded by mountains of roasted root vegetables and gravy boats the size of small dinghies.

Lucky Roux himself, the Red Hair Pirates' prodigious chef, stood at one end of the table, patting his already impressive belly with a grin that split his face. He wore a grease-splattered apron over his usual attire, a wooden spoon as long as his arm tucked into his belt like a sword. His opponent, vibrating with azure-blue excitement at the other end, was Jelly Squish.

"Alright, Jelly-me-lad!" Lucky Roux boomed, his voice echoing over the anticipatory murmurs of the gathered crew. Yasopp leaned against the mainmast, polishing his rifle with a smirk. Bonk Punch tapped a rhythm on a nearby barrel. Monster and Gab watched with wide, hungry eyes. Building Snake meticulously coiled a rope nearby, occasionally glancing at the feast. Limejuice adjusted his glasses, calculating gravy displacement. Hongo looked faintly concerned about potential digestive disasters. Benn Beckman, ever the calm observer, leaned against the quarterdeck railing, smoking his cigarette, while Shanks sat on a crate nearby, a tankard in hand, amusement dancing in his single eye. Marya stood slightly apart, near the stern railing, observing the proceedings with her usual indifferent curiosity, a faint wrinkle of distaste for the sheer excess visible on her otherwise stoic face.

"Standard rules!" Lucky Roux declared, slapping the table. "Whoever puts away the most boar wins! No regurgitation! No morphing extra stomachs outside the body! Just good, honest eating! Ready... SET... GO!

Lucky Roux attacked his first boar with the ferocity of a man possessed, tearing into the crispy skin and succulent meat with teeth that seemed unnaturally sharp for the task. Bones snapped, juices flew, and the sheer volume disappearing into his maw was staggering.

Jelly, however, took a different approach. "Yummy food! Bloop!" he chirped. Instead of biting, he opened his mouth wide… then wider… then impossibly wide. His gelatinous body began to flow over the nearest boar like a hungry, blue amoeba. With a sound like a giant, happy slurp (SCHLOORP!), the entire boar vanished into his translucent form. It appeared inside him, whole and steaming, momentarily visible like a bizarre, meaty exhibit in an azure museum. His body stretched and distended, becoming a large, wobbling water balloon filled with roast boar.

The crew roared with laughter and encouragement. "That's the spirit, Jelly!" Yasopp called. "Absorb the competition!"

Undeterred by Lucky Roux's impressive pace (already halfway through his second beast), Jelly wobbled to the next boar. SCHLOORP! Another vanished inside him. His form expanded further, becoming truly spherical, his bandana straining atop the blue dome. SCHLOORP! SCHLOORP! Boar after boar disappeared into the gelatinous abyss. His body strained, translucent skin stretched taut over the massive meal, ten whole roasted boars now clearly visible, stacked and steaming within his wobbling blue confines. He looked like a beach ball filled with a bizarre, meaty diorama. Lucky Roux, finishing his third boar and reaching for a fourth, paused, jaw slack, gravy dripping from his chin, utterly flabbergasted. "By the gravy boat... he did it!"

Jelly wobbled precariously, letting out a contented, echoing "BURRRRR-BLOOOOOOP!" that vibrated the deck. "Full of... happy meat!" His starry eyes swirled slowly, a picture of gluttonous bliss contained in a giant, blue, food-filled orb.

It was at this moment of supreme, wobbling victory that Benn Beckman, having finished his cigarette, decided to approach the table for a closer look at the phenomenon. His boot landed heavily on a discarded, greasy bone near Jelly.

CRUNCH.

The sudden, sharp sound right next to his overstretched, highly tense form startled Jelly violently. His starry eyes shot wide open. "Eeep!"

Reflex took over. His entire body, overloaded with ten boars worth of mass and startled energy, contracted with the force of a released spring.

FWOOOOMPH-SPLATTER-BLAAAAAAT!

It wasn't a burp. It was an eruption. The ten roasted boars, propelled by the sudden, massive contraction of Jelly's gelatinous form, launched skyward like meaty missiles fired from a blue cannon. They soared in a spectacular, greasy arc, trailing steam, herbs, and rivers of rich, brown gravy.

The crew ducked and yelled as the "sky bacon" rained down. Bonk Punch caught a turnip square in the forehead. Monster roared as a gravy boat (empty) bounced off his shoulder. Gab yelped, diving for cover. Yasopp narrowly avoided a flying leg of boar. Lucky Roux just stared, open-mouthed, as his culinary masterpieces became ballistic projectiles.

Marya, standing near the stern railing, watched the chaos with unexpected curiosity for one moment, only to find herself directly in the trajectory of the gravy deluge. She had just enough time for her golden eyes to widen a fraction before—

SPLAT-SPLOOSH!

A wave of rich, warm, herb-infused gravy drenched her. It soaked into her long, raven hair, plastering strands to her face, streaming down her leather jacket, and pooling in her boots. A single, perfectly roasted potato landed with a soft thud at her feet. She stood frozen, transformed from the stoic daughter of Mihawk into a dripping, gravy-sculpted monument of culinary catastrophe. Her expression was utterly blank for a heartbeat, save for the slow drip of brown liquid from the tip of her nose.

The deck fell silent. Every eye turned to the gravy-drenched swords-woman. Then, the dam broke.

Yasopp howled, pointing a shaking finger. Bonk Punch wheezed, slapping his knee. Monster bellowed with laughter, tears streaming. Gab giggled hysterically. Lucky Roux, seeing his feast decorating the ship and its most intimidating passenger, roared with mirth, his belly shaking. Building Snake cracked a rare smile. Limejuice snorted. Hongo covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. Even Benn Beckman, the inadvertent catalyst, let out a sharp, surprised bark of laughter, quickly masked by a cough.

Jelly, having shrunk back to his normal size (though still looking incredibly full), wobbled over, oblivious to the mess. "Oopsie! Scared the... yummy out! Bloop!" He peered up at Marya. "You... gravy-flavored now? Shiny!"

Marya slowly, deliberately, wiped a glob of gravy from her eye with one finger. Her gaze, cold as ocean's depths, swept over the laughing crew, lingering on the wobbling Jelly, then finally settling on her uncle. Her jaw tightened. The sheer, undignified absurdity of the situation, the warmth of the gravy seeping into her clothes, the echoing laughter... it was too much. The icy glare she fixed on them all, meant to quell the laughter, only made it louder. It was the glare of a drenched cat, furious and ridiculous.

Shanks, who had watched the entire debacle unfold with growing amusement, finally let loose his own rich, booming laugh. He raised his tankard towards Marya, his eye crinkling. "By the seas, Marya! That glare! Priceless!" He took a swig, then gestured towards the still-wobbling, slightly deflated Jelly. "Reminds me of a kid I knew once! Scrawny little thing, ate a hundred barrels of salted fish in one sitting on a dare! Swelled up like a tick, then sneezed and launched barrels clear over the crow's nest!" He chuckled, wiping his eye. "Some things, Niece, you just can't predict... or defend against! Especially when it involves Roux's cooking and a startled jellyfish!"

Marya stood amidst the laughter and the greasy carnage, gravy dripping steadily from her chin. The stoic mask was firmly back in place, but the tips of her ears, visible beneath her drenched hair, were distinctly pink. She didn't laugh, but the faintest, almost imperceptible twitch touched the corner of her lips – a silent acknowledgment of the utter, ridiculous chaos that was life aboard the Red Force. She turned stiffly and headed belowdecks, leaving a trail of gravy and the echoing sound of Shanks' laughter chasing after her, the Legen of the Infinite Buffet secured.