Dressrosa, New World
The chamber lay deep within the inner corridors of the Dressrosa palace, far from the sunlit halls of marble and gold—a place deliberately removed from the noise of court and spectacle. The moment one crossed its threshold, it felt as though the palace itself had sunk beneath the sea.
The walls curved softly rather than standing rigid, fashioned from polished stone veined with shades of aquamarine, pearl, and deep cobalt. They shimmered faintly, as if light were refracting through unseen water. Embedded across the surface were translucent crystal panels, enchanted and engineered to glow with a slow, rhythmic pulse—brightening and dimming like the breathing of the ocean itself. The light they cast danced across the room in wavering patterns, mimicking the caress of sunlight filtered through deep waves.
Within Shyarly's sanctuary, the atmosphere was unusually subdued, the soft glow of bioluminescent coral painting the room in hues of blue and violet. The illusionary currents along the walls drifted lazily, as if even the sea itself had chosen silence.
Scarlett sat near the edge of a low coral bench, her posture elegant yet restrained, befitting a young maiden of high nobility. Though the Donquixote family now ruled Dressrosa with absolute authority, the Riku family's legacy endured, and with King Riku still officially bearing the crown, Scarlett retained her title as princess in all but political power. Her crimson hair fell freely down her back, catching the room's soft light like embers beneath water. There was a quiet resolve in her eyes—tempered by her time with the Donquixote family, shaped by survival—far removed from the carefree girl she once was.
Nearby sat young Violet, leaning lightly against a curved column of polished coral. Her expression was calm and composed, yet her eyes held an unmistakable sharpness, always watching, always listening. As a princess and a new member of the Donquixote family, she had long learned from her elder sister how to act befitting the family name. In Shyarly's chamber, even she seemed to lower her guard, if only slightly, her gaze drifting now and then toward Scarlett with a mixture of concern and unspoken understanding.
Resting atop the large, pearlstone bed was Monet, her hands folded neatly at her sides, white feathers dusted faintly with frost. This was a rare sight—Monet away from her duties, away from reports and strategies, allowing herself a moment of stillness.
She reclined against a mound of sea-silk cushions, one leg tucked beneath the other, her expression softer than most had ever seen it. The room's oceanic light reflected in her sharp eyes, dulling their usual severity. For once, she was simply present, content to share the quiet with the other girls of the palace.
And then there was little Sugar. The contrast was almost jarring. The small girl bounced and rolled across the expansive bed, utterly oblivious to the heavy mood that hung in the air. She giggled softly as she crawled over Monet's legs, tugged at a strand of her sister's hair, and then flopped onto her back, staring up at the illusionary sea above the ceiling with wide, curious eyes.
She clutched a small stuffed toy—something shaped vaguely like a sea creature—and made little sound effects as she dragged it along the silken sheets. Sugar didn't understand loss. Didn't grasp politics, grief, or the weight of crowns and titles. To her, this was just a big, comfortable bed, a pretty room, and familiar people nearby.
"Shyarly…" Monet's voice cut gently through the quiet, low and measured, like snow settling on still water. "You do know Master Doffy would have allowed it if you'd wanted to stay in Punk Hazard a little longer—after everything the fishmen have gone through."
She spoke without accusation, only understanding. Monet knew better than most what it meant to sever ties and still feel the ache of them. Shyarly might have turned her back on her people, but blood, memory, and history were not so easily discarded. With Fish-Man Island ruined and the fishmen scattered to the brink of extinction, no one would have questioned her staying behind—offering guidance, protection, or even just presence.
And if Shyarly had asked, no one in the Donquixote family would have objected. Her standing was too great, her value too absolute. Shyarly did not look back. She stood near the balcony, the illusionary sea-light gliding over her pale skin and long fins, her reflection fractured across the polished glass. One hand idly turned her crystal orb, the surface catching glimmers of prophecy and fate, while her eyes remained fixed on the distant horizon where the real ocean breathed below.
"No… Monet," she said quietly. "I've done all that I can for them." Her fingers slowed, then stilled. "I foresaw the destruction of Fish-Man Island long ago," she continued, voice softer now, weighted with truth. "It appeared in my visions again and again—inevitable, unavoidable." Her grip tightened around the orb. "But I never expected it to come so soon."
For a moment, the room felt heavier, as though the water illusion had deepened, pressing down on every breath. The sadness in Shyarly's voice was not dramatic—it was tired, resigned, the sorrow of someone who had already mourned a tragedy before it ever occurred.
Monet said nothing, allowing the silence to stretch. Shyarly exhaled slowly and finally turned, her gaze distant, ancient. "It was bound to happen eventually," she said. "The hatred, the fear, the lies—it all festers. Collapse was inevitable."
A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. "Truth be told, after everything that happened… after all the betrayals and insults, I half-expected Master Doffy to be the one to destroy the island." Monet's eyes flickered—not in surprise, but in understanding.
"But he didn't," Shyarly went on. "He endured it. He let the fishmen royalty spit on his trust, undermine his goodwill, and mock the protection he offered." Her voice wavered for just a heartbeat. "He held back—for my sake. And for Arnold-san's."
Her gaze lowered, the orb glowing faintly between her palms. "For that… I am grateful," she said quietly. "At the very least, the fishmen race was not erased by the Donquixote family."
Across the room, Scarlett and Violet remained silent, absorbing the weight of her words. Monet's body shifted slightly, her hair rustling as if in a restrained sigh.
The room changed in an instant. One moment, Shyarly stood at the balcony, the soft illusion of drifting currents and refracted light washing over her figure. The next—her body froze, fins stiffening, pupils dilating until the crimson of her eyes seemed to swallow the whites whole.
The crystal orb slipped from her fingers. It did not shatter when it hit the floor—only rang, a sharp, resonant note that echoed through the chamber like a warning bell.
"Shyarly…?" Monet murmured, already rising to her feet. Shyarly did not answer.
Her breath hitched, then stopped altogether, her spine arching as if invisible hands had seized her from within. The air around her warped, the waterlike ambience of the room trembling violently, ripples spreading across walls and ceiling as though the palace itself had been submerged in a storm.
Then the blood came. A thin red line trickled from the corner of her mouth. Another from her nose. Then, unmistakably, from her ears—dark against her pale skin, staining her collar as it dripped.
"—Shyarly!" Scarlett shouted, rushing forward.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Shyarly had rules—strict ones. The moment a backlash occurred, she would sever the vision. That had been the agreement. No future was worth her life. No prophecy justified this kind of damage.
Even when she had attempted to scry Rocks D. Xebec, the pain had been little more than a migraine—a pressure behind the eyes, a warning from the world itself to stop looking. This was different. This was violent. Something—someone—was pushing back.
Shyarly's body convulsed as if struck by lightning, her teeth clenched so hard a thin crack echoed through the room. The orb on the floor began to glow erratically, its surface clouded by shifting images that refused to settle.
"Scarlett—something's wrong!" Monet snapped, already at Shyarly's side.
"I know!" Scarlett yelled, grabbing Shyarly by the shoulders as another spasm wracked her frame. "She's not disconnecting!"
Scarlett tried to forcefully break the trance using haki, pressing her forehead to Shyarly's, hands glowing faintly as she attempted to disrupt the psychic flow—but it was like trying to dam a tidal wave with bare hands.
"Shyarly, stop!" Scarlett pleaded, panic bleeding into her voice. "You're going to kill yourself!"
But Shyarly refused. Her lips trembled, parting just enough for broken words to escape.
"Can't…" she whispered. "Not… yet…" Another surge tore through her, stronger than the last. Blood splattered onto the marble floor. Whatever she was seeing was not a place, not a moment—it was a convergence. Countless futures colliding. And something on the other end was aware of her gaze.
This was no passive vision. This was a contested future. The backlash intensified, pressure crushing her skull as though the sea itself had collapsed inward. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out everything except one terrifying certainty: Someone in the family was going to die. And if she let go now, she would never know who.
"No—no—no—!" Scarlett shouted, desperation breaking her composure. She tightened her grip, trying again to sever the connection. "MONET—NOW!"
Monet was already moving. "MONET! INFORM MASTER DOFFY NOW!" Scarlett screamed, voice cracking.
Without hesitation, Monet reached into her coat and withdrew a small, black transponder snail—one of the emergency lines, reserved for threats that endangered the family itself. The snail's eyes snapped open, alert and tense, as Monet poured Haki into the call.
"This is Monet," she said sharply. "Code Black. Palace emergency. Shyarly is in a forced vision—severe backlash. Possible hostile interference."
The snail clicked once. Then the line opened. Across Dressrosa, alarms began to stir. Shyarly let out a strangled gasp, her body arching one final time as the vision clawed at her mind, tearing secrets from the future itself. Just one more second. One more glimpse. Her eyes widened in horror.
Then she screamed—and the room seemed to shatter, the illusionary sea crashing into chaos as fate itself recoiled from what she had seen.
****
"Do you have everything you need, Professor?" The question carried easily over the deck of the galleon, my voice steady despite the chaos that surrounded us.
Acier stood near the mainmast, carefully securing the last of his documents into a reinforced, oil-sealed chest. His movements were precise—almost reverent—as though each page held a fragment of his soul. These weren't merely research notes; they were two centuries of sacrifice, obsession, guilt, and love, condensed into ink and parchment. He double-checked every latch, every knot, unwilling to leave even the smallest piece of himself behind in the beast's belly.
"A… yes," Acier finally replied, exhaling slowly. "This is everything that cannot be replaced."
Across the deck, Magellan was at work. Gone was the man who had wandered the seas like a ghost, driven forward only by grief and rage and revenge. Now he moved with purpose, hands sure and efficient as he rigged newly fashioned sails to the mast. The canvas had been stitched from layered fibers scavenged from the ruins of Alchemi Island—treated, reinforced, and shaped with the practiced skill of a veteran sailor and shipwright. Every knot was perfect, every line taut.
Watching him now, it was easy to forget that this was a man who had once been broken. Knowing Bonbori's fate was sealed had done something to him. The tension that had lived in his shoulders for years had finally eased. For the first time since we met, Magellan looked like he could breathe.
Acier turned, his gaze lingering on the massive vessel beneath his feet, disbelief written plainly across his face.
"…How did you even manage to find such a thing?" he asked, almost laughing in incredulity.
An intact war galleon. Here. Inside the belly of a monster capable of devouring continents.
We were loading the ship with provisions now—crates of preserved fruit, fresh water siphoned from the inner reservoirs of the beast, and the most critical of Acier's research. Anything he deemed irreplaceable was being brought aboard. Though I had assured him we would retrieve Bonbori's corpse intact, Acier was not a man who trusted miracles, even when standing beside one.
He had asked for a raft; if possible, then help him build a small boat. He had never imagined that I would vanish for a few minutes—only to return dragging an entire war galleon through the acidic sea like a prize claimed from legend. Its sails had long since been shredded, reduced to tatters by corrosive winds and time. The rigging was gone, the deck scarred by centuries of exposure.
And yet… The hull remained flawless because it hadn't made direct contact with the stomach acids. Adam Wood. An entire vessel built from it, keel to mast. Perhaps that alone explained how it had survived where countless other ships had dissolved into nothing. Even so, Acier frowned, his scientific instincts refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing.
"I know it's Adam Wood," he said slowly, kneeling to run his fingers along the hull. "But even Adam should not endure this. Bonbori's internal sea isn't ordinary acid—it's alchemical in nature. Even trace exposure should have reduced this ship to pulp centuries ago."
The galleon bobbed gently atop the churning, corrosive sea—afloat, untouched, defiant. What Acier didn't realize was that the ship was no longer relying on its material alone. Invisible to the eye, Armament Haki flowed from me like a living armor, saturating the entire vessel. Every plank, every nail, every fiber of Adam wood was wrapped in my will. The stomach acid hissed and recoiled where it touched the hull, unable to bypass the coating no matter how violently it churned.
No corrosion. No decay. As long as my Haki held, the galleon was untouchable. I watched Acier for a moment before replying, the faintest hint of amusement touching my voice.
"Normally," I said, "you'd be right." The professor looked up at me, still confused. "But Bonbori's stomach acid," I continued calmly, "can't eat through my will." The realization struck him slowly.
Acier's eyes widened. Magellan paused mid-knot, glancing back at the ship, then at me, a low whistle escaping his lips.
"…I see," Acier murmured at last, awe creeping into his voice. "So this vessel is currently being coated with what you called haki earlier, isn't it…?"
Acier stared at the galleon's hull, eyes gleaming—not with fear, but with curiosity. "This Haki…" he murmured, almost to himself. "This force of will—if it can reinforce matter, resist corrosion, even bend hostile environments… it's fascinating. Perhaps, once we reach the surface, I could begin studying its principles. Especially Kenbunshoku Haki. If it sharpens perception, extends awareness beyond the body… then maybe—just maybe—it could enhance the human mind itself."
There it was again. That spark. For the first time in nearly two centuries, Myskina Acier was planning a future that wasn't fueled by desperation. With Olga safe—alive—and the nightmare of Bonbori nearing its end, the man who had once sacrificed everything for a single miracle was finally looking forward to living again.
"In due time, Professor," I replied, amused. "Maybe I'll even share my own insights on Haki with you later, if it helps. But first—" I turned my gaze toward the vast, churning acidic sea surrounding us, the grotesque walls of Bonbori's belly pulsing faintly with every titanic heartbeat. "—we get out of here."
It had been more than a week since we had willingly descended into the beast's interior. Now that Acier and Olga were secured, there was no reason to linger any longer.
Magellan climbed down from the mast, wiping sweat from his brow. Despite the lack of proper tools and materials, he had done an exceptional job. The patched sails looked crude, but they were functional—and with my Haki reinforcing them, there was no risk of lines snapping or canvas tearing.
"So… what's the plan?" he asked carefully. "We can't possibly sail back out the way we came, can we?"
I let out a soft chuckle. "We won't have to." Both Acier and Magellan frowned.
"Bonbori itself will spit us out." Silence. A long, heavy silence. Acier blinked. Magellan froze. Neither of them spoke, but their expressions screamed the same thought: That's insane. Before either of them could voice it, a small, excited gasp rang out.
"Handsome brother…!" Olga's crimson eyes widened, practically sparkling. "Are you going to make the beast puke?"
Acier and Magellan stiffened. Slowly—very slowly—the implication sank in.
"…No," Magellan muttered.
"…Surely not," Acier whispered.
There was no way. No rational person would resort to— My Haki brushed across their thoughts like turning the pages of an open book. I couldn't help it—I laughed.
"Yep," I said cheerfully, turning to Olga. "That about sums it up." Olga's face lit up like a festival lantern. "I knew it!" she exclaimed, bouncing on her heels. "I thought about that so many times but I never had a way to do it!"
I crouched slightly, meeting her eye level. "When it starts, I want you to hold onto the ship as tight as you can. Think you can do that?"
She nodded so hard her red bow nearly flew off. "I can do it! I promise!" Behind her, two grown men turned visibly pale.
"Oh no…" Magellan murmured.
"Oh, come on," I said lightly, straightening up. "It's just going to be a little bumpy. As long as I'm here, nothing bad will happen to you."
They did not look reassured. Their expressions only worsened when I started grinning. Acier cleared his throat, forcing a strained smile. "Ahem… Rosinante. Surely there's another way. Yes—yes, of course! You could carry the ship all the way to the beast's mouth. Once there, we could… devise a method to force it open."
I burst out laughing. "Professor," I said between chuckles, "where's the fun in that? Where's your sense of adventure?" I gestured broadly to the acidic sea and the endless organic expanse around us.
"Riding the length of Bonbori's stomach while it panics and expels us? That's the proper way to do it. Anything else would just be boring."
My laughter echoed unnervingly through the cavernous belly. To my delight, Olga joined in—high, unrestrained laughter, the sound of a child thrilled by the promise of chaos.
"Yeah!" she giggled. "I don't wanna do it any other way!"
Magellan slowly turned toward Acier, his face drawn and grim. "…Are we going to make it out alive?" Acier stared at the scene before him: A young man laughing like a devil, A little girl laughing like this was the greatest adventure of her life, And a war galleon floating on an acidic sea inside a continent-eating beast. He adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers.
"…I sincerely hope so."
As Bonbori's massive body shuddered in the distance—something deep within it beginning to react—I straightened, my Haki flaring quietly across the ship.
"Hold on," I said, voice calm, eyes gleaming.
My Haki—long restrained, tightly leashed—erupted. It wasn't a surge. It was a cataclysm. The moment I let it loose, the very space within Bonbori's belly screamed in protest. The acidic sea beneath the galleon recoiled, waves collapsing inward as if crushed by an invisible godhand. The fleshy walls around us fractured, not physically torn, but compressed—wrinkling and groaning as reality itself bent under the pressure of my will.
Cracks spider-webbed through the air. Not stone. Not flesh. Air.
Black lightning tore through my body like living dragons, coiling around my limbs, snapping and howling with a hunger that hadn't tasted freedom in far too long. Each arc carried the weight of conquest, of domination—Haoshoku, no longer subtle, no longer restrained.
The galleon shuddered. Acier dropped to one knee, breath stolen from his lungs, eyes wide with a mix of terror and awe. Magellan planted his feet, teeth clenched, veins bulging as he fought just to remain standing. And Olga— Olga clutched the mast with both arms, hair and dress whipping violently, her red eyes shining not with fear… but wonder.
Then— Shing— The sound was soft. Almost gentle. Shusui slid free of its scabbard. The moment steel met open air, the blade answered. Its deep crimson-black sheen was swallowed whole by pitch darkness as my Armament Haki flooded into it, layer upon layer, compressing until the sword no longer looked forged—but born. Lightning crawled along the blade's surface, snapping and spiraling like chains struggling to contain something ancient and furious.
The weight of Shusui deepened. No—the world grew lighter. I exhaled slowly.
"Jigengiri."
The name wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. My blade fell —and reality failed to keep up. There was no visible arc. No dramatic swing. One moment, Shusui was raised.
The next—the acidic sea split cleanly down the middle, forced apart as if commanded by an unseen emperor. A vertical line of absolute darkness carved forward through Bonbori's interior, slicing through compressed flesh, bone, and layers of assimilated Pure Gold as if they were illusions.
Time lagged. Then— BOOM.
A sound like the world tearing open roared outward. Bonbori's entire body convulsed violently, a continent-sized spasm of pain and shock. The walls of the belly ruptured along the path of the strike, a chasm opening that vented pressure, acid, and air in a catastrophic surge.
The beast screamed. Not a roar. A death-wail of pure agony, primal and panicked, echoing across leagues of flesh. The galleon was hurled forward as if caught in the breath of a dying god, sails snapping taut as the torrent carried us with merciless speed toward the distant, widening darkness—the beast's throat forced open by agony.
Magellan clung to the rigging, eyes bloodshot. Acier shielded Olga with his body, disbelief written across his face. Olga laughed—clear, bright, unafraid.
"We're flying!" she shouted. I planted Shusui into the deck, Haki flaring again as I stabilized the ship, my gaze fixed forward. Bonbori was no longer hunting. Bonbori was vomiting. And we—we were riding the wrath of a dying legend straight back into the world above.