The Red Force cut through the New World swells, a scarlet slash against the endless turquoise expanse. Salt spray misted the air, carrying the familiar scents of tar, seasoned wood, and Lucky Roux's latest culinary experiment drifting from the galley – something involving smoked sea serpent and exotic peppers. Marya stood alone at the portside rail, well away from the boisterous knot of pirates engaged in a dice game near the mainmast. Her gaze wasn't fixed on the horizon, but seemed to absorb the vastness, her posture relaxed yet utterly still. The rhythmic groan of the timbers, the snap of the sails, the distant shouts of the crew – it all faded into a low hum.
Then, the sea before her dissolved.
The predawn air in Nouvèl Orléon's main port had been thick and cool, smelling of damp stone, brine, and the faint, lingering sweetness of distant revelry. Mist, not quite her own power but the bayou's exhalation, clung to the water's surface like spectral lace. The gas lamps lining the quay cast long, wavering reflections on the still harbor water, illuminating two stark silhouettes.
Her repaired submarine, sleek and functional, rested alongside the imposing bulk of the Red Force. But her attention, like Mihawk's, was focused on the third vessel: the Hitsugibune. It looked less like a ship and more like a shard of night itself, a polished obsidian coffin resting impossibly on the calm water, utterly silent, utterly still.
Mihawk stood at its edge, the first pale streaks of dawn catching the gold in his eyes and the high collar of his long black coat. Yoru, sheathed, was a familiar, imposing line against his back. There was no fanfare, no crew bustling. Just him, the boat, and the vast, quiet sea waiting.
She'd approached him, her boots echoing softly on the worn wooden planks. The silence wasn't awkward; it was their language, heavy with the unspoken weight of imminent separation after the shared intensity of the bayou's secrets and the quiet drink at the Gator's Fiddle.
He turned as she stopped beside him, his gaze as sharp and assessing as ever, yet softened by the dim light and the intimacy of the hour. "The path to Elbaph is long," he stated, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the mist. "The Giants remember much, but tread carefully. Their history is a forge, and not all truths are cooled."
Marya nodded, her golden eyes meeting his. "I know. Knowledge is the weapon I seek now. Sharper than steel." She paused, the stoic mask she wore for the world feeling thin in this quiet space between night and day, just the two of them. "Will your path cross the Revolutionaries?"
A ghost of something – amusement, perhaps, or simple acknowledgment – touched his features. "Perhaps. The world turns. Yours turns towards giants and forgotten tongues. Mine… towards the currents." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The world's greatest swordsman moved as he willed.
Another beat of silence stretched, filled only by the gentle lap of water against the hulls and a distant, sleepy call of a marsh bird. The moment hung, suspended. Then, Mihawk did something rare. He shifted, turning fully towards her, opening his arms slightly.
Marya didn't hesitate. It wasn't a rush, but a deliberate step forward. She leaned into him, her forehead resting for a moment against the cool, smooth fabric of his coat just below his collarbone. His arms closed around her shoulders, strong and secure, one hand coming to rest lightly on the back of her head. It wasn't a crushing embrace, but a firm, grounding hold – an anchor in the predawn stillness. She felt the solid strength of him, the faint scent of polish, sea air, and something uniquely him – like iron left in rain. Her own arms wrapped around his waist, holding on just as tightly. No words passed between them in that embrace. None were needed. It spoke of shared battles, unspoken pride, the fierce, complicated bond of blood and blade, and the simple, profound ache of parting.
It lasted only seconds, but it contained volumes. When they parted, it was simultaneous, a mutual loosening. Marya stepped back, her expression composed once more, but her golden eyes held a warmth rarely seen by others. She met his gaze squarely.
"Try not to die," she said, her voice steady, the familiar phrase carrying the weight of her care.
The faintest trace of a smirk touched Mihawk's lips. "Same to you, Marya." He held her gaze for a final, lingering moment, a silent conversation passing between them – promises to stay sharp, to survive, to meet again on whatever sea fate dictated. Then, with a fluid grace that defied the bulk of Yoru, he stepped onto the Hitsugibune. It didn't rock; it simply accepted his weight. He didn't look back as the strange vessel, propelled by no visible means, glided silently away from the dock, cutting through the mist like a shadow dissolving into the burgeoning light. He became a silhouette, then a distant speck, and then was gone, swallowed by the vastness of the sea he commanded.
Marya had stood there long after he vanished, watching the empty horizon where the Hitsugibune had been, the cool dawn air on her skin where his coat had been.
A particularly exuberant shout from Yasopp celebrating a winning dice throw shattered the memory. Marya blinked, the turquoise expanse of the present-day sea snapping back into focus. The solid wood of the Red Force's rail was beneath her hands, the salt spray cool on her face. The phantom sensation of her father's coat against her cheek and the solid weight of his embrace lingered for a split second before fading.
"Bloop!" A cheerful voice piped up beside her. Jelly had materialized, wobbling gently, his starry eyes wide. "You looked super-duper quiet, Misty Lady! Like a thinking statue! Wanna see the sparkly fish I found? I thinks it might be related to a Sea King's third cousin, twice removed, maybe!"
Marya turned her head, the lingering softness in her eyes instantly replaced by her customary calm, observant mask. Yet, for just a moment, a genuine, almost imperceptible warmth touched her gaze as she looked down at the bouncy blue figure. "Show me later, Jelly," she said, her voice cool but lacking its usual edge of dismissal. She turned back to the sea, the horizon vast and unknown, carrying the silent echo of a black blade sailing towards distant currents, and the unspoken promise hanging between them like the salt in the air. The memory faded, leaving Marya staring at the real, sun-dappled waves, a faint, almost imperceptible tightness in her chest. She touched the small kogatana at her throat, a silent talisman.
A sudden, high-pitched squeal shattered the reflective silence, followed by a frantic, muffled "Bloop-bloop-bloop!" Marya blinked, her golden eyes refocusing on the present. The source of the commotion was near the ship's main deck cannon, a massive, polished brass beast currently undergoing cleaning duty.
Jelly "Giggles" Squish, the perpetually cheerful blue jellyfish-human hybrid, started enthusiastically "helping" Yasopp scrub the cannon's barrel. His translucent, wobbling body shimmered like captured ocean light under the sun, the tiny red bandana tied jauntily around his head. Enthralled by the gleam of the metal inside the dark muzzle, Jelly had somehow managed to ooze headfirst into the barrel, his gelatinous form conforming perfectly – and disastrously – to the tight space. Only his wiggly feet, kicking frantically and leaving sticky, glittery smears on the brass exterior, protruded from the muzzle. His muffled voice echoed faintly from within: "Stuck! Too shiny! Help, bestest cannon-buddies!"
Yasopp, the Red Hair Pirates' master sniper, was momentarily distracted, polishing a lens with intense focus while arguing good-naturedly with Lucky Roux, who was nearby meticulously sharpening a carving knife longer than his arm. "I'm tellin' ya, Lucky, that island definitely had winged pigs! Or maybe they were just really ambitious seagulls..." Yasopp chuckled, buffing the lens. He hadn't glanced at the cannon in several minutes.
"Stuck! Bloooop!" Jelly's muffled cry was lost beneath the chatter of the crew and the rush of the wind. Bonk Punch was tuning his namesake instrument near the mast, Monster was arm-wrestling Gab (and losing spectacularly), Building Snake was meticulously coiling rope, Limejuice was checking charts with Hongo, and Benn Beckman, ever vigilant, leaned against the mainmast, calmly smoking, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. Shanks himself was up near the helm, laughing at something Rockstar had just said.
Yasopp, finally satisfied with his lens, slapped the cannon affectionately. "Alright, beauty, ready for action!" Still chuckling about the winged pigs, and without a second glance down the barrel – a cardinal sin for any sniper – he grabbed a nearby powder charge and rammed it home behind the invisible, squishy projectile. He followed it swiftly with a wad of packing, ramrodding it down with practiced efficiency. Jelly's frantic kicking intensified, producing a comical thump-thump-thump sound against the packing.
"Clear the deck!" Yasopp called out, more out of habit than necessity, as he touched the slow-match to the cannon's touchhole.
FWHUMP-BOOOOOM!
The cannon roared, recoiling violently on its carriage. Instead of an iron ball, a screaming, azure-blue comet shot out of the muzzle, trailing glittery residue and a high-pitched, wobbling wail: "WAAAAAAAAAHHHH-BLOOOOOOP!"
Jelly Squish arced high into the sky above the Red Force, limbs flailing wildly, his body vibrating like a plucked harp string from the sheer force. He was a blur of terrified blue against the vast blue sky.
The entire deck froze. Bonk Punch missed a note with a discordant twang. Monster dropped Gab's arm mid-contest. Hongo's chart fluttered to the deck. Even Benn Beckman lowered his cigarette, one eyebrow arching towards his hairline. Shanks stopped laughing, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Yasopp!" Beckman's voice cut through the stunned silence, dry as dust. "Did you inspect your projectile?"
Yasopp's jaw dropped as he finally processed what had just happened. "I... uh... it was shiny?" he stammered, face paling beneath his bandana.
High above, Jelly's trajectory peaked. Panic momentarily gave way to his innate bounciness. "Bounce time?" he squeaked, just as his descending path intersected with a small flock of unsuspecting seagulls.
THWOCK! He bounced off the first gull with a startled "SQUAWK!" and a shower of blue glitter.
PING! The second gull sent him ricocheting sideways, feathers flying.
BLORP! The third gull, the largest, took the impact squarely, letting out an indignant "GRAWWK!" before Jelly rebounded like a rubber ball thrown by a giant.
His new trajectory was a screaming, glittering parabola aimed directly back towards the Red Force. Crew members dove for cover. "Incoming jelly-ball!" Lucky Roux bellowed, half in alarm, half in morbid fascination.
Marya, still at the rail, watched the blue projectile hurtle towards the ship. A flicker of something – not empathy, perhaps, but sheer, bewildered incredulity – passed through her stoic expression. The corners of her lips twitched, almost against her will. This is absurd, she thought, the lingering weight of her father's farewell momentarily forgotten in the face of such spectacular nonsense.
Jelly slammed back onto the deck not far from the very cannon that launched him, landing with a resonant SPLAT-GLITCH! He wobbled violently, vibrating like a dropped pudding, his starry eyes swirling comically, little cartoonish birds circling his head. Glittery tears welled up. "Owie... dizzy... feathers taste funny..." he mumbled, his voice warbling.
A beat of utter silence hung over the deck. Then, Shanks threw his head back and roared with laughter, a sound that boomed across the water. It was infectious. Lucky Roux's belly-laugh joined in, then Bonk Punch's guffaw, and soon the entire crew – even a sheepish Yasopp – was howling, the tension evaporating like mist under the sun. Benn Beckman just sighed again, a long-suffering sound, but a tiny smirk played on his lips.
Marya shook her head slowly, the twitch at her lips blossoming into a full, rare smirk. It was fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by her usual calm reserve. But it had been there. She turned her gaze back to the sea, the image of the screaming blue jellyfish comet momentarily superimposing itself over the memory of the solemn Hitsugibune fading into the mist. The path to Elbaph, it seemed, would be anything but dull. A quiet, almost inaudible huff of amusement escaped her – the closest thing to a laugh Mihawk's daughter usually allowed herself in the face of utter, glittery chaos.
*****
The night sea breathed. Not in gusts, but in deep, slow sighs that made the Red Force's timbers groan like a contented leviathan. Above, the New World's sky was a spilled diamond pouch – stars so thick and bright they cast faint, shifting shadows on the deck, competing with the warm, bobbing glow of lanterns strung from the rigging. Most of Shanks' crew had succumbed to the lullaby of waves and full bellies. Lucky Roux's rhythmic snores rumbled from near the galley hatch, harmonizing with Bonk Punch's softer wheezing where he'd slumped against a coil of rope. Monster and Gab were a tangle of limbs near the foremast, Building Snake meticulously oiled his joints nearby, Limejuice polished his spear under a lantern's halo, and Hongo murmured over a medical text. Yasopp perched high in the crow's nest, a silhouette against the starfield, ever watchful. Benn Beckman, ever the vigilant sentinel, leaned against the mainmast, the ember of his cigarette a tiny, watchful red eye in the gloom, the smoke curling like ghostly fingers before vanishing into the vastness.
At the stern, away from the pockets of sleeping crew, Marya stood like a figure carved from obsidian and moonlight. Her back was straight, hands resting lightly on the railing, gazing not at the hypnotic swirl of bioluminescent plankton in the ship's wake, but at the fathomless black horizon. The cool air carried the scent of salt, damp wood, and the distant, ozone-tinged promise of storms yet to come. Her father's favorite words – "It requires clarity" – echoed in the quiet spaces between the ship's sighs, colliding with darker, sharper fragments: Vaughn's final, choked gasp, the sickening thud of a body hitting stone, the accusing silence that followed.
A presence settled beside her, not with intrusion, but with the quiet weight of shared sky. Shanks, her uncle, lowered himself onto a sea chest, stretching his legs out, the empty sleeve of his left arm pinned neatly. He didn't look at her immediately, instead tilting his head back to drink in the cosmos. The scar over his eye seemed deeper in the starlight.
"Sky's putting on a show tonight," he remarked, his voice a low rumble that blended with the sea's own. "Makes you feel small, doesn't it? In a good way. Puts the noisy things in perspective."
Marya remained silent, her profile impassive. But a subtle tension had crept into her shoulders, the knuckles of her right hand whitening slightly where it gripped the railing. The noisy things – Vaughn's death, her failure – felt less like perspective and more like shards of glass grinding in her chest.
"Clarity," she murmured, the word tasting like ash. It wasn't directed at Shanks, more spat at the indifferent stars. "Father's pearl of wisdom. Easier said than earned."
Shanks hummed, a non-committal sound that held space. He knew the value of silence, of letting the wound breathe before probing. He took a slow sip from a small, unmarked flask – water, not sake, tonight. The quiet stretched, filled only by the ship's song and the distant snores. Then, softly, almost lost in the vastness, Marya spoke again, her voice stripped of its usual guarded edge, raw and quiet.
"He trusted me. Vaughn. My team lead is in the Consortium. Knew the risks, we all did... chasing the world's ghosts." She swallowed, the sound audible in the stillness. "We were cornered by the person responsible for her death... on Bootleg Island, in the street just outside a bar. Arrogance. I pushed ahead. Separated." A pause, heavy as stone. "They were waiting. Ambush. Vaughn... he intercepted the blade meant for my back. A spear's head. Went right through his Haki." Her grip tightened further. "I heard it. The sound... wet, final. He didn't even cry out. Just... looked surprised. Then nothing." The black veins on her arms seemed to pulse faintly, like dormant serpents stirring. "My fault. My impatience. My... lack of focus."
As the words, thick with unspoken guilt, hung in the salt-laden air, the temperature around Marya subtly dropped. Not enough to frost the railing, but a distinct chill emanated from her, causing the lantern flames nearby to gutter and shrink. Unseen by the sleeping crew, unnoticed by Limejuice engrossed in his spear or Hongo in his book, figures began to coalesce in the dense shadows pooling at Marya's feet.
Three spectral reapers, visible only to eyes touched by the rare pressure of Conqueror's Haki. They were insubstantial as smoke, yet radiated a profound, chilling sorrow. One wore robes that seemed woven from nebulae, its face hidden behind a smooth, impassive gold mask. Another was half-rotted, skeletal ribs visible beneath tattered shrouds, floating scales shimmering faintly beside it. The third was a horned skeleton wreathed in phantom chains that clinked silently. They didn't menace; they mourned. Their hollow gazes were fixed on Marya, embodiments of her crushing guilt and the void left by Vaughn's sacrifice. The air hummed with a silent dirge.
Shanks' eye narrowed, the relaxed posture vanishing. He saw them. The sheer weight of their sorrow, the chilling aura – it was a manifestation of her inner torment made terrifyingly real. His own Conqueror's Haki, usually a roaring tempest, remained tightly coiled, a silent acknowledgment rather than a challenge. He understood these weren't attackers; they were grief given form.
Before he could speak, a cheerful, oblivious voice shattered the heavy atmosphere.
"Bloop! Nighttime friends!" Jelly Squish wobbled into the stern area, drawn by the shifting lantern light or perhaps just the allure of unexplored deck space. His translucent blue body shimmered faintly, leaving tiny, glittery footprints on the dark wood. His massive starry eyes scanned the immediate area, completely missing the towering specters mere feet away. His gaze landed on the half-rotted reaper with the floating scales – its form, perhaps, the least immediately terrifying to his innocent perception, vaguely resembling a strange, floaty creature.
"Shiny floaty buddy!" Jelly chirped, his permanent grin wide. "High five!" Without a shred of hesitation, he raised a cartoonishly mitten-shaped hand and swung it enthusiastically towards the reaper's spectral torso
His hand passed through the apparition.
There was no resistance, no cold shock – just empty air where solid form should have been. Jelly stumbled forward slightly, blinking in confusion. "Huh? Bloop? Too fast?" He peered at his mitten-hand, then back at the space the reaper occupied, tilting his head. "Tricky floaty buddy..." He seemed more perplexed than alarmed.
The half-rotted reaper, its hollow eyes fixed on Marya, did not react to Jelly's intrusion. It didn't turn, didn't raise a spectral weapon. But Shanks, watching intently, saw something subtle. As Jelly's hand passed through its form, the reaper's head tilted, just a fraction, towards the blue jellyfish. Not a threat. Not anger. It was an almost... protective inclination, a silent acknowledgment of the innocent life that had blundered into the space of Marya's grief. For a fleeting moment, the crushing sorrow radiating from the specter seemed to soften, overlaid with a different, quieter emotion – a profound, weary guardianship. Vaughn, Shanks realized with a jolt. The lingering echo of the man who died protecting her, still standing watch, even in this spectral form, ensuring even accidental innocence wasn't harmed by the manifestation of Marya's pain.
Marya hadn't flinched at Jelly's approach or his bizarre action. Her gaze remained locked on the dark horizon, but Shanks saw the rigidity in her spine ease, just a hair. She had felt the reapers manifest, the cold weight of her guilt made visible. She likely sensed Jelly's proximity and his harmless intrusion. The reaper's lack of aggression, its subtle shift... did she sense Vaughn's presence too?
Shanks let out a slow breath, the tension easing from his own shoulders. He looked from the oblivious Jelly, who was now poking curiously at the deck where the reaper stood, to Marya's stiff back, then up at the indifferent, glorious stars.
"Roger," Shanks began, his voice low and gravelly, drawing Marya's gaze finally, reluctantly, towards him. Her golden eyes, usually so sharp, were shadowed. "On the execution platform... he laughed. Laughed in the face of the whole world gathered to see him die." Shanks's own expression was distant, seeing not the stars, but a sun-drenched plaza in Loguetown. "People thought it was defiance. Maybe it was, partly. But what he said, just before the blades fell..." Shanks met Marya's eyes, his gaze holding the weight of oceans and the warmth of a bonfire. "He said, 'I'm not going to die, partners.' Sounds like bravado, right? But it wasn't. He was talking about this." He gestured loosely, encompassing the ship, the sea, the stars, the spectral guardians, and Jelly now trying to balance on one wobbly foot. "The will he carried, the dreams he ignited... they don't die with the man. They get passed on. Inherited. Like a damned baton in a race that never ends."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur that carried over the sighing waves. "Your Vaughn... he made a choice. A terrible, final choice. Out of loyalty? Duty? Maybe just because he saw something in you worth shielding." He nodded almost imperceptibly towards the now-fading reapers, their forms becoming less distinct, the chilling aura receding like the tide. "That choice, that will to protect... it doesn't vanish because he's gone. It becomes part of your burden, yeah, but also part of your strength. His clarity, in that moment, becomes yours to carry forward. Don't let the guilt of his death cloud the purpose he died for. That's how you honor him. That's how you find your own clarity." He offered a small, understanding smile, devoid of pity, full of shared understanding of loss and legacy. "The dead don't stay gone, Marya. Not really. Not as long as we remember what they stood for."
The reapers dissolved completely, leaving only the normal night chill and the scent of the sea. The oppressive weight lifted, replaced by a profound, aching emptiness, but also... a fragile sense of release. Marya looked down at her hands, then back out to the star-strewn horizon. A single, silent tear traced a path down her cheek, glinting like a captured star before vanishing into the darkness at her jawline. She didn't wipe it away.
Jelly, having given up on his balancing act, wobbled over. "Shiny Uncle Shanks talk deep!" he declared, oblivious to the emotional currents. He plopped his gelatinous form down near Shanks's sea chest, looking up at the sky. "Stars look like... sparkly fish! Bloop!" He pointed a wobbly finger. "That one! Looks like a grumpy seagull!"
Marya let out a breath, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. She didn't smile, but the terrifying blankness that had haunted her features moments before had eased. She glanced at Jelly, then at Shanks, a complex mixture of grief, dawning understanding, and the faintest flicker of something resembling peace in her golden eyes. The journey continued, the stars wheeled overhead, and the inherited will, heavy as an anchor yet bright as a beacon, settled onto her shoulders. Vaughn's silent guardianship, felt in the reaper's tilt and Shanks's words, lingered in the salt air.