The air in the cavernous hangar bay of the Stubborn Mule was thick with the symphony of desperation and ingenuity. It was a cacophony of clanging metal, the high-pitched whine of power tools, and the sharp, rhythmic hiss of pressurized steam venting from the submarine's patched hull. The vessel, a strange, aquatic relic from another reality, sat like a wounded leviathan being nursed back to health by a determined, if unconventional, medical team.
Bianca Clark, her waist-length black hair escaping its messy bun in defiant strands, was elbow-deep in an open access panel, her face smudged with dark grease. "Like, hold this conduit, Piper!" she called out, her voice a familiar, energetic melody against the industrial noise. "If this flux capacitor doesn't get, like, a stable plasma feed, the whole navigation array is gonna be for decoration."
Piper "Gearbox" Sol, her own copper hair tucked under a pair of heavily scratched goggles, grunted in agreement, applying a massive wrench with practiced ease. "Yeah, yeah, keep your volts on. Just don't ask me to re-solder the primary logic board again. My hands are still cramping from the last time." The two engineers, one from a world of devil fruits and the other from a universe besieged by cosmic monsters, moved in a harmonious ballet of wrench-turning and wire-pulling, their shared language one of gears and grit.
Nearby, perched on a stack of reinforced cargo crates, Aurélie Nakano Takeko was a study in stark contrast. Dressed in her minimalist black tactical wear, she meticulously inscribed lines into her worn leather notebook, the silver of her hair and the steel of her focus creating a silent, intense island amidst the chaos. The cursed blade, Anathema, rested at her hip, a dormant threat. Beside her, cross-legged on the cold deck plating, Ember was a burst of chaotic color. Her neon-pink space buns bobbed as she concentrated, her tongue caught between her teeth, sketching furiously in a charcoal-stained pad. The subject was a bizarre, almost cute interpretation of a Class I Typhon, its monstrous form rendered with big, cartoonish eyes.
A few yards away, a different kind of struggle was taking place. Charlie Leonard Wooley, his vintage pith helmet askew, was engaged in a desperate battle of logistics versus legacy. He was attempting to stuff a bizarre assortment of artifacts—a tarnished data-slate, a fragment of Lunar-Ceramite etched with strange glyphs, and a desiccated lump of what might have been Glimmer-moss—into his already overstuffed satchel.
"Ahem!" he began, more to himself than anyone listening. "The cultural and historical significance of these items, particularly when cross-referenced with the established, albeit fragmented, timeline of the Blue Sea, could potentially rewrite our entire understanding of pre-Void Century seafaring…"
Kuro, leaning against a support beam with his arms crossed, watched the academic's struggle with an expression of profound exhaustion. His cracked glasses, smudged with hangar grime, did little to hide his incredulity. "Do you actually believe there will be adequate space for all that… debris?" he interrupted, his voice dry as dust. "We are not a museum repatriation service. We are escaping."
Charlie didn't look up, instead trying to force an oddly shaped piece of machinery that hummed at a low frequency into the bag. "This isn't debris! This is a Jovian harmonic stabilizer! Its resonance patterns alone could provide the missing link to understanding the acoustic properties of Seastone! The implications are…"
"The implication," Kuro cut in again, adjusting his glasses with a gloved hand, "is that you will be the first one jettisoned if we need to shed weight."
The scene shifted as the heavy hangar door slid open with a grinding shriek, revealing three new figures backlit by the corridor's harsh light. Evander of the Crimson Blade led the way, his posture ramrod straight, his custom crimson pilot suit still immaculate despite recent battles. Caden 'The Ghost' Arashi followed, his movements quieter, his ash-gray hair and intense gold eyes taking in the scene with a familiar, weary cynicism. Bringing up the rear was Mia Chronis, her athletic frame and practical braid projecting an aura of calm authority.
"Professor," Evander greeted Charlie with a curt nod, his voice a low baritone.
Charlie, momentarily distracted from his packing, beamed. "Evander! Excellent timing! I was just explaining to our… pragmatic friend… about the monumental importance of preserving inter-dimensional cultural artifacts!"
Mia's gaze swept over the submarine, then the gathered group. "Status report," she said, her voice cutting cleanly through Bianca and Piper's technical bickering.
Piper popped her head out from behind a thruster nozzle, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a new smear of oil. "She's a stubborn old girl, but she'll hold. Repairs are on track. This heap should be good to go back to where it came from by tomorrow."
Bianca emerged, holding a spanner like a conductor's baton. "Like, yeah! We should be, like, bobbing in the Blue Sea again in time for dinner." A wide, genuine grin spread across her grease-streaked face.
Aurélie glanced up from her poetry, unable to suppress a small, hopeful smile that softened her sharp features for a fleeting second.
"Good," Evander said, a note of relief in his voice. "It will be a welcome change to have a break from the Typhon alarm klaxons for more than five minutes."
Caden, who had been silently observing the submarine's unique, non-Minovsky energy signature with a mix of fascination and unease, finally spoke, his voice quieter than Evander's. "Let's go over the plan, then."
The engineers returned to their work, but the others shifted their focus, forming a loose circle. The air grew taut, the reality of their imminent departure settling over them.
Evander took the lead. "Once you've verified the repairs are complete and the new core is integrated, we'll load this vessel onto a Mule-class freighter. We'll take you to the Indrexu Spiral. The particle density and gravitational anomalies there should provide enough cover for a safe launch and mask the energy spike from the dimensional breach."
Caden cut in, his gold eyes locking onto the group from the Blue Sea. "Once we're in position, you'll suit up in magnetized pressure suits. We'll eject you and the sub directly into the void. No launch tubes, no ceremony. Just… out."
Mia finished, her hands on her hips. "From there, it's on you. Activate whatever mechanism you used to get here and open the rift home."
Bianca grunted, heaving on a stubborn bolt. "Like, yeah, I just need to, like, triple-check the math on the reverse-polarity spinny thing for the thrusters, but we're golden."
Kuro, who had been listening with his usual calculating stillness, finally asked the question hanging in everyone's mind. "And the Typhon? A dimensional rift is not exactly a subtle event."
Mia's expression turned grim. "We'll have to be quick. Their activity has become more agitated, more aggressive, since your… dramatic exit from CUA custody. It's like they sense the imbalance you represent is about to correct itself."
Charlie, unable to help himself, interjected, "We are, I assure you, profoundly motivated to bring this extraordinary experience to its conclusion and, in doing so, return the Typhon entities to their original, non-agitated state."
Caden's gaze swept over the group once more, his brow furrowing slightly. "You're missing one," he stated, his 'Echo Sense' perhaps picking up on the absence of a familiar psychic presence.
Aurélie's eyes lifted from her notebook, her storm-gray gaze meeting Caden's. She offered no explanation, only a quiet, knowing look. "He is saying his goodbyes," she said simply, the words hanging in the air, laden with a melancholy that even the relentless noise of repairs couldn't drown out. The reminder of Souta's final, private farewell to Emily Nary cast a sudden, sobering shadow over the practical, frantic preparations for escape.
---
Far from the frantic clamor of the hangar bay, in a place where the relentless heartbeat of the Stubborn Mule was reduced to a distant, metallic throb, Souta and Emily stood in a silence they had carved out for themselves.
They were in Caden's Nook, a high-perch hideaway carved into the rust-streaked superstructure of Orphan's End. It was less a room and more a scar in the settlement's flesh—a repurposed maintenance alcove with a cracked viewport that looked out not at stars, but at the colossal, banded sphere of Jörmungandr. The gas giant filled the entire view, a swirling maelstrom of ochre, deep violet, and bruised red, its silent, storm-wracked presence a perpetual reminder of the world that had tried to kill them. The air was cold, carrying the tinny taste of recycled atmosphere and the faint, coppery scent of old rust.
Here, the ever-present industrial hum of the vertical scrap-city was transformed into a deep, resonant drone, a bass note that vibrated through the deck plates and into their beings.
Emily stood before Souta, her slender frame seeming both fragile and unshakably solid. The unnatural white of her hair seemed to glow in the dim light, a stark contrast to the deep void-black of her Monastery robes. Her storm-grey eyes were fixed on his, holding a universe of quiet sorrow. She was taking her time, her movements languid and deliberate, as if she could stretch this single moment into an eternity and live within it forever.
"The noise of this place… it's a song of stubbornness," she whispered, her voice barely louder than the sigh of the ventilation system. "A symphony of things that refuse to be broken. I wanted our memory to be part of that song."
Souta could only watch, his usual arsenal of logic and strategy utterly useless. The sharp, calculating intelligence in his dark eyes had softened into something raw and vulnerable. The disheveled black hair with its single streak of white fell across his brow as he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He was a man who mapped schemes and controlled outcomes, now completely at the mercy of a moment he could neither direct nor escape.
Emily reached out, not with a tool, but with her bare hands. She first gently traced the lines of the existing tattoos on his arm—the tactical maps and fragmented scripts of a lost language that were the story of his pain. Her touch was feather-light, a psychometric reading not of ink, but of the man beneath. She was memorizing the topography of his soul.
"I see the library you wish to build," she murmured, her fingers pausing over a complex, geometric pattern. "Not with logic and stone, but with the quiet hope you keep locked away here." Her fingertips rested over his heart. "I feel the weight of the star-chart you chase, not as a prize, but as a ghost you're trying to lay to rest."
Her words undid him. A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracing a clean path down his grime-smudged cheek. He, who prided himself on his cognitive seclusion, was laid bare. The burden of his memories, his failures, his fiercely guarded idealism—she saw it all, and she did not flinch.
From a small pouch at her belt, she produced his own pot of star-fall ink. In the Jovian twilight, the ink seemed to swirl with a captured nebula, holding a deep, liquid light within. Then, she bent and picked up a small, twisted shard of metal from the floor—a discarded piece of a pipe fitting, its edges worn smooth by time and friction. It was a piece of Orphan's End itself, rough and unrefined.
"A scrap of this world," she said, holding it up. "To remember it by. The good and the terrible."
She dipped the jagged metal into the ink. It was a crude, brutal instrument compared to the fine brushes of his calligrapher father, but in this moment, it was perfect. It was real.
She met his gaze, a silent question in her eyes. His breath hitched, but he nodded again, his throat too tight for words.
With an artist's care and a surgeon's focus, she pressed the cold, inked metal to the skin of his forearm, alongside the other histories etched there. The touch was sharp, a brief, grounding sting. And as the point met his skin, she closed her eyes.
The resonant drone of Orphan's End seemed to falter, the air growing still and thick. Souta's vision swam, not with tears, but with a sudden, overwhelming flood of sensation. He wasn't just remembering; he was reliving.
The taste of the subtly sweet nutrient gel they'd shared in a quiet corner of the Monastery, a stolen moment of peace. The feel of her hand in his, her skin cool against the permanent stain of ink on his fingers. The sight of her laughing, a real, unguarded laugh that made the fine, silvery lines around her eyes crinkle. The sound of her humming that ancient, wordless hymn as she tended her quiet garden of fungi. The crushing, beautiful weight of their first kiss, a surrender that felt more like a victory.
It was all there, a perfect, sensory diamond forged from the pressure of their time together. The emotion of it was a physical force, a wave of warmth and profound loss that washed over him, so intense it stole his breath. He trembled, his disciplined composure shattered into a million pieces.
When Emily lifted the shard, a new mark remained on his skin. The design was sharper, more angular than his Wano-inspired art—a pattern that resembled a fractured, yet interlocking, gear, or a constellation seen through a broken viewport. It was the Echo Vow, a permanent scar of beauty etched into the map of his struggles.
Emily let the metal shard fall. It clattered on the deck, a discarded artifact of their sacrament. Then, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the new tattoo, a soft, warm kiss against the lingering coolness of the ink.
When she spoke, her voice was a hushed, resonant thing, amplified and layered by the alcove's acoustics until it seemed a chorus of Emilys spoke from the shadows.
"Wherever you go, whatever schemes you weave in your Blue Sea," the voices whispered, "this is anchored. Not in quiet stone, but in resilient iron. It will not fade. When you are alone in your library of dreams, touch this Echo vow. You will feel the echo of this place, of my voice, of us. And you will know, with absolute certainty, that I am remembering you right back."
The silence that followed was heavier than the entire gas giant outside the viewport. It was a solemn, sacred space filled with everything that had been said and everything that was forever impossible. Souta, overwhelmed, finally found his voice, a raw, broken thing.
"Emily…" It was all he could manage. Her name was a prayer, a curse, and a goodbye.
She simply looked at him, her luminous eyes holding his, capturing his image just as she had captured their memory. She was locking him in her mind, forever. And in the face of that devastating, final love, the great strategist, the architect of intricate plans, had no defense. He could only stand there, forever changed, bearing a new mark that was both a wound and the most profound gift he had ever received.
*****
The air in Vintana Cove was a thick soup of salt, rust, and the profound, earthy scent of aged timber and hot metal. The submarine, a strange metal beast amidst the graveyard of wooden sailing ships, was docked at the very end of a creaking pier, its dark hull a stark contrast to the bustling, chaotic life of the hidden port city built within the colossal sea cave. The crew picked their way through the organized chaos of the shipwright's domain, a cavernous space suspended from the ceiling by chains as thick as ancient trees. The sounds of hammers, hissing steam, and shouted orders in a foreign tongue created a symphony of industry that echoed off the wet stone walls.
Their destination was a large, hanging platform that served as an office and design studio, dominated by a massive drafting table. Behind it stood a man so large he seemed to be a part of the architecture itself. Mark Bridger Linder-Bos was a giant of a man, his broad, barrel chest straining the fabric of a soiled formal shirt. His most striking features were a magnificent pair of mutton-chop sideburns that framed a face permanently set in a scowl of concentration. A tall, stovepipe hat woven from lacquered palm fronds sat perfectly straight on his head, and he was hunched over a sprawling blueprint, a thick pencil gripped in his scarred hand, sketching the audacious curves of a bridge that seemed designed to span the heavens themselves.
Galit Varuna, his own long neck held in a posture of formal readiness, cleared his throat. The sound was swallowed by the workshop's din. He tried again, louder. "Ahem!"
Mark did not look up. "If you're here to complain about the noise, the complaint department is located at the bottom of the Razor Reefs," he boomed, his voice a gravelly bass that vibrated in the chest.
"We heard you provide ship coating services," Galit stated, projecting his voice to be heard.
This finally made the giant shipwright pause. He set his pencil down with a definitive click and looked up, his sharp, squinting eyes taking in the unusual group before him. "You hear correct," he acknowledged, his gaze sweeping over them with the appraisal of a man used to judging the seaworthiness of things. "But I won't be able to offer my services."
Atlas, leaning against a support beam with his arms crossed, smirked. "How come? We paying in the wrong kind of shiny rocks?"
"Two reasons," Mark said, holding up two thick fingers. "Tomorrow is Tuesday. And I am fresh out of Amber-Iron Resin."
Jannali tilted her head, her expression one of genuine, baffled amusement. "What's Tuesday got to do with the price of fish in the East Blue?" she asked, her accent cutting through the formality. "You take a day off for bad luck or something?"
"Something like that," Mark grunted, returning to his sketch.
"And the resin?" Atlas pressed, pushing off the beam. "Why can't you just… get more? Send one of your lads out with a bucket?" He gestured to the dozens of workers scurrying below.
Vesta, who had been quietly observing the strange, hat-wearing giant, chimed in with sudden, inspired hope. "Maybe he wants a song!" she offered, her rainbow hair seeming to brighten with the idea. She hugged her guitar, Mikasi, close. "Is that it, mister? A performance for your services? I know all the greatest hits!"
Mark didn't even look up from his blueprint. "No." Shaking his head, "whole island shuts down on Tuesdays and the Kalanoro of the Weeping Baobab are the only ones who produce the resin."
The crew stood in frustrated silence for a moment. Marya, who had been quietly observing the man's workshop, the intricate blueprints, and the absolute absence of any reflective surfaces, finally spoke, her calm, level voice cutting through the stalemate. "And where would one find these Kalanoro of the Weeping Baobab?" she asked.
Mark jabbed a thick finger—no, not a finger, they all noticed—he jabbed a clenched fist, his knuckles pointing towards the dark, mist-shrouded jungle visible at the far end of the cavern. "They are in the jungles of the Weeping Baobab. Where the trees are tallest and the light is lowest."
Galit puffed out his chest. "We can handle a hike. We'll just go and—"
"Won't work," Mark interrupted, his voice final. "Not unless you have Vintana Spiced Rum."
At the word "rum," Eliane, who had been nervously fidgeting with the hem of her chef's jacket, perked up. "Did you say rum?" she asked, her voice a small, hopeful chime.
A sudden crash from a stack of crates near the entrance made everyone jump. The wooden boxes tumbled and clattered, and from beneath the pile, a wobbly, azure-blue form slid out, looking dazed. Jelly "Giggles" Squish reshaped himself into a standing position, a distinctly guilty expression on his gelatinous face. A single, empty brown bottle rolled from the wreckage and clinked to a stop at Mark's enormous iron-toed boots.
Jannali put her hands on her hips. "Really, you little slime ball? Can't you go five minutes without rootin' through someone else's gear?"
But Mark was staring at the bottle, then at Jelly, then back at the crew. A slow, calculating look replaced his irritation. He picked up the empty bottle. "Vintana Spiced Rum," he stated, a note of grim amusement in his voice. "The only currency the forest spirits accept. Which you've now consumed."
Galit's long neck coiled slightly in frustration. "Forest spirits? What are you on about?"
This finally made Mark put his pencil down for good. He turned his full, formidable attention to them, rising to his full, intimidating height. He pointed at them again with his knuckled fist, his expression stern enough to strip paint.
"Listen well, you drift-wood fools!" he boomed, his voice echoing through the workshop and momentarily silencing the industry around them. "The Kalanoro are not men. They are the jungle's mischief. Do not point at them with a finger," he emphasized, shaking his clenched fist. "Do not insult their height. And by the Weeping Baobab," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper, "if you come back smelling of Eel, I will throw your ship into the Razor Reefs myself!"
A heavy silence followed his proclamation. Marya simply pinched the bridge of her nose, a long-suffering sigh escaping her lips. The sheer, convoluted absurdity of their situation—a day of silence, mythical forest dwarves, a tax of rum, and a taboo against eels—was exactly the kind of nonsensical obstacle that made the Grand Line so exhausting. A faint, weary smirk touched her lips before she regained her composure.
"So," she stated, her voice cutting through the tension. "To be perfectly clear. If we acquire the resin, you will coat our vessel?"
Mark gave a single, sharp nod. "Aye. On Wednesday."
Marya shook her head, the leather of her jacket creaking softly. "Okay. So we need rum for these… jungle mischiefs." She turned to her crew, her golden eyes sweeping over them. "Let's get to the market," she declared, "before this entire island decides to take a nap for Tuesday."
If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider giving Dracule Marya Zaleska a Power Stone! It helps the novel climb the rankings and get more eyes on our story!
Thank you for sailing with us! 🏴☠️ Your support means so much!
Want to see the Dreadnought Thalassa blueprints? Or unlock the true power of Goddess Achlys?
Join the Dracule Marya Zaleska crew on Patreon to get exclusive concept art, deep-dive lore notes, and access to our private Discord community! You make the New World adventure possible.
Become a Crewmate and Unlock the Lore:
https://patreon.com/An1m3N3rd?utm_medium=unknown&utm_source=join_link&utm_campaign=creatorshare_creator&utm_content=copyLink
Thanks so much for your support and loving this story as much as I do!