Davy Jones climbed the creaking, weather-worn wooden ladder, ascending to the upper deck of the Flying Dutchman.
Unlike the bubble where Vander Decken had been standing, the top deck was flooded entirely with the cold, oppressive darkness of the sea.
Not far away, the ship's pirate flag drooped lifelessly, wrapped tight around the mast.
A pearl cast in dust, Davy Jones thought.
Vander Decken was a complete fool. He had treated the Flying Dutchman as nothing more than a family heirloom trinket, never once cherishing it.
He had it dragged along by a giant fish-man, ignorant of the truth—that what this ship longed for most was to sail freely in raging seas, to revel in the storm, even if it meant shattering into pieces in the end.
Davy Jones reached the round wooden helm. Peeling away the slimy moss clinging to it, he gave it a turn. It still moved.
At once, he felt his own heart resonating with the ship's. He understood what it desired.
The Flying Dutchman had been waiting far too long—for one final voyage.
And Davy Jones would grant this world's Flying Dutchman its wish.
"Hachi. Return to the Terror Ghost."
"Huh? Oh… yes, Captain."
That was Hachi's strength—though curiosity burned in him, once Davy Jones gave the order, he carried it out without hesitation.
He leapt straight into the sea.
In the water, Hachi moved effortlessly, six arms and two legs propelling him like a jellyfish, though far faster.
In no time, he had swum back into the Black Pearl's eerie green barrier and climbed aboard, dripping wet.
The crew rushed to ask what had happened, but he had no answer—only that the captain had told him to return.
Left with no choice, the crew kept their eyes fixed anxiously on their captain.
Clack, clack, clack.
The Flying Dutchman's helm groaned as Davy Jones turned it.
The ship, silent for centuries, suddenly stirred to life. In the crushing deep-sea pressure, it moved as if hoisting sails in a favorable wind.
Boom!
The Sea Goddess' power lifted the Flying Dutchman. It surged through clouds of disturbed silt, skimmed past jagged ridges of rock and coral, and sailed several hundred meters before coming to a halt.
The crew of the Black Pearl gaped in awe.
That rotting hulk—Captain Davy Jones had made it move.
But after a moment's thought, it was hardly surprising.
Hadn't the Black Pearl itself been just as broken, until the mysterious force tied to their captain had roused it and carried them to this very day?
And now, he had done the same for the Flying Dutchman.
On the other side, Davy Jones steered at will.
The ship obeyed, gliding freely through the seabed. Its pace quickened, faster and faster, until whirlpools began to spiral outward.
The vortex swelled, sucking in loose rock, sand, even schools of fish and shrimp.
The Flying Dutchman surged with the whirlpool's power, but its body could not endure. First its flag was torn away, then—crack!—the mast snapped. Next the prow and stern split apart, until at last the entire vessel disintegrated.
Boom!
Shards of its hull scattered with the whirlpool's current.
Some pieces slammed straight into the side of the Black Pearl like battering rams, embedding themselves deep into the dark, battered planks!
The ship rocked violently, its crew nearly losing their footing on the deck.
As more fragments pierced and lodged into the hull, Porche's face went pale. Her fluffy cheerleader cap nearly flew off as she clutched it with both hands, screaming:
"The Flying Dutchman's wreck is destroying the Black Pearl!"
But Kuro, calmly adjusting his glasses, glanced instead at the glowing green barrier that wrapped their ship.
It remained intact.
That barrier was their lifeline. As long as it held, they could breathe here in the deep without worry.
Knowing this, Kuro felt no panic like Porche did.
He stepped to the rail, peered down for a long moment, then said:
"The wreckage isn't attacking us. It's fusing with the ship."
The others crowded over to look.
Sure enough, the broken planks embedded in the hull weren't damaging it. Slowly, bit by bit, they merged into the Black Pearl's body, groaning as they were absorbed.
"Look at the prow!"
The sharp-eyed Miss Valentine pointed ahead, her lemon-slice earrings swaying with the gesture.
The crew turned to see the Black Pearl's prow suddenly extend outward.
At first it jutted forward like a blade, but soon they realized—it wasn't a weapon.
It was a gaping maw, complete with upper and lower jaws, lined with jagged teeth.
Before their eyes, the ship transformed—its visage twisting into that of a monstrous deep-sea beast.
The crew marveled in stunned whispers.
But Crocodile paid no attention to the ship.
His gaze never left Davy Jones, locked on him with grim intensity.
He sensed it—he was about to witness history, as surely as when he had once watched Roger's execution.
And he did.
When the Flying Dutchman dissolved into shards, Davy Jones remained standing alone at the heart of the whirlpool.
From within his chest, he drew forth a black staff.
He raised it high.
At once, his body began to change. His arms shifted—left into a crab's claw, right into a writhing tentacle—then back again into human hands.
His facial tentacles warped into a human beard. His sallow skin flushed with human color. For the briefest instant, Crocodile glimpsed Davy Jones' true face.
But it never fixed.
His form cycled ceaselessly—man, claw, tentacle, peg-leg—shifting, recombining, a hundred variations.
The staff in his hands writhed as well. Breaking apart, reforging, coiling with serpentine tentacles until, as if tempered in fire, it solidified into a trident.
This trident was not uniform—the three tines grew slightly larger from right to left, jagged and uneven, resembling both a crescent moon and a monstrous crab's claw.
Davy Jones lifted the black trident high—then drove it down into the seabed.
The amber gem set within it blazed to life.
In an instant, the waters recoiled from his feet.
The whirlpool vanished, waves surging backward with such force that even the Black Pearl nearly capsized.
The Kraken quailed, yet summoned its courage, stretching out its tentacles to steady the ship.
At last, the chaos subsided.
In the abyss appeared a vast half-dome of dry land, stripped bare—sand, coral, rock exposed to the open dark. And upon this barren ground, the Black Pearl now rested.
Whoosh…
On deck, the crew stood dumbstruck.
During the upheaval, some had clutched the rails, others the masts, still others each other, barely managing to hold on.
Now, they turned their eyes once more to their captain.
Davy Jones had returned to the form he had borne before leaving the Black Pearl.
The only difference—the trident in his grasp.
But that was mere surface.
Those bound to him by a century's contract—Kuro, Alvida, Law, Perona, Mikita—felt a heat spread through their bodies, as if their bond to both Davy Jones and the Black Pearl had tightened.
Especially Perona.
Her very soul seemed to wail. She trembled, confused—until she realized it was not she who feared.
It was her ghosts.
They shrieked in terror, as if in the next instant they might be torn from her and scattered into nothingness.
Even the Kraken, already subdued in loyalty, dared only to cower at the ship's side, pressed low against the ground, unable to move.
Silence blanketed the sea floor.
Crocodile understood why.
No one spoke because Davy Jones had yet to. They all awaited his command.
Davy Jones' gray-blue eyes swept over them, then over the Black Pearl—its hull now altered, resembling more closely the ship he had once known.
Still, he said nothing.
Instead, he planted the trident in the earth again.
Rumble…
The ground shook.
Massive stones rose from the sand. The remaining fragments of the Flying Dutchman flew toward them. Coral, shells, seaweed—even fish bones—were swept up in the torrent.
Bang, bang, bang!
Pieces slammed together—shattering, reforming, merging, embedding, stacking.
At last, the crew began to see.
In this vast waterless hollow, as large as an island, Davy Jones was using his trident to build a fortress.
Before their eyes, the castle's outline took shape.
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