She finally arrived. After all that hype, all that expectation, here she was—alone, with a satchel that seemed to hold every last shred of guilt she never spoke of. No trumpets. No soaring strings. Just her and that unbreakable face that said she'd already made peace with whatever fresh hell she was walking into.
This is where I might've made some charming remark. You know, something like, "Come on in to the Thousand Calamities, we're delighted to have you, let's paint the world red." Instead, all I could manage was: Finally.
Madam Shyarly had made up her mind. And come what may from the devil, she would stay with us until death.
"Perona!" I bellowed—tone flat, but sharp enough to shatter glass. "Get her up before she grows roots out there."
Perona gave me that look. The one that said, Really? You're making me do this?
She went anyway. Gothic girlfriend duties and all. But I caught the hesitation. She wasn't exactly eager to help some other woman who might just end up as her rival in the 'Win Cassian's Dark, Cursed Heart' game.
Shyarly had been standing there, waiting patiently for a ramp, a ladder, or hell, maybe a miracle. Her eyes were tired, but bright—like someone who had stared down the future and stuck their tongue out at it.
Honestly, I never expected her to abandon her café for me. That place was more than a business—it was her territory, her rebellion against the chaos of life. And yet, she left it behind with barely a word, like she was trading coffee for chaos and calling it a fair deal.
I'd like to think it was my silver tongue, my charisma, my whole "come hither and let's ruin the world" sales pitch. But maybe it was simpler. Maybe she just needed an excuse. Maybe I walked in at the exact moment she'd run out of reasons to pretend otherwise.
I had to remind myself—this is One Piece. Side characters aren't meant to be deep; they pop in, drop three lines, and vanish like smoke. Shyarly wasn't supposed to mean so much. She wasn't supposed to want more.
But here we are.
Perona lifted her with a flourish, helping her onto the deck with the vigor of someone being forced to assist her rival. Shyarly smiled graciously.
"Perona, I appreciate—"
"Don't mention it," Perona snapped, storming off like she'd just committed a tiny war crime against her pride.
Shyarly stepped onto the vessel for the first time. Her eyes roamed the deck—black-wood railings capped with horned skulls, a pennant whipping in the wind, embroidered with the same grim motif. She took it all in without flinching. No shudder at the atmosphere, no recoil at the obvious This Is A Bad Idea vibe the ship radiated. She looked… almost serene.
"Get comfortable," I said, aiming for casual, as if I hadn't been in a slow silk whirlpool of tension for the past three hours. "Find a room without too many ghosts in it."
She smiled faintly. "Are the ghosts there polite at least?"
"Depends. Sometimes they shout in French."
That earned me a real smile. Progress.
She followed Perona below decks—blushing, cautious, but steady. There was something forged in iron beneath that mermaid calm, something hammered in steel.
I turned aside and stretched out my hand. At my will, a poisonous bubble shield enveloped the hull, glowing green like cursed emerald glass. The sea pulled at us as the ship began to turn. It creaked in protest, but turn it did.
We left Fishman Island. Up, to the top. Before I even realized it, we were already on our way.
**
"Where do you think you're going, Cassian?" Perona growled, leaning against the railing. It was like she already knew I would lie but wanted me to lie anyway.
I'd been sitting with my back against the far edge of the deck, staring up at Mariejois as if it were scolding me to get up and knock. The ship had finally risen, and my gut was already signaling that this was it—the moment to clock in for the kind of work you don't return from.
"Getting some air," I said, wearing a grin that could've sold the line itself if I'd been paying attention to anything other than the enemy's front door. "I'll be back before you can know it."
Perona's look said she thought of me about as often as a fish thinks about gravity. Shyarly wasn't convinced either.
"It's about that conversation with Akainu isn't it?" Shyarly asked, her voice calm but sharp as a blade.
I should've lied. Hell, I nearly did. Then I remembered—what's the point? After tonight, my name would be plastered on bounty posters so big they'd have to print them on city walls. My face turned into something heavy.
"Yeah. It is."
She didn't blink. "I know you're going to do what you have to do. But you're our Captain, Cassian. You have a duty to keep us alive too. Don't forget that."
I didn't like her tone—like she actually cared. New territory, and I didn't need new territory unless I was plowing it into the ground. "I'll be fine, Shyarly," I said, flat but sincere in the way a Marine Corps budget is sincere. Truth was, I had no idea what I was walking into at Mariejois. Maybe Akainu had a trap waiting for me. Maybe I'd get exactly what I came for and still die on those marble steps. Admirals weren't known for being merciful.
I motioned them for space before I changed. Stretched, flexed, and shed my human form until a Hydra Dragon stood where I'd been. Perona had seen it before—she'd even ridden my back to Sabaody. But Shyarly? Her eyes went wide, pupils blown, wearing the face of someone meeting the boogeyman under the bed for the first time. She didn't back up though. One step forward. Respect.
I shrieked, the sound rattling the deck, then spread my wings wide and tore into the sky. Wind bit at my scales as I climbed, Mariejois glinting far off like a crown begging to be stolen.
The climb broke into something beyond speed—stars streaking past, the ground shrinking into nothingness below. I was at Mariejois before it felt like a coffee break.
And then the fall. Subtlety's for other people. Gentleness too. This was the kind of strike that makes tectonic plates rethink their job. That sound—when something massive slams into the earth and every wine glass in a ten-mile radius wonders how best to end its life? That. The shockwave challenged the hallowing of the mountain itself, like God's Netflix just got paused.
I roared—not the polite "hello, I'm here" sort, but the kind that makes priests lose their place mid-sermon—and layered it with Haki, forcing it deep into walls, bones, and bad life choices, curling into every gilded inch of Pangaea Castle.
Observation Haki lit up like Vegas. I could feel everyone—every heartbeat, every unspoken fear. I didn't need anyone to point me toward my targets. My five heads didn't hesitate—five poisoned breaths launched, lethal as any sniper's dream. Each one aimed for the loudest offenders, the Celestial Dragons with their signature stench of arrogance.
Volley after volley. Lungs burning, eyes darting, and when silence finally crept back in, I couldn't sense some of those parasites anymore. If Imu and the Gorosei were among the injured, well… they should've moved faster.
Chunks of Pangaea Castle sagged into the acid, crackling like overcooked mozzarella. I was finding my rhythm again—the personal, face-to-face kind—when a flash of steel slammed into one of my heads. It rang against my Haki like a spoon on a tank. My neck snapped back, my head recoiled, and I batted the strike aside more from outrage than strength.
"What's the meaning of this?"
The voice was almost pleasant, even bored—a red flag if there ever was one. I looked down. Figarland Shamrock. Shanks' double. Which meant only one thing: I'd just pulled aggro on a top-tier boss fight way too early.
Just Great. I was barely past the appetizers and the main course had arrived. Shamrock didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. Just stood there, sword low but ready, giving me a look that said, I've already read the last page—and you lose.
Heat gathered in all five throats, itching to rip the air apart and shatter that smug calm. But his stance told me everything—he wasn't rushing because he knew I'd break first.
And why not? Shamrock was merely the hors d'oeuvre to our all-you-can-slaughter night buffet. The question was, did I keep my cool and get him to blink first, or go full beast mode and give him the kind of Devil Fruit horror people sing ballads about?
I went with option B.
Venom dripped from all five mouths in a poisonous melody, a foul barrage that could turn a birthday bash into a funeral procession. But Shamrock—smooth bastard that he was—was faster. Red and gold blended, sword flashing through the air in a motion that shouldn't exist in the world. One moment, my air; the next, his, trapped in steel strands pulsing with the Haki coursing through them.
The venom never even reached the marble. His sword dance wasn't sloppy, wasn't dirty. Each drop shattered in midair, harmless, as if he'd bribed gravity to ignore it. Surgical. Maddening. And nothing I hadn't already seen before.
I'd battled Mihawk—World's Strongest Swordsman. And as much as I looked up to Shanks' other brother, he wasn't the keenest blade in the garden next to the original.
I switched—dragon to twenty-five-foot me, cold turkey. No easing into it, no huffing and puffing. My boots hammered the marble with a wallop that made it regret existing. The bellow changed into a growling guffaw as I gripped my warhammer. Distortions rippled around it, Haki humming like electricity.
"This is where you die, Shamrock," I told him, smiling like I'd already carved his name into the tombstone. "Bad time to be a hero."
He closed his eyes. "Why do you know my name?"
Adorable. Like I'd stumble into this by accident.
"I'm Doomsday," I said, dropping the name like a guillotine. "I know everything. Including where you're Shanks' evil twin. Now—die."
He didn't flinch, but there was a flicker in his step. Not fear—not yet—but that split-second lag. I hurled the hammer, flying like some demolition derelict's wrecking ball. Shamrock slid, a blur again, then was past me, already at my flank.
I whirled with him, hammer meeting blade in a strike that made the castle tremble. Sparks danced in firework flashes, little bursts of light across our private battlefield. Haki against Haki, every clash ringing through the marble halls like funeral bells.
I loved this brawl more than any sane human would. This man could literally kill me with one slip-up… and that made it intoxicating. It was the kind of adrenaline rush you get from slamming three shots of espresso, winning big in Vegas, and watching your opponent's face shift from "I'm so sure" to "oh, shit" all at once. You don't just fight like this—you get hooked. And I was hooked.
Problem was, I didn't have a way to permanently take Shamrock out. The guy was basically a human "Nope" button with that World Government Abyssal Energy cocktail. And while I had the power of the Hydra, I wasn't stupid enough to think I could erase him. Not yet.
We stopped—neither of us gasping. Him with his sword, a veteran's weapon etched with stories it would never tell. Me with my hammer, covered in more scars than a pirate captain's backstory. Both of us holding back. I knew Shamrock could morph that sword into Cerberus; he knew I had a hybrid form I hadn't busted out. Poker table. High stakes. Grins all around.
"I know you're immortal, Shamrock," I said, letting it hang in the air. His eyes glinted—a crack in the mask. "And as much fun as this little date's been, I'm leaving."
His gaze sharpened. "You're retreating?"
"Not retreating," I corrected with a grin. "Strategic intermission. I already got what I came for—you just don't know what it is yet." I turned the hammer so the handle pointed at him. "Don't worry. I'll be back. And next time, your immortality's gonna mean jack and shit."
His jaw tightened—a fraction. I caught it. One beat later, I was the Hydra again. The shift was smooth, like dropping into sixth gear in a Ferrari and feeling the hum in your bones. Wings unfolded, each beat slamming the air like a hurricane warning, and I soared up. Below, Shamrock just stared—pale, as if he'd realized the horror movie wasn't halfway done… just past it.