The night air in Mariejois was thin, almost brittle, as though even the wind feared to linger too long near the Holy Land. Malik's lungs dragged it in anyway, ragged and shallow, his chest burning with every step.
His chains clattered softly, blood slicking his hands where the iron bit into his flesh. The tail that had torn itself into existence twitched behind him, brushing stone as he leaned into shadow after shadow. His mismatched eyes toxic green and bloody crimson cut the dark like lanterns.
The alarms had not stopped. The bells of the World Nobles tolled across the marble streets, a sound that meant doom for anyone who stood in the way of the masters' will. Dozens of boots hammered on the avenues, rifles clicking, orders barked in sharp tones. Malik could hear them hunting, like wolves sweeping a forest.
They won't stop. Not until I'm dead.
His lips curled in a humorless smile, teeth streaked with blood. Then he kept moving.
Mariejois was built on the Red Line, high above the seas. To escape it was not just rebellion it was blasphemy. Slaves never left alive. That was the rule. Malik intended to carve the exception.
He threaded through the manicured gardens and white stone courtyards, the elegance stained now with blood. Nobles had fled indoors, their laughter replaced with shrieks. Guards filled the space instead, rifles and halberds glittering under torchlight.
Malik ducked low and moved fast, his bare feet near silent on the marble. His body screamed at him the gash in his side hot and wet, bullets still lodged in his shoulder and thigh but he pushed through. The hunger inside him, the same hunger that had bent iron chains and shattered rifles, refused to let him stop.
At the cliff's edge he paused. The Red Line stretched into the night, a sheer drop into nothingness, clouds obscuring the sea far below.
Behind him, shouts rose.
"There! By the terrace!"
"Cut him off!"
Rifles lifted.
Malik turned and yanked his chain. The length of iron whipped out like a serpent, wrapping around the nearest guard's neck. Malik pulled. The crack of breaking bone echoed against marble. The body toppled silently into the abyss.
The others fired. Bullets cut air, some striking stone, one grazing Malik's cheek. He felt the sting, the warmth of blood, but his body was already moving.
Down. Now.
The descent was madness. Malik wrapped his chain around the carved reliefs and cracked marble of Mariejois' walls, swinging himself lower, sliding against stone until his skin split and bled. His tail lashed instinctively, curling around protrusions to steady him when his grip faltered.
Shots rang above. Voices shouted. A spotlight cut across the wall, catching him for a heartbeat before he dropped into shadow again.
His ribs screamed. His arms burned. His vision blurred. But he didn't stop.
Halfway down, a bullet clipped his shoulder. The force ripped him sideways. His grip broke. For a heartbeat, the abyss claimed him.
Then his tail snapped tight around a jutting stone pillar, the sudden stop nearly tearing it from his spine. Malik gasped, teeth grinding as pain shot through him. He swung, body slamming against the wall, blood smearing stone.
Keep moving.
Hand over hand, chain over stone, tail anchoring, he descended. When his feet finally hit rock at the base of the Red Line, his knees buckled. He pressed one bloody hand against the cliff to steady himself.
Above, lights still flared, voices still shouted. But the Red Line was vast, and the sea below swallowed sound.
For the first time that night, Malik allowed himself one deep breath.
The waters at the Red Line's base were treacherous, churning against hidden rocks. Malik swam anyway, his wounds dragging him toward death with every stroke. Salt burned his cuts raw. Blood clouded the water behind him.
But the hunger kept him moving.
Hours later, his body pulled itself onto the roots of a mangrove. He lay there, chest heaving, tail limp in the mud. Above him stretched the tangled canopy of Sabaody Archipelago, lanterns glowing faintly in the distance, laughter and gunfire bleeding together into the night.
He had made it.
But safety was a lie.
Sabaody pulsed like a heart in rot. Pirates filled its taverns, slave traders stalked its alleys, brokers whispered deals in back rooms. Malik moved through it all unseen, cloak stolen from a corpse wrapped tight around his shoulders. His wounds slowed him, but his eyes stayed sharp.
And others' eyes found him.
In a smoky tavern, a cloaked figure paused mid drink as Malik slipped past, crimson and green flashing beneath his hood. A whisper spread to another table, and another.
On a pier, a lean man with too bright teeth leaned against a post, gaze tracking the cloaked fugitive limping into shadow. He chuckled once, low, and vanished into the crowd.
In a candlelit office, an underworld broker dipped his quill, scratching Malik's description onto parchment. "Slave boy," he muttered. "Tail. Red and green eyes. Mariejois." The parchment was stamped and sealed, passed into hands already trembling at what it meant.
Malik didn't see any of them. But he felt the weight. The world was watching.
He couldn't stay. Even through exhaustion, Malik knew it. Sabaody was too close, too loud, too crawling with eyes. If he remained here, the World Nobles would have his head on a pike before the week was done.
So he made for the docks.
The sea smelled of oil and salt, ships rocking against their moorings. Malik staggered through crates and shadows, searching. His gaze found a cargo vessel preparing to cast off, barrels rolled up the gangplank by yawning dockhands.
Perfect.
He waited until backs were turned, then slipped into the hold, chains wrapped close around his arms, tail bound tight beneath his cloak. He settled among the barrels, breath ragged, vision fading.
As the ship pulled from the pier, lanterns dwindling behind him, Malik let his head fall back against the wood. His body screamed. His blood soaked into the boards. His eyes closed.
He didn't know where the ship was bound. He didn't care. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but their chains.
Behind him, Sabaody churned with rumor.
A cloaked boy bleeding from a dozen wounds. Eyes like fire. A tail no one could explain. Slipped through Mariejois itself and lived.
Some laughed it off, a drunkard's tale. Others sharpened blades and listened closer.
And in the high halls of the Holy Land, nobles screamed in fury. Orders were signed. Reports dispatched. Cipher Pol agents whispered his description into den den mushi.
The hunt had begun.
But Malik was already gone.