The Wednesday sun over Nosy Fady felt like a pardon. The oppressive, sacred silence of Tuesday had passed, and the world of Vintana Cove dared to make noise again. The air, thick with the scent of salt, wet wood, and frying breakfast from the shantytown above, was a welcome change from the jungle's cloying perfume of decay and flowers.
On a crescent of dark sand behind the main dock, the crew carved out a moment of peace.
Marya stood in the surf, the gentle waves washing over her boots. Her focus was absolute, a silent pillar amidst the morning's soft chaos. Before her, Eliane, her small face a mask of determined concentration, held a length of polished bamboo. Her knuckles were white.
"Your wrist is a hinge, not a wall," Marya said, her voice calm and low. She reached out, her own fingers—calloused and marked with those strange, dark veins—gently adjusting Eliane's grip. "The power comes from here," she touched the girl's shoulder, "through here," her elbow, "and is released here." A tap on the wrist. "You're trying to chop a tree. You need to cut a thread."
Nearby, perched on a weathered driftwood log, Vesta Lavana was lost in her own world. Her rainbow hair was a vibrant shock against the grey cliffs. Her tongue poked from the corner of her mouth as she scribbled furiously in a leather-bound journal, her other hand absently strumming chords on Mikasi. The guitar, today in the shape of a simple lute, emitted soft, experimental notes that tangled with the crash of the waves. A fragment of melody, bright and searching, would rise, only to be chased by a discordant frown and a flurry of erasures. "No, no, that's too much like Brook's 'Humming Sorrow,'" she muttered to herself. "Need more… sky. More updraft."
Further down the beach, Jelly Squish was engaged in a profoundly important mission. His translucent blue body wobbled with delight as he hopped from one wet sand patch to another. With a sound like a sinking cork—bloop—his foot would morph into a wide, suction-cup shape, press down on a buried clam, and schoomp! The clam would vanish into his gelatinous form, creating a temporary, shell-shaped lump that slowly dissolved. "Breakfast of champions!" he giggled to a confused seagull.
The peace was a thin veneer, and it was about to crack.
Galit, leaning against the hull of a beached fishing skiff, finished tightening the strap on his forearm bracer. His emerald eyes, always moving, scanned the busy dock. "The cove's awake. Bridger's shop will be open." He pushed off the wood. "Atlas, Jannali. Let's get the resin delivered. The sooner he starts, the sooner we're breathing deep-sea air again."
Atlas, who had been meticulously cleaning black sand from the segmented joints of his seastone mace, Stormclaw, gave a lazy smirk. "Fine. But I'm getting skewers after. Real food. I'm sick of jungle fruit and whatever Jelly's been digesting."
Jannali, seated cross-legged as she checked the fletching on one of her Echo Boomerangs, nodded. She tilted her head, her large, expressive eyes half-closed. "The wind's shifted. Carries the smell of hot metal and oil from the shipyards. He's definitely firing up his forges." She stood in one fluid motion, securing the boomerang to the strap on her thigh. Her stylish headscarf, a deep indigo today, was firmly in place.
Marya glanced over, not breaking Eliane's stance. A single, brief nod was her only order. Permission and acknowledgment.
The three of them made their way up from the beach, weaving through the early-morning bustle of Vintana Cove. The hanging city was a symphony of renewed industry: the clang of hammers, the shout of traders hawking dried fish and woven baskets, the groan of chains as cargo nets were lifted. The memory of Tuesday's eerie quiet was already fading, scoured away by pragmatic noise.
Mark Bridger Linder-Bos's workshop was a cavern within the cavern. A massive, hollowed-out niche in the cliff face, its entrance was framed by the rusted ribs of a half-dissected galleon. Inside, the air was oven-warm and smelled of pine tar, hot metal, and the peculiar, honey-sick scent of the Amber-Iron Resin itself.
The man himself was a giant silhouetted against the glow of a banked furnace. He stood at a drafting table taller than a man, its surface a chaotic landscape of scrolls, calipers, and wax tablets. He was writing in a ledger with a quill the size of a dagger, his monstrous mutton-chop sideburns looking especially ferocious in the firelight.
The thump of three heavy barrels being set down on the stone floor made him look up. His sharp, furnace-squinted eyes moved from the barrels to the faces of the newcomers. He put the giant quill down with a deliberate tap.
"You made it back," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble that competed with the distant drip of water. He pushed himself away from the table, the legs of his chair screeching. Towering over them, he approached, his stained leather apron smelling of sweat and resin. "I thought you'd take at least a week. If you returned at all. The Red Tsingy doesn't like guests."
Jannali offered a wry smile. "The Kalanoro were… snaky little buggers. But we managed a mutually beneficial arrangement."
A dry, huffing sound escaped Mark Bridger. It might have been a chuckle. "Snaky is their default setting. Where's your vessel moored? I'll have my lads start the assessment today. The mixing vats need to be heated."
"The submarine at dock fifteen," Galit said, his voice all business. " You can't miss it."
"I miss nothing in my cove," Bridger stated, not as a boast, but a simple fact. He pulled a small, grease-stained notebook from his apron. "You have a Den Den Mushi?"
Galit nodded.
"Good. I'll have it call you when the under-hull scraping is done and we're ready for the first pour. Don't wander far. This resin," he tapped a barrel with his boot, "has a mind of its own once it's heated. Timing is… particular." His eyes flicked to the cave entrance, as if judging the sun's angle with deep suspicion.
With the transaction set, the three crew members stepped back out into the relative cool of the covered dockway. The market was just a few alleys over, its sounds and smells a siren call.
"Right," Atlas declared, stretching his arms and making the spots on his rust-red fur seem to shift. "Skewers. I smell chili and seared meat. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."
"Your stomach is a dramatic diva," Jannali remarked, but she was smiling. The successful delivery had lifted a weight.
They'd taken no more than ten steps from the workshop's shadow when the atmosphere changed. It wasn't a sound first, but a stillness. The usual flow of dockworkers and traders around them subtly altered, parting like water before a ship's prow. Then came the bootsteps—a synchronized, marching cadence that echoed off the wooden planks and stone walls.
From the mouth of a narrow alley to their left and the open market square to their right, two squads of the Andriana Guard emerged. Their white uniforms were pristine, their expressions blank as carved stone. They carried not the crude spears of the jungle patrol, but heavy, bell-mouthed muskets and weighted nets. They formed a half-circle, blocking all paths forward and to the sides, herding the trio back towards the cliff face.
"HALT!" The command came from a sergeant, his voice devoid of inflection.
Instincts, honed on a hundred different islands, took over. Galit, Atlas, and Jannali moved as one, their backs forming a tight triangle. Galit's hands hovered near the hilts of his Vipera Whips. Atlas's fingers curled around the handles of his collapsed maces. Jannali's posture lowered, one hand drifting to the boomerang on her thigh.
"What's this all about?" Jannali called out, her voice steady but edged with a warning. "We've paid our docking fees. We're customers of the Resin-Master."
The guards didn't answer. They simply leveled their muskets. The click of a dozen flintlocks being cocked was a terrifyingly final sound.
Then, he arrived.
General Bomba walked from the direction of the main stairway to the upper city. He didn't march; he occupied space. His white coat was a spotless blasphemy against the grimy dock. The red sash was a wound across the scene. His gold-plated jaw guard clicked with each slow, deliberate step. He came to a stop before the ring of guards, his small, dark eyes pinning the three pirates with a gaze that felt like a physical pressure.
Jannali cursed under her breath in a language that sounded like wind over old ruins.
"Where," General Bomba's voice was a bored, gravelly monotone, "are the rest?"
Galit, Atlas, and Jannali exchanged a fleeting glance—a micro-second of shared confusion and raised alarm. Galit kept his voice even, diplomatic. "The rest of who? Our business here is with the shipwright. That's concluded."
The General's jaw worked behind its cage. A low, impatient rumble emanated from his chest. "Don't play the fool. I know there is one among you who is a demon. A bringer of cursed fire."
This was so left-field, so bizarrely specific, that Jannali couldn't help it. A smirk tugged at her lips, a flash of her charm in the face of absurd danger. "A demon? You must be off your rocker, mate. What, did you get into some bad rum? We're sailors, not bedtime stories."
General Bomba's scowl deepened, carving trenches in his scarred face. The casual disrespect was like oil on the flames of his purpose. "It doesn't matter. We will find them. We will peel your crew apart like a fruit until we do."
Atlas's ears flattened against his head. His taunting nature rose to the surface, a defense mechanism of sheer arrogance. "Find who? And what do you even want with us? We got your precious tree sap, didn't we? Isn't that what you people care about?"
"What I want," General Bomba said, taking a single step back, a conductor signaling a crescendo, "is for you to cease your noise. Our Queen requires an audience with you. All of you." He made a faint, almost imperceptible gesture with one finger.
Galit's muscles coiled. The word 'audience' sounded like a death sentence. "I am not in the habit of accepting royal invitations at gunpoint—" he began, his hands starting to move.
Thud.
A small, feathered dart sprouted from the side of Galit's long, flexible neck. His emerald eyes widened in shock, not pain. A cold numbness, swift and total, radiated from the point of impact. His vision blurred at the edges. He tried to speak, to shout a warning, but his tongue was a slab of stone in his mouth. His knees buckled.
Thud. Thud.
Two more darts found their marks. One in the thick fur of Atlas's shoulder, another in the exposed skin of Jannali's upper arm, just below her headscarf. Atlas let out a grunt of surprise, his formidable strength meant nothing against the chemical tide sweeping through his bloodstream. He toppled like a felled tree. Jannali's hand, halfway to her boomerang, fell limp. Her last conscious thought was a frantic, internal whisper to the Voice of All Things—a desperate, unanswered call for help as the world dissolved into silent, velvet blackness.
From the rooftops and dark windows overlooking the dock, shadowy figures lowered hollow blowpipes.
General Bomba looked down at the three still forms on the dirty planks. He nudged Atlas's prone body with the toe of his boot, then turned away, the matter settled.
"Bring them," he ordered, his voice once again that bored, grim monotone. "To the Rova. The Queen is waiting."
The guards moved in, rolling the unconscious pirates onto rough stretchers. The morning market, which had frozen in terrified silence, slowly and cautiously began to stir back to life, the citizens of Vintana Cove carefully not watching as the Andriana Guard carried their captives away, up the winding stone staircase that led to the silent fortress above. The Wednesday sun, once a promise of freedom, now shone brightly on an empty dock and three forgotten barrels of resin, their golden potential suddenly meaningless.
*****
The volcanic base of G-88 had become a thunderous echo chamber of alarms, shouts, and the percussive rhythm of their own flight. Aurélie, Bianca, Charlie, and Ember careened around another corner, the rough-hewn rock walls blurring past. Behind them, the shouts of pursuing Marines echoed, a growing chorus of "Halt!" and "In the name of the World Government!"
Ember, dragged by Bianca, reached out a trailing hand, her fingers skimming the warm stone. With each touch, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer raced across the surface. "Hehehe… leaving presents!" she cackled.
"Is all this explosive decoration strictly necessary?!" Charlie cried out, ducking as a patrolling Marine dove for cover ahead of them.
"It is working," Aurélie snapped, her voice cutting through the din like a blade. "So keep moving!"
They burst through a final reinforced archway and onto the open impound dock. The vast, night-shrouded Caldera Harbor spread before them, the water inky black and reflecting the frantic lights of the base. Their submarine sat in its cradle, a strange, silent promise of escape.
But between them and it was a field of open, unforgiving grating. And above, on a high metal catwalk, stood Captain Kai Sullivan. He had them in his sights, his custom rifle, Silent Requiem, steady against his shoulder. Around him, a half-dozen Marine snipers took their cue.
"Targets acquired," Kai murmured, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Fire."
The air cracked with the synchronized blast of rifle fire.
At the same instant, Cracks from Ember's explosive trailing, manic energy reached the critical support beams of the catwalk minutes before. With a sound like a giant's bones breaking, the metal seams subtly compromised gave way. The catwalk shrieked, twisted, and plummeted in a cascade of sparking metal and screaming snipers. Kai's perfect shot went wide, pinging off the dock as he and his men became a tangle of falling limbs and equipment, crashing into a stack of cargo nets below.
Bianca skidded to a halt, glancing at the destruction, then at Ember. "Like, do you think it was like, necessary now?"
Ember just cackled, wiping a happy tear from her eye.
"I have to admit," Charlie panted, staring at the disabled snipers, "the timing is… ideologically problematic but tactically ideal!"
They sprinted for the submarine. As they neared, a group of Marine engineers scattered from its open hatch, led by the flapping, dramatic figure of Commander Alistair Reginald Finch.
"Back, lads! Stand back!" Finch cried, waving his arms in the air as if warding off a wild animal. He placed himself theatrically between his men and the escaping prisoners. "We are simple engineers! We are no match for these… these scandalous brigands! Our expertise is in gears and toast, not combat!"
Aurélie and Bianca played along, brandishing the stolen Marine rifles. "That's right!" Bianca yelled, trying to sound fierce. "Don't, like, make us do anything you'll seriously regret!"
The engineers, wide-eyed, huddled behind Finch. One brave soul peeked out. "Sir, shouldn't we at least try to—?"
"No, lad!" Finch interrupted, placing a consoling, gloved hand on the man's shoulder. "It simply isn't worth your life. I appreciate your bravery—truly, the spirit of the Marines!—but in times like these, the most courageous thing a man can do is not get horrifically maimed. Remember the regs: 'Preservation of technical personnel is paramount.' Chapter Four, subsection—ah, never mind! Just stand very still and look non-threatening!"
The marine nodded dumbly, watching as the four fugitives scrambled past them and up the hatch.
"I'll, like, hit the release!" Bianca shouted, diving into the co-pilot's seat. Her hands flew across the console. Outside, the heavy cradle hydraulics hissed, and the submarine dropped into the dark water with a massive, frothing splash.
Inside, they strapped into their seats, the vessel bobbing wildly. The engine hummed to life, a deep, familiar vibration after the alien energies of the Typhon Cluster.
Charlie, fumbling with his harness, looked around. "What about Kuro?"
Aurélie, already at the main controls, didn't look back. "He will have to find his own way. We are out of time." She pressed a sequence of buttons. The submarine's thrusters engaged with a jolt, pushing them away from the dock.
"Like, be ready to port in, like, five minutes!" Bianca called out, her eyes glued to a navigational screen showing a pre-programmed course.
On the dock, Vice Admiral Harlow arrived like a typhoon of white wrath. She took in the scene: her injured snipers extracting themselves from cargo nets, the shattered catwalk, and the submarine—her prize—pulling away into the harbor. Her eyes locked onto the huddled group of engineers and the tall, elegant figure at their forefront.
"COMMANDER FINCH!" she bellowed, storming toward him. "WHAT IN THE SEVEN LEVELS OF HELL ARE YOU DOING? STOP THEM!"
Finch turned, his face a masterpiece of baffled innocence. He gestured helplessly at the retreating sub. "Stop them, Vice Admiral? But how? With harsh language? A strongly worded memo? My specialty is maritime engineering and theoretical pastry-crisping, not aquatic interdiction!"
Harlow, teeth bared, ignored him. She sprinted for the dock's edge, her prosthetic leg whirring. With a powerful leap, she launched herself through the air, Leviathan's Claws extending from her wrists, aiming to spear the hull of the departing vessel.
She was a split second too late. The submarine's nose dipped sharply. With a final, frothing swirl of water, it plunged beneath the dark surface, leaving Harlow to crash into the cold, empty wake.
Inside the diving vessel, Bianca stared at the depth gauge, then at Aurélie. "Three… two… one… Now!"
Aurélie engaged the primary drive. There was no grand rift, no screaming colors. This was a subtler technology, a Bubble Porter system integrated by unseen hands. The water outside the viewport shimmered, twisted, and then simply… changed. The oppressive dark of the volcanic harbor was replaced by the sun-dappled, blue expanse of the open Grand Line, far from the wrath of the Iron Pearl.
Back on the dock, Harlow surfaced, sputtering, her fury colder than the harbor water. She hauled herself onto the grating, dripping and seething. Commander Finch hurried over, offering a silk handkerchief.
"A terrible business, Vice Admiral! Simply terrible! They were like… like eels! Slippery, technological eels! I'll draft a full report on their… eel-like qualities immediately!"
Harlow didn't take the handkerchief. She just stared at the spot where the submarine had vanished, her mind already racing with new, vengeful calculations. The dead pirate was alive, the strange vessel was gone, and a phantom locust seemed to laugh in the rustling steam behind her.
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!