Consciousness returned like a punch to the head. It wasn't a gentle waking, but a violent yanking from the depths of a numb, black sea.
A sharp, acrid stench—ammonia mixed with something foully floral—burned the inside of Galit's nose and scraped its way down his throat. His eyes flew open, stinging and watering, only to meet the grainy texture of polished stone an inch from his face. He was lying face down. A groan escaped him, muffled by the floor.
To his left, he heard a sharper intake of breath, followed by a low, feline growl of pure annoyance. Atlas. To his right, a wet cough and a string of muttered, creatively foul curses delivered in a familiar, drawn-out cadence. Jannali.
"What the actual hell?" she rasped, her accent thickened by grogginess and anger. She tried to move, and the three of them discovered the second layer of their predicament in unison. Their hands were bound tightly behind their backs with rough, scratchy fiber rope that bit into their wrists.
With a shared, pained effort, they pushed with their shoulders and managed to lift their heads. The world swam into focus, and it was a daunting sight.
They were in the center of the Grand Hall of Ancestors. The vaulted ceiling, lost in shadow, seemed to press down with the weight of centuries. Skeletal bird-statues stared with empty sockets from the walls. And on the dais, upon her throne of fused bones, sat Queen Ranava. She was as still as the carvings, her spider-silk Lamba a cascade of red and white, her white-painted lips a gash of mortality in the gloom. Beside her, a monolith of white and gold, stood General Bomba. His arms were crossed, his expression one of bored, brutal efficiency.
Jannali's eyes, wide and expressive, took it all in. "Right. So we've rocked up to the fancy dress party. Anyone bring a bottle opener for these ties?"
"SILENCE!"
The word wasn't a shout. It was a detonation. General Bomba's voice, unimpeded by his usual restraint, cannoned off the stone walls, so loud and sudden it felt physical. The single word echoed, trapping them in a cage of sound long after it faded. Jannali flinched, her ears ringing.
On the throne, Queen Ranava's head tilted a fraction. She didn't look at the prisoners; she looked at her general. She leaned infinitesimally toward him, and the faintest, driest whisper escaped her lips, like a dead leaf skittering on stone. Only Bomba could hear it. He nodded once, a sharp, military jerk of his chin.
He turned his flint-like eyes back to the trio. "You risk the eternal anger of the Ancestors," he boomed, each syllable a hammer strike. "You traversed the sacred jungles. You touched the weeping trees. You stole the Queen's resin. On a TUESDAY!" He spat the last word as if it were a curse in itself. "This is not theft. This is sacrilege. The balance is cracked. The silence is broken."
He took a heavy step forward, his boots thudding on the stone. "Give them the Nut."
Galit, Atlas, and Jannali shared a look of pure, unadulterated confusion. It was a silent conversation of raised eyebrows and bewildered frowns. The nut? What nut?
General Bomba strode until he loomed over them. He didn't crouch, but his long, bull-like neck allowed him to lower his head to their level without bending his back. He was so close they could smell the oil on his uniform and the stale metal of his jaw guard. His gaze swept over each of them, searching for something.
"You will tell me," he said, his voice dropping to a menacing rumble, "where the demon is. The fire-wielder. The one who hides a cursed sun in their blood."
Jannali blinked slowly. The sheer, surreal insanity of the accusation cut through her fear. A laugh, born of stress and absurdity, bubbled in her chest. "This bloke's off his rocker," she muttered to Galit, her voice low. "Bonza. A demon. Did he get into the good grog or what?"
Galit kept his eyes locked on the General's. Confusion was a liability; clarity was a weapon. "We have no idea what you're talking about," he stated, his voice even and firm. "There is no demon among us. We're traders. Shipwrights."
A slow, unpleasant smirk spread across General Bomba's scarred face. It didn't reach his eyes. "We shall see."
As he stepped back to the dais, a side door creaked open. Two servants, their eyes downcast and their movements robotic, entered. One carried a small, ornate wooden tray. On it rested three lumps of something pale and slick, and beside them, a single, unassuming nut the color of a bruise, about the size of a child's fist. The other servant carried a clay jug of water.
The servants knelt and, with trembling hands, slid the tray across the floor until it stopped before the prisoners. The smell hit them first—the raw, gamey scent of poultry skin, greasy and cold. Underneath it was a sharper, earthier odor from the nut, like bitter almonds and wet soil.
Jannali made a face, recoiling as much as her bonds allowed. "What the hell is this? Reckon the palace chef carked it?"
Atlas's lynx-like nose twitched. He leaned forward slightly, inhaling. "Smells like chicken and… something else. Something sharp. Like a root that's gone bad in the dark."
"And what?" Galit asked, his mind racing, trying to piece together the ritual from the clues. A trial. A test of guilt. He'd heard tales from Wano Country and other isolated lands where justice was a brutal, superstitious theater.
General Bomba's voice rang out again. "EAT IT!"
Galit's head snapped up, his emerald eyes flashing with defiance. "Or what?"
On the dais, Queen Ranava moved. It was a single, swift motion. Her hand, clutching the heavy Amber-Iron scepter The Husher, shot upward and then slammed down onto the stone arm of her throne.
CRACK.
The sound was a bone-deep shockwave that vibrated through the floor and up their spines. A new web of fractures spread through the ancient bird-skull. She didn't speak, but the message was screamed in the echoing aftermath: Or this. Or worse.
Atlas let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping. The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a pragmatic, grim acceptance. "Look, it might not be that bad. Probably just some local… delicacy." His tone suggested he knew it was a lie.
Jannali shot him a look of utter betrayal. "Are you mad? You're just gonna tuck in? Why can't you just… I dunno…" she dropped her voice to an urgent whisper, "zap these drongos with your sparky-sparky and we can—"
"And we what?" Galit cut in, his whisper razor-sharp. "Get filled with musket shot by twenty guards before we can even get to our feet?" He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his bound arms. "We have to be here for three more days. The resin. The sub. We play the stupid game. We survive."
"EAT." General Bomba's patience had evaporated.
Atlas locked eyes with Galit for a second. A silent understanding passed between them: someone had to go first, to see what the poison did. Atlas gave a barely perceptible nod. I'll be the test.
"Righto," Atlas muttered, more to himself than anyone. "Down the hatch." He craned his neck forward, his spotted fur brushing the cold stone. With an awkward, undignified lunge, he snagged one of the slimy pieces of chicken skin with his teeth. He chewed twice, his face a mask of disgust, then leaned for the Tangena nut. It was too big to swallow whole. He had to bite into it. A dry, fibrous crunch echoed faintly in the silent hall. He worked his jaw, grimacing, and forced himself to swallow. He convulsed once, a full-body shudder, and lay still, panting.
Jannali and Galit stared at him.
Atlas shook his head, blinking rapidly. "It… wasn't that bad," he gasped, his voice rough. "Tastes like dirt and old chook. Long as you don't think about it goin' down."
Jannali's nose wrinkled. "Is that a Mink thing? How your stomach's made of iron?"
"Just do it," Atlas groaned, his face beginning to look a little green.
Galit was next. His mind was a whirlwind of calculations—poison types, antidotes, reaction times—but his body had to act. He mimicked Atlas's movements, his long neck an advantage. The raw chicken skin was revolting, a slimy, fatty membrane that clung to his tongue. The Tangena nut was worse. It released a torrent of bitterness that made his eyes water instantly. It tasted of punishment, of judgement. He swallowed hard, the lump feeling like it scraped its way down his throat.
He turned his head, giving Jannali a look that was both apology and command.
Jannali let out a sound of profound, soul-deep grievance. "Strewth. I'm gonna spew just lookin' at it." With a last, baleful glare at the impassive Queen, she buried her face in the tray. She gagged violently halfway through chewing the nut, her body convulsing against the ropes, but she forced it down. She collapsed back onto her side, breathing in ragged, furious hitches. "I hate this island. I hate its trees. I hate its quiet. I really hate its food."
For a moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. Then, Atlas began to cough. A deep, wet, rattling cough that shook his frame. "I… may have spoken too soon."
Queen Ranava leaned forward, her heavy-lidded eyes wide and unblinking. She watched with the rapt attention of a scientist observing a lethal experiment.
The poison worked fast. A terrible, cramping heat bloomed in Galit's gut, spreading outwards like spilled lava. His vision swam. Nausea, more intense than any sea-sickness, surged up his throat. Atlas was now retching dryly, his body spasming. Jannali had gone pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead beneath her headscarf.
The convulsions took them in waves. It wasn't a gentle illness; it was their bodies violently, desperately rejecting the invaders. Galit's formidable control shattered. He rolled onto his side, heaving. Nothing came up at first, just painful, empty spasms.
Then, with a final, agonizing wrench, the first piece of chicken skin, slimy and whole, was expelled onto the polished stone. A moment later, Atlas did the same, followed by a choked curse from Jannali.
The nut came next. The bitter, fibrous mass, now mixed with stomach acids, was even more vile on the way back up. One by one, they vomited the poisonous nut, their bodies shuddering through the final, exhausting paroxysm. They lay in a pathetic, panting tangle, surrounded by the evidence of their ordeal, the foul smell mixing with the hall's incense.
The Queen watched until the last tremor subsided. She whispered again to General Bomba, her eyes never leaving the three prone figures.
The General straightened. "The Ancestors have spoken. You have purged the poison. You have passed the first penance. Your bodies are clean of the Tuesday sin."
Jannali, her cheek pressed to the cold, filthy stone, let out a weak, breathless laugh. "Lucky us. What's next, a footy match?"
Queen Ranava rose from her throne. Without a glance backward, she turned and glided soundlessly from the hall through a rear archway, her Lamba whispering against the floor.
General Bomba approached them once more. This time, he didn't speak. He simply grabbed Galit by the back of his jacket and hauled him upright with terrifying ease. Two guards emerged from the shadows to do the same with Atlas and Jannali, who stumbled on unsteady legs.
"Your next penance," General Bomba said, his voice once again a bored monotone, "awaits in the pit. The Ancestors' judgement is not finished with you." He shoved Galit forward, towards the same dark archway the servants had used. "They wish to hear you scream."
*****
The submarine bobbed gently in a tranquil, sun-drenched sea, a world away from the volcanic fury of the Iron Pearl. The only sounds were the soft lap of water against the hull and the low hum of the idling engine. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of salt, stale sweat, and the faint, lingering tang of Bianca's nut butter from a smuggled snack.
Bianca squinted at the navigational array, her fingers tapping the screen. "So, like… there isn't like anything here. Just blue, blue, and more blue. Are you, like, sure these were the right coordinates?" She gestured to the vast, empty horizon visible through the main viewport.
Aurélie, her posture rigid in the pilot's seat, didn't turn. "He said the coordinates were already inputted. The Consortium does not make errors in its cartography."
From behind them, Charlie cleared his throat with a sound like a misfiring engine. "Ahem! Might I proffer a suggestion, borne not of doubt but of logistical pragmatism?" He adjusted his invisible pith helmet. "Is it possible our target is situated on a nearby landmass? An island, perhaps? Even if she is not, might it not be prudent for us to, as they say, 'get our bearings' on solid ground? We require intelligence, provisions, and—"
A loud, prolonged groan echoed through the cabin, cutting him off. It was Charlie's stomach, a cavernous sound of profound deprivation. Ember, who had been quietly drawing explosive schematics on the wall with a piece of charcoal, burst into a fit of giggles.
"Someone's hangry!" she sang, dropping her charcoal and scrambling for the sealed hatch.
Bianca shot out of her seat, grabbing the back of Ember's dress. "Like, really? Just sit until you, like, snap out of this!"
Ember pouted, her lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated display of hurt. She crossed her arms and slumped into a corner. "No fun," she muttered.
Bianca sank back into her chair, running a hand through her messy hair. "So, like, should we check out the closest island? Maybe get a signal, get some real food that didn't come from a Typhon-era paste tube?"
Aurélie let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of two worlds. "It sounds reasonable. We can ascertain our position, and I may be able to establish a secure communication link for a status update."
Bianca nodded, her fingers dancing across the console. A holographic chart flickered to life, depicting a segment of the Grand Line. "Okay, so like, it looks like the closest charted island is… Nosy Fady. We can, like, be there in a few hours."
"Nosy Fady," Charlie repeated, the name rolling off his tongue with academic relish. "A curious toponym. In certain ancient maritime dialects of the Blue Sea, a variant of 'Fady' can imply 'taboo' or 'forbidden.' How intriguing!"
"Just point us at the food, Charlie," Bianca said, inputting the course.
Aurélie engaged the quiet thrusters, and the submarine began to glide smoothly through the waves. Charlie leaned back in his chair, a dreamy smile on his face. "Real food. Grilled meat. Perhaps a citrus glaze. Or a rich, savory stew."
Bianca glanced back at him. "Like, don't get too excited. For, like, all we know, this island is totally primitive or something. We might be trading nutrient paste for roasted bugs."
Charlie waved a dismissive hand, his eyes closed in culinary fantasy. "I don't care! Any kind of meat will do! Something that once had a face and didn't come from a biochemical vat!"
A few hours later, the island of Nosy Fady rose from the sea like a bruise on the horizon. As they drew closer, its unique ecology unveiled itself, pushing back against Charlie's dreams of a simple steak dinner.
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