The silence in the barracks was a thick, fragile thing, strained by the distant, metallic heartbeat of the island. Charlie Leonard Wooley's soft mutterings over the runes were the only sound, a scholarly counterpoint to the ominous chiku-taku from beyond the walls. His finger, trailing the charcoal lines in Aurélie's notebook, suddenly stopped. He narrowed his eyes behind his wire-framed glasses, leaning in so close his pith helmet nearly brushed the page.
"This is… interesting," he murmured, the word laden with academic hunger.
Amira Kestrel Wevits, who had been monitoring Juni's pallor with a healer's worried eye, glanced over. "What is it?"
Charlie didn't look up. "A question of nomenclature. This Hitotsume… does it have a specific name? Beyond the general title?"
Amira nodded, her talon-like horns dipping slightly. "Yes. In the oldest lullabies, it is named. They call it Era."
Charlie's eyes, wide behind his lenses, snapped from the page to her face, then back down. A low, thoughtful hum vibrated in his throat. "Hmmm… Interesting."
Aurélie's silver head tilted, a single eyebrow arching like a drawn blade. "Elaborate," she ordered, her voice cutting the dusty air.
Charlie blinked, seeming to remember he wasn't alone in a library. He straightened, the bunk groaning under him, and cleared his throat with a sharp ahem. "Yes, of course. My apologies. The runic syntax here—see this recurring imperative glyph?—it appears less a description and more a… a warning. A direct quotation, I'd wager." He adjusted his glasses, his voice shifting into a lecture-hall cadence. "It translates roughly to: 'Do not disturb the pebbles, young ones. If the cradle rocks, the baby wakes up. And this baby… eats the world.'"
He looked away from the notebook, his gaze turning inward, toward the island's terrible geography. "The twelve Ogre statues sitting around the central lake… they aren't mere monuments. They're guardians. Literal sentinels positioned around the 'cradle'."
Roco Vultion grunted from his bunk, the sound like stones grinding together. "The legends my granddam whispered said the head statue, the one always 'weeping' into the river, wasn't always stone. They say he ate the Namida Namida no Mi. That his tears aren't sorrow—they fill Era's throat. Feed it just enough to keep it dreaming, and drown it if it tries to swallow."
Maki Nazigai Wicklock scoffed, a deep, resonant sound of disgust. "Ridiculous! It's all nonsense. Fairy tales spun from the Genroshi and guilt to keep the Ogre race subdued and turning their screw."
Roco held up a massive, placating hand. "I don't disagree, sister. I'm just repeating the song they sang to us in the crib. Doesn't mean the monster isn't real. Just means the lullaby is a lie."
Aurélie's steel-grey eyes moved from Roco to the ceiling, as if she could see the rusted forests of spinning gears above. "And the gears? The constant sound?"
Juni Vexwell flicked his wrist with a theatrical, dismissive flourish, his seastone shackle clinking. "Pst! More of the same. Some nonsense about the rhythm being a 'lullaby' to keep the great baby Era from waking up and deciding it's snack time." He rolled his luminous eyes. "The whole production is utterly ridiculous! A celestial opera performed for an audience of frightened ants."
Charlie, however, was stroking his chin, his mind visibly racing down corridors of logic. "And yet," he interjected, his voice quiet but piercing, "your entire society—the forges of Agashima, the Lottery, this grand, terrible screw—is built upon the foundational belief that if you stop, the Hitotsume wakes." He glanced back at the notebook, his voice dropping. "And eats the world. The legend and the warning are identical. A fascinating case of myth reinforcing infrastructure."
He looked at the Ogre revolutionaries, his academic curiosity burning through the gloom. "Is there more to this cosmology? Any antecedent to the story?"
Amira folded her hands in her lap, her clinical tone adopting the rhythm of a history lesson. "The fragments that remain suggest there were not one, but twelve Hitotsume. Primordial forces of… consumption, or perhaps stagnation. They were defeated, contained, by the Twelve–"
"–Sovereigns," Aurélie finished, the word falling into the silence like a stone into deep water.
Every head in the barracks turned to her. The silver-haired woman didn't flinch. "It is a consistent archetype in Void Century adjacent lore. A pantheon of rulers wielding specific, profound authorities to quell primal chaos."
Amira nodded slowly, her rabbit-pink eyes wide. "Yes. That is correct. Their prisons were scattered, hidden across the blues. The Original Sovereigns feared their power would be sought, manipulated… so they erased their own existence from history. All but one have passed, their mantles and the will of their Devil Fruits choosing successors across the centuries." A deep sorrow touched her voice. "The Genroshi are but the latest caretakers of a dying, forgotten duty."
Ember, who had been curled silently on her bunk, cradling Mr. Cinders, cocked her head. Her mismatched eyes blinked. "And the Genroshi? Who are they again?"
Juni sighed, a long, suffering exhalation. "Darling, pay attention. They are the dreary governing council of eight-teen in their stuffy halls each on their own islands. The wardens of our lovely ash-heap. They 'maintain stability' by making sure Era stays asleep, which means making sure we keep turning the screw. Grutte Pier Dorian is their current Sovereign. The head jailer."
Ember's whole body went still. Then she perked up, a jittery energy making her sit straighter. "Grutte Pier Dorian!"
Roco furrowed his brow, the black tiger stripes on his skin bunching together. "Yeah, he's the 'immovable mountain'. What about him?"
"No, I heard–" Ember shook her head, her neon-pink buns trembling. "In the cafeteria. Two guards at the sludge vats. They were talking. They said he's coming. Here."
The atmosphere in the barracks didn't just change; it crystallized. The air turned sharp enough to cut lungs.
"What," Maki said, her voice dangerously low, "did you just say?"
Ember nodded, her words tumbling out in a hurried whisper. "Yes. They said he's coming instead of having another lottery. 'In case the power drop from the refinery makes the big baby fuss.' They laughed."
Roco and Maki cursed in unison, their voices a blend of guttural Ogre dialect and sheer, unvarnished fury. The sound was like rockslides in the confined space.
Ember flinched, looking between their enraged faces with confusion.
Aurélie's expression remained an icy mask, but her eyes held a new, calculating sharpness. "This," she stated, "sounds like a significant complication."
"You think?!" Roco rasped, rubbing a massive hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the news. "If the Sovereign himself is breathing down our necks, security will be tighter than a drum. Every gear will be watched. Every shadow will have a guard in it."
Juni leaned forward, all theatrical languor gone, replaced by a fierce, focused intensity. "And if he brings his captains, then getting off this rock moves from 'impossibly difficult' to 'a punchline for the gods.' We'll be ghosts before we touch the water."
Aurélie gave a single, definitive nod. "Then it appears we do not have the luxury of time. Hesitation is now a greater enemy than the guards." Her gaze, sharp as a honed blade, shifted to Ember. "Were you able to deliver the note to Noon?"
Ember nodded again, a quick, bird-like motion. "He took it."
"Good." Aurélie's eyes swept the room, meeting each pair of weary, determined eyes—Maki's solemn resolve, Roco's simmering rage, Juni's glittering defiance, Amira's clinical worry, Charlie's anxious intellect, and Ember's fragile, manic hope. "You know the initial steps. We execute phase one of the plan. Not next week. Not in three days." She let the word hang, heavy and final in the ash-choked air. "Tomorrow."
No one spoke. No objections were raised. In the grim faces of the Ogre revolutionaries and their unlikely allies, there was only a hardening of will, a silent acceptance of the precipice they now stood upon. One by one, they nodded. The nods were not eager; they were grim, tired, and utterly resolute. The spark they had been waiting for wasn't a signal from the outside. It was the approaching tread of their jailer, forcing their hand. Tomorrow, the cradle would rock. And they would either fly from it, or be consumed by the waking hunger they had spent their lives fearing.
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