Laffitte watched his captain fly through the air like a broken doll.
The impact against the Rokaku sent a shudder through the ancient stone, and for one frozen moment, the white-suited assassin's expression shifted—just slightly, just enough to show that even he could be surprised. Blackbeard had never fallen. Not like this. Not to anyone.
Then the retreat order came, carrying across the chaos with the weight of absolute command.
Laffitte tilted his hat to Aurélie—a small gesture, almost courteous—and spread his wings.
Aurélie watched him go.
She could have pursued. Could have struck him down as he fled. But her steel-gray eyes tracked him for only a moment before returning to the shrine, to the fallen, to the battle that had finally, impossibly, turned.
Let him go.
There would be other days.
---
On the beach, the clash between titans froze mid-strike.
Van Augur felt it first—the shift in the air, the sudden absence of their captain's presence pressing against the edges of his consciousness. He looked up from his sniper's perch, his sharp eyes finding the distant form of Blackbeard crumpled against the Rokaku.
The retreat order echoed across the water.
Van Augur didn't hesitate.
He moved—his teleportation carrying him across the beach in an instant, his hand clamping onto Jesus Burgess's shoulder just as the massive fighter drew back for another blow.
Burgess roared in protest. "I was WINNING!"
"We're leaving." Van Augur's voice allowed no argument.
They vanished.
Atlas stood in the crater where Burgess had been a moment before, his Sulong form crackling with residual lightning, his white fur stained with blood and sand. He stared at the empty space, his chest heaving, his eyes slowly shifting from blood-red back to blue.
The transformation receded.
His fur darkened to rust-red. His body shrank back to its normal size. And as the last of the Sulong power faded, his knees buckled.
He swayed on his feet, barely staying upright.
Ember whined.
It was a small sound, lost in the chaos, but it carried everything—frustration, disappointment, the sudden emptiness of a game ended too soon. She looked at the empty space where Van Augur had been, at the ship pulling away, at the sky where explosions no longer bloomed.
"Play time is over," she murmured.
Her slingshot rifle hung loose in her grip. The manic light in her eyes flickered, dimmed, became something almost human.
Almost sad.
---
High above, Doc Q pulled on Stronger's reins, the grey horse snorting in confusion as their bombing run was interrupted.
Blackbeard's fall had changed everything.
"Time to go," the pale doctor muttered, already turning Stronger toward the retreating ships.
A small figure darted past him—Eliane, her wings still blazing, her bamboo sword still raised. She'd been chasing them for what felt like hours, her determination never wavering despite her exhaustion.
Doc Q dodged her final swing and flew on, retrieving an unconscious Shiryu along the way.
Eliane hovered in the air, watching him go, her chest heaving. Her wings began to flicker—the flame at her back dimming, the white feathers losing their luster. She'd pushed too hard. Flown too far.
She began to drift downward, her strength failing.
But she was smiling.
---
Vasco Shot stood in the burning ruins of the festival grounds, his fire fading, his breath coming hard. Across from him, Galit crouched in a defensive stance, his whips coiled, his green eyes never leaving the pirate's face.
The retreat order came.
Vasco Shot grinned—that same arrogant, infuriating grin—and raised one massive hand in a mocking salute.
"Next time."
He turned and ran, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground as he disappeared into the smoke.
Galit straightened slowly, his neck uncoiling inch by inch. He watched the pirate go, making no move to pursue.
Behind him, the festival grounds were a nightmare of flame and shadow. But the pirates were pulling back. The line had held.
He allowed himself one breath. Just one.
Then he turned to help the wounded.
---
Vesta's music faltered.
She'd been playing for what felt like hours, her fingers bleeding against Mikasi's strings, her voice raw and cracked. The dancing coyotes had fought beside her, their translucent forms weaving through the pirate ranks, their headdresses bright against the darkness.
Now, as the pirates pulled back, the coyotes began to fade.
One by one, they dissolved into mist, their work done, their song ended. The last one—a small, grinning creature with feathers in its hair—looked back at Vesta before it vanished, as if thanking her.
She lowered Mikasi, her arms trembling.
"It's over," she whispered.
Sanza blinked.
He stood in the middle of the festival grounds, his three-tailed tiger form slowly receding, white fur retreating back to skin, golden horns fading into memory. He looked around at the empty space where pirates had been, at the retreating ships, at the sudden, shocking silence.
"What... what happened?"
He was eight years old again. Small and confused and covered in battle dust.
Jelly bounced past him, gelatinous body quivering with residual excitement. He opened his mouth to say something—and a bug flew in.
He swallowed.
"Bloop," he said, surprised. "Tastes like... victory?"
---
The pirate ships fought the current.
The swell from the fallen Rokaku pulled at them as if demand retribution, threatening to drag them under, to dash them against the rocks. Men screamed as waves crashed over decks. Masts groaned under impossible strain.
Kuzan watched from his own vessel, his hands still in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
He raised one hand.
"Ice Age."
The cold spread across the water—not attacking, not freezing the ships, but stabilizing. Ice formed around the base of the cracked Rokaku, holding it together, preventing further collapse. The swell calmed. The currents eased.
The pirate ships found their heading and fled.
Kuzan lowered his hand, watching them go.
Then he looked at the island—at the smoking ruins, the cheering crowds, the impossible victory that had just occurred.
"Interesting," he murmured, smirking.
---
The silence lasted one heartbeat.
Then the island exploded.
Not with fire or destruction—with sound. Cheers erupted from every corner of Tawantin, rising from the festival grounds, the cliffs, the docks, the temple steps. Villagers who had hidden in terror emerged to find the pirates gone. Monks who had fought until they could fight no more raised their voices in triumph.
Galit stood in the center of the festival grounds, his neck coiling and uncoiling with relief as villagers rushed past him toward the wounded.
Bianca emerged from the submarine's hatch, blinking in the sudden light, a wrench still clutched in her hand. "Like, did we win?"
Jelly bounced, glittery trails marking his path. "We won! We won! Bloop! There was a bug and I ate it and it was victory-flavored!"
Eliane landed shakily nearby, her wings folding, her flame dying to embers. Sanza ran to her, his small face split by a grin.
"You flew! You actually FLEW!"
Eliane grinned back, exhausted and exhilarated. "I did, didn't I?"
Vesta slumped against a wall, Mikasi cradled in her arms, her eyes closed. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Atlas stumbled down from the beach, his arm wrapped around Ember's shoulders, both of them leaning on each other for support. Ember's mismatched eyes were half-closed, her manic energy spent, but she was still standing.
"That was fun," she murmured.
Atlas snorted. "You're insane."
"Probably."
Aurélie descended from the sky, her wings folding as she landed near the shrine. Her steel-gray eyes swept the scene—the wounded, the weary, the victorious. She allowed herself a small nod.
They had held.
Kipa Shiru emerged from the shrine, supporting Clarissa Belote, who leaned heavily on him despite her protests. Her raspy voice carried across the stone.
"Tsk. I'm fine. I've had worse from a bad batch of chicha."
Kipa shook his head, but there was something like a smile on his weathered face.
Charlie stumbled out behind them, his pith helmet gone, his notebook clutched to his chest. He looked at the shattered seals, at the fleeing ships, at the cheering crowd.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat, then louder: "I believe that went rather well, all things considered!"
No one heard him over the cheering.
He smiled anyway.
And somewhere on the cliff, Marya and Bō-Zak stood together, watching the pirate ships disappear into the mist.
Bō-Zak's hybrid form had receded, leaving him human once more—exhausted, bloody, but grinning. He pulled out his pipe, discovered it was broken, and sighed.
"Well. That was a day."
Marya's lips twitched. "It wasn't nothing."
He looked at her—at the woman who had fought beside him, who had shattered an Emperor's ambition, who carried a cursed sword and void-dark veins and the weight of a legacy she'd never asked for.
"Is it always like this for you?"
Marya shrugs and he grinned.
Behind them, the island cheered.
The mist swirled.
And for one beautiful moment, there was peace.
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