The amber fluid in Marya's stasis pod held her suspended, weightless, her black hair drifting like smoke around her face. Her golden eyes were closed, her expression peaceful, her body still. But behind her eyelids, the dream was waiting.
And it pulled her under.
---
She woke to fire.
Not the warm fire of hearths and candles, but something older, colder, a fire that burned without light. Lines of crimson energy traced themselves on the ground beneath her, forming a shape she recognized without understanding—a pentagon, its points aligned with directions that had no names, its center pulsing with a rhythm that matched the beating of her heart.
Marya's eyes cracked open. Her body felt wrong, heavy and light at the same time, as if she was sinking and floating simultaneously. She tried to move, tried to rise, but her limbs wouldn't obey. She could only lie there, flat on her back, staring up at—
Shadows.
They surrounded her, a ring of silhouettes that blotted out the world beyond. They stood at each point of the pentagon, their forms indistinct, their edges bleeding into the darkness. But their eyes—their eyes burned red. Not with fire, but with something worse. Hunger. Purpose. Patience.
Their voices rose and fell in a language that scraped against her mind, words that had no meaning but carried terrible weight. The chanting wrapped around her like chains, each syllable pulling tighter, pressing down.
"Micah," she tried to call. Her voice came out as a whisper, swallowed by the chanting. "Micah!"
She couldn't see him. Couldn't find him. He should be here. He was always here. Where was he?
The pain started in her eyes.
It began as a sting, like tears that had turned to acid. Then it spread, burning its way down through her skull, her neck, her spine. Her body arched off the ground, muscles locking, tendons screaming. Fire raced along her nerves, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel the burning.
Her vision fractured. The silhouettes multiplied, their red eyes becoming a constellation of watchers, all focused on her, all waiting.
Then the screaming started.
Not hers—others. Shouts of alarm, of warning, of terror. Gunfire erupted, sharp and violent, cutting through the chanting like a blade. The silhouettes turned, their red eyes widening, and Marya saw them fall—one, two, three—cut down by something she couldn't see.
But she could hear it.
The whisper of steel through air. The wet impact of blade meeting flesh. The thud of bodies hitting the ground.
And in those sounds, she recognized something. A rhythm she had known her whole life. A dance of death that had been practiced in the fortress of her childhood, in the forests of her hiding, in the very blood that ran through her veins.
Mihawk. Her father.
And beside him, another rhythm—different but equally deadly. Broader strokes, more weight behind them, but no less final. Shanks.
The silhouettes screamed and fell, and Marya's vision went dark.
---
She woke to warmth.
Soft light filtered through gauze curtains. The smell of salt air and clean linen. The gentle creak of wood and rope—a ship, moving through calm seas.
Marya blinked, her eyes gritty, her head pounding. She was in a bed, small and simple, tucked into a corner of what looked like a ship's infirmary. Tubes ran from her arm to a bag of clear fluid hanging above her. Her body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry.
A man leaned over her, his hands gentle as he checked the IV. He had kind eyes and steady hands, and he hummed softly as he worked. Hongo. She knew him. He was—
A small hand squeezed hers.
Marya turned her head, and there was Uta.
She was so young, younger than Marya remembered. Her hair was the same distinctive two-tone, but her face was rounder, softer, free of the weight she would carry later. She sat on a stool pulled close to the bed, her other hand clutching a worn stuffed animal, her eyes fixed on Marya with an intensity that was almost fierce.
"You're awake," Uta whispered. Then, louder, calling over her shoulder: "She's awake! Marya's awake!"
Hongo smiled, checking the IV bag. "So she is. Good timing. The fever's breaking."
Across the room, two figures stood by a porthole, their voices low and urgent. Marya could see them—her father's silhouette, unmistakable even in shadow, and the red hair of the man beside him. Shanks. They were deep in conversation, their words muffled, blurred, as if heard through water.
"...can't wait much longer," Shanks was saying, his voice a distant murmur.
"If we act now, the risk—" Mihawk's response cut off, swallowed by the strange muffling that surrounded them.
Hongo glanced at them, then back at Marya. He checked her pulse, her pupils, her temperature. His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes—a weight, a knowledge—that made Marya's stomach clench.
"She's stable," Hongo said, and Marya realized he wasn't talking to her. He was talking to them. To her father. "If you're going to do it, it has to be soon. Otherwise..."
Marya tried to ask what he meant. Tried to speak. But her throat was dry, her tongue thick, and before she could force the words out, the darkness took her again.
---
She woke to cold.
The deck of the ship stretched out before her, wooden planks worn smooth by years of use. The sky above was grey, heavy with clouds that threatened rain. The sea stretched to the horizon, endless and indifferent.
And beneath her, another pentagon.
Lines of light traced themselves on the deck, forming the same shape she had seen in the nightmare—the five points, the pulsing center, the geometry of something ancient and terrible. She lay in its heart, her body too weak to move, too tired to fight.
The crew of the Red Force surrounded her, their faces a mix of concern and determination. They stood at the edges of the circle, watching, waiting. And at the five points, figures she knew—men and women she had grown up around, who had taught her games and given her treats and protected her from harm.
At the center point, directly before her, Mihawk stood.
He held Tsukimichi in his hands, the blade catching what little light there was and throwing it back in cold, silver gleams. His yellow eyes were fixed on her, and in them she saw something she had never seen before—fear. Not of her, but for her.
His lips moved, shaping words she couldn't understand. An ancient language, older than the World Government, older than the Void Century. The words resonated in the air, in the deck, in her bones.
And then the burning started again.
But this time it was different. This time, the fire wasn't destroying her—it was pulling something out of her. She felt it, a weight she hadn't known she carried, a darkness that had been wrapped around her soul, being torn away by the flames. It hurt. It hurt so much. But beneath the pain, there was something else—relief. Lightness. Freedom.
She gasped, her body arching, and through the haze she saw Uta standing at the edge of the circle. The girl's face was pinched with worry, her hands clasped together, and she was mouthing something, repeating it over and over.
It will be okay. You have to get better. It will be okay.
Marya looked up at her father. His face was a mask of concentration, sweat beading on his brow, but beneath the focus there was love—fierce, desperate, absolute. The tip of Tsukimichi traced patterns in the air above her, intricate geometries that echoed the pentagon beneath, and with each pass, the burning grew stronger, the darkness thinner.
She tried to hold on. Tried to stay awake. But the weight of what was being torn from her was too much, and she slipped away again.
---
She woke to snow.
White flakes drifted past a frost-covered window, silent and endless. The room was small, cluttered with medical equipment and strange artifacts, and it was cold—not the cold of the dream, but the cold of winter, of mountains, of a place called Drum.
Dr. Kureha stood by a cabinet, her back to the room, her laugh echoing off the walls. It was a magnificent laugh, full and rich and utterly unrepentant.
"One hundred million Berries!" she crowed. "For a simple surgery? You wound me, Hawkeye. I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker. Two hundred million, and we'll call it even."
Mihawk's voice cut through the air like his blade. "You will take the agreed amount, or I will reduce this hovel to splinters."
Kureha spun around, her expression one of delight rather than fear. "Oho! The world's greatest swordsman, threatening an old woman? What would the papers say?"
"The papers would say nothing, because there would be no one left to print them."
Marya blinked, trying to focus. The room swam, then steadied. She was in a bed, smaller than the last one, covered in heavy blankets that smelled of herbs and snow.
Uta appeared at her bedside, her face breaking into a brilliant smile. "Marya! You're awake!"
Kureha glanced over, still grinning. "So she is. Good timing, girl. Your father here was about to commit murder over the bill."
Mihawk ignored her completely. He crossed the room in three strides and sat on the edge of Marya's bed, his weight making the frame creak. His yellow eyes—her eyes—searched her face, cataloging every detail, every sign of life.
From across the room, a voice called out. "Uta! Come here a moment."
Shanks. Marya saw him in the doorway, his red hair dusted with snow, his expression unreadable. Uta squeezed Marya's hand once, then hurried to his side, glancing back as she went.
The door closed behind them.
Marya tried to sit up. Her body screamed in protest, but she forced herself upright, the blankets falling away. Her father's hand caught hers, warm and strong, grounding her.
"Micah," she whispered. "Father. Where—"
He took a breath. It was a small thing, barely a movement, but Marya saw it. Saw the way his shoulders set, the way his jaw tightened. Saw that he was steeling himself for something terrible.
"Marya." His voice was calm, controlled, but there was a crack in it, a fracture he couldn't hide. "There is something I must tell you. About your mother. About Micah."
The world stopped.
Marya's heart hammered against her ribs. Her mouth went dry. She gripped his hand tighter, her nails digging into his skin, but he didn't flinch.
"Tell me," she said. Her voice was steady. It surprised her. "Tell me what happened."
Mihawk's yellow eyes held hers, and in them she saw grief so vast it had no bottom. He opened his mouth to speak—
---
Marya's eyes snapped open.
The amber fluid swirled around her, warm and thick. The stasis pod hummed its gentle rhythm. The soft glow of the chamber lights filtered through the crystal door.
She was here. In the submarine. In the present.
But her heart was pounding, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her hands gripped the sides of the pod, knuckles white, and her face—her face was wet.
The dream was already fading, dissolving like mist in morning light. But the feeling of it remained. The grief. The loss. The moment just before she learned the truth, ripped away from her again.
She closed her eyes and let the amber fluid hold her.
*****
5500 meters.
The shaft opened suddenly, explosively, into a vast cavern that stretched beyond the reach of the ship's sensors. The pressure, impossibly, remained constant, held in check by forces that had no place in any understanding of physics. The water here was different—thicker, heavier, charged with energy that made the hair stand on end and the ship's systems flicker with static.
And in the center of the cavern, the current continued.
It was no longer a shaft, but a river. A river of fire and water, of elements that should not mix, flowing through the darkness with terrible purpose. It glowed from within, lit by forces that had nothing to do with light, and its roar filled the cavern with sound that was felt more than heard.
The submarine was caught in its grip, pulled forward, carried along like a leaf in a storm. The walls of the cavern flashed past, streaked with minerals that caught the glow and threw it back in colors that had no names.
6000 meters. 7000. 8000.
The ship's systems began to fail in earnest.
Lights died and did not come back. The hum of the engines faltered, then caught, then faltered again. The stasis pods flickered, their fields unstable, and for one terrible moment, Halia saw the life signs of the crew waver.
She acted without thought, without hesitation. Her consciousness flooded into the failing systems, propping them up with sheer force of will, rerouting power, bypassing damaged circuits, holding the line against the chaos.
The life signs steadied. The pods held.
The ship plunged on.
---
9000 meters.
The river began to rise.
It angled upward, climbing toward the surface, carrying the submarine with it. The pressure, impossibly, began to ease. The heat, which had been building for thousands of meters, began to fade. The water outside grew darker, cooler, more familiar.
The shaft narrowed again, then widened, then narrowed, a twisting, turning labyrinth that the ship navigated by inches. The walls flashed past, closer now, close enough to touch, and Halia held the vessel steady, guiding it through passages that had never been meant for anything as large as this.
And then, without warning, the shaft ended.
The submarine burst free into open water, into cool, dark sea that welcomed it like a long-lost child. The pressure dropped to normal levels. The heat faded to memory. The stars, far above, began to filter through the water, tiny pinpricks of light that spoke of surface, of air, of life.
Halia let out a breath she did not need to take.
The ship rose, slowly, steadily, climbing toward the surface. The depth gauge spun backward—8000 meters, 7000, 6000, 5000. The water grew lighter, warmer, more alive.
At 200 meters, the ship breached.
The great fin-sail unfolded, catching the first light of dawn. The hull, scarred and battered but intact, broke the surface with a rush of foam and spray. The submarine floated on the open sea, surrounded by water that sparkled in the morning sun, and above it, impossibly, wonderfully, a mountain rose.
Reverse Mountain.
Its cliffs of red stone towered into the sky, and at its peak, four rivers converged and flowed upward, defying every law of nature. The water sparkled as it rose, catching the light, creating rainbows that arched across the sky.
The submarine drifted at the mountain's base, its engines quiet, its systems exhausted, its crew still sleeping in their crystal pods.
And on the bridge, Halia watched the sun rise over the mountain and allowed herself a moment of something that might have been peace.
"Twelve hours," she whispered. "We made it."
The ship bobbed gently on the current, waiting for its people to wake.
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