The submarine clawed its way up Reverse Mountain, halfway to the summit now, the angle so steep that the deck had become a vertical wall. Water thundered past on either side, a roaring chaos of white foam and spray that filled the world with sound and motion. The red cliffs towered above and below, their ancient stone streaked with the scars of countless journeys.
Above the ships, above the water, above everything, two figures danced their deadly dance.
Shamrock and Marya moved through the air like streaks of light, their bodies little more than blurs against the grey sky. They appeared and disappeared in bursts of speed, their blades meeting in explosions of sparks that lit the gloom like fireworks. Each clash sent shockwaves rippling outward, invisible forces that cracked the ancient stone of the mountain.
A chunk of cliff face, massive as a house, sheared away and tumbled into the upward current. It didn't fall—nothing fell here. It was caught by the impossible flow and carried upward, spinning and grinding against other debris, joining the chaos.
Another arc of Haki, wild and uncontrolled, sliced through a stone outcropping. The severed rock exploded, fragments raining down on the ships below, forcing sailors to duck and cover.
Neither fighter noticed or cared.
They were circling each other, testing, probing. Shamrock's smirk was fixed on his face, but his eyes were sharp with assessment. Marya's expression was cold, controlled, but her golden irises tracked his every movement with the focus of a predator.
Neither committed. Neither overextended. They were waiting, each waiting for the other to make the first truly aggressive move.
The duel was a chess game played at impossible speed.
---
Shamrock pivoted off a falling chunk of stone, launching himself toward a ridge that overlooked the chaos. His boots touched down on a narrow ledge, red rock crumbling beneath his weight. He stood there, wind whipping his white cloak, his red hair a beacon against the grey.
Marya landed on an outcropping twenty meters away. Her boots found purchase on the slick stone, her balance perfect despite the angle, despite the wind, despite everything. Nisshoku hung low in her grip, its obsidian surface stark against the misting currents.
They stood there, panting, the roar of the mountain filling the space between them.
Marya closed her eyes for a single heartbeat.
The memory came unbidden—the forest, the smoke, the thunderous footsteps. She saw it again: red hair emerging from the trees, tall and confident, walking toward them as her vision faded. She had thought it was Shanks. She had whispered his name.
But it wasn't Shanks. It had never been Shanks.
Her eyes snapped open. Gold and fire.
"It was you."
Shamrock raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening.
"You're the reason." Marya's voice was low, controlled, but there was something beneath it now. A tremor. A crack in the ice. "You betrayed him. You and Casimir. My mother was the one who—"
"That whore you call your mother?"
The words hit like a physical blow.
Marya went rigid. Her grip on Nisshoku tightened until her knuckles went white. Her jaw flexed, muscle jumping beneath her skin. The cold mask she wore cracked, and beneath it—fire.
Shamrock's smirk became a grin. He tilted his head, studying her like a scientist studying a specimen. "Ah, there it is. There's the fire I was looking for."
Marya lunged.
She crossed the distance between them in an instant, faster than thought, faster than sight. Nisshoku swept toward his neck in a killing arc, every ounce of her rage behind the strike.
Cerberus met it with a clang that echoed off the cliffs.
Their blades locked, Haki crackling between them, charging the air with energy that made the hair stand on end. Shamrock leaned in close, his breath cold against her ear, his voice a mocking whisper.
"Careful now. Your lineage is showing."
Marya's teeth ground together. She pushed against his blade, trying to force him back, but he held firm.
"That fire in your eyes?" Shamrock continued, his voice dripping with amusement. "That's not Dracule's pride. That's something else entirely. That's the street-bred venom of a woman who belonged to everyone and no one at once."
Marya's Haki flared, a wave of force that shook the ridge beneath them. Rocks tumbled into chaos. The air itself recoiled.
"Tell me," Shamrock said, his voice soft, intimate, cruel. "Does it burn? Knowing the Great Swordsman's legacy is carried by the brat of a back-alley trull?"
Marya growled. The sound came from somewhere deep, somewhere primal, somewhere she had locked away years ago. "Where is my brother?"
Shamrock chuckled. The sound grated against the screech of their locked steel, a noise designed to wound.
"Searching for a ghost while the living man is trying to kill you? That's the problem with bastards." He emphasized the word, let it hang in the air between them. "You're always looking for a family that never wanted you. Your brother realized the truth. Some bloodlines are better off ended."
Marya's vision tunneled. The world narrowed to this moment, this man, these words.
Shamrock leaned closer, his smirk inches from her face, their Haki sparking like a dying sun.
"Still clutching that tattered ribbon of hope?" He laughed again. "Your brother isn't rotting in a cell, little hawk. He's been purified."
The word hit like a blade to the heart.
"While you're down here in the dirt, sweating and bleeding like the gutter-trash that birthed you, he's walked through the gates of the gods." Shamrock's voice was soft now, almost gentle, which made it worse. "He's standing on the Red Line, breathing air that would choke a mongrel like you. He doesn't want a sister who smells of salt and cheap steel. He's learning to forget you ever existed."
Something broke inside Marya.
Or perhaps something was finally unleashed.
Her Haki exploded outward—not controlled, not measured, but raw and terrible and absolute. The force of it cracked the ridge beneath them, sent shockwaves rippling across the mountain, parted the water below. The air turned heavy, turned solid, turned into a weapon.
Shamrock felt the shift. Felt her control slip, felt the rage take over.
His grin widened.
"There she is," he breathed. "There's the little hawk."
Marya came at him like a storm.
Nisshoku became a blur of motion, strikes flowing one into another with no pause, no breath, no thought. Each blow carried the weight of years of grief, years of guilt, years of unanswered questions. All her discipline, all her training, all of it was forgotten. There was only rage.
Shamrock stepped back.
He didn't run. He didn't panic. He simply stepped back, his blade moving to meet each strike, deflecting, redirecting, never fully committing. He was playing with her now, drawing her deeper, letting her exhaust herself against his defense.
A strike to the head—blocked.
A sweep at the legs—leaped over.
A thrust to the chest—turned aside at the last instant.
Sparks flew. The mountain shook. Chunks of stone rained falling away and crashing into the raging currents.
"What's wrong, little hawk?" Shamrock called out, his voice calm and amused despite the fury of her assault. "Losing your focus? That's the problem with emotion—it makes you sloppy."
Marya screamed. The sound tore from her throat, raw and broken, and she pressed harder, faster, wilder. Nisshoku sang its death song, but Shamrock danced away from every note.
He continued to step back, continued to block and dodge, his smirk never wavering. He had her exactly where he wanted her—off balance, emotional, predictable.
"Your mother sold herself to anyone with enough berries to afford her," he said, deflecting another strike. "Did you know that? Did Mihawk ever tell you how they met? She was working the docks when he found her. A common whore with uncommon eyes."
Marya's strikes grew wilder. Less controlled. Easier to evade.
"Your brother understood," Shamrock continued, stepping around a thrust that would have impaled a lesser fighter. "He saw the truth. The Figarland line doesn't mix with gutter blood. So we purified him. Cleansed him of your influence."
Block. Dodge. Deflect.
"By now, he probably doesn't even remember your name."
Marya lunged forward, all technique forgotten, pure rage driving the strike. Shamrock sidestepped with contemptuous ease and brought Cerberus around in a counter that would have taken her head—
She caught it. Barely. Nisshoku intercepted the blade at the last possible instant, the force of the block shuddering through her arms.
They stood locked together, panting, glaring, their faces inches apart.
Shamrock's smirk was gone. In its place was something else—respect, perhaps, or at least acknowledgment. She was still standing. Still fighting. Still here.
"Not bad," he admitted. "For a bastard."
Marya's Haki flared again, pushing against his, and for a moment—just a moment—she forced him back a single step.
The mountain roared around them. The water thundered upward. And two warriors stood on a crumbling ridge, neither winning, neither losing, locked in a battle that was far from over.
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