Three Days Later…...
The Red Force drifted on a calm sea, her sails slack, her hull creaking softly as the waves rocked her like a cradle. The sky above was a deep, bruised purple—the color of twilight in the New World, where the sun set angry and the stars rose slow.
Shanks sat at a small table on the deck, his back against the railing, his legs stretched out before him. A clay bottle of sake rested beside his elbow. A small cup—already half-empty—sat in his hand. His red hair fell across his face in lazy strands, and his grin—that easy, crooked grin that had charmed kings and terrified admirals—softened the hard lines of his scarred eye.
He took a sip. Let the warmth spread through his chest. Watched the horizon do nothing interesting.
Footsteps approached. Steady. Measured. The kind of footsteps that did not ask permission.
Ben Beckman pulled out the chair across from Shanks and sat down. His dark hair was streaked with gray, his eyes sharp and tired in equal measure. He carried a rolled-up newspaper in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He placed the paper on the table between them, then reached for the sake bottle.
"You mind?"
Shanks waved his hand. "Pour away."
Beckman filled his cup. Took a long drag from his cigarette. Exhaled smoke toward the sky.
"Looks like the kid pulled it off."
Shanks raised an eyebrow. "Which kid? There's always a kid pulling something off somewhere."
Beckman tapped the paper with his finger. "This one."
Shanks set down his cup. He unfolded the newspaper—the ink still slightly damp, the paper rough against his calloused fingers. The headline sprawled across the top in bold, block letters:
"THE RED HAIR EMPEROR STRIKES AGAIN!"
Shanks snorted. "They make it sound like I did something."
He kept reading.
"The Oni Phantom of the infamous Red Hair Emperor's fleet continues to expand his empire! The Kura-Kura Kingdom, previously under the rule of Emperor Kaido's Beast Pirates…"
Shanks's grin widened. His scarred eye crinkled at the corner.
"…has formally declared allegiance to the Red Hair Pirates following a dramatic confrontation involving Admiral Ryokugyu, multiple Cipher Pol agents, and the mysterious figure known only as 'The Oni Phantom of the Mist.'"
" Oni Phantom of the Mist?" Shanks looked up at Beckman. "They couldn't come up with something better? Sounds like a weather report."
Beckman shrugged. "The World Government's propaganda machine isn't what it used to be. Budget cuts."
Shanks laughed—a short, warm sound that carried across the deck. He returned to the paper.
His eyes landed on an image near the bottom of the page.
A photograph. Grainy. Dark. Clearly taken from a distance by someone who valued their life.
Marya Zaleska hovered above Kushi Island in her awakened form—the Eternal Abyss. Her raven hair dissolved into starlight and ash. Her tripartite halo blazed gold and silver and obsidian. Her eyes—one Elysian Fields, one Naraka hellscape—stared through the lens as if daring the photographer to blink.
The caption read: "The Oni Phantom—a captain of the Red Hair Fleet."
Shanks tapped the image with his finger. "Look. They even got a picture of her. And they gave her a name."
He laughed again—louder this time, fuller.
"What's so funny, Captain?"
Lucky Roux waddled over, a massive drumstick in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. His round face was smeared with grease, but his eyes—sharp, clever—fixed on the newspaper.
Yasopp followed close behind, his long braids swinging. His sniper's gaze—trained to spot movement from a mile away—scanned the image. A grin spread across his face.
"Is that Mihawk's Kid? The one who—"
"The same," Beckman said. "Dracule's daughter."
Lucky Roux whistled. "Mihawk's kid? And she's flying around with our emblem on her ship?"
Shanks nodded with a beaming grin. "She didn't have much choice. We sort of... insisted."
"You insisted?" Yasopp raised an eyebrow. "How do you insist a Dracule do anything?"
"We painted the flag on her solar sail while she wasn't looking."
A beat of silence.
Then Lucky Roux burst out laughing—a deep, belly-shaking sound that sent crumbs flying from his drumstick.
"That's terrible," he wheezed. "That's the worst thing I've ever heard. I love it."
Yasopp shook his head, but he was smiling. "She's going to kill you."
"She can try." Shanks poured himself another cup of sake. "It'll be fun."
More crew members gathered around the table. Hongo, the ship's doctor, peered over Beckman's shoulder at the image. "Is that who I think it is?"
"It's Mihawk's kid," someone asked.
Hongo narrowed his eyes. "They got her in her devil form."
Building Snake—the massive giant who served as the Red Force's lookout—leaned down, his enormous face blocking the sunlight. "She's tiny. Like a little bird."
"She's a Dracule," Beckman said. "Tiny bird with very sharp talons."
The crew murmured. Someone—it might have been Limejuice—muttered, "Think she could take the Captain?"
Shanks heard it. His grin turned dangerous.
"Want to find out?"
"No, Captain."
"Good answer."
Shanks set down his cup and stood.
His chair scraped against the deck. The crew fell silent—not because he commanded it, but because when the Emperor stood, people listened. It was not fear. It was respect. It was the weight of a man who had stared down the strongest creatures in the world and never blinked.
"This is a call for celebration!" Shanks spread his arms wide. "The kid pulled it off! She kicked an Admiral off her island, sent Cipher Pol running, and waved our flag while she did it!"
The crew cheered. Someone—Bonk Punch, maybe—whooped.
"Someone get me a transponder snail!" Shanks shouted over the noise. "I want to tell her myself!"
"Aye, Captain!"
Lucky Roux lumbered toward the cabin, his drumstick still clutched in his hand. Yasopp pulled out his own snail—a small, spotted creature that blinked sleepily—and held it up.
"I've got one right here, Captain."
Shanks took it. His fingers—scarred, steady, the fingers of a swordsman who had lost his dominant arm and learned to fight with the other—pressed the receiver.
The snail's eyes shifted. Its expression changed. It adopted a sleepy, slightly annoyed look—Marya's resting face, the one she wore when she was not fighting, not killing, not terrifying the world.
Shanks grinned.
"Hey, kid. Nice picture."
The crew leaned in. Someone—it was definitely Limejuice—whispered, "She's going to hang up on him."
"Five berries says she hangs up in ten seconds," Hongo said.
"I'll take that action," Yasopp replied.
The snail's expression shifted again. Marya's voice—flat, unimpressed, the voice of a woman who had just fought an Admiral and was not in the mood for games—crackled through the shell.
"You painted my ship."
"We did."
"Without asking."
"You weren't there. We couldn't ask."
"You could have waited."
Shanks laughed. "Where's the fun in waiting?"
The snail's eyes narrowed. Marya's voice—still flat, still unimpressed—carried a hint of something else. Something that might have been amusement.
"I'm going to remove it."
"You can try."
"I will."
"Let's make a bet. If you can remove it before your next mission, I'll buy you a drink. If you can't—"
"I don't need your drinks."
"—you keep the flag."
A pause. The crew held their breath.
"...Fine."
The snail clicked. The connection ended.
Shanks looked up at his crew. His grin stretched from ear to ear.
"She's going to keep it."
"You don't know that," Beckman said.
"I know."
"How?"
Shanks picked up his sake cup. Took a sip. Let the warmth settle in his chest.
"Because she's stubborn. And she's proud. And she's not going to admit that she likes having allies." He set down the cup. "She's just like her father that way."
The crew laughed. The tension—what little there had been—dissolved.
Lucky Roux raised his drumstick. "To the Oni Phantom!"
"To the Oni Phantom!" the crew echoed.
Shanks raised his cup.
"To the kid who pulled it off."
He drank.
And somewhere, on a ship far away, Marya Zaleska stared at a transponder snail and shook her head.
A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
She would never admit it.
But she was glad he called.
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