The Dreadnought Thalassa's medical bay hummed with the soft, rhythmic pulse of the regeneration tanks. Blue light filtered through the crystalline walls, casting gentle shadows across the gleaming white floor. The air smelled of antiseptic and something older—something like the ocean after a storm, clean and waiting.
Marya Zaleska sat on the edge of a medical bed, her leather jacket draped over the edge of the bed, her Heart Pirates insignia beginning to fade against the weathered leather. Her raven hair fell across her face in loose waves. Her golden eyes, her father's eyes, tracked Dr. Octavious as he floated beside her, his eight tentacles gesturing with animated precision.
The holographic octopus—portly, glitchy, endearing—adjusted his small round spectacles. They flickered with data streams. His quaky voice carried a slight vibrato, as if he was always mildly surprised.
"Your vitals are, hmm, stabilizing nicely," Dr. Octavious said, his form shimmering. "The temporary sensory loss—deafness and blindness for, ah, nine minutes—was consistent with Haki overexertion. A classic case, really. I've seen it many times. Well, not many. A few. Perhaps, hmm, two or three. Over several centuries."
Marya's expression did not change. She watched the hologram with calm, guarded curiosity.
"You pushed your body beyond its natural limits," Dr. Octavious continued. "The Conqueror's Haki alone would have been exhausting. But the Armament output you channeled through Nisshoku—tsk—that was, hmm, reckless. Impressive. But reckless."
Marya reached for the transponder snail on the bedside table. The shell was warm. She had just hung up. Shanks's voice still echoed in her ears—"Hey, kid. Nice picture."
She pressed her fingers against her temples. The headache was fading.
"You need rest," Dr. Octavious said, pressing a small pill into her hand. His tentacle—light-based, solid, warm—withdrew. "Take this. It will, ah, accelerate the neural recovery. And, hmm, try not to fight any Admirals for at least forty-eight hours."
Marya took the pill. Swallowed. Did not argue.
The door hissed open.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko entered first, her silver hair loose, her black tactical attire immaculate. Anathema hung at her hip, the cursed blade's crimson runes dim. She moved with the same silent grace as always—every step deliberate, economical, dangerous.
She leaned against the bed across from Marya, her eyes fixed on her former mentor.
"Are you rested?"
Marya nodded. "Yeah."
Galit Varuna followed close behind, his long neck coiled in a loose S-curve. His emerald-green eyes—sharp, intense, constantly scanning—swept the medical bay before settling on Marya. The sea-green streaks in his short-cropped hair caught the blue light.
"Dr. Octavious," Galit said, his voice clipped, professional, "was he able to determine how you lost your vision and hearing?"
Marya nodded again. "He says it was Haki Overexertion."
Aurélie's brow rose. One silver eyebrow, sharp as a blade.
"That sounds reasonable," she said. "Not only did you require a monumental amount of Haki, but you also needed an advanced level of focus to recalibrate the island and force the Navy's withdrawal." She paused. "You performed the impossible, Marya. Again."
Marya took a breath. She pushed off the bed. Her boots—tall combat boots, scuffed from battle—hit the floor. She reached for her jacket, sliding her arms into the sleeves.
Galit's gaze shifted to the bed across the room. Ember lay there, still as stone, her neon-pink hair spread across the pillow in tangled space buns. Her mismatched eyes—one icy blue, one gold—were closed. An IV dripped fluid into her arm. Mr. Cinders, the charred plush rabbit, rested on her chest.
"Is there an update on Ember?" Galit asked.
Marya shook her head. Her fingers moved to the Kogatana around her neck, touching the small blade. A habit.
"No. Just rest. The doctor has her on IV fluids, but he took more than just fluids from her." Marya's voice was flat, but her jaw tightened. "We just have to wait until she wakes up."
She turned to face Aurélie and Galit.
"The power holder?" Marya asked.
Aurélie nodded. Her hand rested on Anathema's hilt. The gesture was unconscious—or perhaps not. The cursed blade hummed.
"Yes. I am aware of his location. He is at Roast A Lotte with the rest of his crew. The Commanders have assured me that he will meet with you."
Marya's golden eyes narrowed. "You said it is his blade that holds the power."
Aurélie nodded. "Kalamaru. The cursed sword. It ate the Hebi Hebi no Mi, Model: Bhūta Kāla. The power is in the weapon, not the wielder."
Marya's smirk flickered—there and gone. "That is encouraging."
They began walking toward the exit. The med bay's blue light faded behind them.
Galit fell into step beside Marya, his neck extending slightly to match her pace. "You are thinking you will take his blade, then?"
Marya shrugged. Her leather jacket creaked. "If he is reluctant to come with us." She glanced at Galit. "I do not necessarily need him. I just need his blade."
Aurélie's eyes narrowed. "And if he refuses to part with it?"
Marya's smirk returned. Wider this time. There was something dangerous in it—something that made Galit's neck knot tighter.
"Then I will just have to convince him."
She glanced at Aurélie. "You could have kept it, though. You did not have to return it to him."
Aurélie raised a brow. Her hand tightened on Anathema's hilt. Her voice—flat, cold, carrying the weight of her own cursed burden—cut through the air.
"I could not. If I should ever be parted from my own blade..."
Marya flicked a wrist. "Yeah, I know. It just would have made this easier is all."
Galit cleared his throat. His neck uncoiled. His emerald eyes fixed on the corridor ahead.
They stepped onto the deck of the Dreadnought Thalassa. The solar sail—emblazoned with the Red Hair Pirates' grinning skull—stood as a beacon declaring their presence. The sky above was a bruised purple, the sun setting slow and angry.
"It will be a full moon tonight," Galit said. "We will be able to use the Celestial Tideglass."
Marya nodded. They crossed the gangplank, stepping onto the dock of Vàng-Harbor. The wood was scarred from battle—burn marks, cracks, patches of new timber where the Coast Guard had made repairs.
"Good. Then after Vesta's concert, we can move on from here," Marya said.
The street beyond the dock was crowded.
People stopped. They stared. They whispered.
A young woman clutched her child's hand and pointed. An old fisherman removed his hat and bowed his head. A group of children—Ciel's age, maybe younger—ran alongside Marya's group, laughing, shouting.
"It's her! It's the Oni Phantom!"
"She saved us!"
"From the Admiral!"
Marya's eyebrow twitched. Her golden eyes scanned the crowd. Her smirk—the one she could not quite suppress—flickered.
Aurélie walked beside her, silver hair flowing, eyes scanning for threats. "Have you communicated with the Red Hair Emperor?"
Marya sighed. The sound carried years of exhaustion.
"Yeah. He called just before you walked in." She shook her head. "He is very happy about the whole thing."
She could not hide her smirk. It stayed.
Aurélie noticed. She said nothing.
"They are waiting for us, then?" Marya asked.
Galit nodded. "The King's Manner. The formal declaration is scheduled for—"
They rounded a corner.
And ran directly into Vice Commander Anmarie Lotuslys.
Anmarie stood in the center of the street, flanked by a small contingent of Coast Guard sailors. Her uniform was crisp. Her short, dark hair was neatly combed. Her sharp hazel eyes—tired, focused—fixed on Marya with an expression that might have been respect or might have been exhaustion.
She cleared her throat.
"Ahem."
Marya raised a questioning brow.
"Excuse us," Anmarie said, her voice clipped, professional, "but we came to escort you."
Marya blinked. "Escort?"
Anmarie stood a little straighter. Her hand rested on her revolver—not threatening, just present.
"Yes, well. You see, there is a bit of a crowd assembling around the King's Manner. Everyone wants to be there when the King makes his formal declaration to the Kingdom." She paused. "And they want to see their savior."
Marya's eyebrow twitched again. Her jaw tightened. Through gritted teeth, she said, "This was supposed to be casual. And informal."
Anmarie laughed. It came out awkward—a short, surprised sound that she immediately tried to suppress. She rubbed the back of her head.
"Yeah, well. The secret kind of slipped. Especially with your crew being the main event at the celebration."
Marya pinched the bridge of her nose. Her eyes closed. Her voice—low, dangerous, carrying the weight of a woman who had fought an Admiral and won—growled a single name.
"Vesta."
Anmarie continued, oblivious or uncaring. "So if you would just—"
"Fine." Marya's hand dropped. Her golden eyes opened. "Lead the way."
Galit and Aurélie exchanged a look. Mischievous. Knowing. The kind of look that said this is going to be entertaining.
They followed Anmarie into the crowd.
The people cheered.
Marya walked toward the King's Manner, her boots striking the cobblestones, her leather jacket catching the evening breeze.
Behind her, the Dreadnought Thalassa's solar stood tall in the wind.
The Red Hair Pirates' emblem grinned at the setting sun.
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