The stage blazed with color.
Vesta Lavana stood at the center of the platform, her rainbow hair cascading down her shoulders in waves that shifted with every note she played. Mikasi—her living guitar, her trickster companion, her coyote-faced partner in chaos—hummed in her hands, its wooden body rippling with iridescent light. Her violet eyes sparkled as she threw her head back and belted out a chorus that rolled across the courtyard like thunder.
"The horizon doesn't ask if you're ready to run, The stars don't beg for the rise of the sun. So break through the quiet, ignite the ambition— 'Cause dreams never wait for permission."
The crowd roared.
Dancing coyotes made of solid light—Mikasi's handiwork, the guitar's will given form—leaped and spun through the air above the audience. Their bodies shimmered gold and blue and green, tails curling into spirals, paws leaving trails of glittering dust. Children reached up to touch them. Adults laughed and pointed. The coyotes, mischievous as their namesake, ducked and wove through grasping fingers, never quite letting themselves be caught.
A disembodied voice—the announcer, a rotund man with a magnificent mustache and a flair for the dramatic—boomed across the square.
"THAT'S RIGHT, KUSHI ISLAND! LET THE RAINBOW DIVA HEAR YOUR LOVE! SHE'S SINGING FOR YOU TONIGHT! AND WATCH THOSE COYOTES FOLKS—THEY'LL STEAL YOUR HEARTS AND YOUR WALLETS IF YOU'RE NOT CAREFUL!"
The crowd laughed. Vesta grinned and launched into the next verse.
"The road is long, the sky is wide—"
Sanza Kaplan Figarland stood at the very front of the crowd, his red hair sticking up in unruly tufts, his small fists pumping the air.
"SING, RAINBOW LADY!" he shouted, his posh accent cutting through the noise. "THIS IS TOLERABLE! ALMOST GOOD, EVEN!"
Beside him, Eliane Anđel laughed—a bright, silver sound that floated above the music. Her feet moved in a happy bounce that had nothing to do with choreography. Her silver hair flew around her face.
"She's amazing!" Eliane shouted. "This is the best night of my life!"
Ciel Nguyen jumped beside her, his Rocco Sterling T-shirt soaked with sweat, his soccer ball tucked under one arm because he refused to leave it anywhere. His dark eyes were wide with wonder.
"She's better than the recordings!" he yelled. "WAY better! Did you hear that high note? That was like—like—"
"Like a phoenix having a very good day?" Vie Briehanoi suggested, clutching her charm bracelet with both hands.
"YES! Exactly that!"
Vie bounced on her heels. Her school uniform—white blouse, navy pleated skirt, red ribbon—stood out among the concert-goers' casual clothes, but she didn't care. She had scrapbooked every Vesta article she could find. She had practiced the singer's songs in her room with the door locked. And now here she was, thirty feet from the stage, watching her hero perform in person.
"I can't believe this is real," Vie whispered.
Jelly "Giggles" Squish wobbled beside her, his translucent blue body rippling with excitement. His starry eyes reflected the stage lights. His permanent toothy grin stretched wider.
"Bloop! Bloop! BLOOP!" He bounced in place, sending small ripples through the ground. His eyes fized upward, "Coyote Friends! So, Shinny! Let's be friends!"
"That's just the body heat from everyone around you, Jelly," Eliane said.
"Bloop! I LOVE BODY HEAT!"
Vesta's voice soared. The coyotes danced. The crowd sang along.
And at the edge of the celebration, watching from the shadows, Zahi Rukun stood perfectly still.
His clouded eye—the left one, the one that shimmered with jade-green luminescence—tracked the crowd. Not the revelers. Not the children. Not the floating coyotes. Her.
Marya Zaleska walked through the edge of the crowd, her leather jacket—Heart Pirates insignia satnding out against the stage lights—unzipped over a casual shirt. Denim shorts. Tall combat boots. Her raven hair, long and flowing, swung behind her as she moved. Nisshoku rested across her back, dormant but watchful.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko flanked her right, silver hair loose, eyes scanning the crowd with the same intensity Zahi brought to a battlefield. Anathema hung at her hip, pulsing faintly.
Galit Varuna flanked her left, his long neck coiled in a loose S-curve, his emerald eyes darting between faces, rooftops, exits. His dark teal Riptide Cloak billowed in the evening breeze.
Phởlaurant Vanluc led them—the Coast Guard Commander, his navy blue uniform crisp, his commendation pin flickering. He gestured toward the VIP section where King Vitis Koshu waited.
"She'll be seated shortly," Phởlaurant said. "The King is looking forward to—"
Bō-Zak Kaminosukei peeled off.
The lean, wiry man with gold-flecked brown eyes and a perpetual smirk had been walking behind Marya's group, his tattered awayo shawl draped over one shoulder, his pipe smoldering. But then he saw her—a woman with red hair and a laugh that carried across the crowd—and his focus evaporated.
"Ah," he said, his deep voice carrying a hint of wonder. "The stars have aligned and it would be an insult to ignore their gift."
"Bō-Zak," Aurélie said flatly.
He was already gone, weaving through the crowd toward the laughing woman.
Galit sighed. "He has no decorum."
"No," Aurélie said. "And I am sure the stars will remind him with karma."
Zahi Rukun began to move.
His greatcoat—dark charcoal wool, lined with black bear fur—swallowed the shadows around him. His boots made no sound on the stone. Despite his height—over ten feet, a walking monument—he moved with the silence of a predator who had spent decades learning not to be heard.
He passed Charlie Leonard Wooley and Lieutenant Cleo Grahisto.
They stood near a food stall, oblivious to the concert, oblivious to the crowd, oblivious to everything except the fragment of parchment spread between them. Charlie's pith helmet sat straight on his head. His round wire-framed glasses reflected the stage lights.
"Ahem!" Charlie cleared his throat, tapping the parchment with his finger. "The seventh glyph is clearly a reference to the Monas Hieroglyphica's central axiom. The circle squared represents the convergence of—"
"Wrong." Cleo's bronze eyes—sharp, analytical, missing nothing—fixed on the symbol. "The circle is not squared. It is quartered. That is a distinction you are ignoring."
"I am not ignoring it! Charlie is interpreting it!"
"Poorly."
Charlie's cheeks flushed. "The 4-2-6 frequency emerged from the same mathematical progression. You cannot separate—"
"I am not separating anything. I am observing. There is a difference."
Zahi passed them without a word. Their debate continued behind him, voices rising and falling like waves.
He passed Lieutenant Mani Lucheres.
The Pocket Goliath stood with his feet wide, his center of gravity impossibly low, his thick arms crossed over his leather vest. His brass knuckles gleamed on his belt. Suley, his massive axe, rested across his back—longer than he was tall. His dark eyes tracked the crowd with quiet watchfulness.
Jannali Bandler leaned against a support beam beside him, her afro proud, her headscarf pressed tight against her forehead. Her golden hoop earrings swung as she tilted her head, watching the concert.
Mani glanced at her. Then looked away. Then glanced again.
"Nice night," he said, his voice a low rumble.
Jannali turned to him, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah. Not bad."
"You here alone?"
"Am now." She smiled. "Why? You offering company?"
Mani grunted. His scarred shoulder—the one from the pirate's cutlass—ached in the evening damp. He rubbed it absently.
"Maybe," he said. "If you want it."
Jannali laughed—a short, warm sound. "Smooth."
"Trying to be."
She pushed off from the beam and stood beside him, close enough to talk without shouting over the music. Vesta's voice washed over them, the coyotes of light dancing overhead.
"So," she said, "you one of those strong, silent types?"
Mani shrugged. "Depends on the company."
"And what kind of company am I?"
He looked at her—really looked. Her brown eyes, her easy smile, the way her hoop swung.
"The good kind," he said.
Jannali tilted her head. "That's a line."
"It's the truth."
She studied him for a moment. Then she grinned.
"Alright, big guy. Buy me a drink, and maybe I'll believe you."
Mani's lips twitched—almost a smile.
"Which one?"
"The strongest one they got."
He nodded toward a drink stall. "Follow me."
She fell into step beside him, and they walked off together into the crowd.
Zahi's lips pressed together. He kept walking.
He passed Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba and Atlas Acuta.
They stood at a food stall, each holding a meat skewer. The vendor—a portly man with a stained apron and a twitching mustache—glared at them.
"The pork is better," Ataboy said, his warm brown eyes studying the skewer in his hand. "But the beef has more fat. Fat is flavor. You know this."
Atlas Acuta's rust-red fur bristled. His blue sapphire eyes—slit pupils glowing faintly with Electro—narrowed. "The beef is fine. The lamb is better. You haven't even tried the lamb."
"I tried the lamb. It was... adequate."
"Adequate?! It was transcendent! The seasoning alone—"
The vendor slammed his hand on the counter. "EITHER BUY SOMETHING OR MOVE ALONG! THERE ARE PEOPLE WAITING!"
Atlas didn't flinch. "Keep your pants on, old man. I want one of each."
Ataboy nodded, his feather boa bouncing. "HE-HE-HE! Yeah. One of each. That's the spirit, attaboy."
The vendor's eye twitched. "One. Of. Each. That's fifteen skewers."
"We're hungry," Ataboy said.
"We're very hungry," Atlas agreed.
Zahi passed them. The vendor was already reaching for more meat.
He passed Lieutenant Tori Miniku and Bianca Yvonne Clark.
They sat on a low wall near the edge of the crowd, Tori's cross spear standing high against her back, Bianca's waist-length black hair escaping from its messy bun. A pencil stuck through the tangled strands.
He passed Lieutenant Tori Miniku and Bianca Yvonne Clark.
They sat on a low wall near the edge of the crowd, watching the stage. Bianca's waist-length black hair escaped from its messy bun, a pencil stuck through the tangled strands. Tori sat beside her, hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the speaker arrays.
"The low end is, like, perfectly balanced," Bianca said, her hands gesturing wildly. "Whoever, like, tuned the subs knew what they were doing. The, like, kick drum, like, hits right in the chest, you know?"
Tori nodded. "The highs are clean too. No distortion on the vocals."
"Right?! I, like, was worried about that. Outdoor stages are, like, a nightmare for feedback loops. But, like, they've got the monitors angled just right."
"The sound engineer must have years of experience."
Bianca leaned forward, squinting at the mixing booth. "Like, I think I see him. Old guy. Gray beard. Like, very focused."
Tori hummed—a low, melodic drone, barely audible. "He adjusted the EQ during the second verse. Boosted the mids."
"Like, you noticed that?!"
"I notice everything."
Bianca stared at her. "That's, like, insane ears. Can you, like, teach me?"
"You cannot learn perfect pitch. You are born with it."
"Ugh. Like, rude."
Tori's lips curved—just a little. "The sound engineer just cut the reverb on the vocal bus. Listen."
They both paused. Vesta's voice came through cleaner, more present.
"Oh wow," Bianca whispered. "Like, yeah. That's, like, way better. How did he—"
"He saw the vocalist moving closer to the mic. Anticipated the proximity effect."
"That's, like, genius."
"It is his job."
Bianca sighed, leaning back. "I need to, like, interview this guy. Like, get his secrets."
Tori tilted her head. "He is working."
"Like, after the show, then."
"He may not want to talk."
"Like, everyone wants to talk when you, like, bring free drinks." Bianca grinned. "That's, like, universal engineering law."
Tori hummed again. "I would like to see the patch bay."
"Right?! Me too! Like, I bet it's gorgeous back there. All those cables, like, perfectly organized."
"You have strange tastes."
Bianca shrugged. "Like, you're one to talk, Miss I-Notice-Every-EQ-Adjustment."
They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the music, watching the lights.
Zahi passed them. The concert roared.
He fell into step beside Marya.
She did not startle. She did not flinch. Her golden eyes—her father's eyes, hawklike and cold—flicked to him, then back to the crowd.
"General."
Her voice was flat. Curious. Guarded.
Zahi's clouded eye—the one that shimmered with jade-green luminescence—studied her face. The scar on his abdomen—the one from the Opahholow Hollow—glowed faintly. His vitriol sensed something in her. Something mystical. Something dangerous.
"I am surprised to see you here."
Marya's smirk flickered—there and gone.
"Same." Her eyes shifted to the stage, where Vesta was launching into a new song, then to the VIP section where King Vitis Koshu waited. "But I would be missed."
Zahi's lips pressed together, knowingly.
"Understood."
Phởlaurant Vanluc paused. He turned, his hand resting on his revolver—not threatening, just present. His eyes widened when he saw the towering figure beside Marya.
"General Rukun." Phởlaurant's voice was steady, but his grip tightened on his weapon. "I was not aware you were—"
Zahi did not look at him. His gaze remained fixed on Marya.
Reluctantly—the word hung in the air like smoke—he spoke. "Will you be joining us?"
Zahi's smirk returned. It was not warm. It was the smirk of a man who had survived twelve years in the lightless caves of the Hollow, who had eaten a Mythical Zoan and used its power to escape, who had been forgotten and then remembered.
"No, Commander." His voice was low, measured, stripped of unnecessary words. "I am just here to have a word with Dracule."
Marya raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Zahi's clouded eye fixed on her golden ones. His vitriol pulsed. The jade-green glow around his scarred abdomen intensified.
"Dracule. This island, and what it conceals." He paused. "Know that my sovereign will not allow it to fall into the World Government's hand. She will do whatever is necessary to make sure its secrets will never be revealed."
Phởlaurant stepped forward. "What are you saying? The Kura-Kura Kingdom is—"
Marya raised her hand.
Phởlaurant stopped.
The crowd roared. The coyotes danced. Vesta's voice soared.
Marya locked her gaze with Zahi's. Her golden eyes—calm, stoic, unreadable—held his.
"The island is now a part of the Red Hair Pirates' territory."
She stepped closer. Her leather jacket creaked. Nisshoku hummed on her back.
"If your sovereign thinks she can take it from him, she is more than welcome to try."
Zahi's smirk widened. His clouded eye glittered.
"Your confidence in him..."
Marya cut him off. Her voice was flat, but there was steel beneath it.
"Is not misplaced." She tilted her head. "But if you want to test him and his reputation, then do not let me stand in your way."
The crowd cheered. Someone screamed Vesta's name. A coyote of light bounced past them, trailing glitter.
Zahi's smirk faded. His voice dropped lower.
"What is your connection to him?" He paused. "Other than being in his fleet."
Marya sighed. The sound carried years of exhaustion and something else—something that might have been amusement.
"That is none of your business."
She began to walk past him.
Zahi reached out.
His hand—enormous, calloused, covered in scars—wrapped around her arm.
Their eyes locked.
The crowd around them seemed to fade. The music became distant. The coyotes became ghosts.
Zahi's voice was quiet. Dangerous.
"Just know we will be watching." His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. "We will always be watching."
Marya jerked her arm free.
Her golden eyes—her father's eyes, the eyes of the world's strongest swordsman—burned.
"As long as that is all you are doing," she said, "you will be fine."
She turned and walked away.
Aurélie's eyes tracked Zahi, her hand on Anathema's hilt. Galit's neck coiled tighter, his fingers brushing his Vipera Whips.
Phởlaurant hesitated, glanced at Zahi, then hurried after them.
Zahi watched them go.
The crowd swallowed them—Marya's raven hair, Aurélie's silver mane, Galit's dark teal cloak—and they emerged on the other side, climbing the steps to the VIP section where King Vitis Koshu waited.
Zahi's smirk returned.
It stayed.
The concert roared. The coyotes danced. The people sang.
And Zahi Rukun, the Jade Lion, the Radiant Pillar of Victory, stood alone in the shadows, watching.
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