The interior of the Shikusashi Temple stole the breath from their lungs.
The space was immense—vast enough to hold a hundred people with room to spare. The marble walls soared upward, their surfaces covered in carvings that told stories none of them could read. But it wasn't the walls that drew their attention.
It was the pedestal.
In the center of the temple, a single beam of light fell from the roof's opening, illuminating a circular platform of polished stone. And on that platform, hovering silently, a series of intricate rings and bracelets rotated in perfect, effortless motion.
The Choros-Anemos.
The Wind-Soul Clock.
Jannali stopped dead, her face tilted upward, her eyes fixed on the hovering rings.
"Look over here," Law called, his voice echoing in the vast space.
Jannali didn't move. She couldn't. The wind was singing—not in words, but in emotions, in histories, in the accumulated weight of eight centuries.
Marya, Bō-Zak, Kaburo, and Atlas moved toward Law, who stood before a massive stone slab set into the temple's far wall.
Bō-Zak put his pipe away, his gold-flecked eyes narrowing. "Oh, look. It's a Poneglyph."
Atlas leaned in, his rust-red fur brushing against Marya's leather jacket. "What does it say, boss?"
Marya stepped forward, her golden-ringed eyes scanning the ancient script. The letters seemed to shift as she read them, their meaning unfolding in her mind like a flower blooming in time-lapse.
"'He reigns who holds the Third Sight,'" she translated, her voice steady. "'Only the balanced eye of power moves through the sacred geometry. The stranger who weighs the earth shall craft the greater dawn. Falter before the thunders of the deep world: know the cold and final measure.'"
Theodore Trebonianus stood behind them, watching, observing. His massive hands clasped the Nika Bible, his warm eyes filled with something like anticipation.
Rowland bounced on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement.
Kaburo muttered, his voice flat, "Another riddle."
Atlas nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Why can't these things just say, 'Go here and do this thing'?"
Law stroked his chin, his eyes fixed on the final line. "'Falter before the thunders of the deep world: know the cold and final measure.'"
Everyone's heads snapped around.
Theodore Trebonianus announced, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, "When the New Dawn rises, they will come and be tested."
Law opened his mouth to ask a question—
Jannali's hand reached out.
Her fingers crossed the threshold of the light, brushing against the hovering rings.
A magic circle materialized beneath them—a complex geometric pattern that blazed with golden fire. The Choros-Anemos began to spin faster, its rings humming with an ancient, terrible power.
"What the hell—" Law started.
The world dissolved.
---
The temple was gone.
The light was gone.
Law, Marya, Jannali, Bō-Zak, Kaburo, and Atlas found themselves standing on a frozen plain, their breath misting in air so cold it burned. Snow swirled around them, driven by a wind that howled like a wounded animal. The sky above them was a bruised, angry grey, and the ground beneath their feet was ice so thick they couldn't see its bottom.
Jannali's hand was still outstretched, her fingers frozen mid-reach.
"What," she breathed, "the bloody hell—"
"Jannali," Law snapped, his voice cutting through the wind. "What did you do?"
"I didn't—I just wanted to touch—"
Atlas's nub was bristling, his fur fluffed against the cold. "Where are we? What happened to the temple?"
Bō-Zak's pipe had gone out. He relit it with shaking fingers. "The light. The rings. It activated."
Marya's hand found Nisshoku's grip. Her golden-ringed eyes swept the frozen wasteland. "The test," she said, her voice carrying that same calm stillness she'd inherited from her father. "We're in the test."
Law's jaw tightened. "We need to find a way out."
"The prophecy," Kaburo said, his voice flat and cold as the ice beneath their feet. "'Falter before the thunders of the deep world: know the cold and final measure.'"
"Shut up," Jannali snapped. "Just—shut up for a second."
She closed her eyes, tilting her head, reaching for the wind.
But the wind was silent.
"Bollocks," she whispered. "The wind isn't talking."
Atlas's nub lashed. "That's not good."
"No," Marya agreed, her voice carrying an edge that could cut bone. "No, it's not."
The ice beneath them cracked.
Something moved in the blizzard.
Something big.
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