(Six months since the fall of the island)
Six months had passed since the island vanished beneath the ocean. Six months of drifting from shattered shores to lawless coves, always moving, always watching. Eira hadn't rested—not really. Not since the day she'd fled that drowned town with nothing but her breath, a battered skiff, and the image of a monster tearing buildings from their foundations like weeds.
She didn't fear him anymore.
But she feared becoming unprepared again.
In that first week after her escape, alone on the open water, something had sparked inside her. It wasn't fire or fury, but electricity—real, blue-white lightning that crackled down her wrist one night when she tried to lash a torn sail back into place. The rope singed. Her hands sparked. She flinched.
And the storm that had been building behind her ribs ever since she left Neoterra—finally, it had found a way out.
Electro.
She hadn't meant to learn it. Hadn't trained for it. But her body knew it now, a low hum in her muscles, always ready to bite.
She practiced with it in secret, using it to jolt fish out of the sea or charge the edge of a blade. It wasn't perfect, not yet. Sometimes it fizzled, other times it surged too hard. But it was hers.
And it made her feel real again.
Now, she had 83,000,000 Berri to her name. Not enough for what she was building, but enough to hunt.
Her target was the Crimson Vulture—former slave-runner turned desert tyrant, perched atop a stolen fortress in the western wastes. 142,000,000 Berri on his head. Enough to bring Frostbite into reality. Enough to make the weapon in her mind more than lines and theory.
She crouched now behind a blackened rock shelf, the cliffs baking in the late sun. Below, the Vulture's sandstone fortress stretched over the valley like a wounded scorpion—jagged, armored, and dangerous. Brass turrets gleamed against the red earth. Fires burned at the gates. Raiders paced lazily along the walls, rifles slung low, laughing.
And on the distant overlook, Eira's scope narrowed on the balcony.
Every night, just before dusk, he stepped out to preach.
And tonight, he would bleed.
Her fingers rested along the stock of her rifle, her gloves stitched tighter to channel the spark better. The tension hummed in her arms—not just from nerves, but from power. It hadn't been long since she'd last used Electro in a fight. She was still learning when to push it, when to hold it.
But this shot wouldn't need lightning.
Just timing.
The door opened.
The Crimson Vulture strutted onto the balcony, shirtless, gleaming. His cloak of feathered red swept behind him like wings already grown. Gold bands clattered around his arms, and his mouth twisted into a sneer as he raised his arms toward the enslaved town below.
She exhaled slowly.
Her crosshairs locked between his eyes.
She steadied.
Squeezed.
CRACK.
The rifle snapped and bucked, the report echoing like thunder across the valley. The bullet streaked forward, flawless in aim—
But the Vulture turned.
Whether by instinct, noise, or some twitch of fate, he shifted just enough.
The bullet carved across his temple in a red slash, but it didn't kill him.
His eyes snapped wide—then locked, impossibly, with hers across the distance.
Eira cursed and slammed the scope shut.
A scream tore the sky open.
The Vulture's body exploded outward—feathers surging in a cyclone of crimson, talons splitting from his boots. His Zoan form burst into full, terrifying flight. The sky burned with motion as he launched himself from the tower, heading straight for her like a living spear.
She was already moving.
Down the rope line, boots skidding against rock. Electro sparked at her heels as she gritted her teeth, feeding current into her legs for a surge of speed. The cliff face blurred around her. When she hit the beach, she didn't stop. She sprinted for the mooring line, untying the sloop in seconds.
The Crimson Vulture shrieked above, closing in.
She shoved off hard. The wind caught her sail just as a shadow blotted out the sun overhead. A talon swiped downward—tearing through canvas, missing her neck by inches.
He came around again, wings wide, rage crackling off him.
"Too slow," she whispered.
He dove again. This time, she waited.
Just before he struck, she ducked low and kicked her heel into the deck. Electro surged up her spine, down her arms, and across the railing. The current danced, uncontrolled but hungry. Sparks leapt as he passed.
But the real hit came after.
He overcorrected—blinded by fury—and dipped too low.
The ocean met him head-on.
CRASH.
He slammed into the surf with all his weight and speed. The instant saltwater touched his feathers, his transformation shattered. Wings dissolved into limbs. Talons became boots. He flailed, snarling and coughing.
Zoan fruit. Devil fruit. Same curse.
The ocean had him now.
Eira circled the sloop toward him. She grabbed a coiled rope with a leaded hook and leaned over as the boat passed his sputtering body. She didn't dare touch the water—her own Devil Fruit would drag her straight to the bottom—but she didn't have to.
She looped the rope low and clean around his arm, then jerked it up tight.
The Vulture gasped as she hauled him against the hull. His eyes bulged, mouth opening to curse her—but the ocean sapped his strength like a parasite.
His wrist flailed upward, trying to grab the side.
She slammed her boot down on it.
"Stay down," she muttered.
Then she bent low, yanked his head just high enough to keep him from drowning, and drew her blade. Electricity hummed along the edge without her meaning to. It felt right.
"For the ones you caged."
She drove the knife into his neck.
He gargled. Twitched. Blood sprayed against the wood.
She stabbed again, and again. Then let him slump.
The sea lapped red beneath them.
He didn't rise again.
Eira pulled hard, dragging his torso half over the side, the rest still dangling. The corpse hung limp—rings clicking, limbs sodden and useless.
Blood puddled on the deck.
She let the rope go slack and stepped back, chest rising and falling like a tide.
The fortress was distant now. Just a wound in the desert behind her.
And the bounty was dead at her feet.
She didn't grin. Didn't laugh. Just breathed.
She was closer now.
Closer to Frostbite.
Closer to having the power to never lose again.
Closer to whatever came next.
And she still had lightning in her veins.