The moon hangs high in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the concealed harbor tucked away on the island's eastern edge. The air is cool and still; the only sounds are the gentle lapping of waves against the hull of the Red Force as it sits proudly in the center of the harbor.
Its sleek, imposing silhouette cuts a striking figure against the moonlit water. The ship's crimson sails are furled, their vibrant color muted in the darkness, but the iconic striped skull emblem on the mainsail is still faintly visible, a symbol of Shanks's indomitable spirit. The ship's hull, polished and well-maintained, gleams faintly under the moonlight.
Lanterns hang from the ship's rigging, casting a warm, golden glow that contrasts with the cool silver of the moon. The light reflects off the water, creating a shimmering halo around the ship. A few crew members move about on deck, their silhouettes outlined against the lantern light as they perform late-night tasks or keep watch. The faint sound of laughter and quiet conversation drifts across the water, a reminder that even in the stillness of the night, the Red-Haired Pirates are always alert and ready.
The harbor itself is alive with subtle activity. Submarines bob gently in the water. The wooden docks creak softly under the weight of the Red Force, their weathered planks worn smooth by years of use. On the shore, a few members of the island's Guardians stand watch, their presence a silent acknowledgment of the alliance being forged. They exchange nods with the Red-Haired Pirates, a mutual respect evident in their quiet interactions. The harbor, usually a place of solitude, feels alive with the energy of two powerful forces coming together.
The middle of the night aboard the Red Force is eerily quiet, the ship's usual lively atmosphere subdued as most of the crew sleeps. The infirmary, tucked away below deck, is dimly lit by a single lantern swinging gently from the ceiling. The soft creak of the ship's timbers and the distant sound of waves against the hull are the only noises breaking the silence. Marya lies unconscious on a cot, her breathing shallow but steady. Hongo, the ship's doctor, has done his best to tend to her wounds, but the true battle lies within her—a battle against the mist that threatens to consume her.
Her arm is hooked to an IV, the clear fluid dripping slowly into her veins. Bandages wrap around her torso and arms, evidence of the injuries she sustained during her rampage. Her face, usually so full of life and vigor, is pale and drawn, her brow furrowed even in sleep. The faint glow of the mist lingers in the air around her, a subtle but ominous sign that the power within her is far from dormant.
Unexpectedly, her eyes snap open.
They are no longer the warm, familiar golden eyes of Marya, but glowing orbs of pale, ghostly light, radiating an otherworldly aura. The mist swirls around her, thickening as it responds to her awakening. She sits up abruptly, the IV ripping from her arm with a sickening tear. Blood wells up from the puncture, dripping down her arm and staining the white sheets, but she doesn't seem to notice. Her movements are mechanical, driven by a force beyond her control.
The lantern above her flickers as the mist grows denser, its light dimming under the oppressive weight of the power emanating from Marya. She swings her legs over the side of the cot, her bare feet hitting the wooden floor with a soft thud. The bandages around her torso begin to unravel, trailing behind her like the tattered remnants of her humanity. Blood drips from her arm, leaving a faint trail as she moves toward the exit.
The infirmary door creaks open as she steps into the narrow hallway. The mist follows her like a shadow, curling around her body and spreading outward, filling the corridor with an eerie, pale glow. The air grows colder, the temperature dropping with every step she takes. The ship seems to groan in response, its timbers creaking as if sensing the malevolent force now walking its halls.
Above deck, the night watchman, a young pirate named Marty, is leaning against the railing, staring out at the moonlit sea. He hears the faint sound of footsteps and turns, expecting to see one of his crewmates. Instead, he freezes as Marya emerges from below deck, her glowing eyes and blood-streaked arm a terrifying sight. The mist swirls around her, spreading across the deck like a living thing.
"M-Marya?" Marty stammers, his voice trembling. "Are you… are you okay?"
She doesn't respond. Her head tilts slightly as if she's listening to something only she can hear. The mist around her pulses, growing thicker and more oppressive. Marty takes a step back, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword at his side, but he hesitates. This is Marya—he has heard so much about her. He doesn't want to hurt her.
"Marya, please," he says, his voice pleading. "You need to go back to the infirmary. You're hurt."
Her glowing eyes lock onto him, and for a moment, he thinks he sees a flicker of recognition—a glimpse of the Marya he heard about. But it's gone in an instant, replaced by the cold, unfeeling gaze of the mist. She raises her hand, and the mist surges forward, wrapping around Marty like a serpent. He gasps, his breath visible in the suddenly frigid air, as the mist tightens its grip.
On the other side of the deck, Benn Beckman, Shanks's first mate, hears the commotion and turns. His eyes narrow, he stabs out his cigarette as he takes in the scene. "Marya!" he shouts, his voice cutting through the night. "Stop this!"
But she doesn't stop. The mist lifts Marty off his feet, suspending him in the air for a moment before tossing him aside like a ragdoll. He hits the deck with a thud, groaning in pain but otherwise unharmed. Benn draws his rifle, clenching his jaw. He doesn't want to hurt her either, but he knows he can't let her continue like this.
The mist spreads further, enveloping the deck in a pale, ghostly haze. The lanterns flicker and die, their light extinguished by the oppressive force of the mist. The ship groans again, its timbers creaking under the strain. Marya stands at the center of it all, her glowing eyes fixed on the horizon as if drawn to something only she can see.
Below deck, Shanks stirs, his instincts alerting him to the disturbance. He sits up, his red hair disheveled, and grabs his sword. "What's going on?" he mutters, his voice low and tense.
The deck of the Red Force is a scene of chaos. The mist swirls thick and heavy, choking the air with its oppressive presence. Lanterns flicker and die, their light extinguished by the malevolent force radiating from Marya. Her glowing eyes pierce the darkness, her blood-streaked arm hanging limply at her side as the mist coils around her like a living thing. Benn Beckman stands ready, his rifle aimed but not fired, his sharp eyes locked on Marya as he waits for Shanks to arrive.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoes across the deck as Shanks emerges from below, his red hair disheveled and his expression grim. His single arm grips the hilt of Gryphon, but he doesn't draw it. Instead, he locks onto Marya and raises his hand, signaling Benn to stand down.
Muscles tense, "Hold your fire," Shanks commands with an edge of authority. "She's not herself."
Benn hesitates, his finger hovering over the trigger, but he lowers the rifle slightly, his eyes never leaving Marya. "Shanks, she's dangerous. That mist—it's not just her. It's something else."
"I know," Shanks replies, his voice steady. "But we can't lose her. Not like this."
He steps forward, his boots crunching against the frost that has begun to form on the deck. The mist swirls around him, cold and suffocating, but he doesn't falter. His eyes lock onto Marya's glowing ones, and he calls out to her gently. "Marya! Snap out of it! This isn't you!"
She doesn't respond. Her head tilts slightly as if she hears something else. The mist pulses around her, growing thicker and more oppressive. Shanks takes another step forward, his hand outstretched. "Marya, listen to me! You're stronger than this! Fight it!" Shanks's heart pounds in his chest, a rare mix of emotions surging through him—determination, concern, and a deep, unshakable resolve.
He feels the cold bite of the mist as it brushes against his skin, but he doesn't falter. His red hair, usually a vibrant symbol of his invincible spirit, seems dulled in the eerie glow of the mist. His single arm gripping the hilt of Gryphon. This isn't a battle he can win with brute force. This is a battle for Marya's soul, and he knows he has to tread carefully.
As he approaches her, Shanks feels a pang of sorrow. This isn't the Marya he knows. This is a shadow of her, consumed by the mist and the power of Achlys. Her glowing eyes are empty, devoid of the warmth and fire that once defined her. The sight of her like this, lost and broken, cuts deeper than any blade ever could.
But beneath the sorrow, there's a flicker of anger—not at Marya, but at the mist, at the fruit, at the forces that have taken hold of her. Shanks has faced countless enemies in his life, but this is different. This isn't just about defeating an opponent; it's about saving someone he cares about. And that makes it personal.
Feeling a surge of hope, he calls out to her. "Marya! Snap out of it! This isn't you!"
Still, she doesn't respond. Instead, the mist surges forward, lashing out at Shanks like a whip. He sidesteps the attack with swift precision, but the mist is relentless. It coils around him, trying to drag him down, but he pushes through, his Haki flaring to life as a crimson aura surrounds him.
With a burst of speed, Shanks closes the distance between them. He grabs Marya by the shoulders, his grip firm but not harsh, and pins her to the mast. She flails against him wildly uncoordinated, but he holds her down, his Haki surging as he begins to channel it into her.
"Shanks, what the hell are you doing?!" Benn shouts, panicked.
Shanks ignores him, his focus entirely on Marya. His Haki flows into her, a crimson light cutting through the mist like a blade. Marya convulses, her body writhing as the mist fights back, but Shanks doesn't let go. His eyes narrow as he pushes harder, his Haki surging with every ounce of his strength.
And then, he sees it: An image flashes in his mind—a small child, crouched in fear, crying in the middle of a raging fire. The flames lick at the edges of the vision, but at the center is Marya, her face streaked with tears. On the edge of the fire, the mist lingers, waiting to consume her.
The fire is everywhere. It thrashes at the boundaries of her vision, a roaring, consuming force that devours everything in its path. The heat is unbearable, searing her skin and choking her lungs with thick, acrid smoke. Marya crouches in the center of the inferno, her small frame trembling as tears stream down her face. She's just a child, no more than seven or eight, but the weight of the world feels like it's crushing her.
She can't move. She can't breathe. The flames are too close, too loud, too hungry. They dance around her, their orange and red tongues flickering like demons in the night. She covers her ears, trying to block out the sound of crackling wood and collapsing beams, but it's no use. The fire is inside her head, inside her heart, burning away everything she's ever known.
Her home is gone. Her family is gone. The village she grew up in is nothing but ash and embers. She doesn't understand why this is happening, why the world has turned against her. All she knows is fear—raw, unrelenting fear that claws at her chest and makes her want to scream. But she can't. Her voice is trapped, swallowed by the smoke and the flames.
On the edge of the fire, she sees it—the mist. It's faint at first, a pale, ghostly haze that swirls just beyond the flames. But as she watches, it grows thicker, darker, more menacing. It calls to her, its voice a whisper in the back of her mind.
"Let me in," it says. "I can protect you. I can make the pain go away."
Marya shakes her head, her golden eyes wide with terror. She doesn't want the mist. She doesn't want any of this. She just wants the fire to stop. She just wants to go home. But the mist doesn't listen. It creeps closer, its tendrils reaching out to her like skeletal fingers. She tries to back away, but there's nowhere to go. The flames are behind her, the mist in front of her. She's trapped.
"You're weak," the mist hisses. "You're alone. But I can make you strong. I can make the fear go away."
Marya's breath hitches, her small hands clutching at her chest. She doesn't want to be weak. She doesn't want to be afraid. But the mist is so cold, so dark. It feels wrong, like it's sucking the warmth out of her soul. And yet… it's tempting. The fire is so hot, so painful. The mist promises relief, promises power. Maybe if she lets it in, the pain will stop. Maybe if she lets it in, she won't feel so alone.
Tears stream down her face as she reaches out, her small hand trembling. The mist wraps around her fingers, icy and suffocating, and she gasps as it begins to seep into her skin. It's cold—so cold—but it numbs the pain, numbs the fear. For a moment, she feels… nothing. But then the fire roars louder, and the mist tightens its grip. It's not just in her hand anymore—it's in her chest, in her mind, in her soul. It's everywhere, and it's hungry.
"That's it," the mist whispers. "Let me in. Let me take the pain away."
Shanks's jaw tightens, and he surges his Haki again, forcing the mist to part. "Marya!" he calls out, his voice echoing in the vision. "You're not alone! I'm here!"
The image shifts. Now, Marya is running through a burning village, tugging a young boy with her. Her cheeks are stained with bruises and wet streaks, but the mist is close behind, relentless and hungry.
The world is on fire. The air is thick with smoke, burning her lungs with every desperate gasp. Marya runs, her small hand gripping the boy's wrist so tightly it might bruise, but she doesn't care. They have to live. They have to survive.
The town is a nightmare. Flames roar around them, devouring everything in their path—homes, trees, even the sky. The heat is unbearable, searing her skin and making her eyes water. The crackle of burning wood and the crash of collapsing buildings echo in her ears, a cacophony of destruction that drowns out everything else. She can't think. She can't breathe. All she can do is run.
The boy stumbles behind her, his small frame trembling with fear. He's younger than her, maybe five or six, and his wide, terrified eyes are filled with tears. Marya doesn't know his name. She doesn't know where his family is. All she knows is that she can't let him die. She can't let the fire take him.
"Keep up!" she shouts, her voice hoarse from the smoke. She tugs on his arm, pulling him forward as they dodge falling debris and leap over cracks in the ground. Her heart pounds in her chest, each beat a frantic reminder that they're not safe yet. They're not safe at all.
The fear is overwhelming. It claws at her chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. Every step feels like it could be their last. The flames are everywhere, closing in on them from all sides. She doesn't know where they're running to—there's no safe place, no escape. But she can't stop. If she stops, they'll die.
The boy trips, his small body hitting the ground with a thud. Marya's heart lurches as she turns back, her golden eyes wide with panic. "Get up!" she screams, her voice cracking. "You have to get up!"
He's crying now, his small hands scrabbling at the ground as he tries to push himself up. Marya grabs his arm, yanking him to his feet with a strength she didn't know she had. "We have to keep going!" she says, her voice trembling. "We have to!"
The boy nods, his face streaked with soot and tears, and they run again. The flames are closer now, their heat unbearable. Marya's legs ache, her lungs burn, but she doesn't stop. She can't stop. The fear is a living thing inside her, driving her forward, pushing her to keep going even when every part of her wants to collapse.
And then she sees it—the edge of the town. The flames are thinner here, the smoke less dense. There's a chance, just a small chance, that they can make it. Hope surges in her chest, sharp and desperate, and she tightens her grip on the boy's hand.
"Almost there!" she shouts, her voice barely audible over the roar of the fire. "Just a little further!"
But the flames aren't done with them yet. A burning beam crashes down in front of them, blocking their path. Marya skids to a stop, her heart pounding as she looks for another way. There isn't one. The flames are closing in, their heat unbearable, their light blinding.
The boy whimpers, his small body trembling as he clings to her. Marya's mind races, her fear threatening to overwhelm her. They're trapped. They're going to die.
But then she sees it—a narrow gap between the burning buildings, just wide enough for them to squeeze through. It's dangerous, so dangerous, but it's their only chance.
"This way!" she shouts, pulling the boy toward the gap. They squeeze through, the heat of the flames licking at their skin, but they don't stop. They can't stop.
And then, finally, they're through. The flames are behind them, the town is behind them. They collapse on the ground, gasping for air, their bodies trembling with exhaustion and fear. Marya looks back at the burning town, her golden eyes filled with tears. She doesn't know if anyone else made it out. She doesn't know if there's anything left. All she knows is that they survived. They're alive.
"Marya!" Shanks calls again, his voice louder this time. "You're stronger than this! Fight it!"
The mist parts further, and Shanks appears in front of her, his crimson Haki cutting through the darkness. The image of the burning village fades, replaced by a memory of Marya standing with Mihawk. He's telling her something, his calm, firm voice conforts her.
The mist is everywhere, cold and suffocating, wrapping around her like a shroud. Marya is lost, her mind adrift in a sea of darkness and despair. The mist whispers to her, its voice a constant, insidious presence in the back of her mind. "Let go," it says. "You don't have to fight anymore. I'll take the pain away."
And then she hears it—hears him, cutting through the mist like a beacon of light.
"Marya."
Her heart stops. She knows that voice. It's a voice she hasn't heard in a while. Her father's voice.
She turns, her golden eyes wide with disbelief, and sees him. He's looking back at her with the same golden eyes and stern, stoic expression she knows and loves. He's standing there, just beyond the mist, his presence a stark contrast to the darkness that surrounds her.
"Father?" she whispers, her voice trembling. She takes a step toward him, her hand reaching out as if to make sure he's real. The mist swirls around her, trying to pull her back, but she doesn't care. She has to reach him. She has to know if he's really there.
Mihawk, holds his golden gaze with deadpan eyes, and a relentless smirk that makes her heart ache. "It's me, Marya," he says, his voice is commanding and filled with strength. "I'm here."
Tears stream down her face as she takes another step toward him. The mist tightens its grip, its icy tendrils wrapping around her, but she pushes through. She has to. She has to reach him.
"I'm scared, father," she says, her voice breaking. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fight it."
Mihawk's expression hardens, and he reaches out to her, his hand warm and solid despite the cold of the mist. "You're stronger than you think, Marya," he says with demanding confidence. "You've always been strong. You just have to remember who you are."
Marya hesitates, her hand trembling as she reaches for his. The mist screams in her mind, its voice a cacophony of anger and fear, but she doesn't listen. She can't listen. Her father is here. He's real. And he's telling her to fight.
"I don't know if I can," she whispers, filled with doubt. "It's too strong. It's too much."
Mihawk's hand closes around hers, his firm grip comforting her. "You can," he says with conviction. "You've faced worse, Marya. You've survived worse. And you're not alone. I'm here. I'll always be here."
The tears flow freely now, streaming down her face as she clings to his hand. The mist is still there, still cold and suffocating, but it feels… smaller now. Less overwhelming. Her father's presence is a beacon of light, cutting through the darkness and giving her the strength to fight.
"I miss you," she says, her voice barely audible. "I miss your stupid face."
Her father's eyes narrow, and he pulls her into a hug, his embrace warm and solid despite the cold of the mist. "I miss you too, Marya," he says with love. "But I'm always with you. Always. You just have to remember that."
Marya clings to him, her small body trembling with emotion. The mist is still there, still trying to pull her back, but she doesn't care. Her father is here. He's real. And he's telling her to fight. And for the first time in what feels like forever, she feels… hope. A small, flickering light in the darkness, but it's enough. It's enough to remind her who she is. It's enough to give her the strength to fight.
The mist screams in her mind, filled with rage and desperation, but she doesn't listen. She clings to her father, his presence a beacon of light in the darkness, and she knows—she knows—that she can fight it. She can win. Because her father is here. And he'll always be here.
"You need to fight it," Mihawk says. "You need to wake up."
Marya's eyes widen, and she sees a hand reaching out to her. It's Shanks, his presence flickers gently, casting a warm, golden glow that dances with a delicate and mesmerizing grace. She hesitates, her hand trembling, but then she takes his.
The mist shatters.
On the deck of the Red Force, Marya jolts, her glowing eyes fading back to their natural golden hue. She gasps for air, her body trembling as the mist dissipates around her. She looks around, her expression confused and disoriented. The crew is gathered on the deck, their faces a mix of relief and concern.
"Uncle Shanks…?" she whispers hoarsely.
But before she can say more, her eyes roll back, and she collapses. Shanks catches her, his arm wrapping around her as he lowers her gently to the deck. But the effort has taken its toll. His vision blurs, and he sways on his feet before collapsing beside her.
"Shanks!" Benn shouts, rushing to his captain's side. The rest of the crew follows, their voices a chorus of curses and concern.
"Damn it, Shanks! What were you thinking?!" Yasopp exclaims, kneeling beside him.
Lucky Roux, tries to lighten the mood. "Typical Shanks, always pushing himself too hard. But hey, it worked, right?"
Benn glares at him, but there's no real heat behind it. "Someone get Hongo! Now!"