The humid air of Grove Nine vibrated with a sickening energy. The makeshift arena, constructed of lashed-together timber and reinforced mangrove roots, rose like a festering boil under the canopy. Spotlights powered by crackling steam-dials cut through the resinous gloom, illuminating the central horror: a massive, circular aquarium pit, its thick glass walls scarred and cloudy. Tiered seating rose steeply around it, packed with a raucous, bloodthirsty crowd – merchants in fine silks stained with spilled wine, pirates covered in barnacles and scars, and a few unsettlingly calm figures in expensive, concealing robes. The roar was deafening – a primal wave of cheers, boos, and shouted wagers crashing against the glass.
Inside the tank, murky seawater churned. A colossal squid, its skin a mottled purple, lashed out with whip-like tentacles, wrapping around a desperately thrashing form – a young seaking with scales like tarnished silver. It's terrified shrieks were muffled by the water and glass, but it's wide, panicked eyes were horrifically clear. The crowd roared its approval as a tentacle squeezed.
Galit recoiled, his long neck coiling tight as ship's cable. "Barbarians," he spat, the word dripping with icy disgust, his knuckles white on his volcanic glass slate. The crude flyer crumpled in his other hand felt like poison.
Rayleigh stepped up beside Marya, his presence radiating a calm that felt like deep ocean pressure. He took a slow, deliberate swig from a worn metal flask, his sharp eyes scanning the chaotic scene. "Well now," he rumbled, his voice cutting through the din to Marya alone. "Quite the spectacle. What's the play, young lady?"
Marya stood frozen for a heartbeat, her golden eyes sweeping the arena – the baying crowd, the struggling seaking, the shadowed water concealing worse horrors. Her arms were crossed tightly over the Heart Pirates insignia, one hip cocked defiantly. Her expression was its usual stoic mask, but a muscle ticked in her jaw. "Honestly?" she replied, her voice a low rasp barely audible over the crowd. "I have absolutely no idea." She didn't look at him, her gaze still locked on the nightmare below.
Fia gasped beside Galit, her borrowed shirt clinging to her trembling frame. She frantically scanned the tank, then the rows of cages visible on the arena floor level near the water's edge. "I don't see them!" she cried, her voice cracking with panic. " Henrick ? Fia? Geo? Where are they?" Pearlescent tears welled in her ocean-blue eyes.
Galit placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the rigid tension in his frame. "We will find them, Fia," he stated, his analytical voice strained but firm. "Focus. Observe the holding areas near the filtration pumps. Likely staging points."
Atlas cracked his knuckles, a shower of blue sparks dancing over his fur. His grin was fierce, predatory. "Maybe we should split up! Cover more ground! I can zap the locks off those cages easy!"
"Find new friends! Adventure!" Jelly chirped, bouncing excitedly beside Atlas, his starry eyes wide but oblivious to the grim reality, reflecting the garish spotlights.
Marya's head snapped around, her golden eyes blazing with sudden, icy fury. "No!" The single word cracked like a whip, momentarily silencing even Jelly's bounce. She glared at Atlas and Jelly, then swept her gaze over the whole group. "We stick together. Understand? And for the love of the Abyss, try to be subtle. Do not draw attention." She gestured sharply at the packed, frenzied stands. "We need information, not a riot."
Rayleigh threw his head back and laughed, a rich, booming sound that momentarily drew curious glances from nearby spectators. "Subtle? With this lot?" He gestured at Galit's towering height and coiled neck, Atlas's crackling fur, Jelly's wobbling azure form, Fia's unmistakable pearlescent skin, and Marya herself, radiating dangerous intensity in her leather and denim. "Young lady, subtlety sailed away the moment you walked in here with a mermaid and a lightning lynx!"
Marya closed her eyes for a second, letting out a long, slow sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire Grand Line. She shook her head, a flicker of exasperated resignation crossing her features before the stoic mask slammed back down. Below, the squid tightened its grip, the seaking's struggles weakening. The crowd roared, a wave of sound thick with cruel anticipation. Time was running out, and their "subtle" rescue mission was starting under the brightest, most horrifying spotlight imaginable. The gamble had begun, and the stakes were lives.
The deafening roar of the crowd hit them like a physical wall as they pushed through the arena entrance, the stench of sweat, cheap perfume, and stale seawater thick in the air. Spotlights glared down on the massive aquarium pit, its cloudy glass walls reflecting the feverish faces of the spectators packed onto steep, rickety bleachers. Below, the murky water churned violently. A colossal squid, its mottled purple skin slick under the harsh lights, had just released the limp form of the seaking. As the creature retreated into the gloom, a powerful surge of displaced water crashed over the tank's edge, drenching the front-row spectators in a cold, briny spray. They shrieked, more in annoyance than fear, wiping saltwater from expensive silks and leathers.
The announcer, a greasy man with a voice like grinding gears amplified through a Den Den Mushi, bellowed over the commotion: "Alright folks, settle down! Dry off! You ain't seen nothin' yet! Up next, a real treat for the discerning connoisseur! Place your bets, sharpen your appetites!"
A dark, massive shape materialized from the depths. A Great White shark, easily twice the length of the squid, glided into the light. Its scarred flank brushed the glass as it began a slow, ominous circle of the tank, rows of serrated teeth gleaming like ivory daggers. Its dead, black eyes scanned the water, radiating primal hunger.
"Whoooo will be the victor?!" the announcer shrieked, his voice cracking with excitement. "The King of the Shallows? Or our special, prime merchandise? The odds are shifting like the tide itself! Bets down NOW!"
Fia's breath hitched. Her ocean-blue eyes, wide with terror, scanned the empty tank frantically. "Prime merchandise..." The words were a knife to her heart. Then, she saw it – a heavy iron grate at the far end of the tank floor, slowly grinding open. Shadows shifted behind it. A choked sob escaped her lips. Before anyone could react, she bolted, weaving through the packed stands like a startled fish. She slammed against the thick viewing glass near the front, her palms flat against the cold surface, her coral-pink hair plastered to her tear-streaked face. "No! Please, no!" Her whisper was lost in the din.
Marya's jaw clenched, a muscle leaping beneath her stoic mask. Her golden eyes, fixed on the opening grate, burned with cold fury. The Heart insignia on her leather jacket seemed to pulse in the erratic light.
A sudden, unnatural silence fell over the arena. The raucous betting, the drunken shouts, the excited chatter – all died instantly, replaced by a suffocating hush thick with dread. Heads turned, not towards the tank, but towards a private viewing box elevated above the common rabble. A figure had entered, encased head-to-toe in a gleaming white, bulbous environmental suit. The helmet was a ludicrous, oversized bubble, completely obscuring the face within. Attendants in pristine white robes fluttered around him, laying down spotless carpets and adjusting a plush chair. Two guards flanked him, dressed in dark suits, their faces expressionless as they scanned the area. They held massive, wicked-looking halberds, radiating an aura of unquestionable authority and violence.
The announcer's voice transformed, dropping into an oily, sycophantic croon amplified to fill the silence. "Ladies and Gentlemen! Honored guests! Please welcome and show your utmost respect for the Illustrious World Noble, Saint Jalmack! Your presence graces this humble exhibition beyond measure!" He bowed so low his nose nearly touched the grimy floor.
Atlas Acuta, his fur bristling with static, leaned towards Galit. "So that's what all the fuss is about? Looks like a fancy bug stuffed in a glass jar. Doesn't look all that impressive to me." He scanned the crowd, noting the rigid postures, the averted eyes, the sheer terror radiating from the spectators. "Why don't they just...?"
Galit's hand clamped down on Atlas's shoulder, his grip like iron. His long neck was coiled tight, his emerald eyes fixed on the suited guards. "Do. Not. Start. Anything." His voice was a low, urgent hiss, devoid of its usual analytical tone. "It's not him they fear. Look at his guards. See those expressions? The weapons? That's the symbol of the World Government's absolute power. Touch him, breathe near him... and an Admiral comes. An Admiral, Atlas. Whole islands vanish for less." His gaze flickered towards the oblivious figure in the bubble suit, now settling into his privileged seat to watch the show.
Jelly Squish wobbled beside Marya, his starry eyes fixed on the Celestial Dragon. "Bloop! He has a bubble head! Like me! Does he... does he bounce?" He jiggled experimentally.
Atlas cracked his knuckles, blue sparks dancing dangerously across his fur despite Galit's warning grip. A grim, reckless grin spread across his face as he stared at the oblivious Saint Jalmack. "Maybe," he muttered, the word thick with challenge, "we should find out."
Below, the iron grate finished rising. Dark shapes, chained together, were shoved roughly into the murky water of the tank. The massive shark, sensing new prey, ceased its circling and turned, its powerful tail propelling it forward with terrifying speed. The gamble wasn't just on lives anymore; it was on whether Marya Zaleska's crew could raise hell without bringing the wrath of heaven down upon them all. The water churned as the first fishman, tall and powerfully built even in chains, raised shackled fists towards the approaching monster. Time was up.
The arena's roar condensed into a single, suffocating point of silence for Fia. Through the scarred glass, distorted by algae and water ripples, two figures stumbled from the gloom behind the rising grate. Henrick, his massive hammerhead frame hunched under heavy chains, shielding a smaller form. Geo. Her son's terrified eyes, wide and silver-blue like storm-tossed shallows, locked onto the charging Great White. Fia's world narrowed to the thickness of the glass separating them.
"No!" The word tore from her throat, raw and ragged, lost instantly in the renewed roar of the bloodthirsty crowd. She slammed her palms against the cold, unyielding barrier. Thud. Thud. Thud. The vibration hummed up her arms. "Henrick! GEO!" Her voice was a seagull's cry against a hurricane. Salt stung her eyes – tears or the lingering spray, she couldn't tell. Her borrowed shirt clung, damp and rough against her pearlescent skin. She pounded harder, desperation lending her strength. "LOOK AT ME!"
High above, in the sterile bubble of his viewing perch, Saint Jalmack shifted slightly within his oversized environmental suit. The gesture was languid, bored. A gloved finger, thick and clumsy within the suit, tapped the armrest near one of the dark-suited guards. The guard leaned down, ear close to the helmet's speaker grille. "Who," Jalmack's voice emerged tinny and distorted, "is that noisy creature? It is disrupting my entertainment. The water splashing was unpleasant enough." He gestured vaguely towards the frantic mermaid below. "End it. Quietly. I dislike distractions before the main course."
The guard straightened, his expression carved from obsidian. "At once, Your Grace." He turned, his movements smooth and predatory, descending the private stairs towards the arena floor with silent purpose, his massive halberd held loosely, its wicked blade catching the harsh spotlights.
Below, in the churning water, time fractured. The Great White surged, a torpedo of muscle and teeth aimed directly at the chained figures. Geo shrieked, a sound swallowed by water and glass, burying his face against Henrick's leg. Henrick planted his feet wide on the slimy tank floor, the chains around his wrists clanking. He didn't dodge. He met it. As the cavernous maw, lined with rows of ivory knives, snapped shut, Henrick's massive arms shot out. His hands, thick and scarred, clamped onto the upper and lower jaws with a thud that vibrated through the water and up Fia's pounding hands. The shark's momentum slammed him backwards, skidding across the silt, but he held. Muscles corded in his neck and shoulders, veins standing out like ropes against his dark skin. The shark thrashed, its powerful tail churning the water into a frenzy, but Henrick held its jaws impossibly wide, a titanic struggle inches from his son.
The crowd erupted. Not in horror, but in savage delight. Coins clattered, fists pumped the air. "HOLD IT, FISHMAN! HOLD IT!"
It was Geo who saw her first. Peeking out from behind his father's leg, his silver-blue hair swirling around his face, his gaze snagged on the frantic figure pounding the glass. Recognition dawned, washing over his fear like a sudden sunbeam piercing storm clouds. "Mama!" His small voice, surprisingly clear despite the water and chaos, rang out. He pointed, small hand trembling. "MAMA! LOOK!"
Henrick's head snapped sideways, following Geo's pointing finger. His eyes, usually sharp and assessing, widened in stunned disbelief. "Fia?" The name escaped him in a cloud of bubbles. "What are you…?" Distraction, in a place like this, was lethal.
The shark, sensing the shift, twisted violently. Henrick's grip slipped a fraction. Serrated teeth grazed his forearm, drawing dark billows of blood into the water. Pain and fury ignited in Henrick's eyes. With a guttural roar that sent shockwaves through the tank, he wrenched his body. Not to push the shark away, but to spin it. Using its own monstrous strength against it, he channeled the power of Fishman Karate. A visible pulse of compressed water shot from his palms, striking the shark's flank not with blunt force, but with the focused violence of a depth charge. The beast was hurled sideways, crashing against the far glass with a resounding boom that shook the entire structure. Spectators yelped, stumbling back.
Henrick didn't hesitate. He grabbed Geo, tucking the boy protectively against his chest, and kicked off powerfully, chains dragging, swimming straight towards where Fia was pressed against the glass, her tears flowing freely now, mixing with the seawater on the other side. He reached the barrier, placing his own large, webbed hand flat against the inside, mirroring Fia's desperate position on the outside. Geo pressed his tiny hand beside his father's. Their eyes met through the warped, grimy glass – relief, terror, and desperate love bridging the impossible divide.
On the walkway above the tank, the dark-suited guard reached the railing directly behind Fia. His shadow fell over her. His hand, clad in black leather, reached for her shoulder.
Marya Zaleska watched it unfold from the fringe of the chaos, her golden eyes narrowed to slits. The stoic mask was firmly in place, but a vein pulsed faintly at her temple. The Heart Pirates insignia on her worn leather jacket seemed stark against the garish lights. She saw Fia's reunion, the guard's approach, the oblivious Saint Jalmack sipping something through a tube in his bubble helmet. Galit Varuna appeared beside her, his long neck coiled tight, emerald eyes darting between the unfolding family drama and the descending guard. His voice was a low, tense hiss, barely audible over the crowd's bloodlust. "Zaleska. The guard reaches Fia. The Noble is displeased. What is the play?"
Marya didn't look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the tableau: the desperate family reunion at the glass, the looming guard, the crackling energy of Atlas beside her, Jelly wobbling nervously. She took in the cheap timber bleachers, the rusting metal supports, the grime-smeared glass, the overpowering stench of salt, fear, and cheap liquor. A single, dry syllable escaped her lips, almost lost in the din, yet carrying the weight of inevitable, reckless action. It wasn't fear, it wasn't anger. It was the weary acceptance of a gambler seeing the final card turn.
"Here," she sighed, the word sharp and final, "we go." Her hand drifted towards the obsidian hilt of Eternal Eclipse at her back. The game had just escalated beyond subtlety.