The deep, resonant clang-clang-clang of the alarms hammered through the grove's humid air, vibrating up through the soles of their boots and setting the mangrove leaves trembling. Atlas Acuta's ears twitched, a feral grin splitting his muzzle. "Sounds like a party," he drawled, blue sparks dancing in his damp fur. "Bet the guest list has our names at the top."
Rayleigh, already moving with surprising speed towards a gap in the massive mangrove roots, didn't break stride. "Save the celebrating for dry land. Follow me. Grove Thirteen. Place to lay low, catch breath." His voice, calm amidst the clamor, was an anchor.
Henrick adjusted Lulee in his arms, the young mermaid clinging tightly, her face buried against his shoulder. Fia kept a protective hand on Geo's back as he scampered alongside Jelly. The azure jellyfish bounced erratically, chirping "Bloop! Run-run-run!" making Geo giggle despite the fear still wide in his silver-blue eyes. "He's silly, Mama!" Geo whispered, pointing at Jelly's wobbling form.
They moved swiftly through the dappled shadows beneath the colossal trees, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, salt, and the faint, ever-present resin of the mangroves. Discarded bubble coatings littered the path like strange, deflated jellyfish. They skirted around the edge of Grove Four, its entrance marked by faded, peeling signs advertising exotic beasts and "rare acquisitions." Unlike the bustling chaos near the auction houses, this grove felt unnervingly quiet, the usual bubble-coating vendors and gawking tourists absent. Only the oppressive drone of the alarms and the distant shouts of Marine patrols broke the silence.
As they passed the grove's threshold, Marya's brisk pace faltered. Her golden eyes, usually scanning for immediate threats, snapped towards the shadowed interior of Grove Four. Her head tilted slightly, like a hawk catching an unfamiliar scent on the wind.
Atlas inhaled sharply beside her, his wet fur bristling. "Huh. Something's… wrong," he muttered, nostrils flaring. "Smells like… burnt sugar and old iron. Under the salt. Wrong kind of wrong."
Marya didn't look at him, her gaze locked on the grove. A faint frown touched her lips. "Agreed," she murmured, the word barely audible over the alarms.
Galit, noticing her hesitation and the sudden tension radiating from both her and Atlas, moved closer. "Zaleska? What is it?" His long neck coiled slightly, emerald eyes sharp.
Marya blinked, as if pulling herself back from a precipice. She paused for a single heartbeat, her focus intense on the darkened grove entrance. "That grove," she stated, her voice low and taut. "There's…" She trailed off, struggling to articulate the feeling. It wasn't a visible threat, not a sound, but a profound wrongness, a pressure against her senses like the air before a lightning strike, heavy and charged with unseen malice. It tugged at her awareness, a silent scream emanating from the shadows. Eternal Eclipse felt cold against her back through the leather jacket.
Before she could elaborate, another wave of the deep, clanging alarm rolled over them, louder, more insistent this time. It shattered the momentary focus.
Rayleigh, several paces ahead, stopped and looked back, his weathered face serious. "Marya. Galit. Whatever it is, it'll keep. Right now, stopping means getting caught. Grove Thirteen. Move." His tone brooked no argument, the quiet command of a man who'd navigated countless near-disasters.
Marya tore her gaze from the unsettling quiet of Grove Four. She met Rayleigh's eyes, the frown smoothing back into her usual stoic mask, though a flicker of that unease remained deep in her golden irises. "Right," she acknowledged, the word clipped. She forced her boots back into motion, the denim shorts damp from their earlier splash through the arena flood, her focus snapping back to the path ahead and the safety Rayleigh promised. The mystery of Grove Four would have to wait, but the sense of something profoundly amiss clung to her like the damp Sabaody air as they hurried towards the uncertain refuge of Grove Thirteen.
*****
The humid air of Marine Headquarters in Mary Geoise felt thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of polished mahogany and volcanic ash drifting from Fleet Admiral Sakazuki's ever-present cigar. Sunlight streamed through arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing above stacks of urgent dispatches. Sakazuki stood before a massive transponder snail, its shell gleaming with mother-of-pearl inlays, when it suddenly erupted in a frantic purururu.
He snatched the receiver, his knuckles whitening as a tinny voice crackled through: "Fleet Admiral! Critical incident at Sabaody Archipelago! Saint Jalmack assaulted and incapacitated during a slave auction disturbance! Multiple groves damaged, escaped prisoners—"
"What?!" Sakazuki's roar shook the crystal decanters on his sideboard. Molten fury burned behind his eyes as he visualized the repercussions – the screeching demands of the Celestial Dragons, the political fallout. He slammed a fist onto the obsidian desk, making the transponder snail flinch. "Of all the times... We don't have the manpower for this!" he snarled, teeth grinding against the cigar stub. "Every Admiral is pinned down – Garp chasing Revolutionaries in the South, Kizaru containing that Ember Island uprising..." The voice on the other end remained insistent, repeating the Celestial Dragon's name like a death knell.
A colder, more imperious voice cut through the line – not the initial caller, but one laced with the absolute authority of the Five Elders: "Handle it, Sakazuki. Immediately. Any means necessary. The dignity of the World Nobles cannot be compromised." The line went dead.
Sakazuki stood rigid, the receiver trembling in his grip. The veins on his temple pulsed like live wires. With a guttural curse that scorched the air, he slammed the receiver down so hard the snail retracted into its shell with a whimper. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the frantic tick-tick-tick of an antique pendulum clock. He stared at the silent snail, the order echoing in his skull. Any means necessary.
His hand shot out again, yanking the receiver up. He dialed with sharp, stabbing motions. The snail's eyes blinked open, adopting the stern, scarred visage of Vice Admiral Venus Harlow.
"Harlow," Sakazuki's voice was gravel scraped raw, each word a burning ember spat into the line. "Sabaody Archipelago. Grove Nine. Celestial Dragon assaulted. Slave auction disrupted. Escaped prisoners." He took a savage drag from his cigar, the tip flaring crimson. "You are to deploy immediately with Sentomaru and a Pacifista unit. Quell the disturbance. Apprehend or eliminate all responsible parties." The order hung heavy, final. "Use. Any. Means. Necessary."
On the other end, in her impeccably ordered office aboard a Marine battleship anchored near Dressrosa, Venus Harlow stiffened. Her long, blond hair was pinned back severely, not a strand out of place. The prominent scar on her left cheek seemed to tighten as her jaw clenched. Her right hand, resting on her customized Marine-issue prosthetic leg beneath the desk, flexed instinctively. She subtly adjusted the crisp white cuff of her immaculate trench coat sleeve – a telltale sign of irritation surfacing.
'Any means necessary.' The phrase resonated with grim finality. It meant scorched earth. It meant acceptable collateral. It meant the Leviathan's Claws would taste blood. A flicker of something complex – duty warring with the bitter tang of being handed another messy cleanup – crossed her features before being ruthlessly suppressed. She exhaled a thin plume of smoke from the cigar clenched between her teeth, her voice emerging clipped, sharp, and devoid of hesitation: "Understood, Fleet Admiral. The disturbance will be handled."
The line went dead. Harlow stared at the now-lifeless transponder snail. Outside her window, the sea churned, reflecting the storm brewing in her eyes. Sabaody awaited. And Vice Admiral Venus Harlow never left a job half-finished. The hunt was on.
*****
The lantern light flickered over the rough-hewn walls, making the defiant carvings seem to writhe. The Revolutionary fighter's hand hovered near his rifle, his gaze sharp as flint. Aurélie stepped forward, her posture relaxed but her grey eyes watchful. "Lost, yes," she admitted, her voice calm but carrying the rasp of exhaustion. "We sought refuge from the storm. Our ship is damaged. We found this tunnel." She kept it simple, factual. Beside her, Kuro gave an almost imperceptible nod – approval of the omissions.
"Just shelter," Kuro added smoothly, adjusting his salt-crusted spectacles. "We stumbled upon this place. We mean no trouble." His voice was the polished "Klahadore" tone, disarming and reasonable.
The fighter shifted his weight, skepticism etched in the hard lines of his face. "Storms don't usually spit out armed groups into the Wolf's belly," he countered, his eyes lingering on Anathema and Souta's shadowed form.
Before tension could snap, a new voice cut through the damp air, warm and familiar to one. "Stand down, Heron." Sabo stepped into the lantern's circle, Koala at his shoulder. Both wore simple, worn tunics and trousers, smudged with tunnel grime – perfect camouflage as laborers.
Charlie Wooley practically vibrated. He shouldered past Aurélie, ripping off his pith helmet. "Ms. Koala! You escaped! I see!" His voice cracked with relief and surprise.
Koala's eyes widened, then crinkled with genuine delight. "Charlie? Charlie Wooley!" She squealed, rushing forward to envelop the flustered scholar in a tight hug. "Great Dragon, what are you doing here?"
Sabo's guarded expression softened into surprise as he clasped Charlie's hand firmly. "Charlie? Gossypium feels like a lifetime ago. How are Vaughn and Marya? Are they—?"
Charlie stiffened. His eyes dropped to the damp stone floor. Koala's smile vanished. "Oh, Charlie... no," she breathed, her voice thick with sudden dread. "Did she not... survive the injury after the ambush?"
Charlie's head snapped up, realization dawning. "No! No, she survived that," he said quickly, his voice regaining some strength. "But after... after Gossypium..." He trailed off, the unspoken weight of Vaughn's death hanging between them, his gaze flickering towards Aurélie and Bianca.
Kuro cleared his throat pointedly. "As touching as this reunion is," he interjected, his voice regaining its edge, "we are rather exposed. Bastille's fleet is hunting these waters."
Sabo's gaze swept over the group – the stoic swordswoman, the anxious engineer, the polished strategist, the twitchy girl, the silent shadow, and his old acquaintance. He assessed them, the tension in the tunnel still present but shifted. "Charlie vouches for you, that's good enough for now," Sabo stated, his tone decisive. "Come with us. Deeper in. It's safer." He turned, gesturing for them to follow Heron and the other RA members who melted back into the shadows. "Actually, Charlie," Sabo added as they moved into a wider, drier side tunnel, "your timing might be serendipitous. We've hit a wall, literally. Could use your expertise."
As they walked, Sabo gave a low-voiced tour. "Tequila Wolf isn't just a bridge. It's a monument to suffering, built stone by stone by generations of slaves. These tunnels are their legacy, their hidden messages." He ran a hand over a section of wall covered in intricate, deeply carved symbols – not the crude resistance figures near the entrance, but complex geometric patterns and unfamiliar script. "We're trying to decode these. The slaves left warnings, histories... truths the World Government buried with sweat and blood."
Bianca walked beside Aurélie, her voice a hushed whisper barely audible over the dripping water and footsteps. "Marya never mentioned... this. Crossing paths with the Revolutionaries?"
Aurélie kept her eyes forward, her profile sharp in the uneven lantern light. "Many paths cross when one travels the Grand Line, Bianca," she murmured back, her voice low and even. "She most likely thought nothing of it. Or deemed it irrelevant." A beat of silence. "I do remember the injury she returned with from that trip, though. A puncture wound, deep. Poisoned blade. She almost died."
Bianca nodded slowly, recalling the harrowing weeks of recovery. "Yeah... yeah, she was out for ages. Like, really bad."
They descended further, the air growing colder, the stone older. The tunnel opened abruptly into a vast, natural cavern. Towering stalactites dripped icy water into dark pools far below. But it was the walls that commanded attention. They were covered, floor to distant ceiling, in thousands upon thousands of glyphs – swirling patterns, stylized figures, constellations, and dense blocks of the same complex script Sabo had shown them. Torches guttered in sconces, casting long, dancing shadows that made the carvings seem alive. The sheer scale was overwhelming, a silent scream etched in stone.
Sabo stopped in the center, gazing up. "This is the heart of it. The slaves' final testament. We believe it holds the bridge's true purpose."
Suddenly, the torches near the cavern entrance were snuffed out. Shadows detached themselves from the walls – figures clad in the same rough slave disguises as Sabo and Koala, but moving with trained coordination. They didn't point weapons, but their presence was a sudden, solid barrier blocking the way they'd come. More figures emerged silently from crevices high above, ropes dangling.
"Welcome to the Archive Chamber," Sabo said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space, devoid of its earlier warmth. He turned to face them fully, Koala stepping to his side, her expression now serious, alert. The friendly scholar and the revolutionary leader had shifted; this was the Chief of Staff assessing potential assets... or threats.
Charlie gasped, clutching his satchel. Bianca instinctively stepped closer to Aurélie. Kuro's hand drifted subtly towards his glove. Souta became impossibly still. Ember just stared wide-eyed at the towering glyphs, whispering, "Pretty scratchy rocks..."
Sabo's gaze, intense behind his goggles, locked onto Charlie, then swept over the group. "We need your skills, Charlie. These carvings... they're not just pleas or histories. They're a blueprint. A warning." He paused, the weight of centuries pressing down in the dripping silence. "This bridge isn't about transportation. It never was." His voice dropped, heavy with grim certainty. "It's the World Government's coffin nail. They're building something here... something final. And we need to know what it is before they drive it home." The cavern seemed to hold its breath, the ancient glyphs watching, waiting for the scholar to unlock their terrible secret. The fragile truce, already strained, now hung suspended over an abyss of revolutionary secrets and the crushing legacy of Tequila Wolf.