The grinding song of Kamaten Island was a physical thing—a deep, rhythmic CRUNCH-GRIND that vibrated through the grey pumice and up into the bones. It was the sound of the Grand Chrono-Anchor turning, the heartbeat of the prison. Away from the plateau's chaos, a different kind of rhythm took hold: the drumming of desperate footfalls.
Amira Kestrel Wevits moved with a predator's grace that defied her twenty-five-foot height. Each bounding stride ate the distance between the rusted worker barracks and the industrial docks. The air here was a toxic cocktail—sulfur from the Hitotsume's breath, the acrid tang of the Sanzu River's yellow acid, and the forge-hot stink of molten metal from the refineries. On her shoulders, Charlie clung to her coat with white-knuckled hands, his pith helmet threatening to take flight. Ember perched behind him, a pink-haired gargoyle, her head on a swivel. Jelly Squish was a wobbling, anxious blue mound tucked between them, his form jiggling with every stride.
"Left junction!" Amira's voice was a sharp, clear command, not a shout. Her large eyes missed nothing.
Two Ogre guards rounded the corner, clubs raised. They never got to swing.
From over Amira's shoulder, a sharp POW-CRACKLE split the air. A sparkler round from Ember's slingshot rifle exploded at the lead guard's feet, blinding him with light and sound. He stumbled back into his partner.
That was all the opening the giants needed. Maki Nazigai Wicklock, flowing beside Amira like a shadow given spiritual weight, did not break her stride. Her staff, Supiko, whistled in a short, brutal arc. The butt connected with a guard's temple with a sound like a rotten melon hitting stone. He dropped.
Roco Vultion was a storm of ochre-red muscle on Amira's other side. He didn't use his kanabo. He simply lowered his shoulder and kept running. The second guard, still blinking spots from his eyes, met that shoulder. The impact had a final, crushing quality. The guard left his feet and did not get up again. Roco didn't even glance back.
They moved as a single organism—Amira the senses, Ember the disruption, Maki and Roco the decisive force. They passed through checkpoints and barred gates not by stealth, but by leaving a trail of unconscious grey-uniformed heaps in their wake. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut during the worst of it, muttering about "high-impact kinetic negotiations."
The landscape shifted. The barren rock gave way to heavy timbers and rusted iron gantries. The acidic stench of the Sanzu River grew stronger, a burning odor that coated the throat. The industrial dock stretched before them, a chaotic forest of cranes, pipes vomiting steam, and berthed vessels that looked less like ships and more like floating factories. The grandest of these, the ferry to Agashima, sat dormant at the main pier. But tucked in a shadowy secondary slip was a smaller, tougher-looking tug-boat, its hull stained with river-scum and forge-ash.
"There!" Roco grunted, pointing with his kanabo.
They skidded to a halt on the grease-slick dock. Roco's eyes, sharp with the focus of a former commander, scanned the vessel. "Amira! The engine room—check for crew, then get us steam. Maki, the mooring lines fore and aft. Cut them, don't untie them."
Amira nodded, leaping onto the deck with a lightness that made the boat barely rock. She set Charlie and Ember down near the wheelhouse. Jelly tumbled off with a soft splurch, reforming into a worried puddle. Maki moved to the thick, acid-pitted ropes, her staff's edge glowing with a faint Haki.
Roco's gaze found the communications hub on the bridge—a robust, weatherproofed Den Den Mushi console. He threw open the door and stood before the sleepy-looking snail. He turned, his tiger-striped face etched with urgency. "Charlie! Now!"
Charlie Wooley, brushing dust from his khaki vest, scrambled into the wheelhouse. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat with a practiced "Ahem," and leaned into the microphone. His voice, usually suited for lecture halls, now carried the weight of their survival.
"Dreadnought Thalassa, come in! This is Charlie Wooley of the retrieval team! Do you read me, Dreadnought Thalassa? Come in!"
The silence that followed was deeper than the island's own grinding rhythm. It was the silence of the void, of hope stretching thin. On the dock, Roco's grip tightened on the doorframe. Maki paused, her hand on a thick hawser. Ember held her breath. Jelly quivered, a silent, blue question mark.
They waited, the toxic river lapping at the hull, the fate of everyone left on Kamaten balanced on the sleepy face of a communication snail.
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