The sky above Tawantin had become a canvas of chaos.
Marya stood at the edge of the ritual platform, her golden eyes fixed on the horizon where explosions painted the mist in shades of orange and red. Lightning flashed—not from the sky, but from the beach, where Electro crackled against the darkness. The distant crack of gunfire echoed across the water, followed by the unmistakable sound of something massive colliding with something else.
She took three steps toward the commotion.
Behind her, the crowd of villagers and monks stood frozen, their faces turned toward the lights, their expressions caught between confusion and the first stirrings of terror. The ritual—the beautiful, ancient ritual—had stopped. The Snake dancers lay where they'd fallen. The Puma puppet stood motionless, its painted eyes staring at nothing.
Marya closed her eyes.
Her consciousness stretched outward, flowing through the mist like water through cracks in stone. Kenbunshoku Haki —the gift of her father's blood, her generational legacy—pushed past the chaos, past the explosions, past the screaming.
She saw.
The island was surrounded.
Ships circled the coastline like sharks, their black sails bearing the three-skulled flag of the Blackbeard Pirates. On the beach, Ember's manic laughter carried across the sand as she traded shots with a sniper perched on the Rokaku's head. Atlas clashed with a massive figure—Burgess, she recognized him from the wanted posters—their fists sending shockwaves through the air.
Above the festival grounds, two shapes wheeled and dove through the smoke. Bō-Zak—still in his condor form—fought a white-suited figure whose tap-shoes found purchase on nothing but air. Laffitte. His cane flashed, darts flying, and Bō-Zak's screech of rage echoed across the island.
Below them, the festival burned.
Doc Q circled on Stronger, dropping apples that exploded on impact. Vasco Shot stood in the center of the chaos, fire streaming from his mouth, laughing as stalls collapsed and people ran.
And in the midst of it all, Galit's voice cut through the noise, barking orders. Bianca pulled people behind overturned tables. Eliane dragged a wounded villager toward the temple steps, Sanza and Jelly following with armfuls of medical supplies. Vesta stood frozen for a moment, Mikasi in her hands, before she started playing—not for entertainment, but for courage, her music a thread of hope in the darkness.
Marya's vision pushed further.
Past the burning festival. Past the beach. Past the cliffs.
To the ships.
To the deck of the lead vessel, where a tall figure stood with his hands in his pockets, his coat draped over his shoulders, his presence cold enough to freeze the mist around him.
Kuzan.
Aokiji.
Marya's eyebrow rose.
Her concentration broke as Kipa Shiru's voice cut through the chaos.
"EVERYONE STAY CALM!"
The lead monk stood at the edge of the platform, his milky white eyes fixed on the crowd below, his voice carrying with the weight of centuries. Villagers turned toward him, their panic easing slightly at the sound of authority.
"Monks of the Ryu-Sen!" Kipa's staff struck the stone. "Go! Assist the people! Push back the invaders! We must protect the seals!"
Monks scattered in every direction, their gray robes disappearing into the smoke and flame. Some ran toward the festival grounds. Some toward the beach. Some toward the shrine.
Kipa Shiru turned and walked to stand beside Marya.
She didn't look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the mist, on the ships, on the cold figure standing in the darkness.
"Why?" she asked. "Why would anyone want to invade this place? What do you have that is of value?"
Kipa's grip tightened on his staff. "Other than human capital, our purpose and our duty is our value. We are here to protect the seals. To guard the plague of the world's sin from being unleashed."
Marya's gaze shifted to the massive shapes in the water—the Rokaku, ancient and patient, their carved foreheads glowing faintly in the firelight.
"The Rokaku, then?"
Kipa shook his head. "They are bound by the San-Zekai seals. In the Shioji-Hime Shrine."
Marya nodded slowly, pieces clicking into place. "Then we need to—"
She moved.
There was no warning. No tensing of muscles, no shift in stance. One moment she stood beside Kipa Shiru, her hands relaxed at her sides. The next, Nisshoku was in her grip, the black blade singing through the air as she spun.
CLANG.
The impact sent shockwaves across the platform.
Shiryu materialized out of nothing, his invisible form becoming solid as Nisshoku caught his blade inches from Marya's spine. His grin spread slowly across his face, recognition dawning in his cold eyes.
"You're not him," he said.
Marya held her ground, Nisshoku pressed against his sword, her golden eyes meeting his without a flicker of fear.
"Who?"
Shiryu's grin widened. "Mihawk."
He pushed back, separating their blades, and stood at his full height. His eyes traveled over Marya—the leather jacket with the Heart Pirates insignia, the golden eyes, the stance that screamed Dracule in every line.
"So the rumors are true," he murmured. "He has offspring."
Marya rolled her eyes. The gesture was so casual, so utterly dismissive, that Shiryu's grin flickered for just a moment.
"Why does everyone find that so surprising?"
Kipa Shiru moved to intervene, his staff raising, but Marya's hand shot out to stop him.
"Go." Her voice was calm. Absolutely, terrifyingly calm. "Protect your seals. I can handle this."
Kipa's milky eyes found her face, concern etching lines into his weathered skin. "Child—"
"I will be right behind you."
Shiryu's grin returned, sharper now, edged with insult. "You think—"
He didn't finish.
Marya lunged.
Nisshoku flashed in the firelight, a crescent of darkness that forced Shiryu to throw himself backward. His feet skidded across the stone, his blade coming up just in time to block another strike, and another, and another.
"Tch," he spat, parrying wildly. "You—"
Marya pressed forward, her blade a whirlwind of shadow, her expression unchanged. Calm. Focused. Utterly, completely in control.
Kipa Shiru took one look at the exchange, decided that getting involved would be a terrible idea, and ran.
His staff clicked against the stone as he disappeared into the smoke, heading for the shrine, for the seals, for the duty that had defined his entire existence.
Behind him, steel sang against steel.
Marya fought.
And Shiryu—Shiryu the Killer, the man who had murdered without consequence for decades—found himself giving ground for the first time in years.
"You're fast," he admitted, blocking a strike that would have taken his head off.
Marya didn't respond.
Her blade moved again.
And again.
And again.
Somewhere above, Bō-Zak screeched. Somewhere below, the festival burned. Somewhere in the mist, a former admiral watched with cold, calculating eyes.
And on the platform, the daughter of the world's greatest swordsman showed Shiryu exactly what that bloodline meant.
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