The liquid shadow cradling Marya wasn't cold anymore. It was a velvet narcotic, seeping into her pores, lulling her consciousness into a drowsy, weightless surrender. The profound silence pressed in, thick and syrupy, punctuated only by the slow, resonant thump-thump of the marsh's ancient heart beneath her. Then came the whispers.
Not the fragmented cries of the root network this time. These were intimate, insidious, curling into her mind like smoke. "Sweet oblivion…" they sighed, a chorus of voices both alien and terrifyingly familiar. "Freedom from the weight…"
Fire. Sudden, searing. Not the Embrace, but memory. She was small, choking on smoke thicker than swamp mist. Screams – her mother's? – Ripped through a crumbling stone corridor. Elisabeta's face, pale and desperate, streaked with soot and tears, mouthing "Run!" Then, the shadow falling over them – impossibly vast, scaled, talons like obsidian scythes scraping stone. A Velociraptor, its eyes burning with unnatural, predatory intelligence, lunging not for her mother, but past her, towards Marya. The claw, larger than her child-self, whistled through the air, snagging her mother's shawl, yanking her back into the inferno. Elisabeta's final look wasn't fear; it was fierce, protective love, locking onto Marya's terrified eyes before the flames swallowed her. The child Marya's scream was silent, trapped in the smoke and the horror.
The Embrace pulsed, a sickly green light flaring within the liquid shadow. The whispers hissed: "See? Abandoned. Left to burn."
Searing pain in her shoulder. Vaughn's face, usually stern but kind, contorted in agony. The Consortium library, once a sanctuary, was now a charnel house. A Husk Soldier, half-metal, half-rotted flesh, its glowing gold eyes fixed on her, ignoring Vaughn. Its voice, a gurgling parody of life: "Elisabeta… Elisabeta…" Vaughn shoved her behind a collapsing bookshelf. "Go! Decipher it! Finish her work!" Then the seastone blade punched through his chest from behind, wielded by a masked assassin in Celestial Vanguard white. Vaughn's eyes met Marya's, not with pain, but with profound apology, before the light died. The whispers slithered: "Sacrificed for nothing. A pointless death. Your fault."
Darkness deeper than the Embrace. A cavernous void. A pentagram etched in cold, blue fire on obsidian floor. At its center, seated on a throne of shadows, a figure – indistinct, vast, crowned with horns like shattered planets. Red eyes opened, ancient and infinitely cruel, pinning her soul. Not looking at her, but through her, seeing the potential within, seeing the Dracule blood. A sense of cosmic insignificance, of being an insect before a god. The figure raised a skeletal hand, and the pentagram flared. "Mine…" The voice was the grinding of tectonic plates, the death rattle of stars. Imu.
Chaos. Steel flashing under a blood-red moon. A tall, dark silhouette moving with terrifying, unnatural speed. Yoru, a black comet tearing through ranks of screaming Celestial Knights, leaving geysers of blood and shattered weapons in its wake. Red eyes, identical to Imu's but burning with a different fire – raw, personal, annihilating rage. Mihawk. Not the stoic master, but a whirlwind of grief and vengeance unleashed. Bodies fell like wheat. A fortress crumbled. The whispers purred: "His rage… your rage. Unleash it. Let it consume them all."
Contrast. Cold rain on her face. The same tall silhouette, soaked and grim, holding her small, shivering form wrapped in a too-large coat. Red eyes, exhausted, haunted, but focused solely on her. Mihawk. Carrying her away from the fire, away from the ashes of her mother. A single, rough hand awkwardly patting her back, a gesture utterly alien to the swordsman, yet radiating a fierce, protective heat. The whispers recoiled slightly: "Weakness… Sentimentality… Chains."
The Embrace thickened, swirling with constellations of Soul-Sugar dust that pulsed in time with the whispers. They weren't just sounds now; they were feelings. A deep, seething resentment against the world, a bottomless well of sorrow for the island's suffering, a craving for oblivion so profound it felt like peace. Sweet revenge. Absolute power. Freedom from the pain, the memories, the expectations. The ideas bloomed in her mind like poisonous flowers, seductive and intoxicating. Freedom to let the Void within consume everything. Freedom to become the shadow that devoured the light.
"Yes…" a new voice resonated, deeper than the whispers, older than the roots. It vibrated within the liquid shadow itself, within the marrow of her bones. It wasn't heard; it was felt. A presence, vast and dark and ancient, coalesced in her mind's eye – not a shape, but an abyss, a Primordial Current of sorrow and oblivion. "Hand over your life… your pain… your fragile will. I will carry it. I will be your vengeance. Become my vessel, Mistress of Mist… and drown the world in sweet, silent nothing."
The offer was a narcotic tide. Marya felt drunk on it. The weight of Elisabeta's notebook, Vaughn's sacrifice, Mihawk's expectations, the gnawing Void corruption – it all seemed to dissolve in the promise of surrender. To let go… to become the abyss… it felt like freedom. Her stoic resolve, her guarded nature, crumbled like sand before the vast, ancient sorrow pressing in. The cold light in her Void scars flared brighter, responding to the Current's call. Her fingers, drifting limply in the Embrace, twitched towards the hilt of Eternal Eclipse.
Then, it hit.
A surge. Like lightning grounding in still water. Not physical, but pure aura. It tore through the narcotic haze, sharp, familiar, and utterly terrifying. Conqueror's Haki, infused with a rage so profound it vibrated the very fabric of the Embrace. Mihawk. Not the memory, but the living fury, echoing across the impossible distance between the swamp's heart and the surface. It was a scream of defiance, a blade of pure will cutting through the suffocating darkness. It resonated with the memory of his protective heat, his golden eyes focused solely on her.
Marya's own eyes snapped open in the liquid shadow, wide and unseeing, yet suddenly aware. The intoxicating whispers of the Primordial Current faltered. The seductive images of oblivion flickered. A sliver of her sharp, analytical mind pierced the fog. What… is this? The thoughts flooding her weren't hers. The rage against the world was too old, too deep, steeped in millennia of suffering that wasn't her suffering. The craving for silence felt alien, imposed. This isn't freedom… It's possession.
The cold fire in her Void scars sputtered, clashing against the sudden spark of her own rekindled will. The Embrace, sensing her resistance, tightened its psychic grip, the whispers rising to a frantic, desperate hiss. "Surrender! Embrace the silence! Become the Current!" But the echo of Mihawk's furious Haki, a beacon of terrifying, familiar strength, had anchored her. She wasn't drowning anymore. She was adrift, poisoned, but awake. The true trial wasn't judgment by the Bayou; it was resisting the siren song of the abyss itself. And Dracule Marya Zaleska, Void-touched and guarded, began to claw her way back from the edge of oblivion.
*****
The heavy door of La Maison Rouge groaned shut behind Ben Beckman, sealing out the cloying sweetness of Soul-Sugar and despair that hung over the Floating Quarter. Inside, the air was thick with older ghosts – decayed perfume, mildew, and the lingering phantom of cheap absinthe. Gaslit chandeliers cast flickering light on velvet chaise lounges worn bare by generations of secrets. Voodoo altars adorned with strings of party beads, cowrie shells, and rum bottles shared space with Catholic shrines, a testament to Nouvèl Orléon's syncretic soul. In the center of the shadowed parlor, Shanks faced Moxy-Rouge. Mihawk stood slightly apart, a statue carved from glacial fury, his golden eyes fixed on the middle distance, Yoru's presence a cold weight on his back. The rest of the Red Hair crew dispersed into the cavernous space, the tension from the marshes clinging to them like swamp mud.
"Ben delivered your message, Red Hair," Moxy-Rouge said, her voice raspy. She adjusted her crimson tignon, her gaze sharp beneath its folds. Petit Roi, her soul-stitched doll, sat rigidly on a nearby table, button eyes reflecting the dim light. "Calling Les Guédés at La Place des Masques? For what? The Bayou's court is no carnival."
Shanks met her eyes, his usual levity buried deep. "For Marya," he stated, the name hanging heavy. "L'Esprit du Bayou took her. Swallowed her whole into its heart. Not a kidnapping, Moxy. A claim. Tante Delphine said it hungered for the power she carries." He gestured towards Mihawk, whose knuckles whitened on Yoru's hilt. "We need the Spirit Judges. We need to bargain."
Moxy's clairvoyant eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She opened her mouth to respond, then froze. Her gaze snapped past Shanks, towards the crumbling fireplace. Lady Evangeline Desmarets flickered there, her translucent form in the tattered ballgown writhing unnaturally. The phantom absinthe dripping from her hem spattered faster, vanishing before it hit the rug like panicked tears. Her lace veil billowed as if caught in a spectral gale, the pinpricks of blue light beneath it flaring wildly. She wasn't just present; she was agitated, her form dissolving and reforming rapidly at the edges, her usual icy aura spiking with erratic, chilling pulses. Moxy frowned, a deep line etching itself between her brows. "Evangeline…? What's got into you, specter? The Bayou's claim stir even your cold bones?"
Before Moxy could ponder further, her attention was dragged back to Mihawk. The sheer, focused lethality radiating from him intensified, a palpable wave of cold fury that made the gas flames in the nearby sconces gutter. It wasn't directed at her, but at the situation, at the swamp holding his daughter. His glare, when it briefly flicked to Shanks, was pure, unadulterated promise: If this fails, I will carve a path to her, island be damned. Moxy felt a shiver that had nothing to do with ghosts. This wasn't just a worried father; this was the world's greatest swordsman balanced on a razor's edge, his restraint hanging by a thread woven from Shanks's words and the fragile hope of spectral intervention.
Around them, the crew moved with subdued purpose, the grim atmosphere stifling their usual boisterousness. Lucky Roux, wiping swamp grime from his face with a large handkerchief, announced, "Right. Grim business or not, stomachs won't fill themselves. Gonna see what the market's got that ain't soaked in despair or sugar." He lumbered towards the door, his bulk momentarily blocking the weak dawn light filtering through a stained-glass window depicting a martyred saint.
Hongo, looking pale and leaning heavily on his staff, nodded towards Gab. "My supplies are on the Red Force. Need to check the antidote stocks... in case." His gaze flickered towards Mihawk, a silent acknowledgment of potential future violence. "Monster, Bonk Punch – lend a hand hauling? Some of those crates are heavy." The two hulking crewmen grunted assent. Without another word, Hongo, Gab, Monster, and Bonk Punch turned and filed out, their footsteps echoing in the heavy silence.
Yasopp nudged Limejuice. "C'mon. Balcony. Best view to keep an eye on Lucky. Make sure he doesn't try to haggle with a Soul-Sugar dealer for breakfast." Limejuice adjusted his cracked sunglasses with a quiet click and followed Yasopp up a wrought-iron staircase to a second-floor balcony overlooking the mist-shrouded canal. They leaned on the railing, watching Lucky Roux's broad back disappear down a bubble-stone alley, their presence a silent, watchful guard.
Only Ben Beckman remained steadfast near Shanks and Mihawk, a pillar of calm watchfulness. His sharp eyes missed nothing – the agitated ghost, Moxy's calculating frown, the terrifying tension coiling in Mihawk's frame. His hand rested lightly near his rifle, a silent sentinel.
Moxy-Rouge finally tore her gaze from the flickering Evangeline and focused fully on Shanks and Mihawk. Her expression was grave, stripped of its usual dry wit. "Bargain with Les Guédés, Red Hair? For a soul claimed directly by L'Esprit? For the Mistress of the Mist herself?" She shook her head slowly, the beads in her tignon clicking softly. "You understand the price, yes? The Spirit Judges don't deal in berries. They trade in truths. In memories. In pieces of the soul laid bare." Her clairvoyant eyes fixed on Mihawk. "Considering the Bayou's hunger... the power it sensed in her... the cost to even ask for her back? It will be steep. Steeper than Saint Lysander's golden tower."
Mihawk's head turned slowly. His golden eyes locked onto Moxy-Rouge, devoid of fear, negotiation, or even comprehension of the word 'cost'. There was only a single, burning imperative: Marya. "I do not care," he stated, his voice colder than the depths of the Grand Line. "Name the price. Pay it in blood, memories, or the island's beating heart. It. Means. Nothing." The final words were clipped, absolute, resonating with the unspoken threat that if the spirits demanded something he deemed unacceptable, Yoru would become the only negotiator he required. The air in La Maison Rouge grew heavier, the perfumed gloom now charged with the terrifying weight of a father's resolve and the ominous promise of a voodoo queen's warning. The dance with the dead was about to begin, and the entry fee promised to be paid in soul-currency.
*****
The liquid shadow of the Embrace thickened, becoming a suffocating syrup that pressed against Marya's skin and mind. The Primordial Current's voice, a resonant hum vibrating deep within her bones, softened to a deceptive lullaby. "Rest, little Mist… Why struggle? The silence is peace. The darkness is freedom. Let the weight go…" It was a siren song woven from millennia of sorrow, promising oblivion like a warm blanket. For a heartbeat, the allure was almost irresistible – the crushing exhaustion, the burden of Elisabeta's legacy, Vaughn's death, the gnawing Void within Eternal Eclipse. Surrender whispered sweetly.
But Dracule Marya Zaleska, daughter of Dracule Mihawk, was not made for surrender. Her stoicism, honed by years of viewing the world through a lens of guarded observation, hardened into an icy core. The echo of her father's furious Haki, that terrifyingly familiar spike of indomitable will that had pierced the abyss, was a lifeline she clung to with razor focus. No. The thought wasn't shouted; it was a shard of ice forming in the narcotic fog. This isn't freedom. It's erasure.
Her eyes, unseen in the liquid dark, snapped open. "Where am I?" Her mental voice cut through the Current's crooning, sharp and demanding, devoid of panic but layered with the cold precision of a blade being drawn. "Release me."
The lullaby shattered. The Embrace constricted violently, the liquid shadow suddenly feeling like chilled tar. The Primordial Current's voice boomed, not in her ears, but within the marrow of her being, a sound like continents grinding together laced with mocking amusement. "Release? Foolish child! There is no 'where' to go! You drift in the heart of eternity, in the cradle of sorrow that birthed this wretched island! You are not a guest. You are a claim! The Mist walks, and the Bayou hungers. You… belong… to ME!"
The words slammed into her, carrying the psychic weight of countless drowned souls, centuries of stolen memories, the island's foundational agony. It wasn't just sound; it was an assault on her very identity, seeking to drown her nascent resistance in an ocean of despair. Images flashed – Saint Lysander's whip cracking, the gurgle of a betrayed rebel, the hollow eyes of a Soul-Sugar addict – all amplified, weaponized to break her.
Marya didn't flinch. Her guarded nature, her inherent distrust of anything that sought to control or consume her, flared into defiance. Viewing the Current not as a god, but as another obstacle, another entity trying to dictate her path, ignited a cold fury. She focused inward, past the poisoned lethargy, past the alien sorrow. She found the spark Mihawk's Haki had reignited – her own dormant Conqueror's Will, the inheritance of the world's greatest swordsman, tempered by her mother's fierce intellect. It wasn't a roaring inferno like her father's; it was a focused beam of pure, unyielding self.
"I belong to NO ONE!" The silent scream tore from her soul, manifesting not as sound, but as a pulse of obsidian Haki. It erupted from her, a shockwave of pure, defiant willpower visible as a ripple of distorting darkness through the liquid shadow. The constellations of Soul-Sugar dust scattered like frightened fireflies. The spectral eels recoiled. The Embrace itself recoiled, the psychic pressure momentarily lessening. For a single, glorious moment, Marya felt the crushing weight lift, felt the narcotic fog thin. She was Dracule Marya Zaleska, Mist-Mist wielder, bearer of Eternal Eclipse, and she would not be consumed.
The Primordial Current's response was a sound that defied description – a chuckle that vibrated the fabric of the Embrace, ancient, vast, and dripping with condescension. "Admirable… for a flicker. A spark of defiance in the face of the abyss. But you are MORTAL, child. A mayfly buzzing against the storm. Your will is a candle against my ocean. Your Haki… a pebble tossed into my depths."
The Current didn't roar. It simply pressed. The resistance Marya had momentarily created became the focal point. The liquid shadow flowed back in, denser, heavier, colder. It wasn't just physical pressure now; it was a psychic tsunami of accumulated despair, a billion whispers of "Give up" echoing from the island's tormented history. Her obsidian Haki pulse, so bright a moment ago, was smothered, compressed back towards her body. The cold fire in her Void scars flared violently, not in resistance, but in agonizing resonance with the Current's power, amplifying its crushing weight.
Marya fought. She marshaled every ounce of her sharp intellect, her analytical mind dissecting the assault even as it threatened to shatter her. She focused on the echo of Mihawk's rage, not as fear, but as a blueprint of indomitable strength. She pushed back with her Haki, a desperate, focused beam trying to pierce the suffocating dark. She visualized cutting through the Embrace with Eternal Eclipse, severing the tendrils of control. I am not your vessel! I am not your Mistress! I am MARYA!
But the Primordial Current was the heart of L'Esprit du Bayou, an entity as old as the island's sorrows. Marya's defiance, while fierce, was a candle against a hurricane. The Current's will was the storm. The pressure intensified exponentially. Her Haki beam flickered, dimmed, then collapsed inward. The liquid shadow invaded, seeping into her mind, her spirit, extinguishing the spark of self. The cold fire in her scars blazed with agonizing intensity, a final, desperate flare before being overwhelmed by the Current's icy darkness.
Her body, suspended in the Embrace, went rigid. Her breath hitched – a silent gasp in the liquid void. Her heart, hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs, stuttered. Once. Twice. Then… stopped.
The frantic whispers of the Current ceased. A profound, absolute silence descended, deeper than before. The struggle was over. The light of consciousness in Marya's unseen eyes dimmed, then guttered out. The sharp, analytical mind, the guarded spirit, the cold fury – all folded in on themselves, collapsing into the abyss. Her body went utterly limp, drifting bonelessly in the liquid shadow, a pale doll cradled by the ancient, hungry darkness. The Mist-Mist wielder, the Void-touched daughter of Mihawk, was gone. Only the vessel remained, awaiting the Primordial Current's claim. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was the silence of a tomb sealing shut.