The air in La Maison Rouge hung thick with tension, Shanks' grim ultimatum echoing in the perfumed gloom as Mihawk's golden eyes burned with lethal promise. Outside, the Floating Quarter had transformed. La Nuit Sans Fin was in full, feverish swing. Gaslit chandeliers strung between bubble-stone buildings cast wavering light on a chaos of masked revelers. They writhed on floating platforms above the canals, their movements jerky and exaggerated, faces hidden behind porcelain smiles and grotesque animal visages. The pulse wasn't music; it was a deep, resonant voodoo drumbeat thumping through the stone beneath your feet, vibrating in your teeth, a rhythm meant to appease spirits and drown sorrows. The scent of spiced rum, frying beignets, and the ever-present cloying sweetness of Soul-Sugar hung heavy, mixing with the damp breath of the marsh.
On a crumbling balcony overlooking the main canal junction, Yasopp leaned against wrought iron slick with condensation, his sniper's gaze methodically scanning the chaos below through the scope of his rifle. Beside him, Limejuice stood statue-still, his cracked sunglasses reflecting the kaleidoscope of masks and swirling fog. Below, bathed in the greasy glow of a gumbo stand's lantern, Lucky Roux was a mountain of contentment amidst the frenzy, demolishing a paper boat piled high with crispy beignets, powdered sugar dusting his chin like snowfall.
Jacques "Shakes" Moreau stood near the canal's edge, clutching his brass trumpet case like a life raft. Dressed in a sequined vest that strained over his gaunt frame, he should have been part of the band fueling the revelry. Instead, he trembled. Sweat plastered his thinning hair to his forehead, dark veins stark against his papery skin beneath the harsh lantern light. His eyes darted wildly, not seeing the dancers, but something far more terrifying. He fumbled with the trumpet's valves, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Sparklin'... so pretty..." he mumbled, his voice thick. To his hallucinating eyes, Soul-Sugar crystals bloomed inside the brass, glittering promises of oblivion. With a choked whimper, he drew a small, bone-handled knife from his boot and began frantically scraping at the trumpet's silver plating, desperate to harvest the phantom drug. The blade slipped.
"Agh!" A shallow cut opened on his palm. More alarming than the blood was the glint beneath the torn flesh of his cheap, flesh-toned glove – a sliver of dull grey, unmistakably seastone alloy, Marine-issue knuckleduster reinforcement.
"Ben!" Yasopp's voice, low but sharp, carried over the drumbeat. He didn't take his eye from the scope, tracking Jacques' panicked movements. "Down by the gumbo stand. Trumpet player. Get a look at his left hand."
Inside La Maison Rouge, Ben Beckman heard the call. With a curt nod to Shanks and Mihawk, whose lethal stillness hadn't shifted an inch, Ben slipped out the heavy door, melting into the shadows near the balcony stairs. His sharp eyes found Jacques instantly – the sweat, the tremor, the telltale seastone glint Yasopp had spotted.
Jacques pressed a filthy rag to his bleeding palm, his eyes wide with panic. He didn't see Ben materialize beside him, nor Limejuice step silently off the balcony stairs to flank him. Ben's shadow fell over him first. "Knife slipped, musician?" Ben's voice was deceptively calm, a rasp that cut through the nearby drumbeat. His gaze locked onto the exposed seastone. "Costume jewelry's awful heavy for a jazz man."
Jacques flinched as if struck. "N-not Marine!" he stammered, clutching the trumpet case tighter, backing up until he hit the damp canal wall. "Just... just part of the act! Stage prop!"
The cold muzzle of Yasopp's rifle pressed against the base of Jacques' skull. The sniper had moved like a ghost through the revelers. "World Government grade," Yasopp stated flatly. "High purity. Only Marines get that alloy. Or Cipher Pol. Which flavor of snake are you?"
Lucky Roux ambled over, licking powdered sugar from his fingers. He peered at Jacques' hand with theatrical curiosity. "Awful fancy knuckles for a fella playin' second trumpet, pal. They issue those with your sheet music?" He took another loud bite of beignet.
Trapped, Jacques' resolve crumbled. He slid down the wall, collapsing onto the bubble-stone pavement, his back against the cold, damp surface. The trumpet case clattered beside him. "One fix," he pleaded, his voice cracking, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. He looked up, not at Ben or Yasopp, but past them, his eyes glazed with desperate craving. "Just... just one crystal. Pure. Not the cut garbage. Then... then I'll tell you. Everything. About Boudreaux. About what he's really hunting!"
Yasopp crouched, his rifle still leveled. "Hunting? He's the one who got the whole marsh combed for Soul-Sugar."
Jacques let out a hysterical giggle. "Sugar? That's pocket change! He's turned the orphanages... Tante Delphine's kids... into little spies. Listening posts. Whispering anything about... the Black Stone..." He shuddered, hugging himself. "He's looking for it... Elisabeta Vaccaria's last research notes... hidden in the old lighthouse. Proves it... proves the Black Poneglyph ain't just history. It's tied to the Mist-Mist Fruit! Symbiotic... or somethin'..."
Ben's eyes narrowed. Limejuice adjusted his sunglasses with a sharp click.
"Tomorrow..." Jacques rasped, his chattering teeth making the words stumble. "Vanguard agents... comin' on a black ship. Bringin' Vegapunk's 'Soul Scanner'... not for people... for the bayou itself! Gonna rip the memories right out of L'Esprit... drain it like a... like a stuck pig..." He gasped, his addiction warring with his terror. "And the statue... Le Roi Soleil... in the Plaza... Boudreaux thinks... he knows... it bleeds! Black oil, like... like tears... when the Poneglyph's near! He's gonna make it scream!"
Lucky Roux exchanged a grim look with Ben. Yasopp kept his aim steady. Ben gave an almost imperceptible nod. Lucky rummaged in his voluminous apron pocket and pulled out a large, cloudy crystal – beautifully faceted but cold and dead inside. A clever fake: crushed seashells suspended in resin. "Pure as the rain," Lucky rumbled, holding it out.
Jacques snatched it like a drowning man grabbing a rope. With trembling, black-veined hands, he fumbled, bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply of the placebo. His eyes rolled back slightly in momentary, desperate relief. As he was distracted, Yasopp's hand darted out, palming a tiny, beetle-shaped tracker and slipping it seamlessly into the torn lining of Jacques' trumpet case.
"Let him run." The voice came from the deeper shadows near La Maison Rouge's entrance. Shanks stood there, his expression unreadable in the flickering light, his red hair a dark splash against the gloom. His gaze followed the stumbling, relieved Jacques as he shoved the fake crystal into his vest pocket and scrambled away into the throng of masked dancers, heading towards a narrower, mist-choked alley. "That rat's scared enough to lead us straight to his master's pantry."
Yasopp raised his rifle, tracking Jacques through the scope as the Marine vanished into the alley. Limejuice knelt, picking up a small, leather-bound notebook Jacques had dropped in his panic. Flipping it open, he revealed page after page of frantic sketches – detailed studies of the cracked Le Roi Soleil statue, obsidian tears streaming from its gold-plated eyes, pooling as thick, black oil at its base.
Through the scope, Yasopp watched Jacques stumble into the arms of a tall figure emerging from the mist – a man wearing an elegant, featureless white mask. The figure placed a comforting hand on Jacques' shoulder. Jacques sagged, babbling, likely about his narrow escape and his "score." The masked figure nodded slowly, then, in one smooth, brutal motion, twisted Jacques' head with a sickening crack. The Marine spy crumpled to the filthy alley floor like a discarded puppet. The masked figure stepped over the body and vanished into the fog.
"They're not just hunting the Poneglyph, Ben," Shanks said, his voice low and dangerous as Yasopp lowered his rifle, his face grim. "They're harvesting. Draining the island's memories, its suffering... to recreate it. To weaponize history itself."
Ben nodded, absorbing the horrific implications. He turned back towards the heavy door of La Maison Rouge, ready to deliver the grim intel to Shanks and the waiting blade of Mihawk. As his hand touched the cold iron handle, the ground lurched.
A deep, groaning earthquake ripped through the Floating Quarter. Gaslights swayed violently, casting frantic shadows. Masked revelers screamed, stumbling. The drumbeat faltered, then died. Inside La Maison Rouge, bottles rattled on shelves. And Mihawk, standing amidst the shaking room, went utterly, terrifyingly rigid. His golden eyes snapped wide, not with surprise, but with primal, soul-deep recognition. He felt it – not the tremor in the earth, but the sudden, chilling silence where his daughter's defiant spirit had briefly flared. The Bayou's heart had clenched. Marya's light had gone out.
*****
The Crawfish King lurked deep within the Forgotten Marshes, its hull slick with algae and draped in curtains of Spanish moss. Moonlight filtered through the cypress canopy, casting sickly green patterns on the deck where Vice Admiral "Bayou" Boudreaux stood. His moss-green coat hung open, revealing the dull glint of his voodoo-grafted gator claw – a grotesque fusion of swamp magic and Marine engineering. The air reeked of diesel, decaying vegetation, and the cloying sweetness of raw Soul-Sugar crystals stacked in crates nearby. Boudreaux's gaunt face was etched with exhaustion, his tricorn hat shadowing eyes that darted nervously across the dark water.
A shrill ring shattered the swamp's silence. Boudreaux snatched the receiver from a Den Den Mushi molded into the shape of a skeletal alligator, its shell pulsing with cold blue light.
"Report," hissed a voice like dry reeds dragged over stone – the Celestial Vanguard operative who'd just snapped Jacques' neck.
Boudreaux straightened instinctively, knuckles whitening on the receiver. "Operative secured and silenced. Intel contained. Shanks' crew intercepted—"
"Contained?" The operative's laugh was a venomous rasp. "Your men reek of withdrawal sweat. Soul-Sugar addiction bleeds their discipline like a gutted fish. And Shanks – the Emperor himself – prowls our marshes unchecked while you cower in this rotting barge!"
Boudreaux's gator claw flexed, tendons straining against grafted metal. "I've kept the Krewe distracted! The sugar flows—"
"Flows?" The operative's voice spiked, sharp as seastone. "It floods the streets! Your greed birthed this epidemic. Now addicts babble secrets to any pirate with a fake crystal. Jacques was a symptom of your rot, Boudreaux. Your incompetence forces our hand."
A pause crackled with static, heavy with threat. Boudreaux wiped sweat from his brow, the scent of fear cutting through the sugar-sweet air. "The scanner… Vegapunk's device needs calibration. The bayou's spirit resists—"
"Unleash the Husk Soldiers. Now."
Boudreaux froze. The Husk Soldiers – those biomechanical horrors fused from Devil Fruit users and ancient blueprints – were his last resort. Unstable. Unnatural. "The collateral… the islanders… Shanks will annihilate us if—"
"You fear an Emperor more than the Vanguard?" The operative's whisper was colder than the swamp's depths. "The Primordial Current hungers, Boudreaux. We harvest the bayou's memories tonight. Or your soul fuels the next Husk."
Boudreaux's protest died in his throat. He pictured the Vanguard's labs – the screams, the hollow eyes of failed experiments. His gator claw trembled. He closed his eyes, the taste of bile sharp on his tongue. "…Understood."
"La Place des Masques. One hour. Make the island bleed its secrets." The line went dead. The Den Den Mushi's eyes dimmed, leaving Boudreaux alone in the green-tinged dark.
He slammed a fist onto the ship's rail, splintering rotten wood. For a moment, the Soul-Sugar Baron's ambition warred with the Swamp Specter's dread. Then, shoulders slumping, he turned to his first mate – a hulking man with blackened veins snaking up his neck. "Signal the hold," Boudreaux rasped, his voice stripped of defiance. "Release Subject Zero and the Husks. Target: the Plaza. Let the dead… collect the past."
Outside, the water stirred as heavy, submerged cages groaned open. Glowing gold eyes flickered in the murk. The reckoning wouldn't wait for dawn.
*****
The suffocating perfume of La Maison Rouge was abruptly ripped away as Moxy-Rouge flung open the heavy doors. The cacophony of La Nuit Sans Fin slammed into them – a feverish wall of distorted jazz, shrieking laughter, and the relentless, primal thump of voodoo drums vibrating through the bubble-stone streets. Gaslit chandeliers swung wildly overhead, casting frantic, dancing shadows over the sea of masked revelers cramming the Floating Quarter. Beneath the cracked obsidian face of Le Roi Soleil, the statue wept anew. Not gold, but thick, viscous black oil seeped from its eyes, pooling like a dark, tarry halo on the plaza stones – a grotesque confirmation of Jacques' desperate intel. The air reeked of rum, desperation, and the cloying, pervasive sweetness of Soul-Sugar.
Moxy didn't hesitate. She strode into the chaos, Mihawk and Shanks flanking her like deadly shadows. Mihawk's golden eyes scanned the writhing crowd, not seeing individuals, only obstacles between him and the abyss holding his daughter. His presence was a contained supernova of lethal intent, making nearby masked figures instinctively flinch away, their revelry faltering. Shanks moved with deceptive calm, his single hand resting near Gryphon's hilt, his gaze sharp and assessing, cutting through the frenzy to the underlying currents of fear. The weight of his Conqueror's Haki was a subtle pressure, a calm eye in the storm Moxy was about to unleash.
Reaching the base of the weeping statue, Moxy stopped. She raised her arms, her crimson tignon stark against the flickering gaslight. From the folds of her gown, she drew Petit Roi, her soul-stitched doll. Its button eyes seemed to gleam with captured moonlight. She slammed the doll's feet onto the oil-slicked stone where the statue's black tears pooled.
"Hear me, Whisperers of the Swamp!" Moxy's voice, amplified by something deeper than lungs, boomed over the din, silencing the nearest revelers. It wasn't a shout; it was an invocation that vibrated the very stones. "Les Guédés! Spirit Judges! Keepers of the Pact! Your court is called! A soul is claimed! A debt is owed!"
She began to move. Not a dance, but a ritualistic stomp, her boots hitting the oil-slicked stone in a counter-rhythm to the distant drums. THUD. Slide. THUD. Slide. Each stomp sent ripples through the puddle of black oil. With her free hand, she scattered a pouch of graveyard dirt mixed with powdered bone and dried bougainvillea petals onto the dark pool. The oil hissed where it landed, releasing a scent like burnt incense and decaying roses.
Petit Roi, anchored in the oil, began to glow. A deep, violet light pulsed from its stitched seams, casting long, dancing shadows. Moxy's chanting grew louder, weaving Cajun French with the guttural syllables of the Void Century's tongue, words Shanks recognized from Poneglyph rubbings, words Mihawk felt resonate in the scarred Void pathways on Marya's arms.
"Desounen rite li ap mande!" Moxy chanted, stomping. "Lespri ki pran, lespri ki bay! Judge dis claim! Weigh dis soul! Bring de Bargainers!"
The pool of black oil at the statue's base began to churn. It bubbled violently, not with heat, but with a spectral cold that made the nearby air frost. Shapes coalesced within the inky depths – skeletal fingers, the curve of a ribcage, the hollow sockets of a skull. The distorted jazz music warped further, the trumpets wailing like lost souls, the bass drums mimicking the slow, heavy beat of a spectral heart.
Mihawk took an involuntary half-step forward, Yoru humming faintly in its sheath. The raw, ancient power coalescing was an affront to his mastery, a challenge to his claim. He saw only the delay, the ritual standing between him and Marya. Shanks placed a subtly restraining hand on his own sword arm, not touching Mihawk, but a silent reminder. Wait. This is the path.
Above them, the cracked face of Le Roi Soleil seemed to grimace. The flow of black oil increased, weeping down the statue's obsidian core, feeding the churning pool at Moxy's feet. Three distinct shapes were rising now, pulling themselves from the tarry substance as if climbing from a primordial well. They were skeletal, draped in tattered remnants of what might once have been festival finery – faded purple velvet, moth-eaten gold brocade, stained ivory lace. Their empty eye sockets glowed with cold, unwavering blue witch-fire. One held a phantom trumpet made of bone and shadow, another a spectral accordion of rib cages and sinew, the third a drum fashioned from a giant, bleached skull.
Les Guédés had answered the call. The Spirit Judges of Nouvèl Orléon stood before them, silent, ancient, radiating an aura of profound sorrow and implacable judgment. The bone trumpet raised, emitting a single, mournful note that silenced every other sound in the Plaza. The masked revelers froze, their forced gaiety replaced by primal fear. The drumbeat stopped. Only the slow, dripping plink… plink… plink… of the statue's black tears hitting the pool broke the silence.
Moxy-Rouge, breathing heavily, lowered her arms slightly. Her clairvoyant eyes were wide, fixed on the Judges. Petit Roi glowed fiercely in the oil at their feet, a conduit. "De court is convened," she rasped, her voice suddenly strained. She turned her head slightly, not taking her eyes off the Guédés, addressing the shadows behind her where Shanks and Mihawk stood like pillars of human will against the spectral tide. "Now... you speak your plea. And you pay de price de Judges demand."
The air crackled with unearthly power. The dance with the dead had begun, and the only music now was the slow, dripping blood of the island and the silent scream of a father's desperation echoing in the hollows of Mihawk's soul. The Guédés' blue fire gaze shifted from Moxy, past Petit Roi, and fixed upon the two Emperors standing at the edge of the abyss. Judgment awaited.