The stadium rose from Tosu's industrial heart like a rust-red flower, its curved tiers of stone and riveted metal packed with spectators. The morning sun burned away the last traces of fog, casting long shadows across the field below. The air smelled of grilled meat from market stalls outside, of fresh coffee from kopitiams, and of something else—the electric tension of a crowd waiting for violence.
Eliane Anđel wove through the seated groups, her silver hair bouncing in its high ponytail. A large basket hung from her arm, filled with wrapped parcels and small cloth bags. Her white chef's jacket was unbuttoned over a black top, and a smudge of flour still marked her cheek.
Jelly Squish wobbled beside her, his translucent blue body quivering with each step. His massive starry eyes fixed on the basket. Every few seconds, he launched himself upward—boing—his gelatinous form stretching toward the snacks.
Eliane sidestepped. Jelly landed on a crate, wobbled, and tried again.
Monster followed behind them, the large brown monkey's topknot bobbing. He chattered softly, his intelligent eyes tracking Jelly's failed attempts with what looked like amusement.
"No," Eliane said, pulling the basket away from Jelly's reaching nub. "These are for everyone."
"Bloop! Just one?" Jelly's permanent grin somehow looked pleading.
"You said that five snacks ago."
Jelly's body deflated slightly. "Bloop..."
Eliane approached Thatch, Vista, and Haruta. The three Whitebeard commanders stood near the field's edge, Vista stretching his shoulders, his hands flexing around the hilts of his swords. Haruta adjusted their gear. Thatch ran a hand through his hair, looking around the stadium with a mixture of confusion and amusement.
Eliane held out the basket. "Snacks?"
Thatch blinked. Then he laughed—a genuine, warm sound. "You're offering us snacks? Before a duel?"
Eliane grinned. "My mom says you should never watch a fight on an empty stomach. It makes people grumpy."
Haruta reached into the basket and pulled out a small pastry wrapped in banana leaf. "What is this?"
"Kaya roll. It's like coconut jam. Very good."
Vista did not move. His eyes stayed fixed on the empty field, his jaw tight.
Thatch nudged him. "Take one. She's not going away."
Vista's gaze shifted to Eliane. Her wide blue eyes held no fear, no hesitation—just the simple expectation of a child offering food. Vista's hand moved. He took a small parcel, nodded once, and turned back to the field.
Thatch bit into his pastry, chewed, and raised his eyebrows. "This is actually excellent." He looked at Eliane. "Your mom make these?"
"My parents are chefs. They own a restaurant." Eliane beamed. "I'm going to be a chef too someday."
Haruta smiled. "You're already on your way."
Thatch glanced around the stadium—at the pirates laughing and joking, at the guards standing at ease, at the children running between the seats. "Everyone here is so... casual. This feels like a festival, not a duel."
Haruta nodded. "It's strange. They act like this happens every week."
Eliane shrugged. "Maybe it does."
---
The stadium's main entrance groaned open.
Shanks walked in first, his black cloak billowing despite the lack of wind. His hand rested on Griffon's hilt, but his posture was loose, almost lazy. Marya followed half a step behind him, her raven hair catching the breeze. Her leather jacket—the Heart Pirates insignia bright over her heart—hung open over a grey shirt. Denim shorts, tall combat boots. Nisshoku rode across her back, the obsidian edge gleaming.
Beckman brought up the rear, a fresh cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke trailed behind him in a thin grey ribbon.
They walked past the Whitebeard commanders. Marya's golden eyes slid sideways, meeting Vista's glare. Her expression did not change. Cold. Unbothered. She held his gaze for a heartbeat, then looked forward.
Vista's jaw tightened. His hand twitched toward his blade.
Beckman's hand landed on Marya's shoulder—firm, grounding. He did not speak. He did not need to. The message passed through the pressure of his fingers: keep moving, stay focused.
Marya's pace did not change.
They stopped near Galit and Atlas. Galit's long neck curved in that loose S-shape, his emerald eyes sharp. Atlas's rust-red fur bristled with excitement, blue sparks jumping between his fingers.
"You got this, boss!" Atlas punched his fist into his palm.
Marya nodded once.
---
Marya's gaze lifted to the back of the stadium.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko stepped through the upper entrance, her silver hair loose and swaying. Wahid-Ahmed walked beside her, his cheese-spreader spear tapping against the stone steps. They moved to a pair of empty seats near the rear, settling in with the quiet efficiency of people who preferred observation to participation.
Aurélie's steel-gray eyes found Marya's. She nodded.
Marya's lips curved into a smirk. She raised one eyebrow.
Aurélie answered with her own smirk—small, knowing, almost warm.
Wahid-Ahmed leaned over, his dark eyes fixed on Marya. "Is that her?"
Aurélie nodded. "That's her."
Wahid-Ahmed smiled—the warm, forgettable smile of Ahmed the satay man. "This looks like it will be good. I am glad you invited me."
Eliane appeared beside them, basket extended. "Snacks?"
Jelly launched from behind her, arms outstretched, mouth open. Aurélie's hand shot out, palm flat, blocking his gelatinous face mid-air. He hung there, wobbling, his starry eyes crossed.
"Bloop."
"No," Aurélie said.
---
Marx-Mallow J. Butters-the-Third entered through a private tunnel, his flamboyant long coat clashing magnificently with the grey stone. His greasepaint mustache was immaculate, his cigar clenched in his teeth—unlit, as always. Gummo-Butter followed three steps behind, the peanut helmet gleaming, his face expressionless.
"Shanks!" Marx-Mallow called, waving his cigar.
Shanks turned, grinning. "Marx-Mallow! Good of you to come."
"Wouldn't miss it. Wah lao, a Whitebeard commander and Mihawk's daughter? This is better than the fighting tournament."
Marya's eyes narrowed. She growled under her breath: "Uncle."
Shanks ignored her. He walked over and sat beside Marx-Mallow, their postures equally relaxed, equally mismatched—the pirate emperor and the jester-king.
Marya glared at the back of Shanks's head.
Beckman blew out a plume of smoke. "Come on, kid."
Marya whipped her head around, her golden eyes blazing. "You—"
Beckman smirked. "Who did you think I was going to call to get this?"
Marya's jaw worked. She rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved.
Then the stadium erupted.
"GO, MARYA!" Rockstar's voice boomed.
"Kick his ass!" Bonk Punch shouted, Monster chattering from his shoulder.
"Bloop! You can do it!" Jelly bounced.
"Nah yeah, mate! Show him what you got!" Jannali waved her spear.
"Like, totally destroy him!" Bianca added.
Even Charlie cleared his throat and called out: "Ahem! Represent the Consortium with distinction!"
Marya shook her head. A smirk tugged at her lips despite herself.
Marx-Mallow leaned toward Shanks, his eyes bright. "This is going to be good."
Shanks nodded. "I guarantee they won't disappoint. This will be something you won't forget."
---
Vesta Lavana jumped to her feet, her rainbow hair flashing through a spectrum of colors. She cupped her hands around her mouth. "MARYA! MARYA! MARYA!"
Sanza Kaplan Figarland stood on his seat, his red hair wild, his Gallagher eyebrows raised so high they nearly vanished. "BIG SIS! SHOW HIM THE THING! YOU KNOW! THE SWISH AND THE BAM!"
Vesta grabbed Sanza's arm and pulled him into a bouncing rhythm. "FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"
Sanza bounced with her, fists pumping. "KICK HIS BUTT! HE LOOKS LIKE HE EATS BROCCOLI!"
Vista's eye twitched.
---
Marya walked onto the field. The grass was short, cropped close to the packed earth. The morning light fell in a golden rectangle across the center. She stopped in the middle and turned.
Vista walked toward her, his boots leaving faint impressions in the dirt. His swords hung at his hips, their hilts worn smooth from decades of use. His face was carved from grief and fury.
They stood ten paces apart.
"Remember this day, brat," Vista said, his voice low and rough. "Your father's legacy won't save you."
He drew his blades. Shink. Shink. The steel caught the light, and pink petals—soft, delicate, impossible—began to drift from the edges of the swords. They floated in the still air, spinning gently, beautiful and deadly.
Marya reached over her shoulder. Her fingers wrapped around Nisshoku's hilt. The black core of the grip felt warm against her palm. She pulled.
The blade slid free with a whisper. The obsidian surface dark stain preparing to leave it's mark, leaving a trail of darkness in the air. Crimson runes glowed along the steel, pulsing like a heartbeat.
She raised a brow. "You done with the speech?"
Vista's teeth ground together.
Marya opened her mouth to reply—then stopped.
A shadow moved across the stadium.
It started as a pinprick, high in the eastern sky. Then it grew—wings spreading wider than any ship's sails, feathers shimmering with iridescent light. The creature descended in slow spirals, its massive form blotting out the sun.
Amigo.
The Simurgh was a vision of impossible beauty. Its body was the size of a small galleon, covered in feathers that shifted through gold, silver, and copper depending on the angle of the light. Its head was not a bird's—it was canine, wolf-like, with intelligent amber eyes and ears that swiveled independently. A massive peacock tail trailed behind it, each feather tipped with an eye that watched the crowd below. Its paws—not talons, but paws, like a lion's—ended in curved claws that gripped the air as it descended.
The wings beat once, twice, sending gusts of wind across the stadium. Spectators shielded their faces. The shadow swept over the field, over Marya, over Vista, over everyone.
Amigo landed on the highest point of the stadium—a stone perch reserved for the island's banners. The creature folded its wings, the iridescent feathers settling into place.
Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo stepped off the Simurgh's back. His blond hair caught the wind, his pale grey eyes sweeping the crowd below. He lifted one hand. Amigo shimmered, folded, compressed—and became a small compass in his palm. He slipped it into his pocket.
Then he looked down. His gaze found Marya. His expression did not change. He simply watched.
---
Vista lunged.
Marya felt the shift in the air—the displacement of space as his blade cut toward her shoulder. She did not think. Her body moved.
Nisshoku rose. The blades met with a crack that echoed off the stadium walls.
"Distracted?" Vista snarled, pressing down.
Marya held him. Her golden eyes stayed fixed on his. "Just making sure I had an audience."
She pushed. Vista slid back a step, his boots digging into the grass.
Pink petals swirled around them, caught in the turbulence of their clash.
---
The duel unfolded like a dance written in steel.
Vista came at her with both swords—a flurry of strikes that should have been impossible to track. His blades left trails of pink in the air, the petals following each arc like loyal hounds. He attacked high, low, left, right, each strike flowing into the next with the grace of a man who had spent decades mastering his craft.
Marya did not retreat. She met each strike with Nisshoku's black edge, turning aside blows that would have split lesser fighters in half. Her feet moved in small, efficient steps—never wasted motion, never excess. The mind without mind. Her body acted before she thought.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Sparks scattered across the grass.
"You fight like him," Vista said, his voice tight. "That same cold arrogance. That same belief that you're above everyone else."
Marya parried a thrust aimed at her ribs, twisted, and brought Nisshoku around in a counter-stroke that forced Vista to leap back. "I fight like me. He just taught me how."
Vista's eyes narrowed. He charged again, his blades spinning in a whirlwind of pink. The petals thickened, forming a cloud around them, obscuring vision.
Marya closed her eyes.
She did not need to see. She felt his presence in the displacement of air, in the weight of his intent, in the whisper of steel cutting through the petals. Her Observation Haki painted him in shades of crimson and gold.
He came from the left. No—feint. The real strike came from above.
Nisshoku rose. The blades met. Marya held him there, their faces inches apart.
"Your father fought in the War of the Best," Vista hissed. "He stood with the Warlords while we—"
"While you what?" Marya's voice was calm, almost bored. "Lost? Grieved? Made him your obsession?"
She pushed. Vista staggered back.
"My father made his choices," Marya said, advancing. "I make mine. You want to fight his ghost? Find a medium. I'm right here."
Vista roared. He came at her with everything—a barrage of strikes that sent petals flying in all directions. The crowd gasped. Children covered their eyes. Jelly hid behind Monster.
Marya met him blow for blow. Nisshoku sang through the air, the crimson runes flaring brighter with each impact. She ducked under a horizontal slash, spun, and brought the flat of her blade against Vista's ribs—not enough to wound, but enough to make him grunt.
"You're angry," she said, circling. "Good. Anger makes mistakes."
Vista's jaw worked. "You know nothing about—"
"I know you lost someone." Marya's voice dropped. "I know it hurts. I know you want someone to blame. But I'm not him."
She lunged. Vista blocked, but the force drove him back another step.
"You want to fight?" Marya's golden eyes flashed. "Then fight me. Not my father. Not his legacy. Me."
Vista's chest heaved. The petals settled around them, carpeting the grass in pink.
Then he smiled. It was not a warm smile.
"Fine."
He came at her with a new rhythm—slower, more deliberate, each strike carrying the weight of his years. Marya matched him, her breathing steady, her focus absolute.
The duel continued.
---
High above, Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo watched. His pale grey eyes tracked every movement, every parry, every strike. His fingers touched the compass in his pocket.
Interesting, he thought.
Below, the blades sang. The crowd roared. And the morning sun climbed higher, casting no shadows that could hide the truth of what was unfolding on the field.
The morning sun climbed higher, burning away the last traces of shadow from the stadium floor. Pink petals carpeted the grass where Vista's blades had scattered them, a floral graveyard marking each exchange. The crowd held its breath.
Marya's boots skidded backward across the turf, her heels digging furrows in the dirt. Vista pressed his advantage, both swords spinning in a whirlwind of steel and petals. His strikes came faster now—not reckless, but relentless. Each blow drove her another step toward the stadium wall.
"You're slowing down," Vista said, his voice flat. "Just like I expected."
Marya did not answer. Her golden eyes tracked his shoulders, his wrists, the micro-shifts of weight that preceded each attack. Nisshoku moved in tight arcs, deflecting, redirecting, surviving. But she could feel the weight of his experience pressing down on her like the ocean's deepest trench.
Vista's left blade hooked around Nisshoku's guard. He twisted, wrenching her sword wide. His right blade came up—a thrust aimed at her chest.
Marya threw herself sideways. The blade tore through her leather jacket's sleeve, missing flesh by a finger's width. She rolled across the grass, came up in a crouch, and found Vista already there.
His knee drove into her ribs.
The air left her lungs in a grunt. She hit the ground, rolled again, and Nisshoku nearly slipped from her fingers. Pink petals swirled around her face, sticking to her hair, her cheeks, her lips.
Vista stood over her, both swords raised. "Your father would be ashamed."
The crowd gasped. Jelly squeaked. Sanza shouted something that got lost in the roar of blood in Marya's ears.
She looked up at Vista. At the swords. At the petals floating down like snow.
And she smiled.
---
"You're right," Marya said, her voice calm despite the dirt on her face. "I was slowing down."
Vista's eyes narrowed.
"I wanted to see how you fight when you think you've won." She pushed herself up, slow and easy, as if rising from a nap. "Now I know."
She moved.
Not fast—smooth. Like water finding the crack in a dam. Her body flowed around Vista's descending blades, Nisshoku tracing a lazy arc that somehow caught both swords at once. The impact shivered through the stadium, a sound like a bell struck in a cathedral.
Vista's eyes went wide.
Marya stepped inside his guard. Her shoulder drove into his chest. His arms crossed, blades tangled in his own momentum. She twisted, and Nisshoku's flat slapped against his wrists—not cutting, just... redirecting.
The swords flew from his hands.
They spun through the air, trailing pink petals, and landed in the grass ten paces away. Vista stood empty-handed, his chest heaving, his face a mask of disbelief.
Marya's blade came to rest against his throat.
The stadium fell silent.
"This is done," Marya said, looking down her nose at him. She drew Nisshoku back, the obsidian blade making it's final declaration just before she slid it into its sheath. The crimson runes faded to black. "I won't be so kind again."
She turned and walked away.
Vista stared at the grass. His hands trembled—not from fear, from fury. But he did not move. He could not.
Thatch and Haruta jogged onto the field, their boots crunching on petals. Hongo followed, medical bag swinging, his expression professional but his eyes wide.
"Vista!" Thatch dropped to one knee beside him. "You alright?"
Vista did not answer. He watched Marya's back as she walked toward the opposite side of the stadium.
Haruta placed a hand on his shoulder. "She could have killed you."
"I know."
---
The Red Hair Pirates exploded.
Bonk Punch leaped to his feet, Monster chattering from his shoulder. Limejuice threw his arms in the air. Howling Gab let out a roar that echoed off the stadium walls. Building Snake's scarred face cracked into something close to a smile. Lucky Roux clapped his massive hands together. Yasopp whistled through his teeth. Rockstar pumped his fist.
Galit grabbed Atlas by the shoulders and shook him. "She did it!"
Atlas's rust-red fur bristled with Electro sparks. "Boss! That was—" He could not find words.
Jelly bounced so high he nearly cleared the railing. "Bloop! Bloop! BLOOP!"
Jannali cupped her hands around her mouth. "NAH YEAH, MATE! THAT'S MY CAPTAIN!"
Eliane jumped up and down, her silver hair flying. "She won! She won!"
Vesta's rainbow hair shifted through every color in the spectrum as she screamed her approval. Sanza climbed onto his seat, fists pumping, red hair wild. "BIG SIS! BIG SIS! BIG SIS!"
Ember's mismatched eyes sparkled. She clapped her hands together, a small explosion of sparks bursting between her palms. "Pretty. Very pretty."
Charlie adjusted his pith helmet and cleared his throat. "Ahem. That was... strategically sound."
Bianca grabbed his arm. "Like, shut up! That was AMAZING!"
Aurélie watched from the back, her silver hair loose, her steel-gray eyes fixed on Marya. She did not cheer. She did not need to. The small smile on her lips said everything.
Wahid-Ahmed leaned forward, his dark eyes tracking Marya's progress across the field. "I have never seen anything like that."
Aurélie nodded. "She wasn't even trying."
Bō-Zak Kaminosukei sat with his legs crossed, his pipe smoking gently. He raised his gourd in a silent toast and drank.
---
Shanks walked onto the field, his cloak sweeping the grass. Marx-Mallow J. Butters-the-Third followed, his flamboyant longcoat clashing with the morning light. Gummo-Butter trailed three steps behind, peanut helmet gleaming.
Marya met them halfway.
Shanks grinned, his hand finding her shoulder. "Good job, kid."
Marya's golden eyes flicked to him. "You sound surprised."
"Not surprised." He squeezed her shoulder. "Impressed."
Marx-Mallow waved his cigar, eyebrows raised. "Yes, well done! I was on the edge of my seat!" He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Wah lao, I thought you were done for when he knocked you down. My heart nearly stopped."
Marya's lips twitched. "He thought I was done for too."
"That's what made it so good!" Marx-Mallow laughed, the sound bright and warm. "The old 'let them think they've won' trick. Classic. My brother used to do that in vaudeville. Different context, same principle."
Shanks shook his head. "Everything's vaudeville to you."
"Everything is vaudeville." Marx-Mallow puffed his unlit cigar. "You just haven't realized it yet."
---
High above the stadium, Donquixote Dunnjona Haigo stood on the stone perch. His pale grey eyes tracked Marya as she walked off the field. His hands rested on his cane, the silver handle cool against his palm.
He pulled the compass from his pocket.
The metal gleamed. He pressed the catch, and the compass unfolded—not with a click, but with a sigh.
Amigo rose from his palm.
The Simurgh's form expanded, feathers unfolding like a flower blooming in reverse. Gold, silver, copper—the colors shifted across its wings. The canine head lifted, amber eyes blinking. The peacock tail spread wide, each eye-tipped feather watching the crowd below.
The wings stretched. The span blocked the sun. Shadows swept across the stadium, and a gust of wind sent petals scattering from the field.
Haigo stepped onto Amigo's back. He did not crouch or kneel. He stood straight, hands resting on his cane.
Amigo leaped from the perch.
The wings beat once—a thunderclap of air that sent hats flying and children screaming with delight. The Simurgh climbed into the sky, its massive form shrinking as it rose.
Haigo reached into his coat and pulled out a den den mushi. The snail's shell was dark, its eyes sleepy. He spoke into it, his voice calm and unhurried.
"I know her next destination."
A pause. Static crackled through the snail's mouth. Then a voice—low, controlled, carrying the weight of absolute certainty.
"Tell me."
Haigo's lips curved. He turned his head, watching the stadium shrink below him, watching Marya's raven hair disappear into the crowd.
" Kushi Island."
The den den mushi's eyes sharpened. "I'll intercept."
"I thought you might."
The snail clicked off. Haigo slipped it back into his coat and looked ahead at the horizon. The wind whipped his blond hair across his face.
"Fly," he said.
Amigo's wings beat again. The stadium vanished behind them, and the sky opened wide.
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