Vander Decken could only stare blankly as Hody was hammered from midair into the ground by Crocodile, like a nail being driven into wood. His mind went utterly blank.
Tonight, not only had he gained nothing, but he had lost everything he had built up over the years.
This was the gambler's despair that filled Vander Decken's heart.
That worthless Hody—completely useless.
Vander Decken spat a thick glob of phlegm. He abandoned any hope in the deranged, mindless Hody and prepared to slip away. But his eyes drifted toward the dead Shirahoshi, and he couldn't help cursing under his breath.
"That idiot… couldn't she have endured a little longer? Now that she's dead, who's going to carry me away in this bubble? Damn it—I never should've thrown away my oar earlier."
As a Devil Fruit user, he was utterly helpless in seawater.
His eyes flicked toward the nearby Fishman Island citizens. Perhaps he could trick them into taking him somewhere safe?
But the moment their eyes met his, the islanders recoiled in disgust and fear.
Vander Decken had earned nothing but enemies. The Ryugu Kingdom despised him, Fishman Island wanted nothing to do with him, and now even the New Fishman Pirates who had once sheltered him were in ruins.
He was a jinx, a cursed star.
Anyone who touched him now would be dragged down with him.
Seeing the wariness in their eyes, Vander Decken's temper flared.
"You cowards!"
His gaze swept around—then froze. He blinked in surprise, then his face lit with joy as he shouted:
"Madam Shyarly! I didn't expect you to be here as well!"
Madam Shyarly, who had been staring blankly at the one-sided battle in the Dry Zone, turned at the sound of her name. Upon seeing Vander Decken, her brow furrowed in distaste.
Cowering inside his bubble, Vander Decken pointed pathetically at himself and said in a wounded tone:
"Madam Shyarly, look at me like this—I can't even get close enough to speak properly."
The hooded fortune-teller shook her head. "This distance is close enough. Speak from there."
Feigning a sheepish grin, Vander Decken nodded quickly. "Your brother Arlong and I—why, we were old friends, sworn brothers! Ah, the many nights we toasted together on Fishman Street…"
Shyarly cast him a cold glance, her voice sharp. "Enough lies. If you have business, say it plainly."
His words stuck in his throat. Inside, he cursed her harshly, but outwardly he kept his obsequious smile.
"You see, Madam, your prophecy has come true. The Davy Jones Pirates really have come to bring ruin to Fishman Island. Hody and I rose up to resist them, but alas, our foes were too strong. I fear poor Hody is finished this time."
"Madam Shyarly, we all came here driven by your prophecy—by the deaths of the two princes. Our sincerity can be vouched for by all. You can't just abandon me now!"
Shyarly glanced at him again. She said nothing, but her silence betrayed hesitation.
Vander Decken's eyes lit up. As long as she hadn't outright refused, there was hope.
He almost crawled out of his bubble to press his case—but before he could, a blade punched through his back, its tip bursting out from his chest.
With a strangled cry, Vander Decken clutched at the blade with his left hand. His broken right arm hung uselessly at his side.
Turning his head, he saw a bespectacled man in a sharp suit standing calmly behind him inside the bubble, his claws still glowing faintly with eerie green light.
Kuro drew one of his claw-blades back, adjusted his glasses with deliberate care, and said coldly:
"You should never have returned. You should never have opposed us. In death, beg forgiveness from Captain Davy Jones."
Vander Decken opened his mouth to retort, but Kuro's claws stabbed again, this time all ten blades plunging through his body. Blood gushed out in torrents.
When Kuro finally withdrew his claws, Vander Decken slumped against the inside of his bubble, his face frozen in disbelief. Dead.
The Fishman Island citizens shrieked in terror at the sight, stumbling back in panic, afraid they would be Kuro's next target.
Kuro lifted his gaze to Shyarly. "Vander Decken claimed you foresaw our arrival. Is that true?"
Shyarly looked at Vander Decken's mangled corpse. No matter how she tried, she couldn't maintain her usual composure. Unease and nervousness crept onto her face.
"It was mere coincidence that my prophecy aligned with this. From now on, I will never make another prophecy again."
Yet Kuro's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He stepped aside politely, extending his arm in an almost gentlemanly gesture, though blood still dripped from his claws. He smiled.
"Then perhaps you should come speak with our captain in the Fang Fortress?"
He was courteous in tone—but the crimson on his hands betrayed the menace beneath.
If even the subordinates were this ruthless, then what of Davy Jones himself? Shyarly dared not imagine.
She swallowed hard, steadied her breath, and with a fatalistic sigh said:
"Since you've invited me, do I truly have the right to refuse? I will go. But promise me—spare the Fishman Islanders behind me. They are not part of the New Fishman Pirates."
Kuro glanced at the trembling civilians. They carried no weapons, no armor, no sea beasts—dressed in either simple or fine clothes, but clearly not combatants. He gave a curt nod.
The islanders exhaled in relief as Shyarly allowed herself to be taken away. Their hearts churned with unease and guilt.
She swam smoothly through the water, tail flicking with practiced grace, still clutching the cushion-bubble she had brought with her.
Glancing sideways, she saw the human gliding swiftly through the sea, breathing freely. It wasn't natural swimming ability—it was the faint green aura encasing him, shielding him from the water.
So this was how they erased yet another difference between humans and fishfolk. The Davy Jones Pirates had already gained the means to strike Fishman Island at its core.
They passed through the transparent barrier of the Dry Zone. Shyarly settled back onto her bubble-seat, drifting forward atop the countless corpses.
She forced herself not to look down. One stray glance, one careless word, and she would join the dead.
The New Fishman Pirates had already collapsed, but what truly ended the battle was Crocodile's reappearance—trident in hand, Hody's severed head impaled upon its tip.
The residents of Fishman Island, as well as the wounded survivors of the New Fishman Pirates, panicked and fled in all directions. None wished to remain a moment longer.
Even Shyarly averted her eyes, unable to stomach the sight of Hody's lifeless, glaring face.
"Huh? Aren't you Madam Shyarly?" Hatchan exclaimed, startled at first, then breaking into joy. "It's been years since we last met!"
She gave him a small nod and a faint smile.
Then suddenly, all movement in the battlefield froze. The Davy Jones Pirates, the scattered remnants of the New Fishman Pirates, even the Fishman Islanders who had fled a hundred meters—all stopped in their tracks.
For the moon above had shifted once more, its glow bleeding from eerie green into crimson red.
This time, an eye opened upon its surface.
And with it, a terrifying organ melody howled like a storm, echoing through every corner of the Fang Fortress, then spilling beyond the Dry Zone. A pale mist began to spread.
The sound was like the chant of a demon choir, and it conjured an impossible sight that made every soul wonder if they were hallucinating.
From the corpses scattered across the battlefield, pale, expressionless forms began to rise—their souls, stripped from their dead bodies, standing up one by one.
The organ music ceased. The eye upon the crimson moon closed.
Perona hastily crammed her ghosts back into herself, her pupils shrinking in terror at the sight. She whispered:
"The souls of the dead… they've been torn from their bodies."
All eyes—pirates and Shyarly alike—snapped toward her.
"I can feel it," Perona stammered, her black pearl eyes wide with fear, clutching her chest as she trembled. "The captain's organ song carries dreadful magic. I can recall my ghosts… but these fishmen, these poor dead souls—they cannot hold onto their own."
Alvida moved beside her, like an elder sister, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and stroking her pink twin tails until she calmed slightly.
"What do you mean by 'cannot hold onto'?" she asked gently.
Perona slowly raised her hand, pointing at the spectral figures drifting upward.
"Look."
The pirates, Shyarly, and even the islanders turned their eyes upon the gray-white souls.
They were all moving together, drifting in unison, drawn toward a single direction.
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