The oppressive, booze-soaked atmosphere of the Grog-Soaked Serpent clung to them like a bad memory as they stepped back out into the hazy Jaya sunlight.
The encounter with Teach had cast a long shadow, a silent understanding that a player of a different, more treacherous caliber was on the board. But Ragnar's focus was absolute, like a laser-guided intent that brushed aside distractions.
He hadn't come to Jaya for tavern brawls or cryptic confrontations; he had come for a legend, and for the power that lay beyond the clouds.
For the next several hours, the crew split into efficient pairs, their mission clear. Nami and Nojiko, with their keen eyes and personable natures, worked the markets and less-savory information brokers, trading tales of Alabasta for whispers of the "city of gold" and strange skyward currents.
Zoro and Bartolomeo provided a looming, intimidating presence that ensured conversations remained civil and prices fair, while Kuro's sharp intellect pieced together fragments of rumor and old sailors' logs.
Robin and Isabella delved into the few, dusty bookshops the town offered, cross-referencing myths with historical accounts.
Ragnar himself moved through the town like a ghost, his powerful Observation Haki stretched to its limits, not seeking enemies, but seeking a specific, elusive life force, a unique signature of avian vitality.
He ignored the furtive glances and the wide berth he was given, his mind a single-pointed search engine filtering out the dross of human consciousness for the one signal he needed.
It was in a cluttered, sun-bleached salvage yard on the outskirts of Mock Town, amidst piles of rusted anchor chains and splintered masts, that he found it.
Perched atop a crumbling ship's figurehead, a weeping mermaid with faded paint, was a large, peculiar bird.
It wasn't the monstrous South Bird he might have expected, but it was clearly a close relative. Its feathers were a mix of dull grey and vibrant sky-blue, and its most striking feature was its neck, which constantly, rhythmically swiveled a full three hundred and sixty degrees, its head never still, its black, beady eyes taking in every possible direction at once.
This was a Compass Bird, a rare subspecies known for its innate, unerring sense of atmospheric pressure and celestial alignment. It was the perfect living instrument to pinpoint the exact location of the Knock Up Stream.
The bird watched Ragnar's approach without alarm, its head rotating to keep him in view. Ragnar didn't move to capture it, he simply stood before it, extending a hand to it.
From his Heaven Dimension, he produced a handful of plump, gleaming red berries he had collected from Alabasta's royal gardens.
The bird cocked its head, then, with a swift, precise motion, darted forward and plucked one from his palm. It gave a soft, chittering coo of approval.
A connection was made. With the bird now voluntarily perched on his outstretched forearm, its claws surprisingly gentle, Ragnar turned and began the walk back to the docks.
The sight of the formidable pirate captain with the strangely serene bird on his arm added another layer to the growing myth surrounding him.
His path back to the Tide Reaver took him through the dense, encroaching jungle that separated Mock Town from the rest of the island.
The air grew thick and humid, the raucous noise of the pirate haven fading into a cacophony of chittering insects and unseen fauna.
It was here, in a small, surprisingly well-tended clearing, that he came upon another unexpected figure.
A man, lean and weathered, with kind eyes and a sad smile, was surrounded by a troop of small, white monkeys. They weren't hostile, they chattered and played around him, bringing him shiny pebbles and pieces of fruit.
The man looked up as Ragnar entered the clearing, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the Compass Bird, then settling on Ragnar himself with a look of deep curiosity.
"You are not like the others who come from that town," the man said, his voice calm and melodic.
"I am not," Ragnar agreed, stopping at the edge of the clearing. The monkeys eyed him warily but made no aggressive moves towards him.
"My name is Cricket," the man said. "Well, I am a descendant of Noland." He gestured around him. "We… my family… we keep the stories alive. The stories of the sky island, and of the liar, Noland."
"Noland was no liar. The city of gold was real. It is real."Ragnar said as he looked at Cricket.
Cricket's eyes, which held generations of inherited shame and doubt, flickered with a fragile hope. "You speak with great certainty, stranger."
"I speak with knowledge," Ragnar corrected him softly.
"The gold city, Shandora, awaits above. Your ancestor told the truth. The world simply wasn't ready to hear it."
It was a simple statement, devoid of grandiosity, but it carried the weight of absolute conviction. For Cricket, it was as if a chain he hadn't known he was wearing had been shattered.
He looked down at the monkeys, then back at Ragnar, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. "Thank you," he whispered, the words heavy with emotion.
Ragnar gave a slight, acknowledging nod. There was no need for lengthy conversation or shared confidences. A
truth had been affirmed, a historical wrong subtly righted. "Take care of your monkeys," Ragnar said, and with that, he turned and continued his journey through the jungle, the Compass Bird still serenely perched on his arm.
By the time he emerged from the foliage and reached the docks, the rest of the crew was already gathered at the Tide Reaver, their own intelligence-gathering complete. They watched his approach, their eyes lingering on the strange bird.
"The guide is acquired," Ragnar stated, answering the unspoken question. "Nami, plot a course for the southeastern point of the island. That is where the current will be."
Nami nodded, her navigator's mind already calculating wind patterns and ocean depths. "Understood, Captain."
They boarded the ship, the familiar thrum of its arcane engines a welcome sensation. As the Tide Reaver pulled away from the wretched hive of Mock Town, Ragnar stood at the prow, the Compass Bird now perched on the figurehead.
Its head swiveled constantly, but its gaze remained fixed on a single point in the southeastern sky.
The journey around the coast was short. Soon, they arrived at a deceptively calm patch of sea. The water here was a deep, almost unnatural blue, swirling in slow, massive gyres.
The air was still and heavy, charged with a strange, static energy. The Compass Bird let out a sharp, piercing cry and pointed its beak straight down at the center of the largest whirlpool.
"This is the place," Ragnar said, his voice low. "The gateway."
He turned to his crew. "Secure everything. Brace yourselves. This will not be a gentle ascent."
The crew sprang into action, battening down hatches, lashing loose equipment, and securing themselves to sturdy parts of the deck.
A mix of excitement and trepidation filled the air. They were about to attempt what most sailors considered a suicide mission, a journey to a world most believed was a fairy tale.
Ragnar walked to the very edge of the bowsprit, looking down into the swirling, dark water. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses, feeling the immense, pent-up power of the ocean deep below. He didn't need to wait for a natural event. He was the master of the sea.
He raised both hands, his entire being focusing into a single, world-altering command. His Water Logia powers surged, not to create a wave or a vortex, but to communicate with the very tectonic forces of the ocean floor.
He reached down, down into the abyssal trenches, and he pushed.
For a moment, nothing happened. The sea continued its lazy swirl. Then, a low, subterranean groan vibrated through the hull of the ship, a sound so deep it was felt in the bones more than heard with the ears.
The water around them began to tremble, fine ripples dancing against the current.
The groan grew into a roar. The center of the whirlpool began to bulge upwards, the water turning white and frothing with released pressure. A colossal geyser of water, wider than the Tide Reaver itself, began to erupt from the depths.
It wasn't a natural Knock Up Stream, but it was a commanded one. Ragnar was using his devil fruit to trigger the very same geological phenomenon, forcing the sea to obey his will and vomit forth its contents towards the heavens.
The column of water shot upwards with unimaginable force, a solid pillar of blue and white connecting the ocean to the sky. The Tide Reaver, caught in the periphery of the cataclysm, was seized by the tremendous suction.
"Hold on!" Ragnar roared, his voice barely audible over the apocalyptic noise.
The ship was yanked from the sea and into the base of the watery pillar. For a terrifying second, they were submerged, the world a roaring, crushing blue. Then, the upward force took over.
They were catapulted skyward, riding the man-made geyser at a velocity that pressed them into the deck, the G-force threatening to steal consciousness.
The world outside the railings became a blur of streaking water and sky. They shot past clouds, the air growing thin and cold. Below, the island of Jaya shrank to a mere speck, then vanished entirely into a blanket of white.
The Compass Bird, now tucked safely inside Ragnar's coat, chirped excitedly, its instinct telling it they were on the correct, impossible path.
Up and up they went, a ship and its crew defying gravity and logic, hurled towards a legend by the sheer, unstoppable will of their captain. The sea fell away, and the white sea of the sky awaited.
Their journey to Skypiea had begun.