Her voice is steady. But there's something desperate beneath it—something that sounds almost like pleading.
"Uncle. There is nothing to be gained by going to Bootleg. We should just go to Elegia and—"
Shanks' eyes narrow.
His voice drops.
"I already know what is on Elegia. And I won't be returning there."
The words land like stones.
Marya's jaw flexes. Her eyes—golden rings within rings—meet Shanks' scared eyes without flinching.
"You are wasting time. Just listen to what I am trying to tell you."
Shanks steps closer.
His presence—the presence of an Emperor, the presence of a man who has faced down monsters and walked away—bears down on her.
"You do not need to come."
Marya feels heat rush up her spine.
It's the heat of a challenge. Years of restraint kindle beneath her skin, every boundary drawn around her feeding the flame.
"I think I do, Uncle." Her voice comes out sharp. "Since the last time I left this to you, it didn't work out very well."
Shanks' eyes flash red.
Marya's eyes flash red in response.
The two of them stand there—Emperor and niece, mentor and protégé, family bound by blood and torn by grief—staring at each other with the intensity of two forces that refuse to yield.
The air between them grows thick.
Static crackles. The hairs on the arms of every pirate on the deck rise. The pressure of two powerful Haki users locking wills presses down on the ship like the weight of the sea itself.
Luffy grins.
A wild delight breaks across his face, born from a lifetime spent chasing the places where danger and wonder become indistinguishable. His eyes sparkle with the delight of a child watching fireworks.
Atlas calls out, concern sharpening his voice as he senses the confrontation slipping toward chaos.
"Um, Boss—"
Marya doesn't hear him.
She hears only her heart battering against her ribs, blood thundering in her ears, and years of hunted truth rising hot within her as the one person who should believe her turns away.
Ben blows out a stream of smoke.
He flicks his cigarette overboard. His hand lands on Shanks' shoulder.
His voice is quiet. Measured. Decades beside his captain have taught him the hidden rhythm of tempests—when to step into the thunder and when to let it spend itself.
"Hey, Shanks."
Romano Armando panics.
He scrambles backward, boots skidding across the wet planks, hands grasping at empty air. Finding a barrel, he folds behind it and peers over the rim, terror widening his eyes as the space between two storms becomes the only shelter left to him.
Ben curses under his breath.
Shanks doesn't hear him.
His scared eyes remain fixed on Marya, his Haki pressing down like the weight of the world.
Ben steps closer. His hand remains on Shanks' shoulder.
"We all want the same thing."
The words hang in the air.
Shanks blinks. The red in his eyes flickers, fades.
Marya looks over when she feels a hand on her shoulder.
Law stands beside her. His spotted hat shadows his features, but his gaze meets hers—dark and steady, tempered by years spent charting a path through the impossible.
"Hey."
Marya blinks.
Her lips press together. A silent thanks.
Shanks' eyes land on Law.
They linger.
There's something in his gaze—something searching, something assessing. The scrutiny of an Emperor evaluating a new variable in an equation he thought he understood.
Marya announces, her voice steady again.
"Fine. We will go to Bootleg. But we take the minisubs while the Red Force and subs adjust course to Elegia."
Ben replies before Shanks can.
Caution threads his voice, born from too many compromises whose promises frayed at the first hard pull.
"We have already told you—"
Marya tells him, cutting him off.
"And what if we get to Bootleg and you see that what I am telling you is true?"
Law adds, his voice calm. "You can always change course when we return. The minisubs can teleport. We won't lose time to travel."
Ben makes an audible sound of consideration.
He looks at Shanks. The silent conversation returns—the communication of men who have been together so long that words have become unnecessary.
"What do you say, Shanks?"
Shanks looks at Marya.
His expression remains unreadable. But something has shifted—something subtle, something that might be acceptance or might be the first crack in a wall that has stood for years.
He nods.
"Be ready to depart in an hour."
Marya nods. Her shoulders relax—just slightly, just for a moment.
"Meet me on the Thalassa. We will be ready to go."
---
Shanks stands at the railing of the Red Force, staring out at the water.
The locket is still in his hand. His thumb traces the triple clef—back and forth, back and forth—as if the motion alone could unlock the memories that have been locked away.
Behind him, the crew falls into the old rhythm of departure, every movement sure as a tide answering the moon. Supplies are checked. Weapons are inspected. The sail is adjusted to catch the afternoon wind.
But Shanks doesn't see any of it.
His mind is somewhere else.
He is on the Red Force, with the shattered amphitheater of Elegia receding across the dark water. The battle is over, yet the last notes of her song seem to linger in the salt wind.
And in his arms—
Uta.
She's so small. So light. Her hair—red like his, red like the dawn—spills across his arm. Her eyes are closed. Her chest doesn't rise.
She's dead.
The thought hits him again, fresh as the first time. A wound that refuses to heal. A loss that has become part of him, woven into the fabric of who he is.
She's dead. She's dead. She's dead.
"Shanks."
Ben's voice cuts through the memory.
Shanks blinks. The island fades. The amphitheater disperses. He's back on the Red Force, the locket in his hand, the wind in his hair.
Ben stands beside him. His expression reveals nothing, but his voice softens around a grief he has kept watch over for years.
"You okay?"
Shanks doesn't answer.
He holds up the locket. The silver glints in the afternoon sun, throwing fragments of brilliance across his scarred features.
"She said it was a clone."
Ben nods. "I heard."
Shanks' voice drops. Quiet. Vulnerable in a way that only Ben ever gets to see.
"What if she's right?"
Ben takes a long drag of his cigarette. He holds the smoke, lets it out slowly, watches it curl into the salt air.
"Then we've been wrong for years." He pauses. "And we owe her an apology."
Shanks' hand closes around the locket.
The metal presses into his palm—sharp, real, solid. A reminder of something he thought he had lost.
"I buried her, Ben." His voice cracks on the word. "I held her. I felt the warmth leave her body. I—"
He stops.
The words won't come.
The terror of hope—the fear that comes with believing something might be true when every instinct screams that it can't be—closes his throat.
Ben puts a hand on his shoulder.
"Then we go to Bootleg. We find this Rosward. We see what he knows." He pauses. "And then we decide what's true."
Shanks doesn't answer.
He just stands there, holding the locket, staring at the water, letting the hope he hasn't felt in years flicker like a candle in the wind.
---
On the deck of the Dreadnought Thalassa, Marya stands before the viewport.
The Red Force is visible in the distance, its sails catching the wind, its crew preparing for departure. The Pluton floats nearby—dark, silent, patient.
She holds the flyer in her hand.
Her thumb traces the jolly roger—the skull and crossbones with scissors.
Romano Armando.
She thinks of Romano—his rambling, his fear, the desperation carved by a lifetime spent at the edge of every room, unheard and unseen.
He's a messenger, she thinks. But messengers can change the world.
She thinks about Shanks.
About his denial.
About the pain in his voice when he said she died in my arms.
Tot Musica, she thinks. The hypnotic memory graft. It's still active. Still binding him to a lie.
She thinks about Uta.
About the clone.
About the real Uta—alive, somewhere, waiting to be found.
I'll find you, she promises. I'll find you and I'll bring you home.
She thinks about her mother.
About the notebook.
About the Gate of Lethe and the truth that waits beyond it.
I'm coming, she thinks. I'm coming for all of you.
The door to the bridge opens.
Law enters. The room settles around his silence, his steadiness shaped by years spent finding passage through the impossible.
He doesn't say anything.
He just stands beside her, looking out at the Red Force, at the Pluton, at the world beyond.
She doesn't say anything either.
But after a long moment, she reaches out. Her hand finds his.
And they stand there, together, watching the future approach.