The silvery mist flowed downward, driven by a will sharper than Elbaph's volcanic spines. Marya didn't navigate the known paths to the Underworld; she plunged through fissures in thought and stone, a cascade of cold vapor cutting through atmosphere and timber. The revelation from the mural – the roots drinking the abyss, the facility's petrified horror – was a compass needle pointing down. Her Haki, usually a contained ember, crackled around her mist-form like St. Elmo's fire on a ship's mast, a visible corona of silver-black energy that hissed against the encroaching darkness. The air thickened, the comforting scents of earth and pine replaced by a chilling cocktail: ozone sharp enough to sting the sinuses, the petrichor of eternally frozen soil, and beneath it all, a faint, unsettling sweetness – like decaying amber or forgotten nectar.
She solidified not with grace, but with impact.
BOOM.
A shockwave ripped through the stillness of Elbaph's Underworld. Powdered snow, not soft and fluffy but gritty like crushed diamond, billowed outwards in a perfect circle from her boots. The sound echoed, not fading but seeming to be swallowed by the vast, frozen caverns that stretched into impenetrable gloom. A forest of giant, petrified tundra of trees, their bark turned to obsidian glass by some ancient cataclysm, stood like shattered columns. Long, dancing shadows that seemed to twitch with a life of their own shifted in the empty spaces. The ground wasn't earth; it was permafrost fused with veins of raw Adam Wood, warm to the touch where exposed, yet radiating an aura of deep, ancient cold. High above, impossible to see through the perpetual icy fog, the aura of the Treasure Tree Adam glowed with a faint, dying gold – Freyja's fading ward. The silence here was profound, broken only by the drip… drip… of meltwater from unseen ice formations and the low, subsonic hum of the planet's core vibrating through the frost. It was a landscape sculpted by primordial forces and scarred by forgotten sins.
Clink… Clank…
The sound was incongruous. Metallic. Heavy. Not the scrape of stone or the sigh of ice. Marya turned, her Haki's crackling aura momentarily illuminating the gloom like a dying star. There, chained directly to the colossal, glowing base of Adam itself, was a figure that dwarfed all the other giants she had seen so far.
Loki, Prince of Elbaf.
He wasn't merely large; he was a monument to scale. Easily twice the height of a standard giant, his frame was corded with muscle that strained even in repose against bonds that seemed ludicrously inadequate. The chains were massive – links thicker than Marya's torso, forged from black Seastone alloy that drank the faint light – yet they looked like children's toys restraining a volcanic eruption. His skin was pale from lack of sun, contrasting sharply with wild, hair matted with frost and grime. Eyes concealed under wrapped linens and massive arched horns protruded his helmet. His face, though bearing the regal bone structure of the Giant royal lineage, was etched with lines of profound boredom, simmering rage, and a cunning that glittered in his mischievous grin. Frost clung to his goatee and tips of his of his hair. Scars, some old and faded, others looking suspiciously like the marks of Conqueror's Haki impacts, crisscrossed his massive arms and chest. A monstrous warhammer, Ragnir, lay just out of reach, its head buried in the frozen ground, looking less like a weapon and more like a fallen monolith.
He shifted, the chains groaning in protest like tormented Goliaths. His expression, curiosity piqued in the gloom of his board restrained state, fixed on Marya. Not with fear, but with a predatory interest. "Hmm," his voice rumbled, a bass note that vibrated the ice underfoot. "A wisp of mist with teeth. Why… do you seem familiar?" He sniffed the air, nostrils flaring. "That Haki… sharp. Cold. Not like the warmongers who usually skulk down here."
Marya tilted her head, her golden eyes assessing the colossal prisoner and the laughable scale of his restraints compared to his own bulk. Her voice, calm and critical, cut through the frozen air. "This is unexpected. Now," she gestured vaguely at the chains, "what offense could you possibly have committed to warrant such… enthusiastic restraint? Stealing the King's mead? Kicking a puppy-giant?"
Loki's lips curled into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. He leaned back against the adamantine root, making the chains shriek. "Offense? I am the God who will cleanse this rotten world!" He declared it with the absolute certainty of madness or absolute conviction.
Marya raised a single, impeccably arched eyebrow. "A God?" Her tone dripped with glacial skepticism. She took a deliberate step closer, her small form utterly dwarfed, yet radiating an unnerving stillness. "Some God. Easily restrained by what appears to be oversized novelty shackles. I suspect you pose little danger. A minor threat, perhaps… easily ignored." She gave a small, dismissive wave of her hand.
The effect was instantaneous. Loki's smirk vanished, replaced by a snarl that bared teeth like tombstones. His eye blazed with fury through the linens. "IGNORED?!" He roared, the sound shaking ice from distant stalactites. He surged forward with terrifying speed, muscles coiling like steel cables. The chains snapped taut with a sound like mountains splitting, the Seastone biting deep into his flesh, drawing beads of dark blood that froze instantly on his skin. "Turn me loose, little wraith!" he bellowed, spittle freezing in the air, "I will show you the meaning of divine wrath! I will grind your bones to dust and scatter your ashes across the First World!"
Marya didn't flinch. She watched his futile struggle with detached interest, then slowly, deliberately, rolled her eyes. "And why," she asked, her voice like frozen silk, "would I do that? You appear to be an individual who is…" She paused, tilting her head as if searching for the perfect word, "...lacking. A 'God' unable to even scratch his own nose." She turned her back on him, scanning the petrified forest beyond, her crackling Haki flaring outwards like radar pings, mapping the unseen threats lurking in the gloom – the immense, slumbering heat signatures of creatures that belonged to an older, fiercer Elbaph.
Loki's furious thrashing subsided into a low, dangerous chuckle. "You think you can just venture into the Underworld, girl? This isn't a stroll through Sunlit Elbaph. The creatures here…" He jerked his chin towards the darkness. "They remember the First World. Frost Drakes that freeze your blood with a glance. Stone Wyrms that swallow ships whole. Shadow-Stalkers that peel sanity from your mind like rind from fruit. Pets, you call them? Ha! They are remnants of an age when Giants earned their place!"
Marya's lips curled into a faint, utterly smug smirk, visible only in profile to the chained giant. "Pets," she repeated softly, the word hanging in the frigid air. "Are easily tamed. Or put down."
Loki gritted his massive teeth, the sound like boulders grinding together. Her arrogance, her smugness, it scraped against his pride like flint on steel. "You…" he growled, his single eye narrowing, studying her intently, the fury momentarily eclipsed by intense scrutiny. "That Haki… that feeling… it scratches at a memory. Cold, sharp, arrogant… but beneath it… a shadow of something… warmer? Brighter? A familiar taint." His voice dropped, becoming almost thoughtful, dangerous. "Who are you, Mist-Walker? Why does your spirit… remind me of Shanks?"
Marya went utterly still for a fraction of a second, the crackling aura of her Haki flickering like a guttering candle. Then, slowly, she half-turned her head back towards him, her golden eyes glinting in the eerie bioluminescent light. The smirk returned, colder and more guarded than before. "Shanks?" she echoed, her voice devoid of inflection. "I am no one you should concern yourself with, 'God'." She turned fully away, dismissing him, her gaze fixed on the deeper, darker paths leading away from Adam's root, towards the source of the unsettling sweetness and the gnawing pressure of the Abyss.
Behind her, Loki strained against his chains once more, the metallic groans echoing through the frozen hellscape like the laughter of a trapped god. "No one?" he roared after her vanishing form, the sound tinged with frustration and a dawning, unsettling suspicion. "No one feels like that!" But Marya was already gone, swallowed by the shadows of Elbaph's deepest wound, leaving the Accursed Prince alone with his chains and the ghost of a Red-Haired Emperor.
*****
The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of Scopper Gaban's mallet striking a stubborn Adam Wood peg echoed through his open-air workshop nestled beside the fjord. Sunlight glinted off polished harpoon heads hanging beside well-oiled shipwright tools. The scent of salt, pine tar, and fresh wood shavings filled the air, a comfortable counterpoint to the distant thump-thump of young giants training at the Walrus School. Sweat beaded on Gaban's brow as he wrestled a curved plank into place on the hull of Old Salty's dinghy, his powerful arms straining against the resilient wood.
CRACK!
It wasn't sound, not exactly. It was a sensation – a thunderous, concussive wave of pure, crackling will that ripped through the air like a physical blow. It vibrated the mallet in Gaban's hand, made the teacup on his workbench rattle violently, and sent a cascade of wood shavings fluttering to the ground like startled birds. The very light seemed to dim for a split second, replaced by a chilling, invisible pressure that tasted like force and sharp, cold iron on the tongue.
Gaban froze. His weathered face, usually creased with concentration or good humor, went utterly still. The furrow between his brows deepened into a canyon. He slowly lowered the mallet, the heavy head hitting the packed earth floor with a soft thud. He straightened, his spine stiffening, every instinct honed by decades on the Grand Line screaming danger. His gaze snapped towards the distant branches where the Mural lay, the direction the impossible pressure had emanated from. Little Shadow… The thought was a cold stone in his gut.
"GABAN! SCOPPER GABAN!"
The frantic cry shattered the unnatural silence that followed the Haki blast. Ripley was sprinting down the path from the higher slopes, her usually serene face contorted with pure terror. Her breath came in ragged, tearing gasps, her braids whipping wildly behind her. Her dress was smudged with dirt, and her eyes were wide, reflecting the primal fear Marya's revelation had ignited.
"Ripley!" Gaban roared, already moving towards her, his earlier dread crystallizing into sharp alarm. He caught her as she stumbled the last few yards into the workshop, buckling over, hands on her knees, fighting for breath. The scent of fear sweat mixed with the pine tar.
"She… she saw… the mural…" Ripley panted, her voice raw. "She knew, Gaban… she knew about the Old Place… about… about under…" She sucked in another desperate breath, looking up at him, her eyes pleading, lost. "And then… she just… dissolved! Into mist! Silver mist! She said… 'Ground Zero'… and she looked at me… and…"
Gaban's hands tightened on her shoulders, grounding her. "Where did she go, Ripley?" His voice was low, urgent, cutting through her panic.
Ripley pointed a trembling finger straight down, towards the fjord, towards the heart of the island itself. Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Down. She went down, Gaban. To the… to the Underworld."
Every muscle in Gaban's body coiled. The implications slammed into him – the mural's secret, the petrified facility, Freyja's fading ward, the tremors, the dying creatures… and Marya, plunging headfirst into it alone. He released Ripley, spinning towards the back wall of his workshop where his twin axes, , Sea Breaker and Sky Cleaver, hung crossed above a faded Jolly Roger sketch. Their polished heads gleamed with lethal intent.
Before his hand could close on an axe haft, the ground vibrated with the heavy tread of multiple giants approaching at speed. Saul burst into the workshop clearing, his massive frame filling the entrance. Behind him came Bjorn, his face grim beneath his horned helmet; Einar, the stoic tracker, sniffing the air; Sigrun, her shield already strapped to her arm; Valgard, fingers twitching near his axe; and Brenna, the youngest warrior, her eyes wide but determined. They all carried the tension of the Haki blast, their expressions sharp with alarm.
"Gaban!" Saul's voice boomed, his eyes scanning the scene – Ripley's terrified state, Gaban reaching for his weapons. "Did you feel that? Like Conqueror's Haki… but colder. Sharper. Aimed down."
Gaban didn't hesitate. He yanked Stormbreaker and Tidecaller from the wall, the weight of the legendary weapons settling into his calloused hands with a familiar, deadly comfort. He met Saul's gaze, his own eyes hard as flint.
"Yeah, Saul," Gaban stated, his voice stripped of all its usual warmth, leaving only the iron core of the Roger Pirate's helmsman. "Felt it clear as a bell tolling doom. Seems our 'Little Shadow' decided to skip the scenic route." He jerked his head towards the deep fissures leading towards Elbaph's roots, the path Marya's mist would have taken. "She's headed for the belly of the beast. Looks like she found Ground Zero."
A collective intake of breath came from the gathered warriors. The name 'Ground Zero' carried the weight of ancient, forbidden knowledge, whispered only in the darkest sagas.
Saul's expression hardened, mirroring Gaban's resolve. He slammed a fist the size of a barrel against his chest plate. "Then we don't leave her down there alone. Not with whatever's stirring in the dark." He turned to his warriors. "Bjorn, Einar – point. Sigrun, Valgard – flanks. Brenna, watch our backs and the sky. Ripley," his voice softened fractionally, "get to the Walrus School. Be with Colon. Bar the doors."
Ripley nodded mutely, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a fierce maternal need to protect her son. She cast one last, terrified look at Gaban, then turned and ran towards the school.
Gaban hefted his axes, the familiar weight a grim promise. He looked at Saul and the warriors, a fierce, battle-hungry light igniting in his eyes – the light that had faced down Admirals and sailed the impossible seas.
"Right then," Gaban growled, the sound like grinding stones. He took a step towards the fissure entrance, the air crackling with renewed tension. "Enough gawping! Let's go!"
With a roar of assent from the giants, the ground trembled again, not from Haki, but from the thunderous charge as they followed Gaban towards the shadows, racing to catch the Mist-Walker before the Underworld claimed her.