The yielding mud wasn't cold, but ancient. It flowed over Marya like cold, thick pudding, swallowing her legs, her hips, the obsidian gleam of Eternal Eclipse pressed against her chest. The roots – slick, gnarled things thicker than her waist and pulsing with a faint internal light like buried veins – coiled with terrifying gentleness. They didn't drag; they guided, cradling her shoulders, sliding beneath her neck, turning her descent into a macabre baptism. The dark water closed over her face, not with a splash, but a soft, final seal, like a tomb door shutting. Above, the faint, dying glow of algae sigils was the last thing she didn't see.
Then, the Root Network claimed her.
Silence. Not the absence of sound, but a pressure against the ears, thick and suffocating. The mud gave way to a labyrinth of living wood. Giant cypress roots, intertwined like the arteries of a slumbering god, formed walls, ceilings, tunnels. They weren't inert timber; they breathed. A low, subsonic hum vibrated through Marya's bones, resonating with the Void-scarred veins on her own arms, making them itch and burn. Bioluminescent fungi, shaped like tiny, weeping faces, clung to the roots, casting shifting greenish light that made the shadows writhe. The air (was it air? It felt thick, liquid) tasted of iron-rich peat, decaying leaves, and something else – the coppery tang of old blood and the cloying sweetness of forgotten sorrows.
Whispers. Not in her ears, but in her mind. Fragmented cries, stifled prayers, laughter cut short – the psychic residue of centuries absorbed by the marsh. A flash: the terror of a slave fleeing Saint Lysander's whip, the desperate chant of a rebellion hushed before it began, the final gurgle of a Marine dragged under by L'Esprit. The roots weren't just pathways; they were archives of Nouvèl Orléon's suffering, etched in sorrow and rage. Marya, suspended in this liquid dark, became a conduit. Her profound weariness mirrored the roots' own burden – the weight of countless stolen stories.
Her descent slowed. The root tunnel opened into immeasurable space, yet it felt crushingly intimate. She drifted now, buoyed not by water, but by The Sentient Current's Embrace.
This was the heart. The will.
Below, above, around – there was no direction, only the Embrace. It wasn't water, but liquid shadow shot through with swirling constellations of Soul-Sugar dust and the cold blue witch-fire of trapped Les Guédés. It moved with a slow, deliberate pulse, like the breathing of a continent. Shapes coalesced and dissolved within it: spectral alligators gliding soundlessly, their forms woven from current and memory; schools of translucent fish with eyes like captured screams; tangled knots of glowing algae forming and reforming into intricate, fleeting voodoo sigils before dissolving like smoke.
The silence here was profound, yet loud with presence. It pressed against Marya's consciousness, a vast, ancient awareness turning its focus upon her. She felt its gaze – not eyes, but the weight of the marsh itself, patient, wounded, and immeasurably old. It recognized her. Not Marya Zaleska, daughter of Mihawk, but the Void-touched. The Mist-walker. The one who mirrored its own deep, consuming ache.
Tiny, eel-like creatures, woven from pure current and starlight, darted around her. Where they brushed the roots, intricate constellations flared briefly – not random stars, but maps of forgotten marsh paths, diagrams of Krewe rituals, even the serpent emblem of Bayou's Reckoning – before fading, as if the Embrace was silently communicating its secrets and fears through living cartography.
The Embrace cradled her, the liquid shadow cool against her skin, yet thrumming with latent power. Her Void scars blazed with cold light in response, a silent dialogue beginning between the ancient, wounded spirit of the marsh and the young woman carrying a fragment of oblivion within her. The profound weariness on her unconscious face was no longer just her own; it was the echo of L'Esprit du Bayou's eternal, sorrowful vigil. She wasn't drowning. She was being presented. Held in the dark heart of the swamp, awaiting the judgment, or perhaps the communion, of the Current that had hungered for her return. The journey through the root network was over. The true trial within the Embrace had just begun.
*****
The search began under a sky the color of tarnished pewter, the Red Force's chaotic deck shrinking behind Ben Beckman's broad back as he led the team into the Floating Quarter. The air, thick with the cloying perfume of overripe jasmine and the underlying tang of swamp decay, did little to ease the tension tightening Benn's jaw. Beside him, Limejuice adjusted his ever-present sunglasses despite the gloom, Yasopp scanned rooftops with a sniper's eye, Bonk Punch cracked his knuckles like pistol shots, Monster hefted his axe restlessly, and Jelly bounced with nervous energy, leaving faintly glowing, sticky footprints on the bubble-stone streets.
"Split up," Benn ordered, his voice a low rasp that cut through the morning murmur of hungover revelers. "Cover the canals, the brothels, the gumbo stalls. Anyone seen a grumpy swordsman, a brooding princess, or a doctor who smells like rum and regret."
They fanned out, a grim constellation moving against the flow of sluggish morning traffic. The Quarter felt different today – the usual vibrant chaos muted, the gaslit chandeliers seeming dimmer, the jazz spilling from open windows tinged with a discordant, anxious note. The weight of Shanks' command hung heavy: Find them.
It was near La Place des Masques, amidst the skeletal remains of Saint Lysander's cracked obsidian statue, that the unexpected clue tumbled into their path. A shriek of childish laughter echoed, followed by a high-pitched, gravelly imitation: "Hmph. Sentimentality is a poor substitute for a sword!"
Rounding a corner piled with discarded strings of party beads, Benn froze. Three orphans, no older than ten, were staging an elaborate pantomime. One, a wiry girl with mud-streaked cheeks, held a stick carved into a crude approximation of Mihawk's Yoru, her face screwed into a comically intense scowl. Another, smaller boy, mimicked Marya's guarded stance, clutching a rusted pipe like Eternal Eclipse, his expression unnervingly stoic. The third boy frantically juggled three smooth river stones, mimicking Hongo's flask-juggling, occasionally tripping over his own feet with a yelp.
"I tolerate distractions!" the faux-Marya declared, his voice piping but impressively flat.
"Liar!" the faux-Mihawk retorted, pointing her stick-sword.
Jelly gasped, wobbling into a starfish shape. "Mini-Mihawk! Mini-Marya! Mini-Hongo! Bloop!"
The orphans froze, their playful defiance evaporating into wide-eyed fear. They clutched their makeshift props like lifelines, backing towards a crumbling alleyway choked with bougainvillea. The girl brandished her stick. "Stay back! We ain't done nothin'!"
Benn stepped forward, his imposing figure blocking the alley entrance. He didn't reach for his gun, but his presence was a wall. "Easy," he said, his voice deliberately softer than his usual growl, but still carrying the weight of command. "We're not Krewe enforcers. We're looking for our friends. The real ones you're copying."
Yasopp crouched, offering a rare, lopsided grin. "That Mihawk impression? Spot on, kid. Scared me half to death." Bonk Punch grunted agreement, though his eyes scanned the surrounding rooftops.
The orphans exchanged wary glances. The faux-Hongo dropped his stones. "We saw 'em! Yesterday! By the Screamin' Gator statue!"
"Where?" Benn pressed, keeping his tone level despite the urgency coiling in his gut. "Where did they go?"
The girl lowered her stick slightly, suspicion still sharp in her eyes. "Why should we tell you? Grown-ups just bring trouble. 'Specially ones with swords."
Limejuice adjusted his glasses. "We're trouble for trouble, kid. Helps sometimes."
The orphans remained unconvinced, huddling together. It was Jelly who broke the stalemate. With a delighted "Bloopy-doo!" he morphed his entire body into a wobbling, translucent approximation of Mihawk's hat, perched precariously on Bonk Punch's head. Bonk Punch yelped, swatting at it, while the orphans stared, their fear momentarily eclipsed by astonished giggles.
Jelly reformed, bouncing excitedly. "See? Fun pirates! We just wanna find our stabby friend and grumpy friend and rummy friend! Did they go splash?" He gestured wildly towards the mist-shrouded Forgotten Marshes.
The faux-Marya boy nodded hesitantly, pointing a grubby finger towards the dense wall of cypress and mist marking the swamp's edge. "Yeah... towards the whisperin' trees. The scary man said somethin' 'bout 'boredom.'"
Benn's cigarette glowed brighter. The marshes. Where Tante Delphine had spoken of Bayou's Reckoning and death knocking. "Thank you," he said, the words sincere but clipped. "Stay out of trouble."
The team moved as one, their pace quickening as they left the relative safety of the Floating Quarter and plunged into the oppressive embrace of Les Marais Oubliés. The air turned thick and wet, tasting of iron-rich mud and decaying vegetation. Spanish moss hung like grave shrouds, brushing their faces. The ground sucked at their boots, and the only sounds were the squelch of mud, the drone of oversized insects, and the unsettling creak of cypress ghouls overhead. Bioluminescent algae pulsed faintly on the water's surface, casting sickly green reflections. The orphans' playful mimicry felt like a lifetime ago, replaced by the swamp's suffocating, watchful silence.
They hadn't gone far when the water near a gnarled, half-submerged cypress knee rippled. Not from a creature, but from a slow emergence. Théo "Mudpuppy" Savoie surfaced silently, water streaming from his wild, mud-caked hair. His eyes, luminous green like swamp fire in the gloom, fixed on Benn with unnerving stillness. He didn't speak, merely treaded water, his webbed fingers barely causing a ripple.
Benn stopped, raising a fist to halt the others. Jelly quivered into a protective bubble shape around Bonk Punch's legs. "You," Benn stated, recognizing the boy from Granny Zéphyrine's warnings. "Théo."
The boy's gaze swept over the group – the sharp-eyed sniper, the stoic staff-user, the hulking axe-wielder, the perpetually adjusting observer, the explosive brawler, and the wobbling jellyfish. His eyes lingered longest on Benn, then flickered towards a specific patch of unnaturally smooth, dark water further into the marsh, where faint, fading algae sigils still glimmered like drowned stars. He finally spoke, his voice a raspy whisper that blended with the swamp's own sighs: "Ya lookin' in the wrong mud puddle." He pointed a dripping finger, not towards the open water, but deeper into a tangle of whispering roots and clinging mist. "Follow. Quiet-like. The Bayou's breathin'... and it's angry." Without waiting for agreement, he submerged, leaving only widening ripples and the heavy implication that the search had just taken a far darker, deeper turn. The path to Marya, Mihawk, and Hongo led not across the swamp, but into its vengeful, living heart.
*****
The dawn light filtering through the canopy of Les Marais Oubliés was weak, stained green by the dense mist and clinging moss. It illuminated a scene of eerie stillness and devastation. Near the water's edge, amidst splintered mangrove roots and the grotesque, sparking hulks of ruined warshell gators, Mihawk lay like a fallen monument, Yoru's black blade a stark line against the churned, Soul-Sugar-glittered mud. Hongo was a crumpled heap nearby, face half-buried in sludge, shards of his prized rum flask scattered like broken promises. The air hummed with the residual ozone stench of Vegapunk's weapon and the cloying sweetness of spilled sugar.
Ben Beckman's sharp eyes caught the faintest twitch near Hongo's form as they pushed through a curtain of Spanish moss. "Movement," he rasped, hand instinctively going to the rifle slung across his back. The team froze – Limejuice adjusting his shades, Yasopp scanning for threats, Monster hefting himself onto Bonk Punch's shoulder while cracking his knuckles, Jelly quivering into a protective dome.
A weak, mud-choked groan rose from the heap. "O-over... here..." Hongo managed, pushing himself up onto trembling elbows. His face was a mask of grime and dried blood, one eye swollen shut. He blinked blearily, the sight of the Red Hair crew seeming to cut through his fog. "Beck... thank the drunken stars..."
They rushed forward, boots sinking into the treacherous muck. Ben knelt beside Hongo, his gaze immediately flicking to Mihawk's ominously still form. "Hongo. Status."
"Alive... mostly," Hongo coughed, spitting out black mud. He dragged himself towards Mihawk, doctor's instinct overriding his own pain. "Mihawk... took the brunt... shield..." His fingers, trembling, reached for the swordsman's pulse point.
As Hongo's grimy fingers brushed Mihawk's wrist, the world snapped.
Mihawk's eyes flew open – not drowsy, but wide, blazing with the sudden, terrifying intensity of trapped lightning. A wave of Conqueror's Haki erupted from him, invisible but crushing, making the very mist recoil. The swamp held its breath. Yoru was a blur of obsidian death, slicing upwards from the mud with a vicious hiss, aimed not at a threat, but at the figure looming over him – Ben Beckman.
Ben didn't flinch. Years of battling beside and against legends honed his reflexes. His forearm snapped up, pistol in hand, coated instantly in shimmering, impenetrable Armament Haki. The clash wasn't a deafening clang, but a brutal, resonant THUDD – the sound of a mountain striking an anvil. The impact vibrated through the marsh, shaking water from nearby leaves. Ben's boots sank deeper into the muck, but he held, unmoved, his gaze locked on Mihawk's wild, unseeing golden eyes.
"Mihawk!" Ben's voice was a whip-crack, cutting through the Haki's pressure. "Stand down! It's us!"
Recognition flooded Mihawk's gaze, extinguishing the feral light as swiftly as it appeared. The crushing Haki pressure vanished like a popped bubble. The tension bled from his frame. He lowered Yoru, the tip sinking back into the mud with a soft schlorp. Without a word, ignoring the trembling Hongo beside him, Mihawk pushed himself upright with fluid grace that belied his recent unconsciousness. Mud and algae plastered his coat, but his posture was instantly that of the world's greatest swordsman, scanning the devastation with laser focus.
"Marya." The single word, uttered in a voice colder than the swamp's deepest current, cut through the stunned silence. His gaze swept past his rescuers, past the groaning gators, past the scorch marks and melted metal, fixing with terrifying intensity on the patch of unnaturally smooth, dark mud near the water's edge – the only undisturbed spot in the carnage. "Where is she?"
Yasopp whistled low, nudging a half-melted targeting visor with his boot. "What in the seven blues happened here, Hongo? Looks like a Sea King ate a bomb factory and exploded."
Hongo struggled to his feet, wincing. "Marines... nasty new toy... sucked the air right out. Vacuum weapon. Blew itself up... took 'em with it..." He gestured vaguely towards scorched earth and indistinct, charred debris. "Then... ghosts... the swamp..." He shuddered, rubbing his throat as if remembering the suffocation. "They came for the Marines... and..."
Mihawk wasn't listening. He'd already taken three swift strides towards the smooth mud patch, Yoru held loosely but ready at his side. His golden eyes, narrowed to slits, scanned the water, the roots, the fading algae sigils like a hawk searching for prey. "The roots took her," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection but radiating a cold fury that made the humid air feel suddenly frigid. "Into the water. Into the mud." He turned his head sharply, pinning Hongo with a look that demanded confirmation, not excuses.
Hongo met his gaze, his own exhaustion warring with the memory of horror. "Aye. The swamp... it took her. Like it was hungry." He swallowed thickly. "Les Guédés... they just watched."
Mihawk's knuckles whitened on Yoru's hilt. The greatest swordsman in the world stood amidst the wreckage of men and machines, not seeing the destruction, seeing only the silent, smooth patch of mud that had swallowed his daughter. The hunt had just begun, and the quarry was the living heart of the Forgotten Marshes itself.