The air in Grutte Pier Dorian's private study was thick with the scent of old parchment, iron-rich stone, and the faint, ever-present aroma of geothermal heat wafting through vents carved into the floor. The room was a reflection of the man—massive, austere, and built to intimidate. A desk hewn from a single slab of black basalt dominated the space, its surface etched with a map of the Genroshi territories. Behind it, a wide window framed a vista of Metz-Oni's industrial heart, where the eternal forges painted the low clouds a bruised orange.
Pier sat in a throne-like chair, his massive form a study in controlled stillness. To his right, Queen Ayana El Mahrusa perched with elegant severity, her keen eyes missing nothing. Across from them, Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin lounged with deceptive casualness, a cloud of fine chalk dust settling on his vibrant vest from a nervous habit of clapping his hands. Paula "Cupcake" Pope stood by the hearth, one boot propped on the stone rim, drawing on a long pipe, its smoke curling like a ghostly ribbon towards the vaulted ceiling.
The sharp, tinny brrr-ring of the Den Den Mushi on the desk shattered the quiet. The mollusk's face began to contort, its features melting and reforming into something aged, severe, and crowned with the distinct shape of an aged face with a full white mustache and beard wearing a black beanie.
Grutte Pier's violet eyes, cold and assessing, fixed on the snail. He lifted the receiver. The snail's expression settled into a familiar mask of imperial annoyance.
"Sovereign Grutte Pier Dorian," the voice that emerged was dry, scratchy, and layered with a profound, weary irritation. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
A slow, predatory smirk touched Pier's lips. He rested his bearded chin on a fist, the picture of relaxed dominion. "Saint Saturn. Your voice is as warm as the glaciers of the North Blue. Some items of interest have recently crossed my path. I thought I would extend the courtesy of a call."
The Den Den Mushi's brow—Saturn's brow—inched upward a fraction. "And what would the Genroshi, keepers of their little… project… have that could possibly interest the Gorosei?"
Pier let the silence stretch, a theatrical pause that filled the room with the distant, groaning song of the Grand Forge. He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight.
Saturn's snarl vibrated through the receiver. "I do not have time for provincial games!"
A low chuckle rumbled in Pier's chest. "I have recovered," he said, each word deliberate, "one of your lost little dragons. And, as a bonus, two other creatures of vanished bloodlines. A Lunarian child. And a Three-Eyed tribeswoman."
The snail's eyes widened minutely. "What? Which dragon—"
"The Figarland boy," Pier cut him off, his sneer audible.
The change on the Den Den Mushi's face was immediate. The annoyance crystallized into sharp, focused intensity. "You have him."
"The boy is not currently in my hand," Pier clarified, tapping a thick finger on the stone map. "But the person who holds him is sailing to me. A trade has been arranged."
"And who," Saturn hissed, "is arrogant enough to traffic with a Celestial Dragon?"
Pier's smugness deepened, filling the room. "The offspring of your most infamous fallen knight."
The Den Den Mushi's features contorted into a visage of pure, venomous recognition. "The Dracule brat."
"I see the name still carries a sting," Pier purred.
"You have her?"
"Not yet," Pier admitted, the smugness undiminished. "But I have a plan to acquire her. And when I do, something stolen from me will be returned. A happy reunion."
Saturn processed this, the snail's face a mask of ancient calculation. "And the Figarland boy?"
Pier shrugged, a gesture that spoke of utter indifference. "I have no use for Celestial Dragons. You are welcome to send a vessel to retrieve him. Consider it a gesture of… continued mutual understanding."
Saturn's grimace was clear even through the mollusk. He relented, the words dragged out. "Done. What of the other two?"
"The Dracule girl is my concern," Pier stated, his tone leaving no room for debate. "The Lunarian and the Three-Eye are yours for the taking, with the expectation of a future favor to be named. A small token of appreciation for my diligence."
A long, static-filled silence followed. Then, a curt, "Agreed." Before another word could be exchanged, the connection severed with a definitive click. The Den Den Mushi slumped, its features going blank.
Ayana shifted in her seat, the fabric of her dress whispering. "That went… well."
Pier didn't answer immediately. He stared at the lifeless snail, his fingers drumming a slow, heavy rhythm on the basalt—thump… thump… thump—like the heartbeat of the island itself.
Paula took the pipe from her lips, blowing out a smoke ring. "You seem on edge, 'Your Stony Majesty.' Anticipation or indigestion?"
Pier's gaze cut to her, the violet depths shimmering with something fierce and cold. "Anticipation," he rumbled. "Tsukimichi is being returned to me. It must be fate, intervening to allow me to redeem my greatest shame."
Archibald chuckled, trying to diffuse the tension with his brand of humor. "That wasn't a good day, boss. You were… distracted. More than usual. All 'woe is me, my fancy sword is gone.'"
"I never expected to hear the name 'Dracule' again in this lifetime," Pier continued, ignoring the jibe. His voice dropped, becoming a gravelly whisper that seemed to lower the temperature in the room. "But to learn he has spawned… a weakness he did not have before." A devilish grin, all sharp teeth and buried fury, spread across his face. "It gives me a profound sense of pleasure."
As if summoned by the dark turn of the conversation, the Den Den Mushi rang again, a shrill, urgent sound. Pier snatched the receiver. The snail's face melted once more, this time forming the sharp, intelligent features and neat beard of Ekkoo Ara Hyakushu, though the usual manic energy was replaced by a strained gravity.
"Ekkoo," Pier intoned. "Report."
"Sire," Ekkoo's voice came through, fast but uncharacteristically flat. "I have the updated damage assessment from the Jitan's attack on the Offshore Smelting and Melting Rigs." He took an audible breath. "We are looking at a thirty percent loss of power to the ore refineries. Power transmission to the main screw is critically impaired."
A boom like a cannon shot shook the room as Pier's fist slammed onto the desk. A web of fine cracks splintered the stone surface around his knuckles. "WHAT?"
Ayana jolted upright, her hand flying to her chest. Archibald's chalk-dust cloud poofed into a small mushroom cloud. Paula merely narrowed her eyes, her pipe frozen halfway to her lips.
Ekkoo continued, his words rushing out. "The explosion damaged the underwater turbines. We have to bring the entire turbine to the surface for repairs. My best estimate… six weeks minimum."
Archibald let out a low, slow whistle. "Six weeks? The old baby's gonna get cradle-rocked pretty hard."
The Den Den Mushi groaned, mimicking Ekkoo's stress. "Why do you think I'm calling? The math is bad, boss. Very bad."
Paula lowered her pipe, her voice all practical, warrior-queen steel. "Thirty percent is a hole in our armor. Do you have suggestions to compensate while the repairs are made? Or are we just hoping the Hitotsume likes lullabies?"
"I have one," Ekkoo said, after a beat of heavy silence. "But you won't like it."
Pier's growl was subterranean. "Out with it."
Another pause, filled only with the faint, frantic scribbling sound of Ekkoo writing on his chalkboard. "We hold an additional Lottery. Immediately. Double the number of Silent Saviors on the Capstan. The increased life-force burn might generate enough stabilizing resonance to cover the deficit until the turbine is fixed."
"WE CAN'T!"
Ayana was on her feet, her voice not loud, but raw with a protective fury that made the air hum. She leaned over the desk towards the Den Den Mushi, as if she could stare into Ekkoo's soul. "My people are spent, Ekkoo! The last draw emptied our reserves of spirit! I cannot ask for more, I will not order it! They are not firewood to be tossed into your furnace!"
Pier raised a single, massive hand. The gesture was calm, final. Ayana's protest died in her throat, though her eyes remained blazing. All attention swung back to the sovereign.
"There will be no additional Lottery," Pier stated, his voice returning to its bedrock calm. He looked at each of them in turn. "I have another idea." He leaned forward, the cracked desk groaning. "Instead of sacrificing more of our people, I will go to Kamaten. I will stand on Adamas Rock. I will become the Anchor myself until the repairs are complete. My Genbu aura should be sufficient to suppress the Hitotsume's dreams, even at reduced power."
A stunned silence greeted this. Paula was the first to break it, a smirk playing on her lips. "Well, ain't that a headline. 'Sovereign Turns Himself Into a Paperweight.' What about the Celestial Dragon exchange?"
Pier nodded. "The timeline aligns. Once I have secured Tsukimichi from the Dracule girl, I will depart for Kamaten. The exchange with the World Government, the management of the prisoners, the defense of our borders—I leave all of that to the three of you." His violet eyes swept over Ayana, Archibald, and Paula. "Does this sound agreeable?"
One by one, they nodded. Ayana's nod was reluctant, etched with worry for him, but she saw the grim necessity.
Archibald cleared his throat, addressing the Den Den Mushi. "Ekkoo, how long can your gearworks hold at seventy percent? When do the bad dreams start?"
The snail's face grimaced. "The damping field is stable… for now. But the resonance is decaying. If I were to estimate? We will feel the first real effects—the ground-shakes, the time-skews—in about a week. Maybe less."
"Understood," Pier said, his voice a final decree. "Prepare for my arrival. I will be in touch."
As he reached to end the call, a sharp, precise knock echoed on the heavy iron-banded door. The sound was too measured, too clean.
"Come," Pier commanded.
The door swung open without a sound. Dr. Zip H. Scatyl stood on the threshold, a stark anomaly in the world of giants. His sickly-grey skin was dull in the warm light, and his impeccably white medical coat was a splash of sterile contempt in the rustic room. His small, forward-pointing horns held nothing today. His yellowish, unblinking eyes took in the occupants with a swift, analytical sweep before settling on Pier. He gripped the handle of his worn medical bag, his knuckles white.
"You called for me, Sovereign?" His voice was soft, sibilant, and polite to the point of menace.
Pier gestured, not to Zip, but to Paula. "The doctor is here for the mink. Paula will show you the way."
Paula "Cupcake" Pope pushed off from the hearth, her movements all loose-limbed grace. She looked Zip up and down, her expression one of wry distaste, as if she'd been asked to escort a poisonous insect. "Right this way, Doc. The patients are… restless."
Without a word, Zip gave a shallow, precise bow to Pier and Ayana, then turned, his coat whispering, to follow Paula out. The door closed behind them with a soft, definitive click, leaving the study in a silence that now felt charged with a different, more intimate kind of dread. The fate of the world hinged on a broken machine and a sovereign's will, but in the damp halls of the palace, a more immediate, clinical horror was now being led toward the unconscious prisoners.
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