The dock had been peaceful moments ago.
Fishermen mended nets. Children chased each other between barrels. An old woman sold grilled fish from a cart, her voice rising in the familiar call that had greeted every dawn for fifty years.
Then the sky lit up.
Aurélie's head snapped toward the beach as the first explosion echoed across the water. Fire bloomed against the mist, followed by another, and another—a chain of detonations that painted the horizon in shades of orange and red. The crackle of electricity followed, sharp and dangerous.
Beside her, Dr. Zip H. Scatyl went rigid, his yellowish eyes fixed on the light show. His thin fingers twitched at his sides.
"What," he breathed, "is that?"
Someone screamed.
Aurélie turned.
The mist had parted, just for a moment—just long enough to reveal the silhouette of a ship. Massive. Dark. Its sails catching what little light filtered through the gray.
And on those sails, unmistakable in the flickering firelight—
Three skulls.
Aurélie's hand found Anathema's hilt. The cursed blade hummed against her palm, sensing her intent, ready to be drawn.
Zip's fingers closed around a scalpel.
Above them, a condor screamed—a terrible, piercing cry that echoed off the cliffs. Aurélie looked up in time to see two figures clash in the smoke-filled sky, their forms wheeling and diving like birds of prey. White suit against white feathers. Cane against talons.
Then she heard it.
Steel on steel.
Ringing out from the heights above, from the ritual platform where she'd sensed Marya's presence earlier. The clash of blades, the rhythm of combat, the unmistakable signature of her former student's Haki flaring in battle.
Aurélie's jaw flexed.
She took a step toward the path leading up.
A laugh stopped her.
It rolled across the dock like thunder—deep, rich, filled with the kind of amusement that only came from absolute confidence. The crowd parted, people scrambling out of the way, pressing themselves against walls and barrels and anything that might offer shelter.
Blackbeard walked through them.
Marshall D. Teach moved like a man who owned the world, his massive frame blocking out the light, his dark coat sweeping the stones behind him. He didn't run. Didn't hurry. Didn't acknowledge the terrified villagers scattering before him like leaves before a storm.
He just walked.
Past Aurélie. Past Zip. Past the burning stalls and the screaming children and the fishermen who had dropped their nets and fled.
His eyes—cold, calculating, glittering with ambition—were fixed on something ahead. On the path leading up. On the shrine.
On the seals.
Aurélie's hand tightened on Anathema. Her mind raced, weighing options, calculating odds. She could challenge him. Here. Now. But the reports of his power—two Devil Fruits, the ability to nullify powers with a touch—made the odds long even for her.
And Marya was up there.
Fighting.
Alone.
The choice tore at her.
Then the pirates came.
They poured off the ships like ants from a disturbed nest—dozens of them, then hundreds, their boots pounding against the dock, their laughter harsh and cruel. They grabbed at stalls, at goods, at people. A woman screamed as rough hands dragged her toward the ships. A child was lifted off his feet, crying for his mother.
Aurélie's decision was made.
She looked at Zip.
He looked at her.
For one long moment, the creepy doctor and the stoic swordsman shared an understanding. Neither trusted the other. Neither liked the other. But the monsters were here, and the innocent were dying, and some lines could not be uncrossed.
Zip's scalpel glittered in the firelight. "We appear to have run out of alternatives."
Aurélie drew Anathema. The black blade caught the flames gleaming as if announcing it's intentions, its edge hungry for its first slice.
"Stay close," she said. "Or don't. I won't mourn you."
Zip's laugh was high and nervous. "How reassuring."
They moved.
---
The first pirate never saw her coming.
Aurélie flowed through the chaos like water through cracks, Anathema singing its silent song. The pirate—a brute with a cannon for an arm—turned at the last moment, his eyes going wide as the black blade took him across the chest.
He fell.
Another stepped into his place. Fell.
Another. Fell.
Zip worked in her shadow, his scalpels finding throats and eyes and the soft spaces between ribs with clinical efficiency. His face was pale, his eyes wide, but his hands moved with the certainty of long practice. He had never fought in a battle before. He had, however, ended many lives in quiet rooms where no one would hear the screams.
The skills translated.
A pirate lunged at him with a cutlass. Zip sidestepped—not gracefully, not with skill, but with the desperate agility of prey—and his scalpel found the man's carotid. Blood sprayed across his white coat.
He stared at it for a moment, horrified.
Then another pirate came, and he moved again, because standing still meant dying.
---
A new sound cut through the chaos.
Slap.
A pirate flew backward, his face contorted in shock, his Haki—what little he had—shattered by the impact.
Casper Saul strode into the fray, his bowl-cut immaculate despite the chaos, his leather tunic gleaming with stains. His hand was still raised from the slap that had sent the pirate flying.
"Get off my island!" he bellowed.
Beside him, Trizzy Mo-Sin stumbled, tripped over a fallen pirate, caught himself on a barrel, and somehow managed to release a wave of golden Haki that sent three more pirates tumbling. His frizzy hair sparked with static, each strand standing on end.
"This is—this is very stressful!" he wailed.
WOOB-WOOB-WOOB-WOOB!
Rayan Bin-Jahiya spun into the center of the pirate mob like a top from hell, his bald head gleaming, his too-small tunic riding up to expose his belly. His Centrifugal Ryuo caught the pirates in its vortex, spinning them off their feet, sending them crashing into each other.
"Balance!" he shrieked happily. "Balance for everyone! Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!"
The monks formed a line—Casper at the center, Trizzy to his left, Rayan to his right, their Haki flaring in unison. Behind them, villagers scrambled to safety, dragging the wounded, carrying the children.
Aurélie fell in beside them, Anathema dripping.
Zip pressed his back against hers, his chest heaving, his coat now more red than white.
The pirates regrouped at the edge of the dock, their numbers still overwhelming, their confidence shaken but not broken. Their captain was gone, walking toward the shrine. Their commanders were elsewhere—on the beach, in the sky, spreading chaos across the island.
But here, on this dock, a line had been drawn.
Casper cracked his knuckles. "You boys picked the wrong island to invade."
Trizzy's hair sparked nervously. "Did we mention we're very good at hitting things? Because we're very good at hitting things."
Rayan bounced on his heels. "Can we hit them now? Can we? Woob-woob-woob!"
Aurélie raised Anathema, her steel-gray eyes fixed on the pirate horde.
Zip, despite every instinct screaming at him to run, raised his last scalpel.
The pirates charged.
The line held.
For now.
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