The mini-subs breach the surface of Bootleg Island's outer waters as though the deep has reluctantly relinquished them—a soft whoosh of pressurized air, a cascade of bubbles, and then the sudden, overwhelming presence of the island itself.
The sky above is wrong.
It hangs low and heavy, a bruised violet ceiling choked with soot and ash, the sun reduced to a pale disc that struggles to pierce the perpetual twilight. The outer basalt cliffs spear upward from the sea, a black crown serrated against the murk; mineral runoff gleams along their sheer faces, while purple storm-clouds coil unbroken around their heights.
And beneath it all, the sound.
The Cascade.
It roars in the distance—a titanic breach where the ocean spills down a natural stone sluice into the subterranean belly of the crater. The sound is not water. It is the sky breaking endlessly beneath the sea, a deep, grinding tumult that trembles through the hulls of the mini-subs and takes root in every bone aboard.
Inside the lead sub, Marya's hands remain steady on the controls. Her golden-ringed eyes scan the displays, cataloging water pressure, current speed, the faint ping of the sub's beacon somewhere behind them.
Behind her, Luffy has his face pressed against the viewport. His breath fogs the glass with each exhale, and his eyes—wide, starry, impossibly bright—gather every shard of chaos beyond, alight with the wonder of a child watching a volcano awaken for the first time.
"SO COOL!"
Law sits across from him, his legs crossed, Kikoku resting against his shoulder. His spotted hat casts his tattooed features into shadow, but his expression bears the quiet ruin of too many hours spent in Monkey D. Luffy's orbit.
"It's a volcanic death trap, Straw Hat."
Luffy's grin somehow widens. "That's what makes it cool!"
Shanks—occupying the co-pilot's seat beside Marya—lets out a low chuckle. His single hand rests on the console, not touching the controls, just... resting there. His expression remains composed, but something flickers behind his eye. Something that might be anticipation. Might be dread.
Marya glances at him. "You've been here before."
It's not a question.
Shanks nods. "Once. A long time ago. Before..." He trails off.
Marya doesn't press. She just turns back to the controls, her hands steady, her expression unreadable.
The sub shudders as it enters the Cascade.
The water screams.
It's not a sound—not exactly. It's a vibration that travels through the hull, through the deck plates, through the blood in their veins. The sub tilts, nose-down, and the viewport fills with churning white foam and dark, angry water.
Luffy whoops with delight.
Law grips the armrests of his seat, his knuckles going white.
Shanks just closes his eyes and breathes.
---
The sub breaches the surface of the Chasm with a sound like a cork being pulled from a bottle.
The interior of Bootleg Island opens before them like a wound in the world.
The Chasm stretches in every direction—a gargantuan fissure splitting the island in two, its walls rising like broken sentinels, their surfaces glistening with seawater and mineral runoff. The water below is a brackish soup of deep oceanic blue, jade-green algae, and the distant, fiery reflections of magma plunging into the sea.
Above, the sky is a narrow strip of bruised violet, barely visible through the towering cliffs.
To the west, the Erupting Side.
Rivers of white-hot magma cascade down basalt chutes, plunging into the sea in screaming geysers of superheated steam. The air shimmers with heat, and the smell—sulfur, charred stone, the tang of something burning that should never burn—fills the sub's cabin.
To the east, the Syndicate Side.
A vertical metropolis clings to the inner crater wall like barnacles on a warship. Rickety staircases, tenements built of volcanic brick, swaying rope bridges that crisscross the chasm. Steam whistles shriek from magma-powered foundries. Gilded gondolas glide along heavy iron guide cables suspended across the gap.
And high above it all, suspended on twelve massive iron chains directly over the abyss, hangs the Septenary—the heptagonal bastion of the Masquerade.
Luffy presses his face against the viewport again.
"Whoa! It's like a city inside a volcano!"
Law pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's because it is a city inside a volcano."
"That's so cool!"
Marya guides the sub toward a docking platform on the eastern side, her eyes scanning the terraced city above. The Crystal Goblet Tavern—Auset Kryptos's domain—is carved into a natural geode on the third terrace. She can see it from here, its entrance glowing with warm amber light.
Shanks follows her gaze. "The tavern?"
Marya nods. "Information first. Then we find Rosward."
Shanks' hand tightens on the console. "And Uta?"
Marya doesn't answer. She just guides the sub into the docking clamps, the hull groaning as the mechanical arms secure them in place.
---
The dock of Bootleg Island is a study in controlled chaos.
Sailors and smugglers, merchants and mercenaries—they thread through the crowd with caution stitched into every step, each glance cast over a shoulder before the ash can settle. Dusters and long leather coats, treated with non-flammable wax to shed the falling ash. Brass-rimmed goggles fitted with smoke-tinted lenses. Wide-brimmed hats designed to deflect cinders. Practical clothing, stained with soot and salt, worn by people who have no interest in drawing attention.
The air tastes of copper and ash. Of charred meats and volcanic gas. Of something faintly chemical that burns the back of the throat.
Eliane wrinkles her nose. Her silver ponytail bounces as she walks, her chef's jacket flapping in the hot wind that rises from the Chasm below.
"It smells here."
Jannali walks beside her, her afro bouncing with each step, her headscarf—gold and crimson—adjusted perfectly. Her brown eyes roam the crowd, alert to every murmur the world lets slip.
"It's the pong from the volcano."
Luffy scratches his head. His straw hat sits askew, and his eyes—wide, confused—fix on Jannali as though her words have arrived from some shore no map has ever named.
"The what?"
Law groans. His spotted hat casts his features into shadow, but weariness has settled into every line of his face—the quiet toll of explaining the same truth until the words have worn thin.
"The volcano, Straw Hat."
Luffy laughs—a bright, genuine sound that echoes across the dock. "Oh yeah! That makes sense!" He turns to Jannali, his brow furrowing. "Why didn't you just say that?"
Jannali scoffs. Her accent thickens the words. "Nah, mate. That's what I just said."
Luffy's brow furrows deeper. "You talk funny."
Jannali opens her mouth—about to retort, about to deliver a sharp comeback that would make even Law crack a smile—
Beckman interrupts.
His voice carries the quiet command earned across decades of impossible waters, enough to steady a deck before the storm can break.
"Where are we going?" he blows out a plume of smoke.
He points his thumb toward a cluster of buildings on the upper terraces. "The auction house is that way."
Marya smirks. The expression flickers across her features—small, sharp, pleased. Validation that Shanks' crew has been here before. That they knows the terrain.
"The Crystal Goblet Tavern."
Aurélie walks beside her, amber lantern light threading itself through her silver hair. Her steel-gray eyes scanned the crowd with the sharpened stillness left by too many ambushes survived.
"Looking for information?"
Marya nods. "I want to know how Rosward Don J. Puth knew about the clones. And how he got them off the island."
Beckman blows out a plume of smoke. His voice carries a weathered dryness, honed by years of finding doubt more faithful than certainty.
"What if there is no clone? What if this is all a con?"
Marya raises a brow. "I would think there would be other, more profitable and easier ways to run a scam." She pauses, her golden-ringed eyes sweeping across the chaotic dock. "Besides, this is not the place to come to hustle people."
Jannali nods. "Too right."
Luffy asks, sudden curiosity brightening his voice as understanding slips just beyond his reach.
"Really? What's so special about this place? Other than it smells really bad?"
Marya shakes her head. "For a Pirate King, you don't seem to know much."
Luffy blinks. His expression shifts—confusion, then awkward laughter, then a sheepish grin blooming beneath the sting of being caught out. Rubbing the back of his neck he laughs.
Aurélie tells him, her voice flat. "This is one of the few locations where nefarious business dealings are conducted without interference from outside organizations."
Law adds, holding his chin, his eyes distant. "Making it the ideal location..."
Crash.
Trip.
Fall.
"—and stay out!"
They pause.
A burly man—broad-shouldered, masked, his apron stained with something that might be sauce or might be blood—tosses a drunk patron out of the Crystal Goblet Tavern. The patron stumbles, falls, and lands in a heap on the cobblestones.
Marya gestures. "Oh look. We're here."
Beckman mutters, "Charming."
Eliane asks, her voice bright. "Do you think they have potato skins?"
Luffy adds, his face scrunching. "Ew. Maybe they have meat!"
Eliane asks, tilting her head. "Is that all you eat?"
Luffy replies, his voice ringing with the certainty of a truth etched somewhere deeper than thought. "It's the best thing there is!"