Eliane notices them going.
Her wings snap back. Her flame extinguishes. Her eyes widen.
"Hey, wait! I am coming—"
Elbert grabs her by the hand.
His grip is gentle—always gentle with her—but immovable, the same hand that once held extinction at bay through sheer will.
"You are staying."
Eliane blinks. Disbelief flickers across her features. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"No, Grandpa. I have to go! That is my crew!"
Marya, Jannali, Eliane, Aurélie, Law, Shanks, and Luffy pause. They look back.
Eliane announces, "I am the chef! I have to go!"
Jannali calls out, "Go on, get on home to your family and stay safe, mate."
Eliane shakes her head. Panic crosses her face—real, raw.
"NO! I talk to my family all the time! And I am safe!"
She gestures wildly at Marya. "Marya is my captain! She is super safe!"
Jannali scoffs, looking at Marya. "That's a good shout."
Marya smirks. Then she looks to Eliane.
Eliane calls out, voice cracking, "Marya! Tell him! I am the chef! I am part of the crew! I have to go! I have to—"
Shanks glances at Marya. "What are you going to do, kid?"
Marya glares at him. Then she replies, "Eliane."
Eliane blinks.
"You are part of the crew. You always will be. But the agreement I made with your grandfather was to bring you home. And I have."
Eliane replies, face fallen, panic-stricken, "But—"
Marya continues, "What I am doing isn't safe. I cannot promise you that you won't get hurt. Or worse."
Eliane snaps.
Fire blazes from her back—not the small, sputtering flame of practice, but something real. Something that burns with the intensity of a Lunarian bloodline awakening.
"I DON'T CARE!"
Marya smirks. "Well then. You had better figure out how to get away from your grandfather."
Eliane turns to Elbert. Tears of frustration well in her eyes—silver droplets catching amber light.
"Grandfather, I have to go!"
Elbert's expression becomes stern. The First Mask returns.
"You need to stay. And grow up. And—"
Eliane snaps.
All the flames in the room flare.
Gas lanterns roar to life. Fire in the central grate surges upward. Heat spikes through the Septenary, and every masked figure—every Cinder Knight, every councilor—feels the temperature rise.
Luffy comments, eyes wide, grin spreading, "Whoa! That was cool!"
Eliane looks her grandfather in the eyes. Her voice becomes steel.
"Grandfather. I love you. But I am leaving."
A pause.
"Even if you take me home, I will just leave again! I am not going to keep hiding like everyone else!"
Elbert looks at her.
Shock. Awe. And something else—something that glimmers at the corners of his eyes.
His shoulders begin to jostle.
He starts to laugh.
Eliane snaps, flames flickering, "It's not funny!"
Elbert looks her in the eyes. His voice carries warmth.
"I know it's not. It's just... reminded me of me, is all."
Eliane relaxes. "Oh."
She giggles. "Is that all?"
Elbert nods. Then he looks to Marya.
His voice carries across the Septenary—deep, resonant, the voice of a sovereign addressing an equal.
"Dracule Marya."
Marya tilts her head.
"If anything should happen to her—"
Marya cuts him off. "I will not be responsible. But I will give you the fight you want."
Elbert smirks. The expression sharpens his face, reminding everyone in the room that this is a man who has killed with his bare hands, who has forged an empire from ash and silence.
"I accept your terms."
He jerks Eliane into his arms.
She struggles. Her wings beat against his chest. Her small fists pound his shoulders.
"Grandpa! I will call you all the time!"
Elbert nods. Then he sniffles.
"You are growing up so fast."
Eliane pauses. Then she relaxes, returning the hug. Her small arms wrap around his massive frame. Her voice—when it comes—is soft.
"I love you too, Grandpa."
Elbert relaxes his hold.
Eliane smiles at him one last time. Then she races off to catch up with the group.
As they leave, Eliane looks over her shoulder. She waves—bright, cheerful, utterly Eliane.
"Bye, Grandpa! I promise I will visit! But not if you are wearing that weird mask!"
Elbert chuckles. He waves back.
Then he slides the mask back on.
The Gilded Leer returns. The First Mask returns. The sovereign of ash and shadow returns.
But beneath the porcelain—beneath the power and the terror and the iron will—Elbert Anđel is smiling.
And somewhere in the depths of the Septenary, the Chasm rumbles—a reminder that even in the darkest places, there is warmth.
*****
The streets of Caldera City climb in jagged tiers, each level carved deeper into the volcanic rock, each step closer to the hanging fortress that dominates the skyline. Steam whistles shriek from foundries below. The distant rumble of the earth—constant, grinding—vibrates through cobblestones worn smooth by decades of foot traffic.
Eliane skips ahead of the group, her silver ponytail bouncing with each bound, her small boots clicking against the stone in a rhythm that echoes off the terrace walls. She hums—a tuneless, cheerful melody that she has been repeating since they left the Septenary. The paprika smudge on her cheek has finally migrated to her chin.
Jannali watches her, one brow arched. Her afro sways with each step, her headscarf freshly adjusted, while quiet amusement warms her brown eyes—the kind born from gathering joy wherever it dares to bloom.
"Love, you're happy as Larry."
Eliane nods, spinning on one heel to face the group. Her blue eyes sparkle. "Yeah! Because I get to stay with the crew!"
Luffy grins. His sandals slap against the cobblestones, and his straw hat sits askew on his head. "Aww, your grandpa seems really nice."
He rubs his skull—a quick, reflexive gesture—and his expression shifts. The grin fades. A grimace replaces it.
"My grandpa was always hitting me. Called it the fists of love."
Jannali scoffs. "No surprises there."
Marya walks at the front of the group, her golden-ringed eyes fixed on the path ahead. She feels it before she sees it—the weight of a gaze pressing against her back. She glances over her shoulder.
Shanks meets her eyes. His gaze carries something unreadable. Something that might be assessment. Might be approval.
"What?" she asks.
Shanks shrugs. The gesture is casual—too casual. "Just impressed is all."
Marya narrows her eyes at him. She doesn't respond. She just turns back to the path, her boots clicking against the stone.
---
They round a corner.
The Roseate Auction House rises from the volcanic rock like a pustule.
The building is a domed amphitheater, its walls constructed from pink-veined volcanic stone quarried from the caldera floor. The stone swirls with patterns that look almost organic—veins and arteries of rose and crimson threading through grey. Crimson velvet drapes hang from every available surface, stifling sound, muffling light, absorbing the sharp tang of sulfur that permeates the island.
The entrance is flanked by two Cinder Knights—their porcelain masks gleaming, their magma-forged axes crossed in silent warning.
Jannali stops. Her nose wrinkles. "That is a proper putrid pink."
Law's eyes narrow. He tilts his head, reading the building as though its stone concealed a sickness only he could name. "Yeah. That is a lot of pink."
Luffy punches his fist into his open palm. His grin spreads wide. "It's time to get Uta back!"
Marya looks over her shoulder at him. Her voice is flat. "Uta isn't here."
Luffy's face falls. His jaw slackens, his eyes widening as the truth arrives several steps behind everyone else. "What? Then what did we come all the way here for?"
Jannali sighs. Her accent thickens the words. "Bloody hell, mate. We've already told ya—we're here to suss out how the clone got off the island."
Luffy cocks his head. A question mark—visible only to those who know him—hovers over his crown.
Shanks says, "Come on. Let's get this over with."
---
They walk inside.
The interior of the Roseate Auction House is a cathedral of excess.
The domed ceiling arches high overhead, its pink-veined stone ribs converging at a central oculus that lets in a shaft of filtered amber. Crimson velvet drapes cascade from the walls—heavy, sound-absorbing, stained with decades of smoke and whispered secrets. Private viewing boxes line the upper tier, their one-way grates allowing anonymous buyers to bid without revealing their faces.
The auction floor is packed.
Masked patrons fill the rows of velvet seats—merchants, brokers, warlords, and rogues. They clutch numbered paddles. They murmur to each other in low voices. Their attention fastens on the stage, every gaze honed by the same quiet hunger.
On the stage, bathed in a beam of amber light, sits a single throne.
Imu's Empty Throne.
It is not ornate. It is not gilded. It is not adorned with jewels or precious metals. It is simple—a seat carved from dark stone, its surface worn smooth by centuries. But there is something about it—something that makes the air around it feel heavier. Something that makes the shadows cling to its edges.
Law's eyes narrow on the empty throne.
Aurélie tilts her head, listening to the auctioneer rattle off numbers and respond to bids. Amber light spills through her silver hair. Her steel-grey eyes are distant, focused on something beyond the physical.
"This chair appears to be significant."
Beckman blows out a plume of smoke. His voice is dry with the weariness of eyes long past astonishment—least of all by furniture.
"That is no chair. That is the Empty Throne."
Law says, "What is it doing here?"
Jannali asks, "What the bloody hell is an Empty Throne?"
Luffy drops his fist into an open palm. His grin returns—bright, triumphant. "I know what you meant that time!"
Shanks interjects, "Is it the throne that was in Mary Geoise?"
Marya asks, "Mary Geoise had a throne?"
Shanks nods. His eyes is distant. "Yeah, kid."
Eliane asks, "What is the point of an empty throne?"
Luffy scratches his head. "Yeah, shouldn't someone sit in a throne?"
Law snaps, "You should know. You were there!"
Luffy looks confused. His brow furrows. His head tilts. "I was?"
Marya interrupts. Her voice is calm, measured. "It appears to be expensive."
Shanks nods. "Someone is salvaging and selling off Mary Geoise."
Marya nods, arms crossed. "Is that a bad thing or something?"
Shanks shakes his head. "I don't know."
---
High above the auction floor, in a private viewing box draped in shadow, Donquixote Doflamingo leans forward.
His pink feather coat rustles. His sunglasses gleam. His grin—wide, sharp, predatory—spreads across his face as he watches the group enter.
Beside him, Rosward Don J. Puth fidgets.
The former Celestial Dragon is a ruin of a man—his silk robes stained, his gloves worn, his tarnished pendant hanging from his neck like a noose. His pale grey eyes dart between the group below and Doflamingo's face. His fingers twitch toward his mouth—toward his ruined nails.
Doflamingo speaks. His voice is a purr. "What do we have here."
Rosward follows Doflamingo's gaze. His eyes land on Shanks. His face goes pale.
"Oh no. How did he find out?"
Doflamingo glances at Rosward. His grin widens. "Don't worry. Just go and get the item ready."
Rosward nervously stands. His chair scrapes against the floor. He rushes out—his footsteps echoing in the corridor beyond.
Doflamingo leans forward, peering down at the group from the shadows of the VIP booth. His white teeth gleam.
"This just got interesting."