NOVEL WEB Chapter 158: Chapter 158
The crisp Elbaph morning air rang with the sharp clang-clang of steel meeting steel. In the packed-earth yard behind Gaban's log house, Marya moved with Mihawk's lethal precision. Her obsidian blade, Eternal Eclipse, was a blur of darkness against the pale autumn sky, its crimson runes faintly visible as it sliced through the chill. Gaban, wielding a massive, blunt training axe forged from volcanic rock, met her strikes with surprising agility for his age, each parry sending shockwaves up Marya's arms.
"Come on now, lass!" Gaban boomed, a wide grin splitting his weathered face. He effortlessly deflected a lightning-fast thrust aimed at his ribs. Sweat beaded on Marya's brow, but Gaban looked as relaxed as if he were sipping tea. "Put some back into it! Feels like I'm fending off a determined butterfly, not Hawkeye's daughter! Not even a tickle of sweat here!" He chuckled, the sound rumbling like distant thunder.
Marya's golden eyes narrowed. The rhythmic clash of steel usually focused her mind, a meditation in motion. But today, fragments of the previous night intruded: Ylva's sightless sockets weeping starlight, the grating chorus of prophecy, the impossible weight of being declared a 'champion'. Champion of what? A bound goddess? Absurd. Distracted, she saw an opening. Gaban had overextended slightly on a wide swing. Instinct took over. She pivoted on the ball of her foot, channeling her frustration into a single, devastating downward cut – the Nightfall Descent, a technique designed to shatter defenses and end duels.
Eternal Eclipse hummed as it descended, a streak of obsidian death.
But Gaban, the legendary Roger Pirate, was never truly off-balance. With a grunt that was half surprise, half amusement, he twisted his massive frame with impossible speed. The volcanic axe haft came up not to block, but to deflect, guiding Marya's killing blow harmlessly past his shoulder. The blade slammed into the packed earth with a muffled thoom, throwing up a spray of dirt.
"Whoa there, firecracker!" Gaban chuckled, stepping back and lowering his axe. He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow with exaggerated flair. "Trying to cleave me in two before breakfast? Something heavy on that sharp mind of yours besides sword forms?"
Marya straightened, wrenching Eternal Eclipse free from the dirt. Her breath came in controlled puffs, misting in the cold air. Her expression was a mask of cool stoicism, but a faint flush of annoyance colored her cheeks. "Merely testing your reflexes, old man," she stated flatly, sheathing her blade with a decisive click.
Nearby, Colon, red-faced and earnest, was practicing his rudimentary stances under Jelly's enthusiastic, if wobbly, supervision. The blue gelatin jellyfish bounced nearby, morphing his gelatinous arms into clumsy approximations of swords. "Marya! Dad!" Colon called out, puffing from exertion. "Look! Am I keeping my feet wider? Like you showed me?"
Marya didn't turn her head fully. Her gaze was still locked on the spot where her blade had struck the earth, her mind clearly elsewhere. "Adequate. Wider," she called back, her voice clipped, devoid of warmth but technically correct.
Colon, beaming at the faint praise, oblivious to her tone, nodded vigorously. "Okay! Wider! Got it! Thanks, Marya!" He immediately adjusted his stance, tongue poking out in concentration.
Jelly echoed with a cheerful "Bloop! Wider!" and attempted to stretch his base, nearly toppling over.
Gaban watched Marya, his earlier amusement fading into thoughtful concern. He leaned on his axe haft. "So," he began, his voice quieter now, cutting through the morning sounds – Colon's grunts, Jelly's soft wobbling, the distant cries of seabirds. "What d'you make of what Ylva said? About Freyja... about you?"
Marya finally turned to face him. One dark eyebrow arched, a perfect picture of detached skepticism. "What Ylva said," she replied, her voice cool and precise, "was a fever dream wrapped in riddles. I am not here to be anyone's 'chosen one', Gaban. I am not here to save islands or placate fading goddesses." She tapped the pommel of Eternal Eclipse. "I am here to decipher a riddle carved on ancient stone. That is my purpose. Once it's done, I sail."
The finality in her tone was absolute. Gaban opened his mouth, perhaps to argue the interconnectedness of things, perhaps to offer reassurance, but Marya was already turning away. Her movements were sharp, purposeful, dismissing the conversation as thoroughly as she dismissed the prophecy.
He watched her stride towards the log house, her raven hair stark against the muted autumn colors, Biblo perched on a peak of the roof, watching like a silent sentinel. Just before she reached the door, Gaban called out, his voice deliberately light, breaking the tension she left in her wake, "Remember! Dinner's at six! Ripley's making that mammoth stew you pretended not to like last time!"
Marya didn't pause or acknowledge the remark, but Gaban, with the keen eye of a veteran who'd seen countless storms approach, noticed the slightest, almost imperceptible stiffening of her shoulders before she disappeared inside. The yard felt suddenly quieter, the clash of steel replaced only by Colon's determined practice and Jelly's cheerful, nonsensical encouragements. Gaban sighed, a plume of steam in the chill air, and looked towards the distant, brooding mass of the Adam Tree. Riddles upon riddles, and a guest who wanted nothing to do with any of them. Elbaph's troubles, it seemed, were only deepening.
*****
The air in the Owl Library hung thick with the dust of centuries and the sharp, dry scent of ancient paper. Sunlight streamed through high, arched windows, illuminating motes dancing like frantic spirits over a battlefield of open tomes, unfurled scrolls, and Marya's meticulously organized chaos. She sat rigidly across from Ange, the librarian's spectacles perched precariously on her nose as she squinted at a crumbling parchment filled with angular Poneglyph rubbings.
Marya stared at the same maddening verse they'd dissected for hours:
Verse II
Three keys forged in star, beast, and bone:
One charts the path where gods have flown,
One beats where leviathans groan,
One wears the face the world disowned.
Suddenly, Marya's composure shattered. She flung her head back against the high wooden chair, raven hair cascading, and let out a groan that vibrated in the quiet space. "OH MY GOD! How!"
Ange jumped, nearly knocking over an inkwell. "Shhh!" she hissed, glancing nervously towards the imposing, silent shelves and the stern-looking giant librarian lurking near the Astral Lore section. "Marya! Volume control! Some of these texts haven't been disturbed since the Void Century!"
Marya snapped her head forward, golden eyes flashing with rare, raw frustration before she reined it in. A muscle ticked in her jaw. "Apologies," she muttered, the word clipped. "It's… illogical. Frustrating."
Ange softened, pushing her spectacles up. "I know, I know. It feels like trying to catch smoke sometimes. Read it again? Slowly."
Marya took a measured breath, her voice flat but clear as she recited the lines once more.
Ange tapped a finger on the parchment. "Alright. Three keys. Forged implies they're objects, artifacts. The first charts a path where gods have flown. So, navigational? A star chart? An Eternal Pose to some sky-island? Maybe even one of those rare Log Poses that locks onto… well, divine locations?" She shrugged, the gesture encompassing the vast uncertainty. "The second beats where leviathans groan. Has a beat. So… a drum? A Leviathan's own drum? What else beats near those things? Their tails slapping water?" She offered a weak, awkward grin. "And the last… wears the face the world disowned. An unattractive person? Someone exiled?" She shrugged again, more helplessly this time. "Not exactly precise poetry, is it?"
Marya stared at her, expression utterly flat, like a calm sea hiding treacherous depths. "An unattractive person," she repeated, deadpan.
Ange flushed slightly. "Okay, okay! Bad example! Maybe we need a different angle. What about your mother's notes? Elisabeta's research into the Primordial Current? Anything there resonate?"
Marya exhaled slowly, the sound like steam escaping a pressure valve. She gripped her own shoulder, kneading the tightness that came from hours of hunched concentration. Her gaze drifted to her mother's personal notebook, bound in sea-serpent hide, its pages filled with Elisabeta's elegant, precise script interspersed with complex diagrams of ocean currents and celestial alignments. She flipped through familiar pages, her fingers tracing the ink. "Three keys… three keys… three keys…" she muttered, the words a low mantra. "Three… Three… Three…" Her eyes scanned a diagram showing interconnected spheres. "Earth… Sea… Sky…" The words escaped her lips almost without thought.
Ange leaned forward, hope sparking in her eyes. "Ooh! Earth, Sea, Sky! That could be something! A key from each realm? That fits the forged in star, beast, and bone maybe? Star for Sky, Beast for Sea, Bone for Earth?"
Marya shook her head, frustration bubbling back. "Too vague. Doesn't specify what." Needing to do something, she flipped another page in her mother's notebook. And froze.
There, nestled between complex calculations of tidal forces, was her father's name: Mihawk. Scrawled around it, not once but several times, were looping, delicate hearts. Perfectly formed, almost shy amongst the scholarly rigor.
A completely unexpected, utterly foreign sound escaped Marya: a soft, breathy snort of amusement. A smirk, genuine and fleeting, touched her lips. "Huh."
Ange blinked. "What? Did you find something? A connection?"
Marya didn't look up. Her thumb brushed over one of the inked hearts. "No. Not to the riddle." She held the notebook up, angling it so Ange could see the page. "My mother. She drew hearts. Around my father's name. When she was thinking of him, apparently." The clinical observation held a trace of bewildered warmth.
Ange's face instantly melted into an exaggerated, heartfelt 'Awwww!' She clasped her hands dramatically over her own heart. "Oh, Marya! That's adorable! The fierce scholar, secretly a romantic! Imagine Mihawk knowing—"
Ange stopped mid-sentence. Marya wasn't listening. Her golden eyes were locked on Ange's hands, pressed firmly against her chest. The smirk vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense focus. The clinical observer was back.
"A heart… beats," Marya stated, the words dropping into the quiet library like stones.
Ange looked down at her own hands, then back at Marya, confusion turning to dawning comprehension. "What? The riddle? One beats where leviathans groan? You think… a heart? A Leviathan's heart?"
"Precisely," Marya said, her voice regaining its usual cool precision, but charged with new energy. "Not a drum. Not a tail. Its heart. The core that drives it. The source of its life… and its groans." She tapped the notebook page where her mother had drawn the hearts. "The symbol fits the context. A literal, physical heart."
Ange's excitement flared. "Yes! That makes terrifying, visceral sense! But… where would you even find a Leviathan's heart? Those things are supposed to be extinct! Fossils! Legends!"
"Not necessarily," Marya countered, already scanning the shelves with renewed purpose. "Legends persist for a reason. Fossils imply existence. And the riddle specifies it beats. Present tense. Implying it exists now."
Ange shot up from her chair, nearly toppling it. "Fishman Island!" she declared, darting towards a section marked 'Marine Megafauna & Folklore'. She returned moments later, staggering under the weight of a massive, algae-green tome. Slamming it down, she flipped pages with frantic energy, sending dust motes swirling. "Here! Look!" She pointed triumphantly to an ancient woodcut illustration.
It depicted a majestic, serpentine sea dragon coiling around a radiant mermaid queen. The caption, in faded ink, read: "The Covenant of Ryugu: Poseidon's Heir and the Ancient Leviathan, Guardian of the Deep Trenches."
"See?" Ange breathed. "Old Fishman Island legends! They speak of ancient Leviathans, guardians bonded to the Sea Kings, maybe even to the lineage of Poseidon! Their hearts weren't just organs; they were relics, sources of power, bound to the very lifeblood of the ocean! If one survived… or if its preserved heart still holds power…"
Marya studied the illustration, her mind racing. Fishman Island. Deep trenches. A living or preserved heart of an ancient oceanic titan. "One down," she murmured, a spark of grim satisfaction in her eyes. She looked back at the riddle. "Now. The star-charting key… and the disowned face. Your turn, Ange. Where do we look next?" The mountain of books seemed less daunting now. They had a tangible thread to pull.
The victory over the Leviathan's heart still hummed in the air between them, a tangible thread of progress amidst the dusty chaos of the Owl Library. Sunlight slanted through high windows, illuminating swirling motes that danced like celebratory spirits over the sea of open books. Marya's golden eyes, sharp and focused, scanned the remaining lines of the riddle, lingering on the final key:
One wears the face the world disowned.
"Wears the face," Marya murmured, her voice low and deliberate in the hushed atmosphere. Her finger tapped a precise rhythm on the ancient parchment. "Something tangible. Something donned. Clothing? A helm? A… hat?" Her brow furrowed slightly, the clinical mind sifting possibilities.
Ange, vibrating with residual excitement from their Fishman Island revelation, couldn't contain it. "A mask!" she blurted, her voice echoing off the high stone arches.
"SHHHHHH!"
The sound was like a whip-crack, emanating from a towering, grey-bearded giant meticulously reshelving scrolls several aisles away. He glared over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in librarian disapproval.
Ange flushed crimson, shrinking into her chair. She offered a frantic, apologetic wave, mouthing "Sorry!" The giant harrumphed, the sound like grinding stones, and slowly turned back to his task, radiating displeasure.
Just as the tense silence threatened to settle again, a heavy THUD resonated through their table. Both women jumped. A thick, leather-bound tome bound in what looked like fossilized fish skin had fallen from a high shelf, landing squarely amidst their notes.
They looked up. Perched precariously on a stone gargoyle protrusion high above, Biblo blinked his large, round eyes down at them. He ruffled his feathers, looking remarkably pleased with himself.
"Oh!" Ange breathed, her embarrassment instantly forgotten. She scooped up the fallen book. "Biblo! You clever thing! Do you think you know?" She beamed up at the owl. Biblo merely puffed out his chest and let out a soft, superior-sounding "Hoot," gazing down with an expression that could only be described as judgmental avian wisdom.
Ange carefully opened the book, her fingers tracing the embossed title: "Rituals and Ceremonies of the Enigmatic Three-Eye Tribe: A Fragmentary Analysis." She flipped through brittle pages filled with intricate sketches of strange rites and artifacts. Then, she froze. A sharp, suppressed squeak escaped her lips. She clutched the book, her eyes wide.
"Biblo," she whispered, awe-struck, "you are an absolute genius." She turned the open book towards Marya, pointing a trembling finger at a detailed illustration.
Mask of the Forgotten Oracle
- Carved from a single moonstone shard, imbued with ancestral resonance.
- When worn by a descendant or one attuned to the Void, it projects visions of the ritual's original performance, including the exact chant cadence required.
- Believed lost during the Void Century purges; last documented in the custody of the Three-Eye Tribe's High Seers.
Below the description was an intricate sketch: a smooth, featureless moonstone visor, subtly curved, with three faint indentations where the wearer's brow would be. It radiated an eerie, serene power even in ink.
Marya took the book, her usual stoicism replaced by intense focus. Her fingers traced the illustration of the mask, then scanned the text. A spark, colder and sharper than the earlier satisfaction, ignited in her eyes. "The face the world disowned," she stated, the pieces clicking with satisfying precision. "The Three-Eye Tribe, hunted, scattered, their very existence denied by the World Government. Their sacred artifact, forgotten, disowned by the world that fears it."
Ange bounced slightly in her seat, barely containing her glee. "Look! We are actually making progress today! Star-charting key might be tricky, but this? This is concrete! We know what it is!" She gestured excitedly at the book. "A tangible artifact! Not just a concept!"
Marya closed the book with a soft thump, her gaze lingering on the cover. Biblo hooted softly from his perch, a sound that now carried a distinct note of smugness. The path forward, while still shrouded in the mysteries of the star-charting key and the Leviathan's heart, had suddenly gained two startlingly clear signposts: the depths beneath Fishman Island and the lost relics of the Three-Eye Tribe. The mountain of books felt less like an obstacle and more like a map waiting to be fully deciphered.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the Owl Library, painting long golden rectangles across the worn oak table where Marya and Ange sat. Dust motes danced in the beams, disturbed only by the soft rustle of pages. Two-thirds of the riddle lay conquered – the Leviathan's heart and the Three-Eye mask – leaving only the first key tantalizingly out of reach:
Three keys forged in star, beast, and bone:
One charts the path where gods have flown…
Marya traced the line with a fingertip, her golden eyes narrowed in concentration. "Star... charts the path... gods have flown," she murmured, the words precise. "A navigational instrument. But specific. Not just any path. The gods' flight path."
Ange chewed the end of her quill, leaving a faint ink smudge on her lip. "A super Log Pose? Something that locks onto... divine magnetic fields? Or maybe a star map etched onto something unbreakable?"
Just then, a distinct chill entered their little bubble of focus. Valgard, the glacial-blue cartographer, his icicle dreadlocks chiming softly with each step, approached their table. Frost patterns bloomed faintly on the floorboards where he paused. "Ange," he rasped, his voice like ice grinding on stone, "the Treatise on Subterranean Ley Lines... Volume IV. Bjorn insists it details root-routes near the 'Shrieking Chasm'. Shelf?"
Ange looked up, blinking away the riddle-fog. "Valgard! Interesting timing!" A spark lit her eyes. "You might be just the giant to ask. We're stuck on this." She tapped the open riddle rubbing. "The first key: 'One charts the path where gods have flown'. We were thinking navigational tool – Log Pose or something similar?"
Valgard tilted his head, the ice in his dreads catching the light. He considered the line for a moment, his frost-lensed gaze distant. "Log Pose," he stated, his tone carrying the weight of practical experience, "locks onto one of the seven magnetic fields. Powerful, yes, but... crude. They resonate with the ancient celestial bodies, the moons, pulling towards islands near their influence." He reached into a pouch at his belt, pulling out a complex brass and crystal instrument – a large, multi-dialed compass. "But for true precision? For mapping a specific island, a hidden reef, a god's forgotten perch?" He held up the compass. "You need calibration. An instrument attuned to that one place. Exact measurements demand exact tools."
Marya's head snapped up. Her gaze locked onto the compass in Valgard's hand. "A compass," she stated, the word sharp and clear. "A unique compass. Not for general currents... but for the specific path the gods flew." Her eyes lifted, sweeping across the library's vaulted ceiling painted with swirling constellations and stylized sky-islands. "A compass forged for the heavens themselves."
Valgard nodded slowly, a hint of approval in his icy demeanor. "Heard tales... whispers on the wind currents. Islands adrift above the clouds. Reaching them... that demands more than a Log Pose's pull. It demands..."
"Wait right here!" Ange exploded out of her chair, the sudden movement sending a flurry of parchment flying. She didn't wait for a response, darting between towering bookshelves like a startled bird.
Marya and Valgard watched her go, an unlikely pair momentarily united by Ange's whirlwind energy. Biblo, observing from his high perch, let out a soft, questioning "Hoot?"
Moments later, Ange returned, staggering under the weight of a massive, leather-bound tome titled "Legends Aloft: Sky-Island Myths of the Calm Belt & Beyond." She slammed it onto the table, ignoring the librarian's distant, disapproving glare, and flipped pages with frantic precision. Her finger stabbed down onto a faded illustration: a complex, multi-layered compass crafted from iridescent white stone and glowing blue dials, its surface etched with unfamiliar constellations.
"Here!" Ange breathed, her voice trembling with excitement. "The Celestial Compass of the Void Century! Forged from Sky Island dials and Lunarian sacred fire!" She scanned the accompanying text, whispering rapidly: "Aligns with constellations only visible during a solar eclipse... guides the seeker not just to an island, but to the precise sequence for unlocking... something called 'the Gate'!" She looked up, her eyes shining. "It doesn't just chart the path where gods flew... it unlocks the door at the end!"
Marya leaned over the book, her usual stoicism pierced by intense focus. She traced the illustration of the ethereal compass – the star-key, forged in celestial materials (star), its function divine (gods flown). The final piece clicked into place with satisfying finality. Three keys: the Celestial Compass for the sky, the Leviathan's Heart for the sea, the Mask for the forgotten earth. The map wasn't just deciphered; it was laid bare. Biblo hooted softly again, a sound that seemed almost smug, as if the owl had known the answer all along. The path to Tartarus now had its coordinates.