NOVEL WEB Chapter 159: Chapter 159
The Driftwood Tavern thrummed with the chaotic symphony of Haven of the Eclipse. Bioluminescent algae in the signature Eclipse Rum cast shifting blue halos on patrons' faces, mixing with the greasy yellow light of whale-oil lanterns swinging from the ceiling – fashioned, like everything else, from the salvaged wreckage of a Celestial Dragon's pleasure yacht. Bounty posters of WG traitors fluttered on the walls like macabre wallpaper. The air hung thick with the reek of stale rum, ozone from the Tidecaller's Spire outside, and something vaguely fishy.
At a corner table carved from a ship's figurehead (a snarling sea lion), Aurélie Nakano Takeko sat with unnerving stillness. Her silver hair spilled over the black tactical fabric of her hakama, a stark contrast to the riotous colors around her. Anathema rested at her hip, its obsidian scabbard seeming to absorb the light. A worn leather notebook lay open before her, a pencil moving with agonizing slowness, etching lines that were likely terrible poetry. Across from her, Bianca Yvonne Clark fiddled with a small, humming device covered in blinking dials – the "Éclair Empath" – her grease-stained overalls unzipped over a surprisingly delicate silk blouse patterned with tiny, intricate gears. A pencil peeked from her messy black bun. Beside her, Charlie Leonard Wooley was in full academic fervor.
"Ahem!" Charlie cleared his throat, adjusting his perpetually askew pith helmet. A scroll threatened to escape his overflowing satchel. "Guardian Nakano, Miss Clark! The implications of the Poneglyph within Prasat Yama! Its linguistic structure, while undeniably Void Century script, exhibits tonal modulations previously only theorized in Kevin's Marginally Adequate Epigraphic Taxonomy – which, frankly, misinterpreted the subjunctive case entirely! If Marya sought it, and I believe she did, the contextual decipherment requires not just linguistic prowess but an understanding of the Lunarian fire-glyphs interacting with the Mink lunar resonance patterns! She would absolutely require specialized assistance! The Primordial Current theories Elisabeta pursued demand—"
Bianca rolled her eyes, tapping her device. "Like, Charlie, chill. Your 'Kevin' rant is giving me, like, residual static on the Éclair. And Marya's smart. Like, really smart. Plus, she had Mihawk. Dude probably just cuts through confusing bits." She popped a nut butter-stained finger into her mouth, sucking thoughtfully.
Suddenly, the tavern doors burst open. Two small figures barreled in, shrieking with laughter. Tavi, a freckled girl of about twelve in a moth-eaten tricorn hat far too big for her, brandished a stick like a sword. "Hah! Feel the wrath of Eternal Eclipse, villain!" she yelled in a terrible imitation of Mihawk's gravitas. Right behind her, Kip, maybe nine, scowled ferociously, clutching his wooden sword "Seastinger." "You'll never decipher my mother's research, fool!" he piped, trying for Marya's intensity but sounding more like an angry kitten.
Aurélie's pencil stopped. Her steel-grey eyes, previously distant, snapped up, tracking the children's chaotic path across the sticky floor. They weren't Marya, but the mimicry… the names… it was a jagged hook in her focus. As Kip scampered past their table, lost in his scowling role-play, Aurélie's hand shot out with insectile speed. Not harsh, but unyielding, her gloved fingers closed around his skinny upper arm.
"Hey! Lemme go!" Kip squealed, legs bicycling uselessly in the air. He tried to scowl like Mihawk, but fear widened his eyes. Bianca gasped, dropping her tinkering. Charlie froze mid-sentence, his lecture on tonal modulations dying on his lips, replaced by confused concern. "Guardian Nakano? What—?"
Aurélie ignored them. Her gaze was fixed on the squirming boy. "The woman and the swordsman you imitate," she stated, her voice low and cool, cutting through the tavern din. "Golden eyes? Raven hair? A sword that drinks the light? When did you see them?"
Before Kip could stutter a reply, a shadow fell over the table. Silas "Silent Tide" Voss had materialized as if from the rum-scented air itself. Lean and dangerous, his tattooed arms (maps of forgotten islands) were crossed over his black vest. A permanent smirk played on his lips, but his single visible eye held a cold glint. The black eyepatch over his right eye seemed to hum faintly. "Problem here?" he asked, his voice deceptively smooth, like aged whiskey. He looked down at Aurélie, his presence radiating quiet menace.
Aurélie didn't flinch. She met his gaze squarely. "No problem," she replied, her tone level. "Merely inquiring after individuals these children seem familiar with. Individuals of… significance."
Charlie, ever the diplomat (or just desperate for answers), seized the moment. He cleared his throat loudly. "Ahem! Mister Voss, sir! Charlie Leonard Wooley, Archaeologist, Scholar! Have you, perchance, encountered a young woman matching that description? Accompanied by a formidable swordsman, Dracule Mihawk? Raven hair, intense golden eyes, carries a rather distinctive blade?"
Bianca jumped in, hands gesturing wildly. "Yeah! And she's, like, super smart but kinda broody? And the sword is, like, super dark? Absorbs light? And she might be researching crazy ancient stuff? Like, Primordial Currents?"
Silas's smirk didn't waver, but his visible eye flickered with recognition. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yeah. They passed through. Weeks back." He paused, watching Aurélie's impassive face. "Caused a stir. The girl… intense. Quiet. The swordsman… well, you know who he is. Stayed a few days, poked around the ruins. Then left with Red Hair. Said something about Elbaph."
Aurélie blinked once, a barely perceptible flicker. She released Kip, who scampered back to Tavi, rubbing his arm and glaring. Aurélie stood in one fluid motion, the poetry notebook vanishing into her waistband. "Thank you," she said simply, the words crisp and final.
Charlie practically vibrated with excitement. "Shanks! Elbaph! Oh, the archival possibilities! Guardian Nakano, we must—!"
"One does not simply go to Elbaph, Charlie," Aurélie cut him off, already turning towards the door, her silver hair a banner. "It is not a destination one finds on a chart. It—"
"Ah, but perhaps it is a destination one can be guided to?"
The new voice was smooth, cultured, yet carrying an undercurrent of something sharp and calculating. Standing near the tavern entrance, having seemingly appeared from the shadows near a rack of salvaged Marine cutlasses, was Kuro. Tall and lean, he cut a sharp figure in his tailored charcoal-gray suit layered under a sleek black Syndicate trench coat. His jet-black hair was slicked back save for one defiant strand. Cracked glasses perched on his nose, which he adjusted with a deliberate motion of his gloved palm. The gesture seemed almost ritualistic.
Aurélie froze. Her hand didn't fly to Anathema's hilt, but it settled there, resting lightly, ready. Her posture shifted subtly, from departure to poised alertness. Bianca instinctively stepped closer to Charlie, her eyes wide. Charlie adjusted his pith helmet, peering at the newcomer with academic curiosity mixed with unease.
Kuro offered a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It appears," he said, stepping further into the light, the blue glow of the Eclipse Rum casting strange highlights on his sharp features, "we may harbor a mutual interest. Tracking a certain… elusive individual?"
Bianca, ever the blunt one, piped up, trying to diffuse the sudden tension. "Like, yeah? We're looking for our friend. Marya? You seen her?"
Kuro's smile widened fractionally. "Indeed. My associates maintain a… genuine interest in her whereabouts. Certain parties tend to follow her trail, seeking… engagement." He paused, letting the implication hang in the rum-scented air. His gaze, sharp behind the smudged lenses, fixed on Aurélie. "Collaboration, perhaps? Shared information could prove mutually beneficial. Expedite your journey."
Aurélie's voice was ice. "And your interest is?"
"Merely ensuring certain… conversations… take place," Kuro replied smoothly. He adjusted his glasses again with his palm. "After a suitable pause, he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow carried over the tavern noise, "And we can get you to Elbaph. We possess… connections. Resources you might lack for such a… mythical voyage." He spread his gloved hands slightly, the picture of a reasonable offer. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill towards a shared objective." The air crackled with unspoken danger beneath the tavern's boisterous surface. The hunt had just gotten exponentially more complicated.
*****
The warm, boisterous embrace of Mato's Tavern was a welcome counterpoint to Elbaph's crisp autumn night. Torchlight flickered off polished mammoth-tusk tankards and gleamed on the intricate carvings of the massive Adam Wood tables. The air thrummed with laughter, the rich, savory scent of Brenna's infamous "Root-Serpent Stew" bubbling in a cauldron large enough to bathe in, and the tang of fermented berry mead. Marya sat slightly apart at a corner table with Gaban, Ripley, and a wide-eyed Colon, observing the scene with her usual detached calm. Jelly perched precariously on a stool beside Colon, his gelatinous body wobbling with excitement, trying to mimic the giant's posture and failing spectacularly. "Bloop! Big chair!" he chirped, earning a fond head-pat from Ripley.
Saul, his usual melancholy softened by mead and company, boomed a laugh at something Ange said, nearly shaking the rafters. Ange, flushed with excitement, was deep in animated conversation with Astrid near the hearth, their hands gesturing wildly – likely debating some obscure archaeological detail. Hilda "Iron-Oak," her volcanic-glass grafts glinting, moved through the crowd like a cheerful storm, poking Bjorn in the ribs ("Still swinging that club like a blind cave-fish, Mossback?") and challenging Einar to an arm-wrestling match ("Bet my best chisel your storm-arm sputters first, Sky-Hook!").
Einar, copper dreadlocks crackling faintly with static, just grinned and flexed his dial-enhanced prosthetic. "You're on, Graft-Granny! Loser buys the next round of Sky-Island cloud-berry brandy!"
The bartender with forearms thick as tree trunks expertly navigated the chaos behind the bar. "Right then!" he bellowed, slamming a giant, rune-carved horn onto the counter, silencing the chatter. "Story-game! Rurik 'Boulder-Tongue' steps up first! Give us a saga with bite, stone-shaper! Best tale gets a free tankard of Mato's Midnight Mead!" Cheers erupted, tankards clanging.
Rurik, the massive giant with granite-textured skin and icicle dreadlocks chiming softly, rose from his seat near Valgard and Gotfrid. Valgard, ever the cartographer, absently traced frost patterns onto the tabletop, while Gotfrid, the perpetually hunched archivist, nervously adjusted his magnifying monocle, muttering about historical accuracy. Rurik cleared his throat, a sound like grinding glaciers. His moss-beard shimmered with bioluminescent beetles as he began, his voice a resonant boom that filled the tavern, weaving a spell of ancient magic:
"Hear now, sons and daughters of Elbaph, of the saga carved not just in stone, but in the very roots of our being! Hear of the Valkyries! Not mere statues, nay! Stone maidens born of Freyja's fiercest tears and the adamant heart of the World Tree itself!" He slammed a fist gently on the table, making tankards jump. "Shield-maidens eternal, slumbering deep beneath the sacred oak, their axes forged from glacial ice and northern stars! Their oath? To guard the Key of Thresholds!"
He paused, his frost-lens eyes sweeping the rapt audience. Colon leaned forward, utterly enthralled. Jelly wobbled in imitation. Marya's gaze, though seemingly casual, sharpened.
"The Key," Rurik continued, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that somehow carried further, "known in whispers older than the Void Century... the Heavenly Sphere." Gotfrid twitched, fingers itching for his notebook but silenced by the collective hush. "Forged in an age of giants and gods! Celestial ore kissed by forbidden fire, etched by the lost seers! Not just a map, friends, but a balance! It attends not to seas, but the hidden power that ebbs and flows beneath the skin of the world! Phantoms shimmering like false stars, secrets buried deeper than the lost island's sorrow!"
He gestured broadly, encompassing the tavern, Elbaph, the unseen depths. "The Valkyries guard its shard – our shard – not out of greed, but fear! Fear of what? Fear of the imbalance! For of the Heaven's Sphere... and what it reveals, tyrants crave! It could shatter the Heavenly Dragon's hoarded might... or birth lords bathed in its fractured light!" His voice rose again, filled with grim certainty. "Its riddles are a test, a gauntlet thrown! To wield its power, you must understand the power! A beacon... or a storm?"
Rurik leaned forward, his icy dreadlocks clinking like mournful bells. "And why do the Stone Maidens stir now? Why do tremors rock the roots? Why does the Ward..." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "...flicker like a guttering candle? Is it because the Heavenly Sphere knows? Knows the scales tip? Knows the Key might soon be turned?" He ended abruptly, his usual booming voice replaced by a low rumble. "The Sphere is no mere trinket. It is a mirror. It shows the world's hunger... and the crushing cost of feeding it. 'To wield eternity,' as the old chant warns, 'is to drown in it.' Remember that, when the nine chimes toll." He finished with the cryptic quote Mihawk had once uttered to Marya, his frost-lensed gaze seeming to linger on her for a fraction of a second before he sat heavily.
Silence held for a breath, then erupted into applause and shouts of "Skål!" Tankards were drained. Hilda roared, "Now that's a story! Who's challenging the Boulder-Tongue?" Einar launched into a tale of sky-whales and stolen cloud-sails.
Marya didn't applaud. Her fingers rested lightly on the tabletop. The Heavenly Sphere. Guarded by Stone Maiden beneath the sacred oak. A mirror to power's cost. Mihawk's words echoed in Rurik's saga. The pieces of her own quest – the keys, the Heavenly fragments – clicked against this cultural backdrop with startling clarity. The jovial chaos of the tavern swirled around her – Colon trying to arm-wrestle Jelly (who just giggled and jiggled), Ange passionately debating Valkyrie armor aesthetics with Astrid, Gaban, and Saul roaring with laughter at one of Bjorn's exaggerated boasts. Yet, amidst the warmth, the smell of stew and mead, and Jelly's cheerful "Bloop!" Marya Zaleska sat perfectly still, her golden eyes distant, seeing not the tavern, but the intricate, dangerous puzzle laid bare by a giant's rumbling tale. A faint, thoughtful line appeared between her brows – the only outward sign that Heaven's reflection had just grown significantly sharper.
The warm fug of mead, stew, and boisterous storytelling in Mato's Tavern shattered like thin ice. Two small figures, Aegir and Mag, burst through the heavy oak doors, their faces pale as whey beneath freckles, breath coming in ragged gasps. "Come! Quick!" Aegir panted, pointing wildly back the way they came. "Somethin'… somethin' bad!"
Mag nodded frantically, eyes wide. "In the branches! By the docks! You gotta see!"
A ripple of amused skepticism ran through the adults. Hilda chuckled, nudging Bjorn. "Bad, eh? Did Mato run out of cloud-berry brandy?"
Mato herself, wiping a tankard with a frilly apron, feigned offense. "My stocks are impeccable, Hilda Iron-Oak!"
Colon, however, was instantly on his feet, Jelly wobbling excitedly beside him. "Bad? What kinda bad? Pirates? A monster?" His eyes shone with a child's mix of fear and thrilling anticipation.
"Probably just a giant squid got tangled," Saul rumbled good-naturedly, though he pushed back his chair. "Best go check before the little 'uns scare themselves silly."
"Could be treasure!" Einar suggested, his copper dreadlocks crackling slightly at the thought.
"Or a fascinating geological anomaly!" Ange added, already grabbing her satchel.
Ripley stood, placing a reassuring hand on Colon's shoulder. "Alright, explorers. Lead on. But stick close." She nodded to Saul and Ange. "We'll see what's got their britches in a twist."
Curiosity, fueled by the children's genuine terror and the adults' lingering good humor, swept the tavern. Giants and their smaller companions filed out into the cool night air – Gaban, Marya, Astrid, Einar, Gotfrid nervously adjusting his monocle, Valgard leaving faint frost prints, Rurik's icy dreadlocks chiming softly, Bjorn hefting his war-hammer just in case, and Sigrun gliding silently at the rear, her starlight smoke legs barely visible.
The children scampered ahead, leading them down winding paths woven through the colossal lower branches of Elbaf's ancient trees, towards the salty tang of the docks. Torchlight from the harbor below cast long, dancing shadows upwards. Colon chattered excitedly to Jelly, who pulsed a worried blue. "Maybe a big fishie jumped too high!"
They reached a massive junction of branches overlooking the moonlit harbor. Mato, bringing up the rear with a lantern, gasped. A sharp, feminine sound utterly devoid of her usual cheer. "Oh… oh my sweet Elbaf's tears…"
Everyone followed her horrified gaze upwards.
High above, tangled grotesquely in the thick, gnarled branches near the canopy, were shapes. Enormous, serpentine shapes. Not one, but several. Moonlight glistened on iridescent scales the size of shields, caught on the ivory curve of barnacle-encrusted fins, illuminated vacant, dinner-plate-sized eyes. Sea Kings. Massive, legendary predators of the deep. Draped like discarded dolls among the branches, bodies limp, heads lolling unnaturally. The sheer scale was mind-numbing; one colossal tail hung down, brushing the topmost masts of the docked ships far below. The air, usually filled with the cries of gulls and the creak of ships, was heavy with silence and the faint, sickly-sweet scent of brine mixed with something metallic.
A collective intake of breath hissed through the group. Colon's excited chatter died instantly. "Sea… Sea Kings?" he whispered, his voice small. "But… they live in the water. Why are they… sleeping in the trees?"
"Bloop?" Jelly quivered, pressing close to Colon's leg. "Fishies… nap?"
"Sleeping?" Sigrun's voice cut through the stunned silence, colder than Valgard's frost. Her bioluminescent fungi pulsed an urgent crimson as she stepped onto a sturdy branch. With the eerie grace of her Gap-Step ability, she phased through the thick wood, becoming momentarily intangible haze, and reappeared perched precariously high on a branch near the closest Sea King's colossal, slack-jawed head. She nudged its massive snout with her boot – no reaction. Leaning closer, peering into a glazed, lifeless eye, she called down, her voice echoing faintly in the unnatural quiet. "Not sleeping."
Saul's jovial mask had vanished, replaced by grim concern. "All of them, Sigrun? Are they all…?"
Sigrun moved with unsettling swiftness, phasing from branch to branch, checking another massive, limp form. "This one too. No breath. Eyes empty." She vanished and reappeared near a third. "Cold. Stiffening." She finally solidified on a lower branch near the group, her ashen face grim. "Dead. All dead. Drained of life… and something more. Something vital feels… missing."
The implications crashed over them. Sea Kings, apex predators, symbols of the ocean's untamed might, dead. Not slain in battle, but seemingly discarded, lifeless, in the trees. The jovial mood of the tavern was a distant memory, replaced by a cold dread that seeped deeper than the night air.
Marya and Gaban didn't gasp or exclaim. They simply turned their heads, their eyes meeting across the shocked faces of their companions. A single, silent, pointed look. No words were needed. The bizarre anomalies, the fading Ward, the cryptic sphere, the impossible riddle keys… and now this. The intricate, dangerous puzzle Rurik's tale had outlined wasn't just lore anymore. Pieces were falling into place with terrifying, tangible force. The reflection in the sphere wasn't just sharp; it was stained crimson.