Dracule Marya Zaleska: Oni Phantom - Devil Fruit Origins

The afternoon sun streamed through the high windows of the Owl Library, illuminating swirling dust motes dancing over the ancient Verse IV rubbing spread between Marya, Ange, and Saul. The air hung thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and the weight of cryptic words:

"When heaven's stars align as one,

Four shades shall rise where light has spun—

Serpent's wrath, Condor's toll,

Tiger's grace, and Tide's lost scroll.

Bound by chains of cosmic creed,

Their oath unlocks what shadows bleed."

Marya's golden eyes traced the glyphs, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. Ange, however, fidgeted, her gaze drifting from the parchment to the window overlooking the harbor branches. "It's just… those Sea Kings," she blurted, unable to contain her anxiety. "Drained and strung up like grisly decorations. What could do that? What does it mean for the island? Is it connected to the weakening Ward? To… to Freyja?" Her voice trembled slightly.

Saul, seated opposite Marya, gave the archaeologist a gentle, grandfatherly look. He placed a massive, reassuring hand near hers, not touching, but offering solidity. "Easy, lass," he rumbled, his voice low and calming. "Giant as they were, Sea Kings fall prey to many things. Deep currents, sickness, battles unseen. It's a tragedy, aye, but jumping at shadows won't decipher this riddle." He nodded towards the verse. "Focus on the path ahead. Worry feeds the fear, not the solution."

Marya didn't look up, but a muscle twitched in her jaw. Ange's distraction was a buzzing fly against her focus. She forced her attention back, muttering the key descriptors aloud, her voice flat: "Wrath. Toll. Grace. Scroll…. What binds them? What are they?"

"Power holders!" Ange chimed in, seizing Saul's lifeline back to the puzzle. "Mythical beings, guardians, maybe? The verse says they rise. And it needs a celestial alignment – the stars aligning 'as one'. But… what alignment? Solar eclipse? Lunar convergence? A specific constellation?"

Marya gave a curt nod. "Agreed. The trigger is astronomical. But the identities…" She trailed off, frustration simmering beneath her calm exterior.

Saul stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Back in the Navy," he offered, "we used star charts for navigation, obviously. But some old salts spoke of 'omen alignments' – rare conjunctions believed to herald strange tides or awaken ancient things. Could be something like that. A specific, rare celestial event triggers the rise of these 'Four Shades'."

Across the library, hunched over a fragile scroll at his usual secluded desk, Gotfrid "Scroll-Singer" visibly flinched. The sound of their floundering interpretation, punctuated by Ange's anxious interjections, seemed to grate on his nerves like chalk on slate. With a long-suffering sigh that ruffled his silver corkscrew curls, he slammed his current scroll shut, adjusted his magnifying monocle with a trembling hand, and shuffled over. He didn't sit, merely loomed over their table, his patchwork robe smelling faintly of ozone and deep earth.

"Cosmic creed," he rasped, his voice dry and impatient. "Not poetry. Law. Universal law." He jabbed a bony finger at the verse. "Bound by chains implies compulsion, not choice. An oath enforced by celestial mechanics." He pointed at the four descriptors. "Not beings. Manifestations. Aspects of power, tied to celestial bodies or forces. 'Serpent's wrath' – destructive, chaotic energy, perhaps tied to a volatile star or comet. 'Condor's toll' – judgment, sacrifice, linked to a balancing force, maybe a moon. 'Tiger's grace' – fierce protection, speed, tied to a guardian star. 'Tide's lost scroll' – hidden knowledge, cyclical power, tied to… well, the tide. Or a lost celestial record." He sniffed. "When the stars align just so, these forces are compelled to manifest simultaneously at a specific location – 'where light has spun' – likely a nexus point of celestial energy. Their convergence, bound by universal law, is the key that 'unlocks what shadows bleed' – breaches Tartarus, or whatever darkness is sealed."

Marya stared at him, genuinely astonished. Her usual skepticism warred with the concise, brutal logic of his explanation. "How… how do you know that?"

Gotfrid scowled, his monocle glinting. "Because I read, girl. Unlike some who flap their jaws like startled gulls. Void Century texts, Vanir astrological treaties – fragmented, yes, but the patterns are clear to those with the patience to look." He adjusted his robe, clearly regretting his outburst. "Now, if you'll excuse me, some of us have actual history to preserve." He shuffled back to his desk without another word.

Marya blinked. "...Thank you, Gotfrid," she called after him, the words feeling unfamiliar on her tongue. The archivist merely grunted.

Saul chuckled, a low rumble. "Well, there you have it. Almost figured it out, weren't we?"

"Almost," Ange agreed, beaming with renewed hope. "But Marya's right – how do we find where these forces manifest? Or who might embody them? It's incredibly vague…"

As if summoned by the question, Biblo swooped silently from the library's shadowed rafters. He landed gracefully on the table beside the rubbing, a rolled parchment clutched in his talons. He dropped it with a soft thwap before fixing Marya with his unblinking gaze and letting out a soft, knowing "Hoot."

Ange unrolled the parchment with trembling hands. Her eyes widened as she scanned the elegant script and diagrams. "It's… it's about the Celestial Tideglass!" she breathed. She began reading aloud, her voice gaining volume and excitement despite the library setting:

"The Celestial Tideglass: Forged in the Void Century by Lunarian metallurgists, Three-Eye oracles, and Ancient Kingdom scholars. A hexagonal prism of Moonsteel… Capable of detecting Devil Fruits across vast distances, revealing their names and powers in ancient script… Tied to the shattering by the Three-Eye elder Lyra… Fragments guarded fiercely: one beneath Elbaf's sacred oak in Freyja's shrine…"

Saul's jovial expression vanished, replaced by deep concern etched into the lines of his face. "Detecting Devil Fruits?" he muttered, his voice low and grave. "Revealing powers? Marya, lass… that kind of knowledge… it's a weapon. A world-shaking one. If the World Government got wind of this… if any major power did… the hunt for these fragments alone could ignite wars we haven't seen in centuries. The balance…"

Marya raised a single, dark eyebrow, her gaze cool and analytical as she studied the Tideglass sketch. "Relax, Saul. First, I might never find all the pieces. Second," she tapped the parchment, "it says one fragment is right here. 'Beneath Elbaf's sacred oak in Freyja's shrine.'" She looked from Saul to Ange. "Any ideas where that might be? Specifically?"

They exchanged blank stares. Ange bit her lip. "Well… the sacred oak… there are several ancient oaks revered…"

"Freyja's shrine…" Saul mused. "The Volva tend shrines at Warrior's Spring, but…"

Marya sighed, the sound heavy with pragmatic exasperation. She pushed her chair back. "Right. So, we know the key might be under a tree near some water, somewhere on an island the size of a small continent." She stood up, her movements decisive. "Get me every book, scroll, and fragment of lore you have on Freyja, her shrines, and sacred oaks in Elbaph. Start with the oldest maps."

As Ange scrambled up, already darting towards the 'Elbaphian Theology & Geography' section, Saul watched Marya, a slow, thoughtful smile spreading across his face. "Fate," he murmured, shaking his head. "It is a funny thing, isn't it? Drawn to Elbaph for a riddle, only to find the path leads straight to the island's own hidden heart."

Marya paused, halfway to the catalog index. She turned her head slowly, fixing Saul with a glare that could freeze magma. Her golden eyes held no humor, only a sharp, icy warning against attributing her actions to anything as nebulous and irritating as fate. Without a word, she turned back, the unspoken dismissal hanging in the dusty air as she prepared to methodically dismantle the mystery of Freyja's shrine, one ancient page at a time. Biblo hooted softly, a sound suspiciously like smug satisfaction.

*****

The scent of woodsmoke and hearty fish stew hung thick in the warm air of Scopper Gaban's home. Adam Wood beams, polished smooth by time and countless stories, glowed warmly in the light of the crackling stone hearth. Nautical charts shared wall space with framed sketches of a grinning, straw-hatted figure and a massive ship – relics of a life lived at full sail. Shipwright tools, lovingly maintained, hung beside a harpoon with a notched handle, silent testaments to Gaban's dual callings.

Around a sturdy oak table, worn smooth by countless meals and elbows, sat the unlikely gathering. Marya Zaleska, her posture straight as the blade resting near the door, picked delicately at her stew. Her long raven hair, so reminiscent of her infamous father, was tied back severely, though a single strand escaped to brush her cheekbone. Across from her, Scopper Gaban leaned back in his chair, his weathered face creased in contentment, a steaming mug clutched in his large, calloused hand. His wife, Ripley, moved with a quiet grace, refilling bowls. Her features held a serene strength, eyes the color of deep ocean, observing the scene with maternal warmth. Beside her, practically vibrating with energy, was their son, Colon, possessing his father's fiery hair but his mother's softer eyes; he shoveled stew with the enthusiasm of a starved seagull.

And then there was Jelly.

Perched precariously on a stack of cushions, the azure-blue gelatinous humanoid wobbled with every breath. Translucent and shimmering like captured moonlight on waves, his massive starry eyes darted around the room, reflecting the firelight. A tiny red bandana, hopelessly askew, sat atop his head, and a belt of dried seaweed cinched his middle. He wasn't eating stew so much as absorbing it, a spoon-shaped protrusion from his hand dipping into the bowl and retracting, leaving the stew level mysteriously lower. A soft, bioluminescent glow pulsed gently within him, casting faint blue shadows on the tablecloth. "Bloop!" he exclaimed suddenly, a sound like a happy bubble surfacing. "Stew is… squishy-good! Like me!"

"Easy there, lad," Gaban chuckled, the sound rough but warm. "Leave some for the rest of us. Marya barely touched hers, too busy thinkin' deep thoughts, eh?" He winked at her.

Marya offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "The stew is excellent, Ripley. Thank you." Her voice was calm, measured, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy around her. She gestured towards Colon with her chin. "He seems to appreciate it enough for all of us."

Colon swallowed a huge mouthful, cheeks bulging. "S'good!" he managed, spraying a few crumbs. Ripley sighed, reaching over to wipe his chin with a cloth, her touch gentle but firm.

"Colon, darling, manners," she murmured.

"Sorry, Ma," Colon mumbled, then turned bright, eager eyes on Marya. "Marya! After dinner, can you? Please? Just show me the stance again? The one you used when you sparred with Da last week? The one where you looked like… like a shadow waitin' to strike!" He mimicked a clumsy, wide-legged pose, nearly knocking over his mug.

Marya regarded him for a moment, her golden eyes, so like Mihawk's, unreadable. Then, a flicker of something – perhaps amusement, perhaps reluctant fondness – softened her features. "Very well. After dishes." Her agreement was simple, but Colon beamed as if granted a treasure.

Gaban leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his expression shifting to one of genuine curiosity. "And how fares the hunt, Marya? That big ol' puzzle you're wrestlin' with? Rip mentioned you were closeted with those rubbings all mornin'."

Marya took a deliberate sip of water before answering. The weight of her quest – her mother's notebook, the Void, the fragmented verses – seemed to settle momentarily on her shoulders. "Progress," she stated, her voice low but clear. "Slow, but tangible. I believe I am one verse away from having the sequence completely solved."

Ripley paused in clearing a plate, her serene expression tightening almost imperceptibly with concern. "One verse? That sounds… close."

"It is," Marya confirmed. "And it presents the next destination." She met Gaban's gaze directly. "The final piece points towards Fishman Island."

Gaban's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. He slammed his mug down on the table, making the spoons rattle. "Fishman Island?" His voice boomed with sudden, intense interest, a spark of the old adventurer igniting in his eyes. "By the deep currents, girl! That's no stroll down the beach!"

Colon's eyes widened. "Fishman Island? The one with the mermaids? Really?" His voice squeaked with excitement.

"Really," Marya replied calmly, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face at Gaban's reaction.

"Right you are," Gaban said, leaning back and stroking his chin, a thoughtful look replacing the surprise. "But listen close, Marya. Fishman Island ain't like sailin' to Loguetown. It's deep. Deeper than the Mariana Trench ten times over. Down where the sunlight's just a memory and the pressure…" He whistled low. "The pressure down there would crumple your little sub like a tin can dropped off a sky island."

Marya frowned. "Pressure? How deep?"

"Think of it as livin' at the bottom of the world's biggest ocean," Ripley explained softly, her voice carrying the weight of knowledge gained from years beside a sailor. "The water presses down with unimaginable force. Normal ships… they simply cease to exist before they get halfway."

Gaban nodded vigorously. "Exactly! That's where the coaters come in. Special folk, usually shipwrights with a particular knack, who coat a vessel in a special resin bubble. Acts like a cushion, see? Lets the ship survive the descent and the pressure down below. Strong stuff. Takes a master to apply it right." A slow, familiar smirk spread across his face. "And wouldn't you know it? I happen to know a guy. Best damn coater this side of the Red Line. Grumpy old salt named Rayleigh, lives in a shack on Sabaody's Grove 13. I got a Vivre card you can use. Tell him Scopper Gaban sent you. He'll grumble, charge you double, but he'll do the job right. Won't trust anyone else with a vessel headin' that deep."

"Thank you, Gaban," Marya said, the gratitude genuine in her quiet tone. "That information is… vital."

Colon's excitement had deflated like a punctured balloon. He slumped in his chair, pushing his half-finished stew away. His lower lip jutted out in a pronounced pout. "You're leaving," he mumbled, the words thick with disappointment. "Just when I was gettin' better with the practice sword too."

Marya sighed, a rare sound that seemed almost foreign coming from her. She looked at Colon, the stern mask slipping slightly to reveal a hint of… not softness, perhaps, but a weary understanding. "Not immediately, Colon. Deciphering the final verse, preparing the sub, finding the Celestial Tideglass… it will take time. Weeks, perhaps months. You'll have ample opportunity to bruise yourself on that practice sword."

Colon perked up slightly, but the pout remained. "Months ain't forever," he grumbled. "I wish I could go. Be a pirate. See Fishman Island! Fight sea kings!"

Gaban reached over and ruffled his son's fiery hair affectionately. "Pipe down, sprout. Your time'll come. We always knew Marya had her own course to sail. Like a rogue wave, she is. Can't be contained by any harbor for long." His voice held pride and a touch of wistfulness. "Besides, who'd keep your Ma company if you went gallivantin' off? Or help me fix Old Salty's leaky dinghy?"

"Adventure!" Jelly suddenly squawked, bouncing excitedly on his cushions. His body wobbled violently, sending blue ripples cascading across his surface. "Bloop! Bloop! Fishy island! Jelly can bounce on bubbles! Maybe find a shiny fish friend! Aye, sir!" He formed a wobbly fist and punched the air, accidentally morphing his hand into a flipper shape that sent a small splash of stew onto the tablecloth. "Oops! Squishy!"

Ripley tutted softly, dabbing at the spill. "Jelly, inside flippers, please."

Before anyone could react further to Jelly's antics, Ripley paused, her spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. She tilted her head, her serene expression replaced by a flicker of confusion. "Did you hear that?"

A muffled thud echoed from the roof, heavy and solid, like a sack of grain dropped from a height. Then another. And another. The rhythm was irregular, jarring.

The warm, flickering light from the hearth and the oil lamps suddenly dimmed, then flared erratically, casting leaping, distorted shadows on the Adam Wood walls. The cozy atmosphere vanished, replaced by a sudden, prickling tension.

Gaban's smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp alertness. Marya's hand instinctively reached towards the empty space over her shoulder where her sword usually rested. Colon froze, his eyes wide. Jelly's bioluminescent glow dimmed, his starry eyes shrinking to worried pinpricks. "Buh…?"

Thud. Thud-thud. Thud.

The sounds were coming faster now, a relentless drumbeat on the roof and the packed earth outside. It sounded like hail, but heavier, more… solid.

"Stay here," Gaban ordered, his voice low and tight. He pushed back his chair, the legs scraping harshly on the stone floor. Marya was already moving, a silent shadow beside him. Ripley gathered Colon closer, her face pale but composed. Jelly wobbled nervously behind them, forming a small, trembling shield shape with one hand.

Gaban threw open the heavy oak door.

The cool night air rushed in, carrying not the scent of pine and salt, but something metallic, faintly coppery, and utterly wrong. Moonlight, usually bright and clear over Elbaph's rugged landscape, seemed dimmed, filtered through a strange haze.

The ground before the sturdy log house was littered with dark shapes. Dozens of them. More were falling even as they watched, plummeting from the darkened sky with sickening, wet thuds onto the hard-packed earth and the thatched roofs of nearby outbuildings.

Birds. Lifeless birds.

Robins, sparrows, sea gulls, a few larger crows – their bodies lay broken and still, wings splayed at unnatural angles. As they watched, frozen in horror, another small sparrow tumbled from the sky, striking the ground near Marya's boot with a final, pathetic flump. Its tiny chest didn't rise again. More followed, a grotesque, silent rain of feathers and still-warm bodies. A lone seabird, its neck clearly broken, landed on the doorstep, one glassy eye staring sightlessly up at them.

Colon gasped, burying his face in Ripley's shoulder. Jelly let out a tiny, high-pitched "Eeep!" and shrunk back, his glow flickering out completely, leaving him a dark blue smudge in the doorway.

Gaban cursed, a low, guttural sound that seemed ripped from the earth itself. "By the stormy seas… what in the name of all that's blue…?"

Marya stood perfectly still, framed in the doorway. The flickering light from inside caught the sharp line of her jaw as it clenched, muscle flexing taut beneath her pale skin. Her golden eyes, usually so cool and assessing, scanned the unnaturally dim sky, then the grim carpet of death at their feet. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The sheer, unnatural wrongness of the silent, falling birds spoke volumes louder than any curse. The cozy warmth of the log house felt like a distant memory, replaced by the chilling touch of something deeply, profoundly out of balance.