The silence that followed Mihawk's question hung thicker than the swamp mist. Yasopp's gaze flickered from the undisturbed mud patch swallowing Marya's absence to the rigid line of Mihawk's back. "Ben?" he asked, his voice low and steady despite the tension coiling in the humid air. "Orders?"
Ben Beckman didn't answer immediately. He studied Mihawk – the unnatural stillness, the knuckles bone-white on Yoru's black hilt, the predatory focus radiating from him like heat haze. The swamp itself seemed to hold its breath, the drone of insects fading beneath the weight of the swordsman's silent, volcanic fury. Ben's own mind raced, assessing the scorched wreckage of Bayou's Reckoning's war-shell gators, the faint, acrid tang of Vegapunk's failed Atmos-Nullifier still stinging the nostrils, and the chilling testimony of roots and hungry mud. The swamp took her. Like it was hungry. Hongo's words echoed.
Before Ben could formulate a command, Mihawk moved.
It wasn't a step; it was a release of coiled tension. Yoru flashed, a single, blinding arc of obsidian cutting through the stagnant air. The blade didn't strike flesh or metal. It struck the murky water beside the smooth mud patch. The swamp screamed. Not audibly, but in the violent upheaval that followed. A gash twenty feet long and deep as a grave ripped open in the water's surface, peeling back layers of algae, mud, and tangled roots like rotten flesh. Dark water fountained upwards, raining down thick droplets smelling of decay and iron. And revealed, scrambling amidst the exposed, writhing roots like a startled eel, was Théo "Mudpuppy" Savoie.
The boy's luminous green eyes were wide with primal terror, mud plastering his wild hair and webbed fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick roots. He tried to dart sideways, a blur of feral instinct aiming for the deeper, concealing gloom. But Mihawk was already there. Faster than the boy's panic, faster than the eye could track, Mihawk's free hand shot out, not grabbing fabric, but clamping like an iron manacle around Théo's thin upper arm. He hauled the boy upwards, effortlessly lifting him clear of the churning water until Théo dangled, feet kicking futilely inches above the torn surface of his world. The faint internal light of the cypress roots nearby seemed to pulse erratically, mirroring the boy's frantic heartbeat.
"Where is she?" Mihawk's voice was a glacier scraping bedrock, devoid of inflection, yet carrying the terrifying weight of imminent avalanche. His golden eyes, narrowed to slits, bored into Théo's terrified green ones. "The swamp took her. You know this place. Where did it take her?"
Théo whimpered, a high, trapped-animal sound, struggling uselessly against the vise-like grip. His gaze darted past Mihawk's shoulder towards Ben, Yasopp, the others – a silent plea.
"Easy, Mihawk," Ben said, his voice a low, controlled counterpoint to the swordsman's lethal stillness. He took a deliberate step forward, his hand resting lightly near the rifle stock on his back, a silent assertion of presence. "The kid's scared. He's not the enemy."
Mihawk didn't even glance at Ben. His entire world had narrowed to the trembling child in his grasp and the abyss that had swallowed his daughter. "Answer." The command was absolute, final. Théo squeezed his eyes shut, tears cutting tracks through the mud on his cheeks.
"Bloop?" Jelly Squish quivered beside Bonk Punch, his translucent form wobbling with nervous energy. He'd morphed part of himself into a wobbly, steaming bowl shape. "Tante Delphine makes the itchy gumbo? The one that makes your toes wiggle and tells secrets?" His voice, usually bubbly, held a note of confused urgency. "She knows the swamp whispers... really knows. She talks to the grumpy water-spirit!"
Limejuice adjusted his sunglasses with a sharp click, the lenses reflecting the sickly green bioluminescence. "The Gumbo Oracle," he stated flatly, his gaze sharpening on Jelly. "He's right. If anyone knows where the heart of this marsh hides its prizes, or how to reason with it… it's Tante Delphine."
The name hung in the oppressive air. Mihawk's head snapped towards Limejuice, the movement predatory. "This Tante Delphine," he demanded, the glacial tone cracking with the first hint of raw urgency. "Where is she?"
Ben saw the dangerous precipice Mihawk teetered on. Forcing Théo would yield nothing but terror, possibly driving the boy – and the swamp spirit bound to him – deeper into resistance. He stepped fully between Mihawk and the dangling boy, meeting the swordsman's burning golden gaze without flinching. "Stand down, Mihawk," Ben ordered, his voice gaining an edge of steel that brooked no argument. "You're scaring the only guide we've got. The kid knows where Tante Delphine is. Théo can lead us." He gestured towards the trembling boy. "Let him breathe. Let him help."
For a heartbeat, the crushing pressure of Mihawk's will pressed against Ben's own. The air crackled, heavy with the potential for violence. Mihawk's eyes flickered from Ben's unwavering stare to Théo's tear-streaked, terrified face. Slowly, infinitesimally, the crushing grip on Théo's arm loosened, though he didn't release him. The promise of direction, of action, was the only leash holding back the storm.
Ben held Mihawk's gaze for a beat longer, ensuring the fragile control held, then turned his head slightly. "Bonk Punch. Monster." The hulking axe-wielder and the explosive brawler snapped to attention. "Back to the Red Force. Now. Update Shanks. Detail everything: the Marines, Vegapunk's vacuum toy blowing itself to hell, the swamp ghosts… and Marya. Tell him we're pursuing a lead with the local voodoo priestess. Tell him… the Bayou itself took her. He needs to see this wreckage." His gaze swept the scorched earth, the mangled remnants of war-shell gators still sparking feebly, the chillingly smooth patch of mud. "And tell Building Snake and Gadget… their repair job just got a deadline."
Bonk Punch grunted, a sound like grinding stones. Monster cracked his knuckles again, the sound echoing unnervingly in the sudden quiet. Without a word, they turned and began slogging back through the sucking mud towards the distant, mist-shrouded outline of the Floating Quarter.
Ben turned back to the remaining group: Yasopp, eyes scanning the whispering trees; Limejuice, posture deceptively relaxed; Hongo, leaning heavily on his staff, face pale but determined; Jelly, wobbling anxiously; Mihawk, a statue of contained fury still holding Théo; and the terrified swamp child himself. "Right," Ben said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "We pay Tante Delphine another visit. Théo leads. And everyone… tread lightly. The Bayou's breathing, and it's angry." He met Mihawk's eyes again, a silent command to follow, not force. The hunt for Marya had plunged into the realm of spirits and ancient grudges, and their guide was a mud-caked boy trembling in the grip of the world's deadliest swordsman. The path into the Forgotten Marshes' vengeful heart lay ahead, darker and deeper than any battlefield.
*****
The Forgotten Marshes fought their passage. Thick, sucking mud clung to Bonk Punch's boots like desperate hands. Monster, axe slung over his shoulder, cracked his knuckles with grim regularity, the sound scattering humming insects from the gnarled cypress knees. Sweat plastered Monster's shirt to his muscular frame; mud smeared Bonk Punch's usually stoic face. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the squelch of their steps, the drone of unseen insects, and the unsettling creak of branches overhead, like the marsh itself was watching them leave.
"Wreckage stank," Monster grunted, swatting a fist-sized mosquito. "Rot an' burnt sugar. Like bad candy in a lightning storm."
Bonk Punch nodded, his eyes scanning the whispering gloom. "Mihawk... looked like a fallen statue. Sword stuck in the mud like a grave marker." He shuddered, recalling the unnatural stillness before the eruption of Conqueror's Haki. "And the girl... Marya..." He struggled to articulate the horror. "Ground just... swallowed her. Smooth patch. Like it was waitin'." He mimicked Ben Beckman's low rasp as best he could: "Chief needs to see. Needs to see where it happened. 'Investigate the damage here.'"
They pushed through a final curtain of Spanish moss, the skeletal spires of the Floating Quarter's bubble-stone buildings rising ahead. The Red Force loomed in its berth, a familiar, formidable silhouette against the pearly dawn sky. Relief warred with the grim burden they carried.
Lucky Roux was elbow-deep in a barrel of salt pork, humming a sea shanty off-key. Building Snake meticulously soldered a fractured pipe on Marya's damaged sub, Gadget "The Snooze Inventor" snoring softly beside him, his Subconscious Sustainer Helmet (a colander wired with glowing seaweed and a tiny, spinning sheep mobile) emitting faint, discordant lullabies.
The heavy thud of boots on the gangplank made them look up. Bonk Punch and Monster stood there, coated in swamp muck, breathing heavily, their faces etched with exhaustion and something darker.
Lucky Roux wiped pork grease on his apron. "Back already? You boys look like you wrestled a gator and lost." His jovial tone faded as he saw their expressions. "What happened? Where's Ben? The others?"
Building Snake lowered his soldering iron, his amber eyes narrowing. Gadget snorted awake, blinking blearily. "Syrup? Did the swamp invent a new kind of mud? Extra sticky?"
Bonk Punch stepped forward, his voice gravelly with fatigue and the weight of the message. "Chief here?"
"Just returned," Building Snake stated, wiping his hands on a rag. "Down in his cabin, likely. Report."
Monster cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. "Found 'em. Mihawk. Hongo. In the middle of… wreckage. Marines. Big metal gators, blown apart. Stank of Vegapunk's tricks… somethin' that sucked the air out." He shuddered. "Thing blew itself sky-high. Took everything with it."
Bonk Punch took over, his gaze fixed on the hatch leading below decks. "Then… the swamp ghosts came. Les Guédés. Chased off whoever was left." He swallowed thickly, the image of the smooth, hungry mud patch vivid. "But… Marya. The girl. Mihawk's daughter. L'Esprit du Bayou… it just… took her. Roots pulled her down. Mud swallowed her whole. Gone."
A stunned silence fell. Lucky Roux's jaw dropped. Building Snake's grip tightened on the rag. Gadget's helmet emitted a confused "Ding?" followed by a sleepy mutter: "Swamp… snack? Not good eats…"
Bonk Punch pressed on, delivering Ben's exact words with grim formality: "Ben says… Chief needs to come. Now. 'Investigate the damage here.' See where… where it happened."
The hatch to the lower decks slammed open. Shanks stood there, having clearly heard every word. The easygoing aura was gone, stripped away like paint from old wood. His single hand clenched at his side. His eyes, usually bright with laughter or sharp with strategy, were chips of flint in a face suddenly carved from granite. The air around him didn't crackle with unleashed Haki; it vibrated with the terrifying potential of a hurricane compressed into a man's frame. He didn't look at Bonk Punch or Monster. He looked through them, towards the mist-choked expanse of the Forgotten Marshes.
"Monster," Shanks's voice was a low rasp, colder than the bayou's deepest current. "Get the fastest skiff ready. Now." He strode past them onto the deck, his gaze fixed on the whispering green horizon. "Bonk Punch. Show me exactly where."
The hunt for the serpent bleeding Nouvèl Orléon was abruptly, violently, secondary. The Bayou had taken something far more precious. The Emperor of the Sea was going into the vengeful heart of the swamp. Not for treasure, or territory, or even vengeance for the island. For a girl swallowed by the dark water. The reckoning had just become deeply, terrifyingly personal.