The sea grew restless as the Cloudchaser cut its way through rolling waves, its crimson sails flapping violently in the sharp wind. The sky was a pale smear of gray, and the air tasted like salt and storm. Gulls screamed high above, their cries lost in the thrum of the rising tide. Far ahead, Reverse Mountain loomed like a broken fang on the edge of the world—a jagged spine of rock that pierced the heavens, its summit vanishing into low-slung cloud.
Toma stood at the prow, his cloak snapping behind him like a war banner. His dark hair clung damp to his brow, and salt stung his eyes as he squinted into the murky haze. The sea had changed. It churned beneath them as if alive—something primal and ancient coiled beneath the waves.
Behind him, footsteps clanged softly on the deck.
"Rudder line's secure," said Rigg Vellor, appearing from the hatch. The lanky young man had goggles slung around his neck, his brown overcoat half-zipped, and a wrench tucked into his belt. Grease stained his fingers as always, but his voice was as calm as ever. "If we hit turbulence climbing the current, we won't spin out."
"Good work," Toma muttered.
At the helm, Selka cast a grin over her shoulder, her copper-colored braid trailing in the wind. "Glad one of us knows what they're doing. This place gives me the creeps."
Toma nodded grimly. "The sea doesn't feel right."
Selka's smile faded. "You sensed it too?"
There was no time for a reply.
From the gray fog to starboard, dark silhouettes slashed the water. Sleek. Intentional. A ship emerged like a knife through cloth—a streamlined navy vessel smaller than a warship, but swift and deadly in its build. Its sail gleamed bone-white, the Marine emblem emblazoned in blue and gold.
And on its deck stood a tall figure in a long officer's coat, hands clasped behind his back, boots planted wide.
"Lieutenant Vale," Rigg murmured. He didn't need confirmation.
"Marine patrol," Selka said under her breath. "This close to the Red Line?"
"No way this is coincidence," Toma said, narrowing his eyes. "They were waiting."
A voice boomed across the water—sharp, clipped, and unmistakably authoritative.
"Unknown vessel approaching the Reverse Mountain passage. You are ordered to halt for inspection!"
Silence hung for a moment, pierced only by the crackling of sails and the rhythmic creak of the Cloudchaser's rigging.
Toma turned to his crewmates. "We run?"
"They'll catch us in a straight sprint," Rigg said, frowning. "Engines are good for bursts, but not distance. They're faster."
Selka spun the wheel, tension coiling in her arms. "So we fight."
Toma's hand closed around his staff—the one he had forged back in Windspire, under the guidance of a blacksmith who had once served a revolutionary army. It was shaped from stormwood and plated with steel along its edges. A weapon built for defense, yet craving offense.
"We make it loud," he said. "Just enough for them to hesitate."
Selka cracked her knuckles and grinned. "Let's give them something to report."
The Marine ship adjusted course, its bow slamming against the Cloudchaser's starboard side with a jarring crunch. Grappling hooks flew through the mist, anchoring deep into wood and railing. Marines swung over with terrifying precision—white and blue uniforms crisp, swords drawn, rifles raised.
Toma surged forward, staff spinning with deadly grace. The air shimmered as Armament Haki coated his arms, blackening his grip. The first Marine reached him—and was promptly knocked across the deck by a strike to the ribs. Another lunged in with a saber, but Toma ducked low, swept the man's legs out, and sent him crashing into a crate.
Rigg moved with surgical precision. He slipped between blows like a shadow, wrench flashing in short arcs. He disarmed one opponent by twisting the sword from their grip and struck another with a jab to the solar plexus. His expression remained steady, his breathing controlled—less like a brawler, more like a tactician executing pressure-point takedowns.
Selka wove through the chaos like a storm in human form. Her rope dart whistled through the air, embedding in a mast before swinging back into her hand. She struck from unpredictable angles—once, twice, then vanished behind barrels she herself had tipped. She kicked up a cloud of flour from a broken crate, blinding three marines, then struck all of them down in one fluid series of moves.
The deck trembled.
Then he landed.
Lieutenant Vale stepped aboard as if gravity bent to his will. His black coat billowed around him, one hand gloved in dark leather, the other bare and resting at his side. His saber remained sheathed—but there was no doubt in his presence. His gaze scanned the deck like a hawk observing mice.
"You're young," he said, coldly. "But you carry the weight of wanted men."
Toma squared his shoulders. "No bounty yet."
Vale's gaze fixed on the faint curve of a letter burned into Toma's staff.
"Not yet."
Then he moved.
In a heartbeat, Vale crossed the distance and drove his palm—coated in Haki—into Toma's ribs. The force cracked the air. Toma was flung backward, slammed into the mast, and slid to his knees, breath knocked out of him.
Selka cried out and launched her dart, but Vale side-stepped, caught the chain mid-flight, and yanked. She was dragged forward, hit the deck hard, and rolled across it with a grimace.
Rigg popped a small cylinder and hurled it—a flash bomb. The deck erupted in white light. Vale closed his eyes a beat too early—he had predicted it. He swept forward and kicked Rigg squarely in the chest, sending him skidding past the hatch.
Toma rose again, coughing blood. He spat to the side, wiped his mouth, and raised his staff.
"I'm not done."
"You're reckless," Vale said. "Surrender. The Grand Line is death."
Toma smiled grimly. "So was my old life. But I survived that too."
With a growl, he lunged forward. This time he feinted left, then spun on his heel and struck Vale's side. The lieutenant staggered a single step. His expression remained unreadable.
"You're improving," Vale said.
Toma adjusted his stance, panting. "Too bad for you. I'm not finished."
Their weapons met in a clash of power—staff against saber now unsheathed, Haki against Haki. Sparks lit the mist around them. The Cloudchaser groaned beneath their feet, caught in the thunder of footsteps and steel.
Below deck, Rigg reached the engine room and twisted the ignition gear with practiced precision. The auxiliary boosters roared awake.
Above, Selka vaulted back to the helm. She gritted her teeth, kicked free a block, and unfurled the mainsail. The ship lurched forward like a bull seeing red.
Vale's eyes widened. "Wait—"
Toma drove his boot into Vale's chest with the last of his strength.
The lieutenant stumbled.
Ropes snapped. Hooks fell. Marines cursed.
The Cloudchaser surged forward with a violent jolt, breaking free of the entangling lines. Water exploded in its wake as it roared past the Marine vessel, slipping back into the mist like a phantom.
For a long while, only the sound of the wind remained.
Toma collapsed, breath ragged, staff beside him. Selka knelt, one hand on his shoulder. Rigg joined them, pulling a medkit from his pouch and checking Toma's pulse.
"They'll chase us," Selka said between pants.
"Not for a while," Rigg replied, gently patching a bruise. "We busted their rudder. They'll limp, not fly."
Toma's eyes turned skyward. The clouds were splitting apart, revealing a sliver of orange sunlight above the chaos. Behind them lay danger. Ahead...
The mist parted.
Reverse Mountain loomed before them, monstrous and magnificent—its slopes glistening with ice, its streams raging upward toward the Grand Line's impossible heart.
Toma sat up slowly, wincing but smiling.
"Let's climb it."