The sea roared around them like a wild beast, as if the ocean itself was trying to devour the daring fools who dared challenge it.
Cloudchaser bucked and groaned beneath their feet, its wooden ribs creaking with every thunderous slap of wave against hull. Salt-stained sails strained against the whipping wind, and every rope and bolt rattled as though the ship herself was holding her breath.
Above them, the sky churned—a whirl of dark grays and angry purples—as Reverse Mountain loomed on the horizon. It looked like something torn from a god's nightmare: a jagged monolith splitting the clouds, impossibly steep, its twin cliffs framing a furious river that defied logic by climbing up instead of falling down.
Toma stood at the helm, rain streaming down his face like tears of the sea. His clothes clung to his skin, soaked through. Every muscle in his arms was locked in place, steering them into the maelstrom. But his eyes—those burned with the fire of every outlaw who had ever dreamt of carving their name into history.
Selka balanced halfway up the mainmast, rope slung around her waist for support, adjusting the sails with sharp, practiced hands. She was soaked to the bone, her dark braid whipping in the storm, and her fingers worked quickly, her knuckles pale.
"Current's picking up!" she screamed over the roar of water and wind. "This is the upward stream! We're almost at the base!"
Below deck, the lanterns flickered wildly as Rigg Vellor braced himself in the hold, digging through a crate. His hands moved with desperate speed—pulling out coils of rope, spare planks, and a bag of steel spikes wrapped in wax cloth. The ship shuddered with another wave and dust fell from the beams.
"If we hit a rock at this speed," he muttered, half to himself, "this ship's going to splinter like driftwood!" His voice rose as he shouted up the hatch. "We need to brace the hull!"
"We're not hitting anything!" Toma called down, his voice sharp and sure. "We're going up!"
Outside, the world shrank to sea and stone. The base of Reverse Mountain was chaos incarnate—a furious whirlpool where the four oceans met and merged, surging together in an impossible current that defied gravity. The river roared as it climbed, winding like a serpent between the cliffs, whitecaps flashing like teeth.
The Cloudchaser tilted hard as it entered the stream, the front of the ship lifting sharply. A moment of weightlessness passed over them—a breathless second—and then they surged upward like a cannonball shot into the heavens.
Selka screamed, not in fear but wild delight, clinging to the rigging as the wind nearly tore her off the mast. "This is insane!"
The hull trembled. Spray hammered the deck. The sky rushed past them, the walls of the mountain a blur of gray stone and dark green moss. Clusters of hardy flowers clung to the cracks, and high above, seabirds circled the summit like watchful spirits.
Rigg exploded from below deck, nearly slipping as he slammed the hatch behind him. He was streaked with oil and rain, and he carried a makeshift wooden brace over one shoulder.
"You didn't tell me we were climbing a mountain with a boat!"
"I thought it was obvious!" Toma shouted, laughter crackling in his voice like lightning. "Hold that brace—we're going to need it if we survive!"
The upward current roared louder, narrowing into a violent chute. The Cloudchaser hit patches of whitewater that sent it lurching and bouncing. Wooden beams groaned, nails popped, and somewhere near the stern, a bucket skittered into the sea with a splash.
They crested the top of Reverse Mountain in a blaze of spray and chaos.
There, for just a breath, the sea stilled. The summit—a narrow tongue of calm water—reflected a slice of sky. They could see the world below them, the drop off into the Grand Line—a horizon twisting with mist, monstrous weather, and the shimmer of untamed power.
"Hold on!" Selka shouted.
The world tilted.
Gravity returned.
The ship plummeted.
They fell like a stone wrapped in sails, the wind howling past them in a scream. Toma held fast to the wheel, gritting his teeth. Selka dropped from the mast, landing hard on the deck beside him, and Rigg clung to the railing like a cat tossed into a river.
The plunge ended in a crash that seemed to shatter the sky.
Cloudchaser hit the water with a bone-jarring impact, kicking up a tower of spray that drenched the deck and soaked their lungs with salt. For a moment, they were certain the ship would split in two.
But it didn't.
Somehow—against every law of nature and reason—it held.
Silence followed, broken only by the soft slosh of water and the creak of the exhausted ship.
Then came the laughter. First Toma, then Selka, and finally Rigg. Mad, breathless, joyous laughter that shook them all as they lay sprawled across the soaked deck, bruised, bloodied, but alive.
Toma dragged himself to his feet, wiping water from his brow. "We made it…"
"The Grand Line…" Selka breathed. Her wide eyes scanned the sea ahead—a realm of shifting weather, impossible islands, and sea beasts large enough to swallow ships whole.
Rigg climbed to his knees, looking around in disbelief. "We're gonna die, aren't we?"
Toma chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder. "Eventually. But not today."
Toma laughed quietly, then turned toward the horizon. The ocean here was not calm. The sky was patchy, islands visible in the distance, but weather patterns already shifting.
Then he noticed something.
A whale.
No—a giant whale.
"Hold up," Toma said, squinting. "What's that?"
From beneath the surface, a massive shadow rose.
A dark blue leviathan, its size rivaling their ship ten times over, breached the water near them with a mournful cry.
Selka's eyes widened. "It's a Laboon whale."
Rigg muttered, "I thought those were a myth."
The whale stared at them, calm and curious, before slowly diving beneath the waves again. The sea quieted.
They drifted forward, sails still catching the shifting wind, and that's when they heard it—the telltale caws.