The path wound deeper into the colossal root system of the Adam Tree, the air growing cooler and thick with the scent of aged parchment, damp earth, and something like petrichor mixed with ancient wood sap. Sunlight, filtered through layers of foliage high above, pierced the cavernous spaces in shafts of gold, illuminating swirling dust motes that danced like tiny spirits. Jaguar D. Saul's massive footsteps were near-silent on the moss-carpeted stone, a testament to the giant's surprising grace, while Marya moved beside him with the quiet precision of a shadow, her golden eyes taking in every detail – the intricate Vanir runes carved into supporting arches, the bioluminescent lichen painting soft blue-green patterns on the walls, the distant echoes of scholarly debate that sounded like the low hum of a beehive.
They rounded a final, sweeping curve, and the Owl Library revealed itself. It wasn't merely a building; it was a realm sculpted within the heartwood of the Adam Tree itself. Vaulted ceilings, ribbed like the underside of some primordial leaf, soared hundreds of feet overhead, lost in shadowy grandeur. Walls curved seamlessly from the living wood, embedded with shelves that stretched towards infinity, holding books of staggering proportions. Some were as tall as Marya, bound in leather that looked like dragonhide or etched metal, their spines adorned with glyphs shimmering faintly with embedded minerals. Others, scattered amongst the giants, were human-sized – or smaller – looking like lost children beside their enlarged brethren. The air thrummed with a quiet energy, the ozone-tang of old magic mixed with the comforting smell of paper and ink. Soft light emanated from enormous, glowing amber crystals set into sconces shaped like perched owls, their warm glow reflecting off polished reading tables the size of small ships. High above, narrow walkways woven from thick vines connected different levels, where distant, scholarly giants moved like slow-moving constellations.
Standing sentinel near the grand entrance, perched on an obsidian pedestal shaped like an open book, was Biblo. The centuries-old giant owl was even more imposing in person. His plumage was a tapestry of deep russet browns and near-blacks, save for a startlingly pale, heart-shaped face framed by dramatic, downward-sweeping ear tufts that gave him a perpetually stern, bushy-browed expression. Enormous, round spectacles perched precariously on his beak, magnifying eyes the color of aged honey – eyes that held the weight of countless lifetimes, observing Marya and Saul with unnerving stillness. His talons, like polished ebony, gently gripped the pedestal. He gave a single, resonant "Hoo..." that echoed softly through the vast space, a sound less of greeting and more of acknowledgment, like the settling of a mountain.
"Welcome, Miss Mihawk's Shadow, to the memory-keeper of Elbaph," Saul rumbled, his voice instinctively lowering to a reverent hush that still carried. "And greetings to you, old guardian." He nodded respectfully to Biblo. "This is Biblo, chief librarian, keeper of the Iku Iku no Mi's gift. His presence is what allows knowledge, no matter how small its origin, to be shared with all Elbaph's children." As if demonstrating, Saul carefully lifted a small, leather-bound notebook Marya hadn't noticed him pick up – a standard human-sized journal. He placed it gently on a reading stand near Biblo's perch. The moment it settled, the notebook shimmered, warping slightly in the air like a heat haze, and then bloomed. It expanded smoothly, silently, growing to the size of a large shield, its pages now perfectly legible for a giant's eyes. Marya's own eyes widened a fraction, a rare flicker of pure, unguarded fascination crossing her stoic features at the instantaneous, effortless gigantification.
Before Saul could elaborate further, a whirlwind of energy zipped around a towering bookshelf. Ange, the head archivist, was a stark contrast to Biblo's ancient stillness. She was a giantess, but moved with a sprightly energy that belied her size. Her long, dark braids dangle over her round shoulders. She wore her frilly tunic tucked into her square buckled belt, over a fur split skirt, and her round cheeks were flushed with perpetual enthusiasm. Thick, magnifying lenses were clipped precariously to her spectacles.
"Saul! You brought a visitor! Oh, a new face! Welcome, welcome!" Ange's voice was a cheerful boom she tried, unsuccessfully, to dampen in the library's hush. She skidded to a stop before Marya, peering down with intense curiosity. "Ange's the name! Head Archivist, chronicler, decipherer of dreadful handwriting, and tamer of wayward scrolls! What brings you to our root-bound treasury? Research? Lore? Seeking the lost recipe for Borin's infamous pickled herring surprise?" She winked.
Saul chuckled. "Ange, this is Marya. She comes with questions only deep history might answer. And speaking of deep history..." He gestured towards a quieter corner where a giant sat hunched over a desk piled high with scrolls and codices. The giant, Gotfrid "Scroll-Singer", looked up. He was older than Saul, with a long, silver beard meticulously braided and threaded with beads of polished Adam wood. His eyes, pale blue and deeply lined, held a scholar's sharpness despite their age. He wore simple, dark robes, and his large hands, stained with ink, rested gently on an unfurled scroll covered in intricate, swirling script that seemed to shift subtly under the amber light.
"Gotfrid," Saul introduced, "meets Marya Zaleska. Her interests lie... beyond the surface tales." There was a weight to Saul's words that the old scholar immediately understood.
Gotfrid inclined his head, his voice a dry whisper like pages turning. "Scroll-Singer, some call me. Welcome, daughter of shadows. What knowledge do you seek within these whispering walls?"
Marya met his gaze, her own golden eyes steady. The boisterousness of Ange and the profound silence of the library were contrasts, but both felt like potential tools or obstacles. "I seek understanding," she began, her voice clear and calm in the vast space. "Of a specific Poneglyph. Located in Angkor'thal, within the Temple of Dawn's Echo." A slight pause, a rare moment of consideration as she chose her words carefully, aware these strangers held pieces of a puzzle she needed. "It presents... a riddle. A barrier, it seems, guarding an ancient door. The key appears to lie not in force, but in deciphering its verse." She didn't offer the riddle itself, her guarded nature holding it close, a card yet unplayed.
Ange's gasp was audible. She clasped her ink-stained hands together, her eyes wide behind her lenses. "Angkor'thal! Dawn's Echo! Oh, stars above! That's... that's pre-Void Century construction! Possibly Vanir! The riddles from that era are legendarily complex – layered metaphors, celestial alignments, linguistic traps! Oh, what a glorious challenge!" She practically vibrated on the spot, her earlier energy magnified tenfold by scholarly excitement. "Where to start? Where to start?! Linguistic cross-references! Comparative mythologies from the Ohara fragments! Saul, where's that compendium on pre-Cataclysm ceremonial verse? Gotfrid, your notes on Vanir star-charts! And the architectural treatises!" She was already darting away, her boots making soft thuds on the mossy stone, her head swiveling as she scanned the impossibly high shelves. "We'll need the Saga of the Sundered Sky, definitely! And Borin's Lexicon of Lost Tongues! And... oh! The rubbings from the Moonfall Stele!" She skidded back towards Marya, breathless. "Do you have the riddle? The exact wording? Every syllable, every potential double meaning is crucial!"
Marya watched the archivist's fervent dance, a flicker of something akin to reluctant amusement touching her eyes. The woman's enthusiasm was infectious, even to her reserved nature. "I possess the inscription," Marya confirmed evenly. "Copied precisely. It resides with my materials aboard the Red Force." A practical statement, not an offer to fetch it immediately.
"Perfect! Absolutely perfect!" Ange clapped her hands, causing a small puff of dust to rise from her cloak. "The moment you have it, bring it straight here! We'll feast on it! Dissect it! Conquer it! Oh, this will be the most fun I've had since cataloging the Bog-Bloom bestiary!" She beamed at Marya, then at Saul, then zoomed off again towards a towering ladder, muttering about stellar cartography and syllabic stress patterns.
Saul's deep, warm laughter rolled through the library again, a comforting counterpoint to Ange's buzzing energy. "Never a still moment with Ange on the scent of a mystery, eh?" He looked down at Marya, his eyes crinkling. "She's the best, truly. If the answer's in these roots, she and Biblo will help you find it."
Just then, the grand, root-woven doors of the library groaned open, spilling in a shaft of brighter daylight from the path outside. Framed in the entrance were Shanks and Scopper Gaban, the former with his easy grin, the latter still looking slightly winded but wearing a smirk. Shanks scanned the awe-inspiring interior, his single arm resting casually on his sword hilt. "Found the heart of wisdom, I see! And judging by the whirlwind," he nodded towards where Ange was now halfway up a ladder, precariously pulling a tome larger than she was, "I'd say Marya's already set the scholars ablaze. Everything shipshape for the hunt, niece?"
Scopper's eyes, sharp as ever behind his round sunglasses, landed on Marya, then flicked to the colossal books, then to the ancient, silent Biblo. His earlier playful challenge about testing her skills seemed momentarily forgotten, replaced by genuine curiosity. "Angkor'thal, eh? Nasty place, full of old traps and older ghosts. That riddle giving you trouble already, little hawk?" The mischievous glint returned, but it was tempered now by the palpable weight of history surrounding them in the whispering, book-filled cavern. The hunt for knowledge had truly begun, and the Owl Library, with its ancient owl guardian and vibrant scholars, was ready to assist.
The rich scent of aged paper and wood sap faded as Jaguar D. Saul's booming laughter echoed through the cavernous library entrance, shaking dust motes from the root-carved lintel. "Old traps and ghosts are just Scopper's way of saying 'bring a bigger hammer,' little hawk!" he rumbled, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. Marya, however, remained impassive, her golden eyes tracking Ange's frantic progress up a towering vine ladder. The archivist was now precariously balanced, wrestling a massive, leather-bound tome titled "Celestial Alignments & Pre-Cataclysm Ritual Syntax" off a shelf high above, her braids fluttering like battle standards.
Shanks, leaning against the doorframe carved to resemble intertwined serpents, grinned. "Right! The crew's already commandeered Mato's Tavern. Saul, fancy washing down scholarly dust with some Elbaph mead? Benn's holding a table, but if we dawdle, Lucky Roux will have inhaled every smoked boar haunch, pickled herring barrel, and possibly the serving platters." He shot a meaningful look at Marya. "Library's not vanishing overnight. Investigation starts fresh tomorrow. With clearer heads… and hopefully, some leftovers."
Ange's head popped over the edge of the shelf, her spectacles askew. "Oh, absolutely! Go! Feast! Revel! I need time to gather the real artillery for this riddle siege – Gotfrid's star charts, the Vanir concordance, Borin's notes on petrified prophecy! Bring me that transcription first thing, Marya! We'll crack it open like a sun-ripened nut!" She vanished back behind the tome with a determined grunt.
Marya gave a single, curt nod. "Tomorrow." Her voice was calm, already cataloging the resources Ange mentioned. The promise of focused work later was preferable to the immediate chaos of a tavern.
Scopper, Saul, Marya, and Shanks stepped out onto the wide, moss-carpeted path of the Adam Tree's colossal branches. Sunlight dappled through leaves the size of schooners, warming the cool root-shaded air. They hadn't gone fifty paces when they passed the Walrus School. The sturdy wooden building, carved with runes depicting leaping fish and wrestling bears, echoed with the deep, rhythmic chants of young giants reciting multiplication tables. Suddenly, a harried-looking giant with shaggy light mane and protruding horns – Blade, the Math Teacher – burst from the doorway. His eyes, sharp behind wire-rimmed spectacles, locked onto Scopper Gaban.
"GABAN!" Blade bellowed, his scholarly voice cracking with outrage. He pointed an accusing finger, trembling like a divining rod. "Your son! Colon! Disappeared again! Master Borin's lecture on Void Century tariffs was interrupted by reports of a blue gelatinous projectile bouncing past the armory with Colon in tow! This is the third time this week!"
Scopper froze mid-stride, his earlier mischievous glint replaced by pure paternal panic. "Ah. Right. Busy day, Blade! Important pirate business! We'll discuss it later!" He grabbed Shanks' elbow and subtly nudged Marya forward, his voice dropping to a hiss. "Move. Now."
Saul and Shanks, however, erupted into fresh laughter. "Sentient pudding strikes again!" Saul chortled, his massive frame shaking.
"Seems Colon's got a talent for tactical retreats!" Shanks added, effortlessly matching Scopper's hurried pace while grinning broadly.
Blade wasn't deterred. He started after them, his long legs eating up the path. "LATER? GABAN, YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVER! I AM INITIATING A PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE! WITH WITNESSES! PERHAPS SAINT SHANKS CAN MEDIATE?!"
The image of the fearsome Emperor mediating a truant meeting only made Saul laugh harder. The group broke into a brisk, undignified walk-trot, weaving past giant porters carrying bundles of timber and clusters of wide-eyed young giants. Blade's indignant shouts faded behind them as they rounded a bend thick with glowing amber lichen.
Once safely out of sight, they slowed, returning to a leisurely stroll. The tension melted, replaced by the peaceful sounds of the living tree: the rustle of giant leaves, the distant song of unseen birds, the deep, rhythmic thrumming that seemed to emanate from the roots themselves. Marya walked silently, observing the intricate root carvings depicting ancient heroes and sea beasts.
Then, without warning, a viciously cold gust of wind ripped down the path. It wasn't natural – it carried the sharp, metallic tang of frostbite and beneath it, a faint, sickly-sweet odor of decay, like spoiled fruit left in a tomb. The colossal branches overhead groaned and trembled violently, showering them with a cascade of leaves and brittle twigs. Underfoot, where the moss met the ancient flagstones, thin, vein-like streaks of inky darkness pulsed for a split second – rotting threads of pure corruption snaking across the path before vanishing as abruptly as they appeared, leaving only a lingering chill and a faint, greasy residue on the air. The unnatural cold bit deep, making even Saul shiver.
Just as suddenly as it came, the wind died. The trembling ceased. Warmth seeped back. The sweet-rot stench dissipated, replaced by the familiar scents of moss and wood. It was as if a ghostly, decaying shadow had briefly passed over the sun.
Marya stopped, her golden eyes fixed on the spot where the dark threads had writhed. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm but razor-sharp with curiosity. "Is this… normal for Elbaph?"
Scopper and Saul exchanged a look – a fleeting moment of shared concern that smoothed over quickly but didn't escape notice. Shanks' easy grin had vanished, replaced by a focused intensity as his gaze swept the now-still branches and the innocuous-looking moss.
Scopper cleared his throat, forcing his usual gruffness. "Eh, weather's been a bit temperamental lately. Root drafts. Nothing a stiff drink won't cure." He clapped a hand on Shanks' shoulder, a little too firmly. "Speaking of which… Mato's awaits. And the explanation," he added, meeting Shanks' questioning look, "is definitely tavern talk. Over mead. Lots of mead."
They resumed walking, the earlier lightheartedness dampened, replaced by an unspoken weight. The path sloped gently upwards, the sounds of raucous singing and clinking tankards growing louder ahead. Soon, the warm, inviting glow of Mato's Tavern spilled onto the path, its giant-sized doors thrown open to reveal a scene of chaotic merriment. They could hear Lucky Roux's distinctive bellow over the din: "Save the cracklin'! I called dibs on the cracklin'!" The promise of answers – and the immediate distraction of pirate revelry – pulled them towards the light, leaving the brief, chilling anomaly and its lingering questions behind in the whispering roots.