Countless droplets burst into rainbows in the air, then fell, rushing down stone-lined channels.
These waterways were no mere decoration-barges carrying stone and timber traveled through them, pulley systems creaked between buildings on either bank, and the entire city was a precision machine powered by falling seawater.
Rossi looked up at the towering column of water.
Windblown mist struck his face, carrying the briny tang peculiar to the deep sea.
The warmth of the hand he had shaken three months ago had long since faded, but certain things clung stubbornly like barnacles to a hull-the bitterness of defeat, the promise of another match, and that "safe travels" spoken as a Marine coat billowed.
He shook off those thoughts.
"Find somewhere to dock."
His voice mingled with the waterfall-like roar. "We need shipwrights, a dry dock, we need-"
A fresh start.
He did not say those words aloud.
The Family members got to work.
Mooring ropes flew toward the pier, and the sails slowly descended.
The Mink Tribe warriors drew deep breaths, their nostrils quivering as they distinguished unfamiliar scents amid the mingled moisture and rust: hot oil, molten iron, and wood shavings.
The city unfolded before their eyes.
It was no motionless picture, but a flowing, clamorous, perpetual cycle.
Seawater rose and fell, ships arrived and departed, and people ran and shouted along the waterways.
And here, the Donquixote Family would lay down its past and forge its future.
Rossi took one last look back.
The horizon was empty.
Three islands, two supply stops, and an unfinished match had all sunk beneath the churning foam of their wake.
He turned toward the roaring city.
"Let's go."
Rossi raised a hand and pointed out to sea.
The distant water city's outline was slowly emerging. Beyond its signature gushing water column, there