As the hour drew near, the square boiled over.
They were late—too late to squeeze anywhere close—so Dimon's little crew got jammed at the very rim, backs pressed to shopfronts. Buggy scavenged a stack of crates; the kids clambered up until they finally had a line of sight to the gallows in the center.
Closest to the platform, Dimon spotted a familiar silhouette: a bird-headed man in a black top hat with a camera on his chest.
Big News Morgans, of course. Zoan: Bird-Bird Fruit, Albatross model. If news had a beak, it was his.
The marketplace roar snapped taut.
At the base of the scaffold, a Marine captain lifted a loudspeaker Den-Den Mushi. His voice rolled out through the broadcast towers and into every ear.
"Bring the prisoner!"
Eyes swiveled in perfect unison.
Down the center lane—opened by two ranks of Marines—the steady tramp of boots, the soft scrape of chains. Golg D. Roger came into view.
His stride was unhurried. His bearing, fearless. He didn't look like a man walking toward the end—but a general returning from war.
There was even a smile on his face.
"Captain Roger…" Buggy's fists clenched, snot and tears running without permission.
The crowd went reverently quiet. Only the rhythm of steps and metal remained.
At the foot of the scaffold, the captain looked up. "Ascend."
"Unlock the ankle irons?" Roger chuckled. "Stairs are steep. Bit hard to climb like this."
"Don't be ridiculous!"
"Stingy." Roger clicked his tongue, then started up on his own. Each step he took, he was mulling the same question: How's Dimon going to get me that wine in front of the whole world?
He was still mortal—not an undying body.
He reached the top. No Dimon.
So Roger dropped onto the planks and sat cross-legged like a man settling for a smoke, trusting Dimon wouldn't stiff him. They hadn't known each other long, but he knew—this was a man whose word weighed something.
He looked out at the sea of faces—no searching, no worry—just that easy grin. The two executioners on either side, rifles of judgment in hand, swallowed hard.
"No need to get nervous," Roger told them. "It'll be over quick."
Down below, the crowd was a stew: reporters, pirates, gangsters, merchants, nobles, tourists… people who dreamed of treasure, fame, power—even immortality—all stunned silent by this man's presence.
"Roger…" Shanks' breath ran thin. He turned—"Big Bro Dio, please, help—huh?"
Dimon was gone from the crates.
Shanks' heart spiked. Were they supposed to save Roger themselves? Impossible.
"Buggy, did you see—"
Buggy blinked through blur. Smoker stood transfixed by Roger's courage. Mihawk gave a slow, almost imperceptible shake.
Dimon had already slipped through the press, sliding to the very front line.
When he took a step closer, rifle barrels leveled. "No further!"
"I'm just a kid. Not even me?" Dimon deadpanned.
The nearest Marine twitched. "Back up, kid."
"Then I'll just shout."
"Hey—what are you—"
Too late.
"Oi, Roger!!" Dimon's voice cracked across the square.
On the platform, Roger blinked, startled—then squinted. The face was off, but… something about that attitude—like Dimon had a ten-year-old son. (Which opened a wild, ridiculous line of thought he shoved away immediately.)
"You hid it, didn't you? That treasure everyone's whispering about! The One Piece! The trove that could buy a continent—where is it?!"
Pandemonium. Marines lunged to shut him up—
"Execute!"
The command knifed through the hubbub. The executioners raised their spears—
—and Roger laughed. Free, loud, infectious. The laugh bounded out of the square, through the relay snails, and around the world.
"You want my treasure? You can have it!"
"Go and find it! I left everything this world has to offer—"
"—in One Piece!"
Silence… like a drawn bowstring.
Dreams detonated behind every eye. Wealth. Fame. Power. Immortality.
No one noticed the spears thrusting—until crack—black-red lightning tore the air.
Conqueror's Haki, tight and precise, hit only the executioners. Their bodies jolted, eyes rolled white, and they collapsed like sacks.
Gasps rippled. The fantasy shattered long enough to blink.
"Conqueror's…?!" The captain's face drained. "From who!? Roger's remnants? All units—tense up! New executioners—move!"
Rifles snapped to the crowd.
And then a ten-year-old walked out.
"…Asking's faster than searching," Dimon said, stepping forward. The Marines who'd tried to grab him were already down cold. "Until I get my answer, you don't get to die."
"Apprehend the child!" the captain barked, still not understanding. Two soldiers rushed—
They hit an invisible wall and folded, snoring on stone.
"Again?! From the kid?!" Marines hissed.
In a shuttered room, Admiral Zephyr stared through a slit. "A child with Conqueror's…?" He didn't even have the color of kings himself.
Every heartbeat stretched.
Dimon took one more step—and blinked. When people registered it, he was already on the scaffold.
Black arcs snapped across his fingers.
A glass appeared, filled with a dark, glimmering liquid.
Morgans' eyes bulged. His wings fluttered; his camera chattered like a machine gun. "Oi, brat! That—is that the Immortality Wine?!"
Dimon tipped the cup. Roger tilted his head back, mouth open. The liquor shimmered as it fell, a night-sky ribbon.
"This is the wine that makes you unaging, undying—Immortality Wine!"
The square inhaled as one.
And somewhere beyond the square, beyond East Blue, beyond the calm belts and the red wall, the world felt its axis slip.
—to be continued.
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