Dimon didn't bother with Barrett—for now. He sat cross-legged beside Kaido, Yamato snoozing in his arms, and traded stories like old wolves who'd seen three winters too many.
"So," Dimon asked, "what did you 'casually' conquer this time?"
"Just a few islands," Kaido said, with the exact grin a man wears when he's very pleased with himself. "Not worth mentioning."
Translation: ports flying the Beast flag; tribute caravans marching on schedule; vassal kings polite as clergy and twice as frightened. He'd even picked up a new trick—seize the prince, leash the crown—and the coffers roared for it. The Beasts had swollen past ten thousand head, not counting the garrison at Kuri.
Dimon lifted his cup. "Not bad. You're learning."
Kaido snorted. "You always took me for a brute. I just don't like wasting brainpower."
He leaned back, jug sloshing. "On the way home, after watching Rogue Town's circus, I passed Hachinosu. Wang Zhi's nesting there. We had ourselves a scrap."
Wang Zhi… at the Hive. Dimon's eyes brightened. The Rocks remnants were scattered like buckshot across history—but the New Age wind had started flushing old bones from their caves.
"Good," Dimon said softly. "Time to harvest."
They drank and traded plans until the shadows grew long. When the horizon bruised gold, Dimon eased Yamato—tiny horns and all—back into Kaido's enormous hands.
"I'm dropping by the lab," he said, rising. "Your daughter's adorable. Try not to raise her into a volcano."
Kaido rolled his eyes. Yamato, still nursing her bottle, blinked solemnly at Dimon as he took to the sky.
Onigashima lay a short hop off Wano's south coast. In this timeline, the "鬼岛" of memory had been reborn: steel ribs, glass arteries, and a crown of rotating antennae—the Punk Research Annex.
Dimon's descent caused a ripple of delighted panic. Angel investors were rare; mythical angel investors—those who tossed in obscene sums without nagging—were a scientist's dream and a treasurer's bedtime prayer.
"Mr. Dimon!" White coats swarmed. "An honor!" "Please, here—this way—should we assemble the entire—"
"Spare me the parade." Dimon waved them down. "Just tell Vegapunk."
They parked him in a lounge. The first to arrive wasn't Vegapunk at all but Stussy, lab coat and librarian glasses doing treacherous work.
"Di~mon," she sang, dove into his arms, and puckered up.
"Hold—company," Dimon murmured, palming her face aside.
The door clicked. In flowed Vegapunk, Caesar, Queen, and Judge like the Four Horsemen of Unchecked Budget Lines.
"Jya-ga-ga—wrong time?" Caesar cackled.
"Perfect timing," Dimon said, gently relocating Stussy to an adjacent cushion. "Doctor, I need a favor."
Vegapunk steepled his fingers. "If this is about Pluton fuel—"
"We'll table that. I've got patience for hellfire." Dimon took a seat. Stussy, chastened, retreated to pour coffee.
"First question," Dimon said. "When a Devil Fruit user dies, the fruit 'reincarnates' somewhere. Can we force that rebirth to occur within a specific radius—say, constrained to an island?"
Vegapunk's brows climbed. "Localization of Devil inheritance… feasible to investigate. Not trivial."
"How long?"
"No guarantees. But within a year I expect meaningful progress."
"Good." Dimon nodded. "Second: Immortals who consume a second fruit lose the first. Can we reify that lost power back into a physical fruit—a controlled 'offload'—instead of letting the world randomly respawn it?"
Vegapunk blinked, stunned. "You've observed this?"
"Recently," Dimon said. "Call it… free respecs with inconvenient side effects."
Vegapunk's eyes gleamed. "Fascinating. The two problems are kin—both concern state capture of the Fruit's ability genome at transfer. We can pursue them as a joint program."
"My thoughts exactly." Dimon turned, the third arrow already nocked. "Last item: Artificial Devil Fruits. I want a proof-of-concept, any type. One functional unit, soon."
Vegapunk grimaced. "That will strain our—"
"Jya-ga-ga! Leave it to me." Caesar slapped his chest. "I'll outpace the old egghead."
Dimon stared at him with the deep, abiding skepticism of a man who had seen certain mass-produced lemons. Caesar flushed.
"Hey! I'm a genius, too."
"Then be a genius," Dimon said mildly. "Deliver something real."
He laid out milestones, safety rails, and a few absolutely-do-not-do's (Queen pouted; Judge pretended not to take notes). Business settled, he rose.
Stussy walked him to the door, fingers lingering. "Visit sooner next time."
"Next time for sure," Dimon promised, which, to be fair, history suggested he sometimes even meant.
He didn't bother flying back to the Flower Capital. A black pentacle spun underfoot; the lab lights flickered as he blinked across the world.
Hachinosu — The Hive.
The old summoning chamber lay under a skin of dust. It remembered blood, chanting, and ambitions that hadn't aged well. Black mist budded; Dimon stepped out of it into silence.
"Wang Zhi," he murmured, trailing fingers over a cracked pillar. "Let's see what flavor of antique you are."
His footfalls tapped toward the stairs. With each step his frame stooped, hair whitened, back bent—and a papery chuckle coiled in the gloom.
When he reached the threshold, the apparition was complete: a hundred-year elder, beard like winter moss, eyes bright as a whetted blade.
"Mm," he rasped, amused with himself. "For today… call this old man—Yamamoto Genryūsai Shigekuni."
He pushed into the Hive's underbelly as torches guttered awake one by one, shadows gathering like crows.
Somewhere above, glasses clinked, pirates laughed, and a forgotten king sharpened his legend.
And below, the old era shifted on its throne—unaware the reaper had already taken his seat at the table.
Next — The Hive opens its fangs. Wang Zhi's gambit, Dimon's harvest, and the first head on the New Age ledger.
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