Five seconds to end Wang Zhi.
The Demon Domain unfurled like a pitch-black curtain, swallowing the fleeing "Founder" and sealing him inside. It was already night; beneath the night another black moon quietly rose. Unless you knew where to look, you'd miss it.
"What now—?"
Wang Zhi's wine-bubble skated straight into the domain wall. No time to think. He whirled, his still-good arm crashing head-on into a slash from the dark.
Armament clashed—he even had the edge this time.
"No… this isn't that old man—!?"
Flame gouted from his mouth to light the dark. In the red wash he finally saw the attacker: a pot-cut swordsman with a deadpan, machine-like face. Not alive so much as engineered to kill.
"Bad—"
His Future Sight showed it one beat too late: a pale arc scything from his flank; his own head popping free of his neck and spinning into the air.
He couldn't dodge. It was a murder set up two moves earlier—first the pot-cut automaton to lock all his attention, and the real blade slid in on the blind side. By the time he knew, it was over.
Dimon's slash took the head. It wasn't the end.
"The Founder's immortal, idiot!" Wang Zhi's severed head sneered—and belched a furnace-hot torrent.
"Candle-Wine Banquet!"
The fire gathered into a flaming dragon and crashed over Dimon at kiss range.
Dimon didn't even blink. His left hand opened, palm-crushed the dragon, then hooked. Five fingers, one skull. He gripped Wang Zhi's head like a kettle ball. Fire coiled around him and burned and burned—Armament shrugged it off.
"Farewell, Wang Zhi."
Fourth second—Devour.
Terror slammed through the immortal's nerves. His "undying" regeneration… stalled. A pull like a black hole poured from Dimon's palm, gnawing at consciousness itself.
In his last living instant the recognition hit, shock dilating his pupils between those iron fingers.
"You—you're—!?"
The name never left his tongue. Fifth second—the head powdered to ash and vanished into Dimon's hand.
A whole body takes seconds—sometimes ten or more—to consume. A lone head? One second.
"Waste not." Dimon seized the headless body and finished the meal.
Wang Zhi's life flickered past Dimon's eyes like a spool of film—
A baby in the Flower Country of the West Blue. A punk. A mob leg-breaker. A trafficker turned pirate turned "Founder." The Grand Line and the fateful gambling match with Rocks. Immortality Wine in the Skull Hotel ten years ago. God Valley eight years past, then silence. A month ago, back to Hachinosu to revive his "church." And today—eaten.
"Not even close to Oden," Dimon snorted. "A good father is ninety-nine percent of success."
More importantly: no Conqueror's aptitude. Among the Rocks cadre Wang Zhi was third-tier—beneath Whitebeard, Shiki, and even Silver Axe, John. But his Observation was nasty.
And now, so was Dimon's.
"Future Sight—ten seconds… and radius thirty kilometers."
Every extra second of foresight is exponentially harder. He let his haki breathe, sampling the island: hundreds of pirates craning their necks at the sudden blasts.
Dimon flexed a thought. Wang Zhi blinked into being—a perfect shell. Dimon split his mind in thirds, one thread to puppeteer Wang Zhi, and instantly felt Columbus in Impel Down stiffen like a doll.
"Mm. Three-way control's clunky. Good enough for broad strokes."
He waved, dispersed the Wang Zhi phantom, and with a blink of black light returned to Wano.
Hachinosu Hospital.
The unluckiest few, wrapped like mummies, lay moaning in beds. Wang Zhi's underlings clustered in whispers.
"Nack, where's the Founder?"
"We looked all night—nothing!"
Nack rasped, "No idea… an old man fought Lord Founder and then—gone."
"Old man? Who?"
"Name was… Yamamoto Genryūsai. A seriously nasty swordsman."
"Never heard of him," a cadre grunted. "This is bad. With Lord Founder missing, who keeps the island in line?"
They weren't worried about Wang Zhi dying—that monster was immortal. They were worried every hyena on Hachinosu would smell an empty throne.
Wano — Shogun's Manor.
Dimon slept like a rock. Woke lighter than air.
In the courtyard, Toki watered flowers, the morning light caught in her hair.
"Morning, Toki."
"Good morning, Lord Dimon." Her smile was gentle. Seeing his good mood, she tilted her head. "Something pleasant happened?"
"Seeing you improves my mood."
A flush crept up her cheeks; she turned away, muttering, "Nonsense… you probably just drank too much again."
Dimon chuckled. Pretty women being shy was always a delight—pretty being the operative word.
A thought prodded him—Kaido's fruits. He headed to storage.
Seven Devil Fruits in all.
The Goro Goro no Mi he shelved for later—best used to raise a lieutenant. The other six? Down the hatch.
[Devoured Devil Fruit: +200 Demon Points]
[Devoured Devil Fruit: +200 Demon Points]
…
0 → 1200
Wallet full again. He conjured a bottle of Immortality Wine and called Abel.
"Take this to Kaido in Kuri."
Abel saluted, wings flaring—and BOOM.
A thunderclap rattled the manor. Dimon paused; his Observation snapped outward and caught two signatures tangled above the city gates.
"Barrett?"
The courtyard breeze carried dust and the taste of battle.
Cliffhanger: The devil who drinks immortality meets the war child who fears nothing—who breaks first, fist or halo?
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