Newsbirds never reach Wano.
So Dimon had no idea that "the Centenarian Swordsman" — Yamamoto Genryūsai — was already a name burning across the seas.
He was busy in Beast Fortress, cradling baby Yamato.
"Say 'uncle.' Come on—Di-mon Uncle."
Yamato's cheeks dimpled; she parroted syllables in milky babble.
Across the tatami, Kaido sat cross-legged with a gourd in one hand, chin propped in the other, face full of helpless dad.
"She isn't even one. Making her talk is a stretch."
"You don't get it," Dimon teased. "I need to bond early—before she grows up into a little traitor of a down jacket."
He flipped Yamato deftly—face toward the door—just as the tiny lordling… let it flow.
"Good thing I see the future," he sniffed. "Could've worn that."
"Oro-ro-ro-ro…" Kaido barked a laugh. "You like her—perfect. Next month I sail again. Kids are a hassle at sea."
"Do I look like a nanny?" Dimon groused. "Fine. If you're voyaging—bring back Devil Fruits."
"Not so easy," Kaido shrugged, chugging. "But I'll try. You coming?"
"Pass."
Back at the shogun's manor, Toki cooked—subtle knife work, honest flavors. Dimon ate well these days.
"By the way, Toki—want a child?"
Her eyes flew wide; pink flooded her face. "Y-You're moving too fast!"
"Kaido's child," he coughed. "Name's Yamato. He's dumping her on me for a while. Can you help watch her?"
"Oh… r-right." She puffed her cheeks in indignation, then nodded.
"For the trouble—one cup of Immortality Wine," Dimon smiled.
"I'll do my best."
Seven days of earthquakes later, the duel between Abel and Douglas Barrett finally burned itself out at Mount Fuji's foothills—forest turned to craters and splinters. Both collapsed, breath scraping on empty.
When Abel limped in with apologies, Dimon merely tossed him a mottled fruit.
"Logia — Rumble-Rumble. Toothless Pterosaur's only an Ancient. You need a larger engine. Eat it—if it's your will."
Abel froze, then swallowed the surge in his chest. "Next time, I will win."
Dimon chuckled. Barrett in history had gone even with Rayleigh and bowed to no one but Roger. The kid would explode upward; good. The new era belonged to the hungry.
Time ran on. Kaido sailed, leaving Yamato in the manor and sake on the table.
Kuja Pirates finally cast off, purses fat from Wano's "hospitality," and Dimon skimmed his cut—seventy percent—straight into the Punk Research Institute.
By Sea Circle Calendar 1493, the papers screamed new names:
"Sand" Crocodile opened at 81,000,000.
Dracule "Hawk Eyes" Mihawk beat every famous blade he found.
Gecko Moria raised a flag of his own.
Charlotte Katakuri flattened a country for a fruit—bounty leaping to 433,000,000.
Marco the Phoenix robbed a World Government ship for a fruit—up to 396,000,000.
The world had turned fruit-mad—not to eat, but to barter with a legend for a cup of eternity.
And hottest of all, a phantom: "Yamamoto Genryūsai". After beheading Wang Zhi on Hachinosu, the old man vanished. Marines posted a 30,000,000 bounty just for tips. Bounty hunters, pirates, even newspaper boys chased shadows.
Dimon saw that headline and made the face of an elderly commuter underground.
"All that fuss for thumping Wang Zhi? Something's up."
Boredom tugged. "Fine. Time to stretch the legs—and harvest a few remnants of the old era. Let's start with Shaji—see how her intel web's spinning."
He pinged the pentagram brand on Crocodile… and stepped.
The world snapped back as deck-planking kissed his boots—a massive pirate ship. Crocodile lay on the boards, cut, bruised, barely breathing. Around him, an honor guard of monsters turned their eyes—and Observation Haki—on the intruder. At their center stood a mountain of a man, a crescent-mustached titan with a Supreme Grade blade, Cong Yun Che, resting easy in his hand.
Dimon arched a brow, taking in the white coat, the aura like a living seaquake.
"Sashiburidana, Newgate. Long time no see."
He smiled—kind, almost gentle.
"So… what did you lot just do to my little brother?"
Silence pressed. Knuckles creaked. The deck remembered every war it had ever sailed through.
To be continued…
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