"So… Oyaji's actually on good terms with that Dimon guy?"
"Looks that way. Never heard Oyaji talk much about his previous crew."
"That fight scared me to death. Felt like if they didn't call it, the island would sink first!"
Marco, Jozu, and Vista huddled together, sneaking glances at the two men drinking by the bonfire as they whispered.
"So who won?"
"You an idiot, Marco? Obviously a draw!"
"I heard someone say Oyaji lost—the Devil Fruit was already handed over…"
Jozu curled his lip. Whitebeard losing? Unthinkable. In his heart, Oyaji was invincible. He simply couldn't picture it.
Whitebeard's voice carried over the crackle of fire. "Marco, bring the Fruits we set aside."
"Got it, Oyaji."
Marco spun on his heel—then froze. The Moby Dick was still capsized on the beach, swamped by the aftershocks of that beam. "Uh—hey! The ship's over! Lend a hand!"
A swarm of pirates rushed to right their flagship. After a long, salty slog, Marco finally fought his way through the messy hold and dug out the chest they'd been filling for months.
"Four in total. Yours," Whitebeard said, nodding for Marco to pass them to Dimon.
Dimon flipped the lid and found—indeed—four Fruits:
Paramecia — Bag-Bag Fruit
Paramecia — Clear-Clear Fruit
Paramecia — Luck-Luck Fruit
Zoan — Mouse-Mouse Fruit, Model: Flying Squirrel
"Only four?" Dimon's eyes skimmed once. He recognized each pattern at a glance.
Not a bad haul. Three Paramecia. The Clear-Clear Fruit alone… Sanji's dream, huh. The Luck-Luck Fruit wasn't shabby either—steal others' fortune, make your own luck.
"The rest got distributed," Whitebeard said. Unlike Roger's lot, the Whitebeard Pirates didn't swear off Fruits. If a good one turned up and someone wanted it, they got it.
Dimon shut the chest, and a glass bottle with a deep red glow condensed in his hand. "Call it even. Four Fruits for one bottle—I'm generous."
"Gurararara! Any Fruit is worth the same to you, isn't it? Power's power." Whitebeard passed the bottle to Marco. "Take it. Decide among yourselves."
Marco studied the wine. Looked ordinary enough—just a bottle of red. Jozu and the others crowded in.
"So this is that wine? The one that grants undying life?"
"Relax, it's real. Who wants first?" Marco asked. "I'll pass. I'm a phoenix—and I'm only sixteen. If I drink now, I'll stay short forever."
"I'll go first!" Vista volunteered, hand already out.
"Me too! Who wouldn't want immortality!?"
"But there are only four cups…"
"No way around it—rock, paper, scissors!"
They clustered up, whooping and jeering. Dimon glanced over, lost interest, then noticed a dark-skinned kid in the crowd. The boy's eyes burned holes in the bottle—until he realized Dimon was looking and snapped his gaze away.
Teach, huh. Dimon's mouth crooked. Your old man, Xebec, is still pinned under Imu in the Holy Land…
"Old White, don't tell me you don't know," Dimon said lazily.
"Huh?" Whitebeard took a hearty swig, then chuckled when he caught Dimon's expression. "What about Teach?"
"You really don't?" Dimon arched a brow. "Rocks once had a kid."
Whitebeard sprayed his drink. "Cough— You're saying Teach is—?!"
No one had ever known who Rocks' child was. Shortly after the birth, Rocks sent his wife and baby back to their homeland.
"Don't believe me?" Dimon grinned.
The game ended with four victors: Vista, Teach, Thatch, and the veteran Rakuyo.
Teach hadn't expected to be included—much less win. Jozu poured carefully, then paused with Teach's cup in hand. "You sure? Once you drink, you stop growing."
Teach's eyes shone. He scratched his head, sheepish but firm. "Being a kid isn't so bad."
He added, almost quoting: "Oyaji said it already—height won't change, but strength still can."
Marco opened his mouth to argue, but Vista tugged his sleeve. "He won. It's his."
No need to rush, Marco thought. We can always trade Fruits for wine. It's not like this is the last bottle… But since Teach had decided, Marco let it go.
Teach raised the cup with both hands and knocked it back. No savoring. He drew a knife, nicked his palm—and the blood flowed backwards like time in reverse.
Immortal. Teach trembled with relief. Joining the Whitebeard Pirates had been right. With his old, frightened self, he never could've gotten this chance. The terrors of childhood—constant fear, sleepless nights—eased all at once. Peace crept in.
"Teach. Over here," Whitebeard called.
"Ah—yes, Oyaji!"
Teach hurried to the fire. Dimon smiled faintly. "I called you. Congratulations on your new eternity."
"Thank you, Mr. Dimon!" Teach bowed, sincere.
Dimon shook his head. "It comes with a drawback. When one immortal asks another for their name, the answer must be your true name."
Teach blinked. A weird side effect—but… harmless?
Whitebeard's voice came low and even. "Marshall D. Teach—what is your real name?"
Teach's face changed—and his mouth answered without permission.
Even Whitebeard looked surprised. Dimon, too. For a heartbeat, even Teach himself was stunned.
"David D. Teach."
Whitebeard slanted a look at Dimon—not Xebec's blood, then?
Dimon chuckled. "Interesting. A branch of the David line."
So Rocks wasn't "Rocks" after all—but David D. Xebec. No one had asked; everyone assumed. Which made his obsession with Davy Jones… basically ancestor worship.
He clapped the shell-shocked Teach on the shoulder, teasing: "See you around, little David."
Then he turned for the shore.
Crocodile was there, winding a bandage tight around his arm. When he saw Dimon, he straightened at once. "Let's move, Shakky."
The three of them boarded Crocodile's ship. Dimon was about to ask about the intelligence network, but Crocodile spoke first, eager to repay the favor.
"Big Bro, if you want more Devil Fruits, waiting passively for trades isn't efficient."
"Oh?" Dimon's eyes narrowed with interest. "Your idea?"
"Out there, pirates are tearing each other apart for one Fruit—and after they grab one, they don't eat it right away. They come looking for you."
A sharp light cut through Crocodile's gaze. "So let's flip the board. Host an exchange—a Wine of Immortality Fair—and make the whole sea bring their Fruits to our door."
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