"Mama—Brewer Dimon's hosting a Wine of Immortality Trade Fair on Hachinosu."
Charlotte Brûlée hurried in clutching a fresh paper.
"A trade fair?" Charlotte Linlin took the sheet, scanned the headline—then laughed, rich and thunderous.
"Hachinosu, hm? Brings back memories… Been years. I almost miss that man."
Forty-plus children later and she still couldn't drop the thought: if Dimon would have a child with her—no, children—it would be perfect.
Shame he wouldn't bite.
"One month, is it… Brûlée, tell the family to accelerate Fruit collection. I'll go in person to trade."
"Yes, Mama!"
—
Grand Line, somewhere in the sky.
Seven floating islands drifted like a myth. Six circled the central mass; filigree waterfalls hung from its edges like glass curtains.
Inside the castle at the heart of the main island, a Flying Pirates officer jogged up and offered today's paper. "Admiral—big news on Hachinosu!"
Shiki snatched it, skimmed, and grinned. "Kehehe… a trade fair for immortality? Sounds fun. Count me in."
He had no interest in the wine itself. He'd already become an immortal; to him, Dimon's vintage was just a fine drink with no further effect. As for making his subordinates undying—he snorted. Men could be recruited. His Flying Pirates lacked quality, not headcount.
He'd even saved the Roger Pirates once, invited Rayleigh and the others—politely refused. For Roger's sake, he'd let them walk. Truth was, fighting over it would've been pointless.
"Look at it another way," he mused. "Hachinosu will be crawling with pirates. I lift ten Fruits, maybe eight—trade them for wine—then use the bottles as leverage to recruit monsters."
His gaze sharpened.
—
Paradise, Grand Line.
A tiny skiff bobbed alone on the blue. The man in the red suit and scarlet cape held a parasol in one hand, a newspaper in the other.
"What an annoying sun."
Red Count folded the paper and glanced up, distaste in his eyes—then back over his shoulder at a line of Marine ships closing in.
Born with awakened Observation Haki, he was an outlier. His senses ran constantly, brushing minds whether he willed it or not. He read them like open pages.
A Marine salvage fleet—one of the World Government's fruit-scavenging units.
"Dredging Devil Fruits from the deep… and they've got one now. Fortunate."
He smiled, drew the umbrella-sword, and leapt. He seemed to walk the air on invisible wings.
Moments later, the sea swallowed the shattered hulks.
—
Days flew. As the fair neared, Hachinosu's harbors choked with pirate ships—more than at any time in living memory. Dreamers of eternity poured in from every flag and sea.
"Spectacular. Every mast, a different Jolly Roger."
No more berths to be had, Crocodile slid their small boat beneath a sea-eaten cliff to land on the north side. Even there, other hulls were packed cheek-to-jowl.
Dimon hopped ashore first. With a flicker of thought, he became the Centenarian Swordmaster—Yamamoto Genryūsai.
The star of the show could not arrive early. Better to scout in a different skin.
Crocodile tied off, turned—and nearly choked. Big Bro was an old man again.
"Rogue Town you were a ten-year-old brat, and now you're a geriatric?" He kept the grumble to himself. What a hobby…
"Come, Shaji. Let's see the town."
"Don't call me that. I'm a man."
"You only got your Fruit back because I stole it for you," Dimon said lightly. "Doesn't count. If you want wine, bring me another Fruit. Or shall I front you a cup, Shaji?"
A cold shiver crawled up Crocodile's spine. "No need! With this many pirates on one island, I'll take one myself."
"Then work for it," Dimon said, amused. "If you made it to Hachinosu, you've got a bounty over one hundred million—at least."
"I'm no weakling."
The confidence was bone-deep. Maybe he couldn't beat Whitebeard's commanders yet—but Hachinosu's riffraff? He was Logia.
"Good. First stop: the finest bar in town."
They followed the crush of boots and voices to a weathered sign:
Shakky's Rip-Off Bar.
Once a legend on Hachinosu—the name remained even if Shakky herself did not.
Bodies littered the steps—no, not corpses, just bloodied pirates groaning and holding their faces.
Dimon didn't so much as glance down. He strode for the door.
"Hey! Don't go in—you'll get thrown right back out!"
A cluster of gawkers shouted from the side. Dimon's foot paused as they yammered on:
"If you don't have a nine-figure bounty, you get bounced. All these on the ground—every one of them."
"And one of the Five Peaks is inside, the legendary—huh!?"
The speaker stopped mid-sentence and stared, eyes popping, then lighting with recognition. "You're that centenarian, Yamamoto Gen—"
He didn't finish. A pulse of Armament slammed him sideways through a wall.
Dimon spared the hole a glance and kept walking. "Thanks for the warning. And mind the epithet—it's Centenarian Swordmaster. Call it wrong again and the old man will take your head with one swing."
The onlookers hissed.
"That's the old—uh—that swordsman from the papers who beat Wang Zhi!"
"What just happened? He didn't even move!"
"Shh. Don't provoke him. Island's crawling with monsters. Keep your head down."
Dimon stepped into the bar and felt the room turn toward him.
A hulking bald pirate pushed up from a table and came grinning. "Heard you beat Wang Zhi, old-timer! No bounty on you, but you can come in. As for him…"
He squinted at Crocodile, searching memory—then snorted. "81 million—Crocodile. This year's rookie. Trash like you doesn't deserve a drink in here."
Being recognized pleased Crocodile. Being called trash did not.
"Take it outside if you're going to fight," Dimon said without looking, and walked straight to the counter.
Only one man sat at the bar—crimson suit, umbrella-sword resting by his leg, drinking with a courtly neatness that made the rest of the room look feral.
Pirates blinked, then smirked. No one sat next to that man.
He was one of the Five Peaks—the legendary Red Count.
"Heh. This'll be good," someone chuckled.
Red Count heard the steps and spoke without turning. "I never forbade anyone from taking the stool beside me. They simply don't dare."
Dimon pulled out the stool and sat. "Then let's be the exception."
The room held its breath. The bald pirate's grin faded. Crocodile's fingers curled into sand.
Red Count tilted his glass, and for the first time, his eyes slid sideways.
"Interesting," he said softly. "The island's full of ghosts from yesterday. Which one are you?"
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