"Good evening, Red Count. The old man is Yamamoto Genryūsai."
Dimon's eyes lingered on the bulging pouch at Redfield's waist—round as a golden apple. A Devil Fruit, most likely.
A fine prize.
He sauntered to the counter and ordered a Margarita, unhurried.
Redfield watched the old man from the corner of his eye and, ever so slightly, frowned. "Have we met?"
"First time," Dimon said, sipping. "Shall I buy you a drink?"
Redfield's lids lowered, voice smooth as silk. "My Observation Haki awakened at birth. I can read thoughts. Yours are… veiled. Strong haki. I can only graze the surface."
A pause; his tone cooled. "But I can feel your hostility. So I'll ask again—have we met?"
"First time," Dimon repeated, calm as still water. "I only want the Fruit on your hip."
He had, truth be told, felt the twitch to devour the man outright. But Redfield hadn't tasted immortality yet; no need to rush. There would be time.
"This one I stole," Redfield said, deadpan. "You may do the same—if you can."
Baroric Redfield—the Red Count, the Lone Crimson—moved through the world alone. Pale skin, tall and lean, a shock of crimson brows, and manners sharp enough to cut. He commanded no armada, built no empire—and stood shoulder to shoulder with Roger and Whitebeard on strength alone. The World Economy News had crowned him one of the Five Peaks.
"Too much work to tear things from your hands," Dimon said with a small smile. "But I am a little surprised a man like you bothers with the Wine."
"If a centenarian can walk in here, why can't I?" Redfield's mouth curved. "I'm much younger than you."
They drank and traded a few idle words, to the visible disappointment of half the bar, who'd hoped for a brawl.
Outside, one was already in full swing.
Crocodile and the bald pirate were going at it, sand and steel crashing in the alley.
"Not bad, rookie," the bald man barked. He wore knuckled gauntlets fitted with razor blades at the joints. One hook sent half of Crocodile's head flying—only for the wound to crumble into sand and reform.
"A Logia, eh? I've crushed fifty like you!" He thumped his chest. "Remember the name—Iron Fist Tobias, senior officer of the Eris Pirates, bounty 258,000,000! A bottom-feeder like you at 81 million—"
Crocodile vanished in a drift of sand, unimpressed. Hachinosu was insane—even the nobodies had nine-figure bounties. You wouldn't meet this caliber in Paradise.
"What 'Iron Fist'? Self–styled?" Crocodile's voice was dry. "The only Iron Fist I know is Garp."
The jab hit home. Tobias's "title" was indeed self-awarded—born of hero worship. Rage twisted his face.
"You'll shut that mouth now!"
He surged in, gauntlets black with Armament, a brutal uppercut screaming for Crocodile's jaw. "Bone Fist Impact!"
A laugh cut across the alley. "Even the move name is Garp's. What a dedicated fanboy."
Fire bloomed.
A flaming fist avalanched into Tobias, hurling him a hundred meters through storefronts that went up like paper. A heartbeat later, the braggart lay in the burning wreckage like a dead dog.
Crocodile—and every onlooker—turned.
A catfish fish–man, enormous even for his kind, hair licking upward like living flame, stood beneath the guttering signs with contempt curling his lip.
"Th–that's… a former Rocks officer!"
"A Logia—the Flame–Flame Fruit!"
"Bounty 1,697,000,000! 'Blazing Soul' Babel!"
Gasps tore around the street. Ten years hadn't erased the fear of Rocks's banner.
A Rocks remnant… Crocodile's brows knit. He'd only been a kid back then, but he knew the names. A "minor officer" who killed a two–hundred–million brute in one hit.
"Tch. Hachinosu lets trash strut now?" Babel didn't spare Tobias a glance. He strode for the bar.
"Move," he told Crocodile. "Or die."
Crocodile stepped aside, eyes never leaving him.
Babel passed through the doorway and wrinkled his nose at the crowd. "This is Shakky's bar, you sacks of—"
Something moved.
The old man at the counter left his stool in a flash. The cane in his hand shrieked into a blade.
Dimon appeared behind Babel, gave the steel the faintest shake, and let the blood run from it.
A massive fish–man head spun up and thumped onto the floor, rolling to a lazy stop against the bar.
"D–dead?"
"A Rocks remnant—dead!?"
"That sword—so fast! I didn't see it at all! That's the one who beat Wang Zhi—that old—uh—swordsman!"
Silence fell like frost. In a lightning flash, a 1.7 billion monster had been cut down.
Still the same… this weak, Dimon thought, turning his eyes to the headless corpse.
And then the blood ran backward.
It hurried back into the body like time reversing, the severed head floated, and in a blink, rejoined the neck.
Babel rolled his newly knit shoulders; bones crackled. His voice came out low, rimed in murder. "What's the meaning of that, you—"
Flames roared up around him. He wheeled and drove a blazing fist at Dimon's spine.
Dimon's sword flashed once. The blade punctured the inferno, point settling delicately against Babel's knuckles.
"The Flame–Flame Fruit," the old man said mildly. "Even a dog wouldn't eat it."
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