Back in Loguetown, when Zephyr lost half his body, it took five full days to grow back.
By comparison, Babel's condition was "light"—just a missing head and a hole through the gut. Half a day should be enough to regenerate…
Provided no one added new injuries.
Dimon's thoughts flicked once. Headless… devouring him now would be pointless. I'll wait until the head grows back.
"Immortality is stubborn stuff," he said, almost amused. "Even this can't kill you."
A scarlet parasol tilted into view. Redfield approached, casting a thin slice of shade over the headless body. He peered down, impressed despite himself. "I can hear him," he murmured. "He's alive—very alive. Flesh is knitting as we speak."
"Cockroaches are resilient," Dimon replied, and caught Babel by the ankle, dragging the corpse as casually as luggage.
A roll of yellow sand swept in; Crocodile formed beside them, eyes skimming the "dead dog" Babel. No surprise there—Big Bro had folded a 1.7 billion pirate in the span of a sigh.
"Bring him. We're leaving."
Dimon tossed the corpse to Crocodile and headed for the Skull Grand Hotel.
News of the fight detonated across Hachinosu within minutes.
"Rocks's remnant showed himself!?"
"That pillar of fire—Babel?"
"Strong as he was… beaten!"
"The Centenarian Swordmaster is a monster!"
"Second member of the old Rocks crew to fall to his blade…"
Speculation surged. Was it over a Fruit? A private grudge? The story spreading through the alleys hardened fast: Yamamoto Genryūsai had struck on sight—this smelled like blood-debt.
And Hachinosu itself? A powder keg. Hundreds of crews. Nine-figure bounties everywhere. A sprinkling of billion-berry names. And now, the Centenarian and the Red Count both on-island.
There were still two days until the fair. How many other monsters would crawl out of legends by then?
—
On the south shore lay a sprawling junkyard. Among the cardboard mountains sat a man with a cross-shaped scar on his face, a white Den Den Mushi tucked under his chin.
"The Centenarian appeared. Fought Babel. Short fight. He won," the man reported. "Using a secure line for this one. Orders?"
Silence. Then a single, quiet word: "Why?"
The man understood. "Unknown. Likely a grudge." He outlined his inference, crisp and spare.
"A grudge… plausible. We've searched for him before and found nothing. Miss this and who knows when he resurfaces. So…"
The snail's mouth closed. A pause—hesitation.
"I'm captain of Razor," the man said evenly. "I can handle it."
"Then it's yours." Another pause, then a lowered voice: "As for the wine—if it goes wrong, abort. Keep yourself alive. I have other ways to get it."
—
Skull Grand Hotel.
Two days to go, and every room was sold—until a "polite request" from Dimon liberated a suite.
"Do as you please," Dimon said, dropping Babel's body on the carpet. He glanced at Crocodile. "Two days. Go take a Fruit."
"I'll get one," Crocodile said, already turning for the door.
Dimon shut it behind him, flopped onto the sofa, and idly leafed through the papers the previous tenants had left behind. Morgans had wrung the fair for every headline for a month; with the date looming, the entire edition was basically one story. Lists of arrivals. So-and-so landed with likely multiple Fruits…
"Vulture," Dimon snorted—but he was impressed. Hachinosu held hundreds of crews; the sheer granularity of World Economy News bordered on sorcery.
A whisper of paper at the window.
A little paper man slid through the sill, drifted down, and alighted on the table with a bow.
Dimon studied it, amused. "Paramecia—Paper–Paper Fruit? A paper clone?"
The tiny figure straightened and spoke in a man's voice—mature, measured, polite. "Good evening, Yamamoto Genryūsai."
Dimon crossed one leg over the other. "Go on."
"I'm the Paper–Paper user, but the name is… inconvenient. I can give you my Marine callsign."
Dimon's eyes narrowed in lazy interest.
"I'm Rear Admiral White Shadow, captain of Razor—the Navy's black unit."
Dimon knew the type: the badge returned, the number struck—detached on paper, free in practice. A unit that could pick fights with Emperors without phoning home—though this age had Five Peaks, not four Emperors.
"So the Marines want something from an old man?"
"Yamamoto-dono," the paper man said gravely, "your strength stands with the so-called pirate Five Peaks. We hold you in the highest respect. We wish to invite you to join the Warlords of the Sea."
Dimon smiled. The Navy knew how to flatter when they wanted something.
The paper man continued, "The Warlords are a cornerstone of the World Government's strategy against the swelling tide of pira—"
Dimon's thought snapped like a drawn bowstring.
Conqueror's Haki burst from him, red serpents of lightning snapping through the window and racing across the island.
"Found you."
Down on the south coast, in the junkyard, the man with the cross-scar locked up. Three red bolts came howling from far away and nailed his presence to the earth.
"This Conqueror's…!"
He couldn't move.
Not a finger. Not a breath.
And somewhere in the hotel, the old man rose from the sofa, all mirth gone from his eyes.
"Invitations are better," he said softly, to no one the paper clone could see, "face to face."
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