The junkyard on the south shore and the Skull Grand Hotel might as well have been two worlds apart—yet the Conqueror's that pinned Rear Admiral White Shadow felt like a hand on his throat.
He'd never imagined he could be found there, of all places… much less frozen in place by will alone.
"P-please don't do anything hasty! I surrender—" White Shadow raised his hands to the empty air, sweat beading. "I mean no harm, Yamamoto-dono! The Navy has never issued a bounty on you—we have no reason to be at odds!"
Up in the hotel suite, the paper doll on Dimon's table mirrored the gesture and the plea, tiny arms raised. It would've been funny if the little voice weren't so solemn.
"You only dare send in a clone. Am I so frightening?" Dimon smiled, knife-edge soft.
"N-no…" The paper man pushed through the words. "It's just… my identity. If I approach that hotel in person, I could be recognized."
He wasn't wrong. On an island packed with pirates who hated the Navy on principle, being recognized was a death wish.
"I've no interest in your so-called Warlords," Dimon said, sounding every bit a patient centenarian. Then he let the smile turn. "But I can recommend someone."
The paper head cocked, curious.
"Sir Crocodile. This year's upstart."
A Logia at eighty-one million for a first bounty. The Navy had already filed him under future problem. Rear Admiral White Shadow had read the dossier.
"A Logia, then," the paper clone said, bowing. "Understood. I'll relay your will to my superiors. If you'll excuse me—"
He flitted to the windowsill like a fledgling and slid out through a crack, gone on the next breeze.
"Fun little trick," Dimon murmured. "Good for infiltration."
He waved away the invite like smoke. He wouldn't chain himself to a title. But nudging a junior into the seat? That, he could do. And in the old flow of history, Crocodile had worn that mantle early anyway.
—
In the dark inside a headless body, Babel drifted. There was no time there—only the press of black. Then a seam of white split the dark, widening like a door into the living world.
He stepped through—and woke.
"Evening," the old man beside him said mildly. "We meet again, Babel."
Babel flexed phantom nerves, then real ones. His head was back. He was whole. "You bastard…"
He grinned a beat later. "You're strong, I'll give you that. But I don't die. Judging by the sky, it's only been half a day."
"Ten thirteen p.m.," Dimon said, glancing at the window. "A hair slower than I'd estimated."
Babel tried to rise—and felt the bite of seastone on his wrists and ankles.
"What do you want? I haven't wronged you." He paused, reconsidered the wreckage of memory. "Maybe I did. If it was with Rocks, I forgot."
Dimon stood, set a hand on his scalp. "Don't tense up. It'll be over quickly."
"What are you—"
The pull began.
It wasn't pain. It was instinct—a gnawing terror sunk into the bones of prey. Something in him recognized predator and wanted to lie down and be devoured. His body warped toward the palm.
"What—what is this?! AAAAAH—let go!"
Seven, eight heartbeats—and there was nothing left to hold. The seastone chains clanged to the floor, empty.
Dimon closed his eyes and watched a life unspool. A fish-man boy on Fish-Man Island, dreaming of the sunlit sea above. The first steps on land. The hate that greeted him. Slavers. An escape bought with blood and strength. Pirates, then Rocks. Eleven years ago—the Wine of Immortality. Nine years ago—God Valley, flight after the fall. Years in hiding. Today: a return to Hachinosu, eyes on Dimon's wine… and on the Fruits he could steal to trade for more wine. A dream of an undying fish-man crew, marching on the World Government.
A dream that ended in this room.
"Ambition's fine," Dimon said with a sigh. "But that one was a size too big."
Wine you drink is a wine that can poison. Rocks had been clever—he'd never tried to seize the brewer. He'd cooperated, even forbade touching the man who made the wine.
"Smart men think in circles," Dimon chuckled, "and fools sometimes walk straight to the answer."
When the World Government had first learned of the wine, their first offer had been to make him a Celestial Dragon—to seat him among the Holy Knights. When he refused, they switched to cages.
—
Morning. Hachinosu's port erupted in shouts.
"Queen Mama Chanter!"
"One of the Five Peaks—the BIG MOM Pirates!"
"Charlotte Linlin herself!"
The singing ship rolled in like a bakery's fever dream—layered cakes for bulwarks, a smiling, hatted figurehead warbling harmony. On the prow, Charlotte Linlin planted her hands on her hips and beamed at the island.
"Almost time to see Dimon. Maaahhmm-m-m… delightful."
"Mama. Above," Katakuri said.
Linlin's grin flattened into a frown. She tilted her chin. Over Hachinosu, dozens of flying ships were sinking through the clouds.
"Kehehe… Linlin. Long time."
"Golden Lion."
Linlin's lips curled back up to mirror Shiki's grin as he floated before the Chanter, standing on empty air.
They'd laughed on the first exchange.
On the second, they spoke in perfect unison:
"Hand over the Devil Fruits."
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