Wano Country, Nine-Serpents Flower Pavilion.
Three months from now, the Marines would stage Gol D. Roger's public execution in East Blue's Loguetown.
Dimon let three "empresses" work the knots from his shoulders while he sorted through fresh intel in his head…
History was snapping back onto its rails.
Live long enough and you see everything. He'd watched the Pirate King die a thousand times before crossing worlds—every episode opened with that scene.
This time, he'd watch it for real.
Of course, he had no intention of letting Roger actually die. Roger was a main course on his future menu; you don't just let a reservation that rare go to waste.
The World Government chose a public execution because Roger wasn't an undying—he could be killed. All Dimon had to do was get him a cup of wine beforehand and ride the wind: a global ad campaign for Immortality Wine.
Wealth, power, fame… and—
The true Great Pirate Era was about to begin.
As the fullness from Columbus finally faded, Dimon quietly devoured four more Level Six inmates—power, up again. No need to swing personally; wearing Columbus, it was as easy as signing a form. Afterward he stamped "Died of illness" on their files. No one would dig.
Dessert finished, Dimon dropped by Roger's cell to say it straight: before the execution he'd deliver an Immortality Wine—Roger would not die on the scaffold. Price: ten Devil Fruits.
When it's your life on the line, even a Pirate King nods like a businessman at a rigged contract.
Time sprinted. The day arrived.
East Blue — Loguetown.
A heavy morning pressed on the town. The air itself buzzed. The public notice had been out for a month; now every berth brimmed with ships, every street with feet.
Lesson learned from Enies Lobby: the Marines didn't flood the town with rank-and-file. On paper, only a few thousand guarded the city.
In the shadows, every high-tier asset they could spare waited with the safety off.
On a high balcony overlooking the square, Saint Somaz stirred three sugar cubes into his coffee and watched the scaffold.
"Perfect vantage, Captain. If Roger's remnants come, they won't escape my eyes."
"I doubt they'll come," said the Holy Knights' captain, Gringu, swirling red wine. "Fool me once, shame on me. Twice…? Pirates betray for breakfast. Walk into a trap on purpose?"
Somaz changed tack. "Enies Lobby wasn't wasted. Marine intel points to the brewer being in Wano."
Gringu's gaze chilled. "You tell me now? When this is done, I'm going to Wano myself."
—
Loguetown's market street.
Merchants shouldered fortune's weight and grinned. Roger's spectacle had turned cashflow into a river.
Dimon strolled in plain sight. Patrols ignored the ten-year-old kid.
Twisted Future — Ten-Year-Old Dio.
Unlike borrowed Paramecias, age-shift was the Sui-Sui Fruit's native feature—long duration, 24/7 if he wanted.
Two short figures in gray cloaks darted into an alley.
Dimon followed.
At the bend, two kids whispered:
"Shanks… will Rayleigh come? I don't want Captain to—"
"Calm down, Buggy. The Captain will be fine."
Even saying it, Shanks looked torn. He wanted Rayleigh to rescue Roger—he also didn't want them charging into an obvious trap.
Buggy wasn't stupid. Living shoulder-to-shoulder with Shanks taught him to read that face.
"Hey, Shanks—no matter what they do, I'm saving the Captain!"
"I want to too, Buggy. But we're… kids."
Footsteps. A shadow fell across the corner.
"Knew it was you two."
Both flinched.
Wanted faces—only 1 million combined, but "Roger crew" stamped on a bounty poster tends to pull Marines like sharks to blood. One slip and the scaffold would have three bodies.
"It's me." Dimon raised an index finger and waggled it at Shanks.
Bad memories stirred; Shanks scowled on reflex. "Di… Dimon? Why are you a kid?"
Buggy didn't care. He grabbed Dimon's sleeve. "Uncle Dimon, please—save Captain Roger! I'm begging you!"
"'Uncle' is rude. I'm eternally twenty," Dimon said, tapping Buggy's head. "Why aren't you with Rayleigh?"
Shanks exchanged a look with Buggy and rattled off the last three months: left on Sabaody, the trap at Enies Lobby, the month-early announcement, the stowaway ride east.
Dimon nodded. "Got it. Come on. Breakfast first."
"Breakfast?!" Buggy yelped, hustling after him. "Our Captain's hours from the gallows!"
"Exactly. We've got hours." Dimon smiled. "We'll window-shop."
Hoods up, the two ducked their faces and trailed him.
They'd gone half a block when a frosty-eyed kid slid into a weapons shop.
"Hold up," Dimon murmured. "That one—let's peek."
They slipped inside.
The shopkeep glanced up and scowled. "What do you want, brat? Buy something or—"
"I want a sword," the cold-eyed kid said. "Any name blades?"
"Name blades?" The boss snorted. "With what money—"
The kid ignored him, gliding to the rack.
A hand settled on his shoulder. He turned—and found three kids. The oldest looked about ten; the shorter two were… hiding under cloaks.
"What is it?" he asked, voice flat.
"You wear a sword," Dimon smiled. "Are you a swordsman? What's your name?"
"Dracule Mihawk."
The boy with hawk's eyes recited it without a blink.
Dimon bit back a laugh. Of course this town would be crawling with tomorrow's legends.
Perfect. Time for Kid-King Dio to make friends.
"I'm a swordsman too. Specialty: Finger Blade Style."
He lifted one finger and crooked it at the future world's strongest.
"How about a quick spar? Loser is little brother; winner is big bro."
Shanks and Buggy: "???"
Mihawk's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in interest.
The shopkeep gulped. The silent pressure from two children made his knees itch.
Mihawk reached slowly to the rack and drew a cheap iron practice blade. "Out back," he said.
Dimon hooked a thumb toward the alley. "Buggy, Shanks—watch the door. If Marines get nosy, cry about a lost ball."
Buggy: "I'll cry over my wallet if this breaks bad!"
Shanks tugged him along. "Come on."
They spilled into the rear courtyard—sun high, crates stacked, stray cats scattering.
Mihawk leveled the dull blade. "Rules?"
Dimon pointed one finger, smiling. "First to touch wins."
They moved at the same time.
Air cracked.
A finger met iron. Sparks spat.
Mihawk's pupils shrunk.
Dimon's finger slid along the flat, turned, and tapped his wrist—light as a kiss.
"Point," Dimon said cheerfully.
Mihawk froze. Then he exhaled through his nose… and smiled—thin, sharp, grateful.
"Again," he said.
Dimon's grin widened. "Now you're speaking my language."
From the alley, Shanks and Buggy peeked in—eyes round, hearts pounding.
Out on the square, the scaffold's timbers creaked in the heat.
The crowd's murmur grew teeth.
And on a high balcony, a man who hated brewers set his glass down and said, "Begin."
—To be continued…
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