"Besides you lot, there's one more member…"
Dimon's thoughts flicked to Donquixote Doflamingo. He hadn't checked on the Celestial-Dragon-turned-broker in a while. Had he slipped free of Mary Geoise yet?
"Big Bro, what does this mark actually do?"
Shaji—formerly Crocodile—brushed her lower abdomen. The black pentagram sigil felt eerie, fused to the skin instead of painted on.
Mihawk and Smoker dropped their hems, equally curious.
"A locator," Dimon said. "Lets me find you anywhere, anytime."
He wagged a finger. "There's a perk. If you're ever truly about to die, kneel and shout 'Big Bro, save me!'. With a little luck, I'll drop from the sky like a divine bodyguard and bail you out."
A chill tiptoed down Shaji's spine. Okay… so New Era wasn't just kids' play.
New Era.
Her gaze tilted to the sun over Loguetown. Today was Gol D. Roger's execution. After the Pirate King fell… a new era would start. Was that the name's meaning?
Who the hell was this kid?
"What's the organization's purpose?" Shaji asked bluntly. Surely it wasn't just playing house.
Dimon's eyes warmed. "Good catch, Shaji. Our purpose is to collect every Devil Fruit."
"Not interested," Mihawk said with zero drama. "I only need a sword."
Name blades spoke to him more than fruits ever could. Unfortunately, Supreme blades were in the hands of legends, and even Great Grade blades seldom surfaced in the sticks.
"You want a famous sword? I know where Shusui is."
Mihawk's composure cracked. "Shusui? The blade of 'Dragon-Slayer' Ryuma—lost after his death?"
His voice lost its frost for the first time. "Big Bro, where is it?"
That Big Bro came from the heart. Forget "bro"—for Shusui he'd call Dimon dad.
"Find me one Devil Fruit, and I'll give you Shusui," Dimon said, tossing him a warm, fat promise.
Shusui slept in Wano, buried with Ryuma's remains. Dimon wasn't interested enough to dig it up himself.
"Understood. I'll find one as soon as the execution's done," Mihawk said, decision clean as a cut.
Smoker raised a hand. "Big Bro, Devil Fruits are myth in East Blue. Where do we even start?"
"Use your head."
If Dimon knew precise locations, he wouldn't need recruits. (He did know one: Rumble-Rumble up on Birka. He'd fetch that when time allowed.)
Shaji cleared her throat. "If we're hunting fruits, we need intelligence. Let me build a network—contacts, rumor webs, port rats."
"Excellent," Dimon said. "You're in charge."
Horses run better with carrots. He laced his fingers. Black lightning sizzled between palms. When it faded, a single bottle gleamed there—
Immortality Wine.
[Demon Points: 100 → 0]
Wallet: empty.
Shaji's pupils shrank. "Is that real?"
"Straight from the brewer you've read about," Dimon said airily.
The papers had printed rumors, but most called them fairy tales. Seeing the bottle born between two hands shook something hard in her head.
Legendary brewer: Dimon.
Dimon. Dio.
Her eyes narrowed. The names were too close. The kid couldn't be Dimon's son… right? At least a relative?
If so, New Era was no child's game.
"Don't believe me?" Dimon smiled. "A bottle pours four cups—four undyings. I can front you one cup. But only now. Ten seconds to decide."
Shaji's first reaction was wariness. Then the true trap clicked.
Age locks at the moment you drink.
She lowered her eyes—and couldn't see past her new chest.
He wanted her stuck like this.
Her face twisted. Immortality within reach… in exchange for abandoning certain… equipment. The kid was diabolical—offering a devil's bargain with a halo on.
Was he going to… Nope, don't think about it.
"Pass, Big Bro," she said at last. "I'll build the network and earn it. Taking a cup now would shortchange the others."
"And my conscience."
Dimon tsk'd. He really did want to know whether Immortality Wine could override a fruit's temporary gender swap and make it permanent.
He tried a gentle nudge. "Shaji, don't clutch your treasure like it's sacred. Sometimes you've got to be hard on yourself. I know a captain of the Huashan Pirates who tossed his pride-and-joy for power and never looked back."
Shaji deadpanned. I'm not clinging to pride; I'm wary of you, Big Bro.
"Not happening," she said sweetly. "No merits, no wine. I'll bring you results."
Dimon sighed. Pity. Still, Shaji (♀) could be useful in… many ways. He'd circle back with a better setup.
"Fine. The intel network is yours. I'm counting on you."
He corked the bottle and made it vanish. Hands empty, stomach not. "Let's eat."
Cloaks snugged, Shanks and Buggy shadowed his heels. They strode down Loguetown's main drag; Marines glanced once and dismissed them as kids. The rankers were posted to deter Roger's crew, not police every visitor here to gawk.
If other pirate crews slipped ashore… not today. Not now.
They found the busiest, flashiest restaurant in town—and walked into a bottleneck.
Packed to the rafters. At the far end, a bunch of pirates had ringed a man with a spring-onion haircut.
"Beat it. This table's ours, the Gulp-Gulp Pirates'!"
The onion-head tilted his chin and laughed like a hinge. "Heh-hee-hee-hee… you boys got a death wish?"
So many tables and they'd chosen his. Because he was alone, he looked easy?
Dimon's brows rose. That face was unmistakable even without the bulk.
Gecko Moria.
Lean, younger, razor-jawed—but the grin was pure Moria.
"Shadow Mage."
His shadow stood up, peeling from his feet and bulking into a towering black silhouette that stared down the circle of pirates.
"Three seconds," Moria said, voice going cold. "Kneel, repent your life decisions."
The pirates hesitated—then went for blades.
"Two," Moria said, bored.
Shaji's eyes gleamed. "Shadow-Shadow Fruit… a Paramecia with battlefield control. That's intel-worthy."
"Good ear," Dimon said.
"One."
The first pirate lunged.
A black fist launched from the shadow and slapped him across the room. Teeth played marbles with the tile. The rest bolted.
Moria sniffed. "Heh-hee-hee. Garbage."
He turned—and locked eyes with a ten-year-old who smiled like the devil.
Dimon waggled his fingers. "Table for six, Mister Shadow."
Moria's gaze dipped—took in the red nose, the straw-haired kid with a swordsman's eyes, the proud woman with sand in her stare, the white-haired brat with a stubborn jaw, and the boy holding a cheap practice sword like a king's scepter.
"…Kids?" he said, uncertain.
"New Era," Dimon corrected, sliding into the vacated chair. "Sit."
They sat.
Plates arrived. Smells rose. Buggy reached for bread; Shanks stole it; Mihawk stopped both with a tap from the flat of his blade; Smoker scowled because that's what Smoker does.
Dimon ate like time wasn't counting down.
Outside, the noise of the square swelled—boots, drums, a voice on a cone. The scaffold's rope creaked again in the wind.
Moria lifted his cup. "You brats sightseeing?"
"We're here to watch the world change," Dimon said.
"Change, huh? Heh-hee—"
The restaurant's windows shuddered. A wave of Conqueror's Haki rolled through town, rattling crockery and spines alike. Conversations died. Glass spider-webbed.
Every head turned toward the square.
Dimon stood, tossing a coin to the stunned waiter. "Keep the change. If someone asks," he said without looking back, "we were never here."
Mihawk rose, eyes bright. Smoker clenched tiny fists. Shaji tugged her cloak straight, jaw set. Buggy swallowed. Shanks' lips pressed thin; his eyes were far away.
Five black stars pulsed once under five shirts.
"Let's go," Dimon said, and the door swung open on a street gone sudden-silent.
On the distant scaffold, a man in seastone chains lifted his face to the sun and smiled.
—To be continued…
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