Seriously?
Dimon watched Shiki gawking at Shakky and couldn't help the disdain. Yes, she was gorgeous—but that heart-eyed look? Peak simp energy.
To be fair, the entire Rocks crew simped. Whitebeard hid it better—silent type—but the rest wore it like uniforms.
"Hello, I'm Dimon."
Shakky's smile was sweet and softer than the sixty-something version Dimon remembered; youth wrapped her like silk.
"I've heard of you—the Rock's newest member, Brewer Dimon. First bounty at 500 million."
Dimon wasn't in the mood to debate his bounty. "So, what brings you to my little bar?"
"I heard from your friends yesterday—there's a special vintage here. Drink it and you stop aging… and dying."
Curiosity warmed her eyes. She hadn't believed it either, until Kaido healed in front of her.
Dimon slid his gaze to Shiki.
"Let me explain!" Shiki's laugh was all nerves. "We—uh—a bunch of us got drunk at Shakky's Bar and… accidentally spilled it. Totally an accident!"
Dimon didn't buy it. Men + booze + a beautiful owner = brag until the lore drops itself.
"No matter. I was never hiding it," Dimon said. "If you want a cup of Wine of Immortality, bring one Devil Fruit."
Shakky blinked playfully. "If it's real, that's a fair price. But… could I sample first?"
"No." Dimon didn't hesitate.
She pouted. "No wiggle room?"
Unmoved by beauty? That was new.
"C'mon, don't be stingy," Shiki jumped in, springing into white-knight mode. "If Shakky wants a drink, give her one—I'll find you a Fruit after!"
Dimon gave him a flat look. "Rules are rules. Unless… you give her your cup."
Shiki sobered instantly. "Pass."
"Good." Dimon smiled. "The wine finishes tonight. Tell Rocks I'll deliver to the Skull Grand Hotel this evening."
"For real?"
Immortality trumped infatuation in a heartbeat.
"Gehahahaha! I'll tell him. Tonight at the Skull—don't be late!" Shiki rocketed out the door.
The Skull Grand Hotel—the ochre skull carved into Hachinosu's heart—was where most of the crew crashed.
Dimon hated the noise. He preferred the second floor over his bar—quiet, clean, owned.
With Shiki gone, he turned back to Shakky. "Anything else?"
"That's all. Sorry for the cheeky ask," she winked. "My bar's three streets west. Drop by sometime."
She left trailing a pleasant, unhurried warmth. No wonder half the sea adored her.
Dimon watched her disappear, then returned to the counter and rifled a stack of Wanted posters—Hachinosu's rogues' gallery. Bounties ranged from pocket change to legends; Rocks led the board, while the low end barely cracked ten million.
Time slipped; Alfreda arrived, a bit late and sheepish. "Forgive me, Lord Dimon."
"You don't have to clean daily. We almost never get customers."
She wilted like a scolded rabbit and started sweeping probably imaginary dust.
Dimon sighed. "Just bring lunch and dinner sometimes."
Breakfast? Optional.
"Yes, Lord Dimon!" Sunshine restored.
"Oh—and a task." He plucked a poster and passed it over. "Give this to Locke. Have the guard take this man, alive, and put him in the basement."
"Grandpa Locke?" Alfreda read:
'Amputator' Monroe
Officer, Hell Pirates
Bounty: 55,000,000
"Did he offend you?" she asked, braver now that she knew him.
Dimon tapped her forehead lightly. "Don't ask. Go."
When she left, the bar was quiet again. Quiet enough to think.
He hadn't been idle—he'd collected half the island's posters for one purpose:
Devour.
Locke's people were earnest but not invincible, and there were only twelve of them. The first test target couldn't be too strong.
Fifty-five million was perfect—bloody enough to be seasoned, not enough to be suicidal.
Time to test what the Devil's "Devour" truly does.
—
Night. A little past seven.
The same summoning basement as day one, the pentagram etched into the stone floor.
At its center, Monroe lay trussed like a rug. A rag stuffed his mouth; his eyes bulged with muffled curses.
Locke knelt. "Lord Dimon, he's here."
"Anyone see you?"
"No. Hachinosu swallows men every day. No one will notice one more."
"Good. Leave us."
They filed out. Dimon pulled the rag.
"You're… Rocks' new guy! Five hundred million!" Monroe blurted, terror stripping his swagger. "Why me? I never crossed you!"
"We're pirates. 'Crossing lines' is our business."
Black arcs crackled between Dimon's fingers and condensed into a bottle—the Wine of Immortality. He poured a cup of ruby liquid and lifted it to Monroe's lips.
"Drink. Most men never get this chance. One cup costs one Devil Fruit."
Monroe thrashed, shaking his head. He didn't know what it was—but his instincts screamed no.
Dimon pinched his jaw open and forced it down.
Before Monroe could sputter, Dimon's right hand settled on his forehead.
One silent word pulsed through Dimon's mind:
Devour.
Monroe's body twisted, flaking like ash in a windless room. The bindings slithered empty as his mass unwove. His eyes went huge—dumb terror, begging, a promise to be good—and then the shape of him came apart, strand by strand, and flowed into Dimon.
Flesh, clothes, breath… everything vanished.
As if the man had never been.
Dimon closed his eyes and let the tide come in.
Fighting instincts.
Sailor's maps.
Ports of the West Blue.
Names, debts, tricks, scars.
A life, ugly and ungrand, poured into a larger vessel.
He opened his eyes at last, the room exactly as before and yet not.
"As expected of a devil's power," he murmured.
No blood. No corpse. No trace.
Only nutrients—experience and knowledge—stitched into his own.
He flexed his hand. Strength layered a little thicker; reactions edged a little sharper.
A decent boost. No nasty recoil… though the digestion takes time.
From upstairs, the clock in the empty bar ticked once, twice.
And outside, somewhere in the dark bones of Hachinosu, a veteran bounty hunter folded a poster with Dimon's face on it—and started walking toward the Immortality Bar.
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