Figarland Grinco swallowed his fury.
This was the softest of his soft spots: one son missing, the other in a kidnapper's hands. Death was one thing; being handed to the sort of "noble" who fancied little boys would stain the Figarland name forever. For him, dishonor was worse than bereavement.
"…I understand. I'll prepare a top-tier Devil Fruit. But—"
Dimon arched a brow. Bargaining?
"You were at God Valley. You know as well as I do—we're out of Mythical Zoans and Logias."
That, Dimon could believe. They'd flung a mountain of premium fruits into that cursed tournament. Even the World Government couldn't conjure more from thin air. They, too, had to scour the world.
Believe it… halfway.
"So what are you getting at? You want time to collect?"
"No Mythical. No Logia. But among Paramecia—" Grinco paused, then said, "—there's power too. Whitebeard's Quake-Quake. Golden Lion's Float-Float. And in my hand is the Age-Age Fruit."
Dimon's eyes brightened.
Bonney's fruit.
Strictly speaking, Bonney hadn't eaten it—she'd been injected with an extract as a child and grew into its power. On paper, the ability sounded simple: manipulate age—your own, others', even objects. Rot a blade to dust. Reduce a wall to powder.
Mundane… if that were all.
But the real terror was Twisted Futures—becoming any possibility of yourself. With enough imagination, you could become what you envision. Bonney once imagined "a future like Nika"… and turned into Nika Bonney—white body, white flame-scarf, cartoon physics and all.
This fruit would do nicely.
"Not bad, not bad. Highborn tastes, Grinco. Your pantry's deeper than most."
A jab, and, yes, a little envy. A four-dimensional pocket—you reach in, another treasure drops into your palm.
"Since you agree, return my son."
"Put the fruit in my hand first. Then you get your precious boy."
"I'll hand it over in Mariejois," Grinco snorted. He was gambling that Dimon wouldn't dare show—and that if he did, a sky-net would fall. Even teleporters could be pinned.
A little mockery in the tone.
"You still don't grasp the situation," Dimon chuckled. "Sounds like I should go rough your kid up a bit."
Grinco's lip twitched; he leashed the blaze in his chest. "How do you want to trade?"
"Easy. Lay the paper I gave you on a desk, open it, then press the Age-Age Fruit on top. That's all."
—
Pangaea Castle — Room of Authority
"That simple?" Grinco muttered, frowning at the slip after the line went dead.
"Try it," Saturn said blandly. "It's a 'worthless' fruit anyway."
On parchment, the Age-Age sounded godlike—worthy of being called a divine Paramecia. Its flaw, however, was fatal: the power ran on imagination. The more soberly you saw reality, the shakier your conviction; any fissure between what the mind pictured and what the world allowed caused the ability to waver… or fail.
"He stole three fruits at Marineford," Saturn went on, massaging his once-gouged eye, "and a partial compendium. He's probably read the entry on Age-Age—minus its weakness."
The swordsman Elder's brows knit. "He asked for a top fruit—it sounds less like brewing and more like… eating it."
The others shook their heads.
"He's already a user."
"Or perhaps stronger fruits yield stronger immortality wine."
"We need a bottle. We know too little."
"He's provoked us thrice; we can't ignore him. We must capture him."
Not kill—his brewing mattered. And besides, the man didn't die.
They debated snares and chains. Grinco had no patience for it. His son came first.
He left and descended to a castle vault. The Age-Age Fruit lay within.
He swung the doors wide—and froze at a slim figure before the chest.
Grinco dropped to one knee. "Imu-sama!"
The figure turned; a pale hand stirred beneath a sleeve. A Devil Fruit floated from the coffer, coasting lazily to Grinco's outstretched palms.
"Do it here. Mu will watch."
No hesitation. He spread the paper on the marble, unfolded it, and pressed the Age-Age against the ink.
At once the slip bled black mist that crawled like strokes of a pen, sketching a five-pointed array across the floor. The fruit sank, swallowed by ink and smoke—gone.
"…It works like that?" Grinco whispered, rattled.
Imu's gaze lingered on the fading sigils, ever so slightly surprised.
Even Imu didn't do that.
A soft, indifferent voice: "Mu understands. Leave."
Grinco looked up—Imu had already vanished.
—
Donquixote Estate — Doffy's Room
Dimon sipped coffee. Mood: excellent.
The Age-Age Fruit was in hand. Strong. Worth eating.
Yes, there were "drawbacks." To him, they weren't drawbacks at all.
Saturn is an idiot who can't recognize stock, he thought. Does Nika exist?
Of course. He'd seen him—with his own two eyes. On a screen.
"Big Bro?" Doffy edged in, carrying the second cup like a servant. "Was… that Grinco?"
Dimon set the cup down and raised his palm. Black script unfurled in a small pentagram. From its center rose a spiral-patterned fruit—like swirling rosewood dyed in sunset hues.
Doffy's breath hitched. "You're… you're going to eat it?"
"Mm." Dimon weighed the fruit once, twice—then grinned under the blue ogre mask.
"For the record, kid," he said, almost conversational, "there's a rumor out there: eat a second fruit and you explode. Might be true—for ordinary people."
He rolled the fruit in his fingers. The pentagram on Doffy's chest tingled in sympathetic answer.
"But for immortals… a new power overwrites the old."
He thought of Kin'emon and his free "respec." Thought of futures—of any future he liked.
"First fruit, then."
He brought the Age-Age to his mouth and bit.
It was, predictably, vile—a rush of bitterness and metal and rot. He chewed, swallowed, finished it in three sharp gulps, wiped his mouth, and waited.
Tick.
Tock.
The air creaked.
A ripple shivered over the tatami, the paper doors yellowed, then freshened—aged a decade and then reversed, as if time had inhaled and exhaled. Dimon's shadow stretched tall and then shrank, cycling through silhouettes—a burly adult with a mane of hair; a white-scarfed trickster whose grin seemed to bounce; a thin scholar with ink-stained fingers; a horned demon-king haloed in black lightning—each a possible him. Each flickered, tested, catalogued.
Doffy stared, mouth open behind his sunglasses. "Big Bro… you just—"
Dimon flexed his hand. The skin there ran smooth, then calloused, then smooth again. Behind the mask, his eyes were very calm.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Very not bad."
He snapped his fingers. The coffee in Doffy's trembling hand flew into his own—no telekinesis, merely a nudge of age: the liquid "leapt forward" into a moment where it had already been drunk, and so obliged reality by sliding into Dimon's waiting palm.
He took a sip.
"Still hot," he said, amused. "Thanks."
Somewhere far above, in the vaulted silence of Pangaea, a faceless sovereign paused. Something—possibility itself—had just shifted, ever so slightly, as if the world's future had discovered a new muscle and flexed it.
Dimon set the cup down and rose.
"Call Grinco," he told Doffy. "Tell him Big Bro's in a good mood."
He rolled his shoulders, and for a heartbeat his outline turned white, a scarf of pale "flame" fluttering around him—then stilled to black feathers and a blue ogre grin.
"Time to return the merchandise."
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