After yesterday's abduction, Holy Land Mariejois was crawling with guards. Patrols tramped every street, eyes peeled for anything "suspicious."
Dimon sashayed down the avenue in broad daylight, slipping under guards' noses without so much as a glance. Doflamingo, meanwhile, was all nerves—if you didn't know better, you'd think Dimon was the Celestial Dragon.
"Hey, idiot—don't stare," a patrol captain smacked his recruit's helmet. "That's a Celestial Dragon."
"Captain, I know Donquixote's kid. I meant the other one—I've never seen him."
"The other…?" The captain sighed. "You're green. Don't look at the white suits—look at bearing. That kid's got the walk. And he's shoulder to shoulder with Donquixote. Only a Celestial Dragon walks beside a Celestial Dragon."
Once they'd put distance between themselves and the patrol, Doffy finally exhaled. "Big Bro, Celestial Dragons have chips in them. If someone demands a scan, we're cooked."
"Useful how?"
"I… don't know. ID, tracking—kinda like a vivre card."
"Not important." Dimon tilted his head. "Anyone in the Holy Land who's plugged in? Fastest rumors, deepest pockets?"
Doffy thought, swallowing cold sweat. If he weren't an accomplice, he could flash the family name and ask anyone. But he didn't want to expose himself; they'd go the long way around. Heavy thoughts for an eight-year-old.
"I've got a spot," he said at last. "Where the Celestial Dragon brats gather. They make their slaves brawl. We can start there."
"You are also a Celestial Dragon brat," Dimon deadpanned.
They cut through alleys to a decommissioned chapel. The new, grand cathedral sat in the town center; this was the old shell—and the kids' playground. Out back, a ring of small, gilded tyrants whooped as shackled slaves beat one another bloody.
"C'mon, Leitner! Weren't you a North Blue mafia boss?"
"Lose and I starve you a month, Mudge!"
Two pint-sized masters screamed over the pit.
"What is this?" Dimon asked as they walked up.
"Slave-fight games, Big Bro," Doffy said. "Not betting—clout. Whoever wins racks up prestige."
Dimon stared. Prestige. Among children. Roger's era titans chased the Pirate King's crown; these snot-nosed royals were duking it out for king of the brats.
A winner emerged: the former North Blue boss, Leitner, floored his foe with a hook to the jaw.
"Hahaha! That's my boy, Leitner! Buying you was genius!"
A mushroom-cut brat in a bubble-helm planted fists on hips and cackled. "Anyone else!?"
"Strong, Malmedes," another kid muttered. "Damn it—he's on a streak again."
"Fine—wheel match him till his slave drops!"
Dimon's mouth twitched. This was their entertainment. Doffy leaned in, voice low:
"That winner's Manmaia Malmedes."
The surname rang a bell—same family name as Gunko from the God's Knights. Maybe related, maybe not; Mariejois crawled with clans who shared names the way nobles shared sins.
Malmedes spotted Doffy and brightened. "If it isn't Doflamingo! You bring a slave—Huh? Just a runt?"
His gaze slid to Dimon—unfamiliar face, so: slave. Doffy's face darkened. He couldn't call Dimon a slave.
"This is my big brother," he snapped. "He's—"
"Dio," Dimon said, picking an alias.
"Yeah. Big Bro Dio," Doffy followed without a blink.
"Oh?" Malmedes squinted. No chains, no collar… not a slave, then. Apologize? As if.
"Hmph. So what? No slave, and you show up here?" His smirk widened. "Couldn't afford a strong one? Want to borrow mine?"
He had the rank to sneer—Doffy's family were "ordinary" Celestial Dragons; Manmaia had a Knight of God, which trumped most pedigrees. Gunko had said two sentences to him once; to this snot, that was a coronation.
Doffy's fists curled. This brat begged for a beating.
Dimon glanced at the ring and then at the lordlings. Kidnapping them all to ransom the World Government would be… efficient. He shelved the idea—no need to strip the garden bare; better to let the grass grow before the next harvest.
"What slave you need—I'll do."
He stepped past the children and hopped into the ring.
Leitner's blood ran cold. Fight a Celestial Dragon brat? If he scratched the boy, he'd die. But his owner, Malmedes, was practically vibrating.
"Dio? I've never heard of you, but you want to fight a slave?" he crowed.
The circle erupted.
"Do it! Fight!"
"First time I've seen this!"
"Hey, Dio—win, and I'll call you boss!"
Doffy stared into the middle distance. A great pirate… contesting playground king? Why not go to the New World and fight for Pirate King while you're at it?
"I'm coming," Dimon told Leitner mildly.
He stopped beneath the towering ex-mobster and looked up. "Three seconds. After that, you're down."
"Two seconds…"
Leitner's mouth twitched. He'd better take a hit and flop. That way he lived. He gathered his actor's courage. When the countdown ended—
The boy vanished.
A flash; a crack to the jaw; a glimpse of sky so blue it hurt.
Pretty sky, Leitner thought.
Wait, I was hit? When?
He arced up, then down, slammed into the ground, and blacked out.
Silence. The jeers died. Every child stared.
Dimon basked in the stunned, worshipful stares, hands on hips. "Anyone else?"
King of the brats? Consider it done.
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