Toritoma preceded Boa Hancock as Empress of Amazon Lily.
Like the other Empresses, she wore the Kuja's snake-shaped earrings. Proper, poised, shoulder-length black hair with a soft curl at the ends; her clothes echoed Hancock's regal style. She looked mid-twenties at a glance—surely older in truth. Of the four Empresses bracketing her reign, she alone died of lovesickness… and she reigned for over three decades. Tragic, really.
"First time in Wano? Welcome."
Dimon shook the stray thought away and had the maids bring tea.
He didn't bother circling. "Abel said you brought Devil Fruits to trade for Wine?"
"That's right. I've worked very, very hard to collect ten~."
Shakky's smile could sweeten venom.
Gloriosa popped the bubble with a sigh. "Don't flatter yourself. You just say 'leave your treasure,' and Marines or pirates hand it over like good girls and boys."
Imagine it: the Kuja charm, supersized.
Dimon looked to Toritoma. The current Empress only returned his gaze with a mild, closed-lip smile. When he glanced her way, she finally opened a bundled cloth and folded it back.
Inside lay ten Devil Fruits, all different shapes and swirls, colors rich enough to sting the eye.
"Sir Dimon," Toritoma said softly, "the goods are here."
It was the first time he'd seen so many Fruits piled together. The sight was… satisfying.
"I'm shocked too," Shakky covered her mouth, laughing. "I didn't realize how many we'd piled up. When the count hit ten, we thought—time to visit the Brewer."
Two of those are Roger's, Dimon guessed.
"Ten Fruits for ten cups of—"
He didn't finish. Shakky clasped her hands and leaned in, eyes big and pleading. "Don't be stingy. A bottle or two extra won't kill you, right? Pretty please?"
Ah. Beauty discount.
"Three bottles. Final. The 'extra two cups' are your coupon." Dimon rolled his eyes, stood, and left.
He returned moments later with three bottles of Wine of Immortality—and a Devil Fruit index.
He handed Shakky the wine. "Reminder: repeat dosing on the same person won't stack effects."
"Got it. Thanks for the drinks!" She winked, scooped the bottles, and sashayed for the door. At the threshold she paused and looked back. "Mind if we linger in the Capital a few days?"
"Stay as long as you like."
"Then—bye-bye, Dimon."
The three Empresses departed. Dimon let them drift out of mind, flipped open the index, and began clocking his new harvest one by one.
No surprises—Zoans and Paramecias all the way down. No Logias. No Ancient, no Mythical. Still, a haul is a haul.
He swallowed them one after another. The system prompts flickered past:
[Devoured a Devil Fruit, +100 Demon Points.]
[Devoured a Devil Fruit, +100 Demon Points.]
Demon Points: 1000 → 2500.
Ten fruits: +1500 points. Cost: 3 bottles. Net: +1200.
May the Kuja keep the pipeline flowing.
In the middle of it, an oddity tugged his attention. One Fruit gave him déjà vu—a Zoan: Rabbit-Rabbit Fruit.
One of five ransom fruits he'd wrested from the World Government back on Sabaody, when he kidnapped a Celestial Dragon.
"So even if I devour a fruit, it respawns."
He suspected the respawn timer was just… long.
Good news for him. The sea wouldn't run out.
He eyed the new total. 2500—short 500 from the next skill unlock. Awkward number.
"Forget it. Next skill can wait. 2500 means 100 cups of wine. That's enough to harvest a crop of scallions in Impel Down."
He lifted his gaze to the window. Noon sun drenched Wano; on the other side of the planet, Impel Down was under night's blanket.
Perfect time to be naughty.
Impel Down, a.k.a. Undersea Prison.
Anchored in the first half of the Grand Line, inside the Calm Belt ringed with Sea Kings. Since its birth, no one had ever escaped. Even if one did, the Sea Kings awaited; even if they survived the beasts, Enies Lobby'sGate of Justice barred the way; even if the Gate opened, the Triangle Current would sling them in a maddening loop between Headquarters, the Judicial Isle, and the Prison.
Unless you fly, there's no escape.
Dimon flew.
Night swaddled the prison. Dimon hovered high, studying the layout below.
More than ten Marine warships moored around the structure. Sailors stood watch on deck, eyes sweeping the dark.
"Not exactly airtight. I can already see several gaps," he murmured. Honestly, even without wings, it didn't look that hard to slip inside. When nobody's ever escaped, people get… comfy.
He dipped down to the roof, spread his Observation Haki through the stone, found no blips—and rolled his left hand.
Age-Age Fruit—twist the future. Gate-Gate Man.
Manifest: Paramecia — Door-Door Fruit.
He pressed his body flat to the roof, gave a gentle push, and the floor swung open like a hatch.
He slid through and landed light.
Dark, except for a few torches pooling orange over damp walls.
Seven levels: one above water, six below. He wanted the deepest—Level 6: Eternal Hell. The people down there were so vile the world had erased their names.
The Door-Door power was a joy. With Observation as a guide, Dimon hopscotched space, ghosting downward, unnoticed.
Until he reached Level 6, the corridor of cages.
Two Surveillance Den Den Mushi panned over the entryway, their eyes sweeping without blind spots.
"Parlor trick."
He smiled, twisted the future again—
—and turned into a Transparent Man. He sauntered right past the snails.
No torches here. Only cold stone and deeper cold between his ribs. His steps echoed, soft as moth wings… and still they woke the dead.
A prisoner drifted to the bars, peering out into nothing. "Huh? A rat?"
A chill shot up from his soles to his scalp. He turned, shuddering—
—and a hand reached from the dark, clamping his throat.
He couldn't scream. Bulging eyes, blood-spidered whites.
A man in the prison.
How? Why was a man in his cell?
Two faint red rings burned where the man's eyes should be—metallic, merciless.
Dimon didn't bother talking. He drew an immortality syringe from his pocket and slid the needle home into the prisoner's arm. Then he palmed the man's skull.
Devour.
Seconds later, the Level 6 inmate powdered away on the wind.
"Next…"
He ghosted to the next cage.
Another body crumpled into dust.
And the next.
And the next.
On the fourth cell, he paused. A pair of eyes stared back at him through the dark—awake, lucid, amused.
"Been waiting," a ragged voice rasped, savoring each syllable. "Brewer."
A faint ding trembled along the corridor—the kind of sound you only hear when a Surveillance Den Den Mushi wakes up and starts recording.
Dimon smiled without warmth and stepped into the black—
—as somewhere above, far above, a dog-headed warship turned its prow toward the Calm Belt, and a man in a cloak of Justice said to no one:
"Alley-oop."
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