"A trade fair… for the Wine of Immortality?"
Dimon rolled the words on his tongue. The idea sounded almost too neat—then again, the seas were already boiling. Ever since Roger drank immortality on live broadcast, the Grand Line's pirates had gone rabid.
Host a fair now and they'd come in droves.
And even if a crew didn't have a Devil Fruit? Pirates had a simple answer: take one.
If the neighbors stock grain, I stock guns. The neighbors are my granary.
Dimon chuckled. "Not bad, Croc. Smart head on your shoulders."
Crocodile didn't smile back. He'd already walked the edges of the plan in his mind and seen the sharp parts. "There are risks, Big Bro. Pack enough sharks in one pool and they'll forget they came to trade. We could be fighting the whole sea by sundown. And once this leaks—and it will leak—the Marines won't sit on their hands."
Dimon's answer was a light, careless grin. "Let them come. A little noise never killed anyone who can't die. First, we leave this rock."
"Understood." Crocodile dropped the sails and took the helm. The small caravel—all ribs and lateen—carried no pirate flag and cut a modest line, not much larger than the Going Merry would be one day.
Below deck, Dimon laid out the day's loot: five Devil Fruits—four from Whitebeard's chest, one he'd taken by right of fist.
"One isn't in the compendium," he murmured, turning an unfamiliar pattern in his hand. "Could be a heavy hitter."
His catalog was a torn, half-complete thing. Missing entries were to be expected.
He devoured the unknown Fruit. Black smoke curled, bit, and swallowed.
A subtle tremor ran through him. Text only he could see flickered past his eyes.
…not great. Strong Paramecia or an Ancient Zoan at best, he judged, then fed the other four to the black smoke one by one.
Demon Points stacked like coins. Five Fruits meant a tidy profit; subtract the cost of one bottle of wine, and he was still a thousand points ahead.
"Four thousand to light the next skill," he mused. "One well-run fair should cover it."
Where to host it?
The first half of the Grand Line—the Paradise seas—were Marine turf. He didn't fear an Admiral dogpile; he simply didn't want them ruining his event.
The New World was better. Thinner Marine coverage. And Hachinosu—Beehive Island—was a pirate playground.
Perfect. Wang Zhi was already dead by Dimon's hand; Dimon could manifest him and let the man's face and name front the fair.
Crocodile stepped back in as Dimon was putting the box away.
"How's your network?" Dimon asked.
"I set up a front," Crocodile said. "A covert company called Baroque Works—an outer arm for New Era." He poured and held a glass in both hands as he spoke. "Publicly we run bounties. In the dark, we're eyes and ears. We're over a hundred operatives already."
"Half a year since the execution," Dimon laughed. "You were born for this line of work. Got Morgans on speed dial?"
Crocodile's gaze sharpened. He fetched a Den Den Mushi. "Here. His personal line."
Dimon dialed.
Purururu… purururu…
"World Economy News Paper, Morgans speaking! Have you got news for me?"
"I'm Dimon."
A beat of stunned silence, then the bird-man's voice flipped to syrup. "An honor! Brewer Dimon! Your chat with Roger sold double—no, tripled—our circulation! I ought to pin a medal on—"
"I've got real news," Dimon cut in, calm as tides. "You'll like this one."
"I'm all ears."
"I'm hosting a Wine of Immortality Trade Fair on Hachinosu. Anyone with a Devil Fruit is welcome to come trade."
Dimon could hear Morgans's grin through the line. He was already counting headlines and profits. He was also, Dimon knew, already imagining the bloodbath.
"Mr. Dimon, you want this splashed on the front of the World Economy News Paper?"
"Exactly. One month from now."
"As you wish!" Morgans practically shrieked. "You'll see it tomorrow—then the world will."
Dimon hung up and set the snail back in its basket.
He glanced at Crocodile. "Where are we, anyway?"
"Near the New World entry waters," Crocodile said, trimming the wheel.
—
The World Economy News Paper did what it did best.
By noon the next day, the fair announcement had set the seas on fire.
"Captain, we don't have a Devil Fruit."
"Are you stupid? We don't, but someone else does!" A captain's eyes gleamed. "We're pirates. If we want it, we take it!"
"Cast off! Hachinosu, now!"
The same scene echoed across countless decks. Not just pirates—kings sent armies in secret. A few kings came in person, hungry for a bottle that slapped time in the face.
And the World Government?
They heard the news before the ink dried—because Dimon had never planned to hide it.
In a silent room, the Five Elders listened to CP0's report and traded glances.
"Dimon will appear on Hachinosu. It's our chance to seize him."
"No," one shook his head. "If he can teleport, you won't catch him with nets."
"Worse—this fair will drag in an uncountable number of pirates. Facing them head-on is unwise."
"But we must obtain the Wine of Immortality."
"Then we go as buyers with Devil Fruits," the baldest of them said at last, voice low. "No Government names. No insignia. No mistakes."
He set down the cigar and laced his fingers, eyes like old knives.
"Send them."
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