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Just like Tony Stark had predicted, Rosh didn't just "get attention."
He went viral!
The moment the broadcast hit the airwaves, Rosh and the words Devil Fruit spread across New York like a wildfire that didn't care what it burned. Within hours, it wasn't just the city talking. It was the entire United States.
A full-on nationwide frenzy erupted.
The only topic that rivaled Devil Fruits in sheer heat was the other bombshell headline crashing through every screen and every feed:
Tony Stark announces he is Iron Man.
It became a two-headed monster of news: superpowers you can buy and the world's most famous billionaire admitting he's a flying war machine.
And once people had those two things in their heads, the internet did what it always did.
It went to war with itself.
"A fruit that gives you superpowers just by eating it? I'll admit Rosh's little stunt at the press conference was flashy, but surely nobody actually believes something that ridiculous, right?"
"Come on. Everything Rosh did could be pulled off even better by a circus performer or a professional magician. It's sleight of hand, period."
"Mutants exist in this world, so why can't Devil Fruits exist? And if they were fake, would someone like Tony Stark really put his reputation on the line for Rosh?"
"Rosh demonstrated the Color-Color Fruit on the spot. That female reporter literally turned semi-transparent. Are you saying that was fake?"
"Also, who even is this guy? Nobody had heard of him yesterday, and now his name is everywhere. What kind of background does he have to make Tony Stark personally back him?"
"…."
The arguments spiraled outward, multiplying into a thousand threads, a thousand livestreams, a thousand "expert breakdowns" in which people spoke with absolute certainty while knowing almost nothing.
Inside Home of the Devil Fruits, Rosh sat behind the counter and casually flipped through channels.
It didn't matter what station he landed on.
Every single one was talking about him.
Rosh leaned back slightly, staring at the TV as another segment labeled ''DEVIL FRUIT TRUTH?'' flashed across the screen.
Panel shows had "specialists" gesturing at paused footage of Christine phasing. Late-night hosts cracked jokes about "Devil Fruit flavor profiles." Serious anchors tried to keep straight faces while saying things like "superpower fruit shop on 73rd Street" without sounding like they were reading a comic book aloud.
Even with Tony Stark vouching for him, even with a live, onstage demonstration, there were still countless people who refused to believe any of it.
To them, Devil Fruits were a scam, a hoax.
A publicity stunt so elaborate it had to be illegal.
But at the same time…
There were plenty who believed.
Online, believers and skeptics formed camps like they were joining rival sports teams. Comment sections turned into battlefields. Forums melted down. Threads exploded into flame wars so intense that moderators started begging for mercy.
Regardless of who was right, one thing was beyond dispute: Devil Fruits had gone completely mainstream.
Everyone knew the name now. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone wanted to talk, whether they were laughing, furious, or secretly checking the price of gold.
And in a country as massive as the United States, even if only a tiny fraction of the population believed in Devil Fruits… that "tiny fraction" was still an overwhelming number of potential customers.
And the fraction wasn't tiny at all.
So very quickly, Rosh's "tragic life" began.
After the broadcast, wave after wave of people poured into the Home of the Devil Fruits like the ocean had decided to move into Manhattan.
It wasn't a crowd anymore, it was a tide.
The line didn't just snake out the door. It swallowed the sidewalk, then kept going until it choked up half the street outside. People were shoulder-to-shoulder, packed so tight you could barely tell where one conversation ended and the next one started. Phones were raised everywhere, recording, livestreaming, shouting excited commentary like this was a concert.
And it wasn't just one kind of customer.
The believers came first, wide-eyed, hungry, desperate to see the "miracle fruit" with their own eyes. Some looked like they hadn't slept since the press conference aired. Some clutched little pouches that clinked softly, gold, maybe, or at least the hope of it.
The skeptics came too, just as determined. They pushed forward, smirking and crossing their arms, acting like they were on a mission to expose a scam. They weren't here to buy; they were here to catch.
To see what kind of "fruit" the Shopkeeper would pull out, what kind of trick he'd use, what kind of sleight-of-hand magic would explain away something the world had watched on live television.
And then there were the third type, the ones who didn't care if it was real or fake.
They only came for the spectacle.
They wanted a story. A selfie. A five-second clip they could post with the caption ''YOU WON'T BELIEVE THIS.''
Most of all, they wanted to see him.
The man Tony Stark had personally invited onto his stage. The "Shopkeeper" who'd walked in like he owned the concept of reality and walked out like the world was just another customer.
The hype was unreal.
It grew so fast that it stopped being manageable.
Eventually, even the police were forced to intervene. Squad cars rolled in. Barricades went up. Officers in bright vests started shouting directions, herding people into rough lines, redirecting traffic, and keeping vehicles from getting trapped in a wall of bodies.
For a while, it felt like the entire block was one bad moment away from turning into chaos.
And it stayed like that, day after day, like the city couldn't decide whether it was witnessing history or a hoax, so it decided to witness it as loudly as possible.
This went on for a full week before the pressure finally eased.
Not because the world stopped caring, just because the initial shock began to cool into something more stable. People regained a little rationality. The curious finally got their look. The internet moved on to arguing about the next thing.
The crowds thinned slightly.
But the shop? The shop never really emptied.
Even after the peak died down, Home of the Devil Fruits stayed packed at all hours, just not absurdly packed like before. Now the visitors came in steadier waves instead of a full flood.
And under these conditions, despite the fact that most people walking through the doors weren't exactly rolling in money, orders kept surging.
Fruits were being sold almost every single day.
Not just one kind, either. The variety of requests was starting to get… interesting.
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After completing yet another transaction, this one for a Zoan-type Devil Fruit, Rosh felt something settle into place with quiet finality.
His fifteen-fruit task was officially complete.
Rosh didn't celebrate out loud. He didn't clap, or pump a fist, or do anything dramatic. He simply let a slight grin appear, a genuine and satisfied one, before slipping his awareness inward.
"System," he said quietly, "settle the task."
A familiar presence stirred in his mind.
[Congratulations, Host. You have successfully sold fifteen Devil Fruits and completed the stage task.]
[You may choose five lottery draws or 5,000 Origin Points. Please make your selection.]
The notification echoed cleanly through his thoughts.
Rosh's grin widened, 'Time to get stronger again.'
Five lottery draws meant potential jackpots that could be rare abilities, powerful items, the kind of reward that could tilt the board. Five thousand Origin Points meant certainty, raw, flexible strength, and guaranteed progress.
Either way, it was a step forward.
But the moment he looked up, reality snapped back into place. The shop was still full. People still lined the counters. Voices still filled the air. Someone was already asking about prices, about the effects, and whether they could pay in gold bars, jewelry, or "historical coins."
Rosh exhaled, half-amused, half-resigned.
As tempting as it was to cash in his rewards immediately, he didn't have the time. Not while the store was still running hot.
With no other choice, Rosh temporarily exited the system and returned to the front lines, answering questions, handling orders, keeping the flow moving like a man running a business at the center of a storm.
Enhancements could wait.
Tonight, when the doors finally closed, and the city outside went quiet… then he'd see what kind of power fate was willing to hand him next.
"Shopkeeper!"
The moment Rosh pulled his attention back again from the system, a familiar voice cut through the noise like it had a VIP pass. The crowd was still packed tight, bodies and opinions pressing in from every angle, but someone small, fast, and stubbornly determined slipped through the gaps.
A woman emerged from the sea of customers with a bright, confident smile, like she'd done this kind of thing a hundred times.
Colleen Wing.
"I figured there'd be a lot of people here," Colleen said, glancing around at the madness with amused disbelief, "so I deliberately waited a few days before coming."
She leaned a little closer, voice lowering like she was sharing a joke with an old friend.
"Didn't expect it to still be this crowded."
She greeted Rosh like an acquaintance because she was one. A returning customer. Someone who'd already crossed the line from "curious" to "involved."
And she hadn't come alone.
Standing beside her was a man who looked like he'd been poured into a designer suit. Curly hair, clean watch, relaxed posture, and that subtle, effortless confidence that only came from being rich enough that the world usually moved out of your way.
Rosh recognized him instantly.
Another "hero."
And, if we were being honest, one of the weakest ones.
Danny Rand.
"Hello, Shopkeeper Rosh." Danny stepped forward first, offering a hand with polite, practiced ease. His voice was calm, but there was a spark of real curiosity behind it. "The Devil Fruits in your shop are… honestly incredible."
Colleen jumped in like she didn't want the moment to drift.
"Shopkeeper," she added quickly, gesturing toward him, "let me introduce you. This is the wealthy friend I mentioned before, Danny Rand."
Rosh nodded once, already done with the small talk before it started.
"Danny Rand," he said evenly, shaking Danny's hand. "Major shareholder of Rand Enterprises. I know who you are."
Danny's eyebrows lifted slightly, like he hadn't expected the Shopkeeper to be that direct. Then he smiled, a small and respectful one. That was something, at least.
A brief exchange of pleasantries followed, just enough to keep things civil, before Rosh smoothly shifted them toward business. In this shop, every conversation had a purpose.
"Danny," Rosh said, reaching under the counter and sliding the catalog across, "take a look first. If anything catches your eye, I'll explain it in detail."
"Thank you, Shopkeeper." Danny accepted the book with both hands, carefully flipping it open.
The moment he started reading, his expression changed.
At first, it was a mild interest.
Then surprise.
Then that wide-eyed, caught-off-guard look people always got when the impossible stopped being theoretical and started being options.
The pages were filled with bizarre, fantastical fruits, illustrated as if they belonged in a myth, each one carrying a promise that sounded like a cheat code to reality. Danny's gaze moved quicker, lingering on certain entries, doubling back like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Colleen," Danny said suddenly, pointing at a page with sudden excitement, "this is the Warp-Warp Fruit you mentioned before."
"Yeah!" Colleen leaned in, eyes bright, clearly thrilled he'd found it. "It's a good thing it's still available. Danny, this one's really solid."
Rosh watched them quietly.
Danny Rand might be the Iron Fist; he had his own abilities, sure. A special lineage, a trained body, a mystical punch that could crack steel.
But at the end of the day?
In terms of how they operated, how they fought, how they survived, Danny wasn't all that different from Colleen. They were both martial types. Close-range fighters. People who relied on timing, movement, and skill rather than raw firepower.
So if a fruit was useful to Colleen…
It would be just as useful to him.
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Next Chapter: The Fruit Iron Fist Truly Wants
Next Next Chapter: Two Million Dollars, Two Futures
Next Next Next Chapter: Perhaps I Can Call Myself a God
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