"Three seconds," Moria said… and moved in the next heartbeat.
His shadow clone shattered into a storm of black bats, swarming the rowdy pirates and gnawing like living razors.
"Aaagh— what the—?!"
"Captain, he's a Devil Fruit user!"
"No kidding! I can see the bats chewing on my face!"
Gunshots popped. Screams tangled with chair legs. The whole restaurant turned into a kicked beehive.
"Pirates!"
"Devil Fruit— run!"
"Somebody get the Marines!"
In the panic, guests bulldozed for the door, sweeping Dimon's little group out with the tide.
Shaji clicked her tongue. "Can't even eat in peace. I'll handle it."
"Go, Shaji. Bag the onion-head," Dimon said—
—but she was already moving. Her right hand lifted, a sandstorm howled from her palm, and the gale ballooned fiftyfold down the hall.
Tables spun up. Knives and forks sliced the air. Pirates howled as grains like micro-blades laced them red.
Moria's shadow yanked itself into a jet-black box around him. Sand shaved the room clean; when the storm died, the box melted back into a flat shadow at his feet.
Moria glared through the doorway at Shaji. "What's your deal, woman? Logia sand?"
"I'm a man," Shaji said, eyes going murder-dark.
Moria blinked at her chest, looked back up, and… processed. "Heh-hee-hee… I did hear there's a third kind besides man and woman—okama."
His grin went sharp. "Filthy okama. You ruined my meal. Now I'll show you despair."
"For the last time—I'm a man!"
They flew at each other and the walls screamed.
Dimon watched, very entertained.
Shanks tugged his sleeve. "Big Bro Dio… Marines will be here any second."
"True. New venue," Dimon said. He could fight anywhere; they couldn't afford to.
They slipped out into the street just as a Marine squad pounded past—leading them, a cool-eyed woman with a long blade at her hip.
Rear Admiral Gion—"Momousagi."
They crossed in the street. Gion's gaze skimmed the kids, moved on—then she stopped.
"Admiral Gion? What is it?" a soldier asked.
"…Nothing." She shook it off. A red nose under a hood wasn't exactly rare on festival days.
With every decent place jammed, local guide Smoker cut through alleys and gutters to a tucked-away bar wedged between uneven steps and crisscrossing lanes.
The sign read: Bar gold ROGER—with a little skull doodle. A pirate-friendly hole if you ever saw one.
Dimon's brow rose. This… might be the same bar a certain straw-hatted kid would someday stroll into.
Inside: cramped, smoky, a handful of customers. The middle-aged owner was mixing drinks.
He squinted at Smoker. "Steal again, brat?"
"Just food," Smoker muttered.
The owner's eyes slid to Dimon's group. "Never seen you kids. Beat it. Wrong place."
"Don't be shy, boss," Dimon said, hopping onto a stool. "Water for them, plates to fill stomachs, and a margarita for me."
"You even legal?" the man snorted. "Kids don't drink here."
"Always twenty," Dimon replied, taking it like a badge.
The barkeep grumbled but worked—bowls, cups of water, and finally slid Dimon the glass. "There. Your margarita. Still not serving children. This joint's for pirates."
"You and Smoker seem tight," Dimon said after a sip. Good hand; the drink was clean, bright, properly salted. Odd it wasn't more crowded.
"Kid's got no parents. Collapsed at my door once; I fed him." He threw Smoker a look. "Then he keeps 'finding' money and trying to drink here. I feed him instead."
"You're not locals," he said, warming to his own story as he saw real listening. "Came for the Pirate King's execution?"
He grinned wide at the name. Pride warmed his voice.
"Yep. And your sign's got a flair to it," Dimon said.
"Of course! Before he went to sea, Roger used to drink right here. We were pals!"
His chest swelled. He painted the memory in the air. How a nobody with a grin bigger than the horizon had said, "I'm setting sail. Might turn the world upside down. Watch for my headlines!"—and left the door forever.
Then came the headlines. 100 million… 500 million… 1 billion… 5.5 billion… and finally King of the Pirates.
"Two hours left?" the owner murmured, lost between pride and ache. "To be executed in his hometown… that Roger… what a man."
"Getting executed makes you 'manly' now?" Dimon said dryly.
"He's the real thing, kid," the owner shot back. "You don't get it. A public execution is the greatest honor for a legend. Years from now, people will still remember today. This is history."
Dimon grinned. "You talk pretty good, boss."
"Why do you sound eighty?" the man sighed. "Drink up. I'm closing soon."
"You going to watch?"
"Of course. To witness the Pirate King's death!"
Dimon chuckled. "Then you'll be disappointed. You'll see something better."
They traded stories as time dripped away. Mihawk ate in silence, eyes on a blade only he could see. Shanks and Buggy grew quieter the closer it got, brows knitting, fingers fidgeting. Smoker chimed in here and there, the barkeep spinning half-true, full-heart tales of Roger before he was Roger.
Two hours later, at 11:50 AM, bellies full, they stepped into the crush of bodies flowing like tides toward the square.
Ten minutes to noon.
Ten minutes to the scaffold.
Ten minutes to a smile the world would never forget—
—and to the moment Dimon intended to steal history's script.
…Countdown begins.
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