[Domain Expansion]
Unfurl an infernal field where every devoured undying is manifested. These undyings have no mind—only battle instinct.
The Devil may possess a manifested undying. Only while possessed can an undying leave the field's bounds.
Dimon skimmed the skill note and grinned. This wasn't just strong—it was game-changing.
Two ways to use it, clean and simple:
Pop the domain, flood the ground with all the monsters he's eaten.
Ride one of those monsters like a puppet and fight anywhere—even beyond the domain.
"Too good to waste on theory. Field test."
His wings beat once; he arrowed toward a deserted stretch of coast.
His shadow rippled like a black curtain drawing wide. From that velvet seam, the undying stepped out—one after another—like figures tearing through a stage backdrop.
More than thirty bodies, each once worth nine digits on a bounty poster.
The four Level-6 inmates he had just snacked on… also present.
And the one that pulled his eyes like a lodestone—Kozuki Oden.
No swaggering grin now. The Oden that strode from the shade was blank-faced, hollow-eyed—no mind, only the engine of battle.
The next heartbeat, every undying dropped to one knee.
The living devil nodded his court to rise.
"Let's see how much of the old bite you've got."
He flicked a finger. "Oden. Solo them."
Oden stepped forward. His hands closed on air—and the Devil lent shape to memory.
Twin phantom blades settled into his grip:
Enma and Ame no Habakiri.
The melee detonated.
Limbs severed. Heads flew. Bodies burst—and knit back together an eye-blink later. Inside the field, death was a speed bump. Step outside, though, and each undying unraveled into black smoke.
Even idling, the domain haloed kilometers. He wasn't even pushing the radius.
"Lower ceiling than the originals… but they can still use Haki."
He tasted the drain. Stamina bled out; focus thinned like drawn sugar.
"At this pace, hours with low action. In a brawl? Minutes, if we're unruly."
He bared his teeth. "Next trick."
His gaze slid to a scrawnier shade: 'Severed-Limb' Monroe, the first man he ever devoured—a humble 55 million berry has-been. Weakest on the board, perfect for a shakedown.
Dimon sank his will in. Click. Two viewports opened in his head, like watching two films at once: his eyes, Monroe's eyes.
He sprinted Monroe straight at Oden. A whip-crack roundhouse, lacquered in Conqueror's coating, slammed into Oden's crossed blades.
Boom.
Oden survived the guard—but the kick still freight-trained him off the shore. He skated across the sea like an arrow, punched through the domain's skin—and puffed into smoke.
"…Not bad. About seventy percent of the original's output."
Better than expected. Usable as a default. The two-minds thing was weird for a second; then it was smooth as swapping masks.
He released Monroe. Oden re-manifested at his feet; Dimon hopped hosts again.
Result: same ballpark. Whether he wore Oden or wore Monroe, the ceiling was set by him.
Test complete. The black sky folded like a sail, and the blanket of darkness reeled back into his soles.
"Yeah… this is nasty. Once the roster's deep enough, one man equals one army."
Wings, snap. Back to the Capital.
On the wind, the morning headline tugged at him again. If his read was right, the Marines were arranging a little Roger reception at Enies Lobby—with "Shakky captured" as the invitation card.
He should take a look. Worst case, he gets a front-row seat. Best case… a few more names for the pantry.
Enies Lobby — the Island That Never Sleeps.
Three islands in one breath: Front Gate; the Main Island with its courts; the Judicial Tower anchoring the back.
Beyond that, the Bridge of Hesitation runs like a spine to the Gates of Justice. Past the giants doors, the seas twist into the Triangle Current.
Tonight, both sides of the Bridge were choked with warships—more than fifty hulls. Lines of Marines poured down gangways like ants, snapping into squares and columns that filled the stone like a chessboard.
By the count, ten thousand stationed here as a matter of course. Add-ons arriving by the hour. Rumor had over a thousand field-grade officers on the manifest—half of them Commanders.
CP9 Headquarters, Judicial Tower — Director's Office.
"Outrageous," drawled Spandine, peering through a glass at the bridge. "They say just the field officers will break a thousand. Tch-tch."
It was a rare tableau.
Two men lounged on the sofa: both CP9. One, Laschi, nudged his shades up his nose; his face didn't know how to smile.
"The Admirals will come. The opponent is the Pirate King."
The other, Kamaya—peach-flesh afro under a black suit—clicked his Den Den Mushi shut. "Yes, understood. On our way." He rose. "Director, the bridge called us over."
"Go, go. If this succeeds, I'll advance as well—hahaha."
Spandine let himself drift, picturing his nameletter stamped into some cushy seat up in Mary Geoise. His clan were climbers. Tonight was a rung.
"Laschi, you go too."
"Yes, Director."
Both agents vaulted out the corridor window and pad-stepped across the air on Moonwalk, angling for the Bridge.
Spandine hummed his way back to his desk. "Where's my merit badge in all this? Roger's crew is, what, thirty heads? If they dare show up, they don't leave."
He was still polishing ways to steal the credit when a voice breathed at his neck:
"Your chance for merit… is now."
"Who's there?!"
He jolted up, chair skidding, and whirled—straight into the face of a young man.
"You're a pirate… 'Severed-Limb' Monroe!"
Spandine's memory was good; he'd filed the poster years back. But Monroe had vanished nearly a decade ago.
He sucked in air to scream for the guards—but a hand closed lightly around his throat.
Dimon smiled. "I brought you a gift. Why waste the moment on yelling?"
The needle hissed. Eternal Wine went in.
"W-what did you inject me with? Poison?!" Spandine's voice shook.
"A gift," Dimon repeated. "Wasted on you."
His palm settled on Spandine's temple. Devoured.
A heartbeat later, the domain bloomed—just a sliver—and a mindless Spandine stepped back into his own office.
Dimon slid into the new body like a coat. At a wave of his hand, the old Monroe flickered into smoke.
He sat—Spandine's seat now—the feather pen twirling between fingers that weren't his. Outside, horns blared on the bridge.
"All right then," he murmured, watching the map in his head rearrange itself. "When do you arrive, Roger?"
—And at the far end of the Bridge of Hesitation, three black silhouettes touched down in unison, shoulders straight, coats like banners in the wind.
Admirals.
Next: "Enies Lobby Kill Box."
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