"Little girl Robin, you've got a more urgent problem right now."
"…What do you mean?"
"You're dying."
Robin: ???
She stared at Dean D. Dollars.
His face was calm. Serious. Not a hint of sarcasm.
And that was what made it worse.
For the first time in years, Nico Robin felt completely disoriented.
The next second—
The color drained from her wheat-toned face.
From the moment she broke open the cube, all her focus had been locked on him.
The stiffness in her limbs.
The creeping cold in her body.
She'd dismissed it as nerves.
But when Dean said the words—
She noticed.
"…What's happening…?"
"My body… I can't feel it… it's so cold…"
"…I see… my mother…"
"…Dr. Clover…"
"…Everyone from Ohara…"
"…Am I really… dying…?"
Her beautiful eyes began to lose focus.
Her body weakened.
She fell backward.
Before she hit the ground—
A pair of strong, burning-hot arms caught her around the waist.
And a steady voice echoed in the depths of her fading consciousness.
"Relax, Robin. You're not dying on my watch."
That voice—
Calm.
Certain.
Unshakable.
It pulled her back from the edge of surrender.
Drip.
Drip.
With what little awareness she had left, she felt something warm enter her mouth.
A liquid.
Spreading heat through her chest.
Down her limbs.
"…What is this…?"
"…Salty…"
"…Warm…"
"…Blood…?"
That was her last coherent thought before darkness took her.
Her head tilted.
She went completely unconscious.
But the blood flowing from Dean's wrist continued to drip into her mouth.
His blood.
It moved through her body, washing away the residual power of the "Heavenly King" that had been lingering within her and reigniting her fading life force.
More than forty years ago, when Dean realized he truly couldn't die, he had felt trapped.
But then the system revealed something else.
An immortal enhancement.
A passive "undying" trait.
At the time, it annoyed him.
Later—
It became invaluable.
Dean D. Dollars wasn't just immortal.
In another genre, he'd be called a walking elixir of life.
The blood in his veins was the purest medicine in the world.
One drop could keep a dying man alive for seconds.
Even a giant.
He had once used his blood to save a critically wounded giant Marine recruit.
That giant's name?
Jaguar D. Saul.
As long as the quantity was sufficient—
It could regrow flesh.
Restore bone.
Even reverse death's grip.
Robin had been grazed by the lingering power of the Heavenly King.
Under normal circumstances, that would've been fatal.
For Dean—
It was manageable.
She had dug him out.
He wasn't about to let her die for that.
And even if she'd been a stranger—
He still would've saved her.
The World Government might discard people once they outlived their usefulness.
Dean never would.
...
...
The underground palace returned to silence.
Time blurred.
The only constant sound—
Drip.
Drip.
Eventually—
The dripping stopped.
Ten minutes later—
A small fire crackled in the darkness.
Chunks of neatly cut meat sizzled over open flames.
Fat dripped.
The smell of roasted meat filled the chamber.
On a mat nearby—
The sleeping beauty's nose twitched.
A thin line of drool slipped from the corner of her mouth.
"Quit pretending," Dean said casually without turning around. "You've been out for three days. Move around a little — it'll help your body recover."
He didn't need to look.
Her breathing had changed.
Her heartbeat had stabilized.
She was awake.
"Grrrr…"
Her stomach betrayed her.
Loudly.
Even louder.
Robin desperately wanted to keep her eyes closed.
Her body had other plans.
She was starving.
Hungrier than she'd ever been.
Hungrier than the three days her uncle once left her without food.
Hungrier than any moment in her twenty-eight years of wandering.
Her long eyelashes trembled.
Slowly—
She opened her eyes.
The days she spent suspended between life and death had been the strangest experience of her life.
She had seen a skeletal reaper approaching her.
A scythe raised high.
Her body had frozen in terror.
Then—
Someone stepped in front of her.
No white horse.
No fantasy hero.
Just a figure with a blade.
He cut the reaper down.
Reached out his hand.
Later—
She stood at the edge of an abyss.
On the other side—
Her mother.
Dr. Clover.
The people of Ohara.
They were smiling.
Calling her.
She stepped forward.
Fell.
And just before she disappeared—
That same figure reappeared.
Pulled her back.
"Not yet."
The memory was hazy.
But one thing was clear.
Every time she was about to fall—
He was there.
Saving her.
Again.
And again.
It was a warmth she had never known.
Not since she was eight years old.
Care.
Protection.
A steady presence.
Not like a lover.
Not like a comrade.
More like—
An older brother.
No…
More like—
A father.
The thought slipped into her mind before she could stop it.
Her eyes softened.
She stared at Dean's back as he turned the skewers over the fire.
At that moment, she wasn't the twenty-eight-year-old woman known as Miss All Sunday.
She wasn't a top agent.
She wasn't the Demon Child.
She was—
An eight-year-old girl.
Looking up at the one person who reached for her hand.
Her lips parted unconsciously.
"…Dad?"