"Maybe," he says, though he sounds less certain now, and far less full of buried anger. He retrieves the pack of cigarettes to take another from it while he decides how to answer.

"Where I'm from, there are stories about those people still. They're treated like, you know, the monster under the bed, a warning to kids that the enemies of the gods are still out there, waiting to snatch them off the streets and gobble them up," he says with a snort, then lights the cigarette and takes a draw. "But these days they're just people like anyone else. They don't remember any better. It's been too long. If there are any who managed to keep their old traditions and knowledge alive for all this time I've never heard of it, but I'd guess if they're that good at hiding what they know, they wouldn't want anyone else to know."

He debates a moment whether he should give names or not. After all, thirteen (no, fifteen, now?) years ago, he's the one who had urged secrecy, but that was because of Doflamingo. Otherwise, most people in their world don't know the significance of that lone initial. There's no threat like that here, and most of the D clan go about their lives openly with their full names on display, because it doesn't mean a damn thing to anyone else who hasn't been privy to a few secrets here and there.

"You could ask Law about it if you want, but like I said. They're no different from anyone else," he says with a shrug.

That's also probably not true, but there's only so much he's willing to say about someone who isn't at the table.