Visitor from West Blue (2)

When he drew his blade, there were no unnecessary movements. The angle at which the blade left its sheath was the starting point of the attack.

Roy did not slash anyone.

He struck the leader's wrist with the flat of his blade. Bone collided with hard wood with a crisp crack, and the man's fingers went numb, causing his sword to fall from his grasp.

At the same time, Roy's left hand shot out and seized his tie, yanking him down hard. His knee drove into the space between the man's chest and abdomen. The leader let out a muffled grunt and doubled over, and Roy took the opportunity to pin him to Gravel Beach, his blade held against the back of his neck.

The entire process took around three seconds.

The patrol moved at the same time.

The ten of them split into two wedge formations and closed in from both sides. It was a formation Roy had repeatedly drilled on the training grounds. It did not rely on individual strength, but on coordination and positioning.

A man in a black suit rushed in from the right, drawing his blade and slashing. A patrolman knocked his blade aside with a shield, while another struck the back of his knee from the side. One blow sent him to his knees.

There were many men in black suits, and they were indeed well trained.

After the ambush threw their formation into disarray, they immediately contracted into defensive circles, forming two back-to-back groups with their sword tips pointed outward, covering one another.

If their opponents had been an ordinary dockside security force, that response would have been enough to stabilize their footing and perhaps even push back.

But Roy's patrol gave them no chance.

Roy cut through the point where the two defensive circles met, like a hot knife through frozen butter. Every strike of his blade landed precisely on a wrist, the bend of a knee, or the back of a neck, with just enough force to incapacitate without killing.

Keeping pace with him, the patrol dismantled the two defensive circles one by one. When each man in black fell, at least two blades were pointed at his throat.

The fight on Gravel Beach lasted less than three minutes.

More than a dozen men in black suits lay sprawled on the ground, clutching their bruised wrists or holding their battered ribs as they twitched soundlessly.

The patrol used the leather cords they carried to bind their hands and feet.

The leader was pinned beneath Roy's foot, his face buried in the gravel. He was still muttering indistinct curses, so Roy bent down and gave the back of his head another blow. At last, the man quieted down.

"Take them all back." Roy sheathed his sword.

Gravel Beach was covered in footprints and drag marks, looking as though it had been plowed over.

The patrol dragged their spoils toward the warehouse belonging to the Merchant Association. Roy walked at the rear and looked back at the unflagged ship.

Its dark gray hull rose and fell gently with the incoming tide. The deck was pitch-black, as though something were still inside.

He reached out and stopped a patrolman. "Leave two men to guard this ship. If anyone approaches, arrest them first and ask questions later."

The place where this batch of suited men would be held was beneath the warehouse training hall.

Roy had personally overseen the renovations aboveground.

He had opened up the first floor of the warehouse that had once stored lumber, laid cork flooring, and installed weapon racks and wooden training dummies along the walls.

Belowground had originally been a cellar where the Sea Serpent Gang hid illicit liquor. Its entrance was concealed behind a tool rack against the training hall's rear wall. Push the rack aside, and stone steps led down.

The cellar had been expanded to twice its original size and divided into six single-cell prisons. The iron bars had been newly installed, and the locks newly forged. When Barlow signed off on the project three years ago, he had written four words on the approval: "In case of need."

Those four words now came in handy.

After tossing the captives into their cells, Roy returned to the training hall, took off his coat and hung it on a wooden dummy, then unscrewed his flask and drank half a flask of cold tea.

He sat on a bench in the training hall and waited. Before long, he heard boots stepping across the wooden floor upstairs. The strides were short but quick in rhythm. Mila had arrived.

When Mila pushed open the training hall door, Roy was wiping sand off his scabbard with a towel.

"You captured another shipload of people?" Mila walked over to the bench and looked down at him.

"What do you mean, 'another'?"

"Did you even ask questions before arresting them?" Mila did not give him a chance to finish.

She glanced at the bloodstains in the corner of the training hall. They had dripped from the wrists of the men in black. Most had been wiped away, but faint marks remained on the wooden floor.

Roy draped the towel over his shoulder, stood, leaned close to Mila's ear, and lowered his voice. "Isn't that what you're here for?"

Mila rolled her eyes at him.

She turned and walked toward the tool rack, pushed it aside, and went down the stone steps into the dungeon corridor.

The corridor was narrow, with three iron-barred doors on each side. An oil lamp hung on the wall, its dim yellow light casting the bars' shadows onto the stone wall opposite, like a row of upright ribs.

The air carried the salty smell of seawater, the stench of blood, and the damp, moldy odor unique to cellars. Mixed together, they were far from pleasant.

The men in black were locked in the two innermost cells. Most of them had already awakened, and when they saw someone coming down, they merely leaned against the corners in silence.

The leader was held alone in a single cell at the end of the corridor. His hands and feet were still bound as he sat against the stone wall on the damp floor.

Mila entered the cell and nudged the leader's shin with the toe of her boot.

The man shuddered from the kick and abruptly opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a pair of blood-red eyes.

The oil lamp's light in the cell seemed to be swallowed by those eyes.

Mila watched the man's expression shift from anger to confusion, from confusion to vacancy, and from vacancy to blankness. His brow relaxed, his jaw sagged, his pupils dilated until they nearly filled his irises, and his mouth opened slightly as he let out an empty exhale.

"Where did you come from?" Her voice was soft, like she was coaxing a child to sleep.

"West Blue." The leader's voice became hollow and steady, as though it had drifted up from the bottom of deep water.

"Who did you come to East Blue to find?"

"The young lady."

"What young lady? Her name?"

"Ca—"

"Report!"

An urgent shout came from the stairway at the end of the corridor, interrupting the leader's answer.

Mila's eyes did not move. They remained locked onto the man's pupils.

Roy turned toward the stairway, his tone displeased. "What is it?"

A patrolman hurried down, his boots clattering against the stone steps. He clutched a note sent from the docks. Stopping before Roy, he snapped to attention, saluted, and handed it over.

"Mr. Barlow sent word. There's an emergency on White Wax Island. Someone has come to cause trouble at Mr. Damian's wedding venue."

Roy took the note and scanned it. The relaxed expression on his face vanished in an instant.

He clenched the note in his hand, turned to Mila, and said something in a low voice.

In the dungeon, Mila's eyes still glowed scarlet.

The leader's lips continued to move, releasing half a syllable. Then his brow suddenly furrowed, as though deep within the Genjutsu, he had touched a fragment of memory that had been deliberately buried. His face twisted in pain, and he kept repeating the same word, his voice growing softer and softer.

Mila lowered her head and brought her ear closer to the bars.

She heard the word clearly.

"Capone Gwendoline."