Celysia's gunfire had stopped long ago, and Orange Town's alley fighting had fallen into a deadlock around midnight.
Roy chased Lowell all the way from the docks into the old alley district.
This was the oldest neighborhood in Orange Town. The stone-paved lanes were too narrow for two people to walk side by side, and the stone walls on both sides had been pitted by the sea wind.
Lowell thrived here.
He was not a combat-oriented pirate. Within the Raging Lion Pirates, his close-quarters combat ability ranked dead last.
There was no need to mention Lane. Dean's swordsmanship was orthodox Marine training, Ram's fish-man physique could bend iron pipes with his bare hands, and Celysia was more agile on rooftops than a cat.
Lowell's only weapon was himself. His body was his weapon.
The miasma from Poison Gas Island had been stored in his body for three years, seeping into every inch of skin, every bone, and every breath he exhaled.
He did not need to do anything. He only had to release the clasps around his wrists and let the pale-purple poisonous mist seep from his skin. The air would do the rest for him.
In enclosed spaces, he was practically unbeatable. Even in open areas, he could use his route of movement to force enemies into the poisonous barriers he had arranged.
Alley fighting was the ideal battlefield for him: narrow, enclosed, poorly ventilated, and impossible for the poison mist to disperse.
He made almost no sound as he moved through the alleys. He was too light; three years on Poison Gas Island had eroded his body until it was little more than muscle barely hanging from a skeleton. When he walked, his bones moved before his muscles, and his footsteps were as light as wind passing through