"Huh? Why are they ignoring me? I went out of my way to warn them."
On a road at the edge of the forest, some distance away.
Sabo carried a crate taller than himself on his back and looked at Hack in confusion. His oblivious expression made Hack want to punch him, grab him by the collar, and give him a thorough dressing-down.
But with two crates of ammunition tucked under his arms, Hack abandoned the idea.
Instead, he skipped straight to the last step and let Sabo have it.
"I told you we had to keep a low profile, didn't I?"
"What are you doing now?"
"If we're exposed, Jones's men will attack us! Do you understand?"
On and on he went.
With Hack's booming voice in his ear, Sabo helplessly wiped the spit from his face and spread his hands. "I couldn't just leave them alone."
Sabo turned to look in the direction the three had gone. "Look, there was an old man, a child, and a disabled person. What harm could one warning do? Come to think of it, Uncle Hack, I didn't know you were so cold-blooded."
"I—!"
Hack stopped himself, then decided to add one more item to the lesson.
Thud!
He dropped the two crates of ammunition, drew his right foot back half a step, and raised his hands, left in front and right behind. Then—
"Fish-Man Karate: Three Thousand Brick Fist!"
Bam!
Clang!
After finishing his flurry of blows, Hack straightened and snorted. "You can decide for yourself whether my blood is cold. But I know yours is warm."
Bruised and sprawled on the ground, Sabo could only look resigned. He had regretted those words the moment they left his mouth. If the leader found out, eighteen kinds of torture would be waiting