Hero

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Bullets rained down on Daz Bonez's two-meter-tall body, sending up showers of sparks.

After a fierce internal struggle, the strongest assassin in the West Blue ultimately chose his dream of becoming a hero.

He joined Lucas's side and accepted the "favor" that man had granted at the cost of one year of his life—his body had been directly aged to twenty.

His first assignment was to take out his employer.

"Micro-Dust Quick-Slashing Blade"

Daz Bonez's feet turned into blades as he slid across the dust-covered floor. His palms and fingers transformed into blades at the same time, and he weaved through the gang lackeys scrambling to reload their ammunition, his edges slicing across their vital points. Bloody flowers bloomed one after another in the darkness.

Frank grabbed the hand cannon leaning against the table. Ignoring his subordinates around him, he viciously pulled the trigger at the towering figure.

Rumble!

The blazing explosion swallowed Daz Bonez's figure. Smoke billowed out, the shockwave shattered every glass object in the warehouse, and nearby gang enforcers were blasted into the air.

Frank panted heavily. Just as a trace of relief at having escaped death appeared in his eyes, that figure stepped out of the smoke without a scratch.

"You turned on your employer. That's against the rules!"

Frank staggered backward until his back struck the corner of the wall.

"Aren't you afraid Lord Piero will punish you?"

"If he comes, I'll deal with him."

Daz Bonez cut down the last thug blocking his way and walked toward Frank.

Frank's face, long eroded by illegal drugs and violence, flushed a liverish purple-red.

"You ignorant fool!"

He shrieked hysterically, smashing the cabinet behind him with one punch and yanking a machine gun that had been hidden in a compartment for a long time from inside.

"Lord Piero is a major figure in the New World! Just wait for that lord to punish you in the cruelest way possible!"

The machine gun roared, spitting flames. Bullets poured forth like a torrential downpour.

"Micro-Dust Slash"

Daz Bonez turned his fingers into blades, crossed his hands before his chest, and slashed downward in a fierce X-shape.

Blade light interwove before him into an invisible net. Each bullet struck the net and was precisely split in half, the severed warheads clattering onto the floor.

The machine gun in Frank's hands was an extremely primitive model. After one belt of ammunition, its barrel had already glowed red from heat, and minor thermal deformation caused it to jam.

He pulled the trigger frantically, but all he heard was the futile click of the firing pin.

He looked down at the gun that had become scrap metal, then raised his head to see the towering figure that had already slid before him.

Daz Bonez raised his hand and brought it down, leaving Frank grievously wounded.

He picked up the blood-soaked Frank and walked to the entrance as though carrying a bag of garbage. With a swing of his arm, he threw that limp body onto the floor.

"Ho ho ho."

A light, drifting laugh sounded outside the door. Lafitte emerged from the shadows, leaning on his cane. His leather shoes stepped across the bloodstained ground as he lifted Frank's chin with the tip of his shoe and tilted his head to inspect the face twisted in agony. He spun his cane, and a strange ripple spread outward from it.

Frank's eyes, once filled with terror and fury, abruptly lost all focus like light bulbs switched off.

"Tell me where the other three bosses are based. Also, did you hire any other assassins?"

Frank opened his mouth. Like a puppet whose soul had been pulled away, he began answering in a flat, toneless voice.

Daz Bonez had no interest in watching an interrogation by hypnosis. He turned and walked out of the warehouse.

He stood at the entrance, light and shadow cutting a clear boundary across his towering body.

A hunched old man was trembling as he approached from behind the ruins at the street corner.

The old man's back was bent like a bow crushed by time, and every step was difficult and cautious.

He stopped a few paces from Daz Bonez, lifted his head, and reflected that towering silhouette in his clouded old eyes.

"My lord."

"Are you going to rule this place? If so... what will you have us do? What will the tax rate be?"

In the gang-infested West Blue, these civilians had no right to choose who ruled them.

The camp remained while the soldiers changed. One group came today, another replaced them tomorrow; every group wanted food, drink, and money. The only difference was how much they took.

Sending an old man with little time left to represent them and ask the victor about his plans was a survival rule these civilians had learned over centuries of living on the edge of a blade.

Even if it angered the other side, losing one old man close to the grave was better than losing a group of young people.

Daz Bonez shook his head.

"My superiors haven't informed me of anything like that. I won't be staying here either."

The old man suddenly raised his head, his clouded eyes filled with disbelief.

"Y-you mean it?"

"I do."

The old man's withered hand covered his face, and murky tears flowed through his fingers.

He repeatedly muttered, "We're free," and "Heaven has eyes," his hunched body shaking uncontrollably with excitement.

"Thank you! Hero! Thank you!"

The old man wiped his tears, gave Daz a deep bow, then stumbled toward the neighborhood to tell everyone the good news.

Daz Bonez stood where he was and raised a hand to press against his chest. A warm current seemed to be slowly flowing through it.

When he had completed his first assassination mission at the age of seven and received the bounty, he had felt a sense of accomplishment too.

But compared with this feeling, that was far inferior.

"So this is... what it feels like to be a hero."

"It seems... pretty good."

By the coast, a battered steamship lay quietly moored. Inside a cabin, Baccarat lay on a bench, pushing a barbell far beyond what an ordinary human could handle with both hands.

The floor beneath her was covered in cracks that spread from the center to the corners of the walls.

The barbell was returned to its rack with a dull boom. Baccarat sat up, glanced at the new cracks in the floor, then looked toward the other end of the cabin.

"Dear, this ship is about done for."

"What are you planning to do next? Slave-catching ships aren't nearly as common in the West Blue as they are around Red Port."

"Or are we going to steal a pirate ship?"

Above Red Port lived the people on this sea with the greatest demand for slaves.

Slave-catching ships practically gathered there in droves, but elsewhere, such ships were not so easy to find.

Lucas withdrew the last trace of electric arcs stimulating his cells and rolled his shoulders, about to answer—

Pururururu...

The Den Den Mushi rang.

He picked it up, and the Den Den Mushi's face immediately stretched into Lafitte's pale visage.

A low voice came through the receiver, rapidly reporting intelligence.

Click.

The call ended quickly. Lucas hung up the Den Den Mushi and returned the receiver to its place.

Baccarat eagerly leaned closer, bracing both hands against the edge of the bench and leaning forward.

"Is the Amigo Pirates strong?"

When someone spoke through a Den Den Mushi, anyone nearby could hear it as well. She had heard every word of the intelligence Lafitte reported through the Den Den Mushi.

The assassin Du Feld had hired was an entire pirate crew.

They were called the Amigo Pirates.

Lucas glanced at her and shook his head.

"They aren't particularly strong, but they have a Submarine. I think your power has activated again."

He had already become numb to how unreasonable the Luck-Luck Fruit was. He had been planning to change ships, and someone had immediately delivered one to his doorstep. Moreover, this pirate crew happened to be an ally of the Flying Pirates.

"Lucky!"

Baccarat cheered.

"Can either of you operate a Submarine?"

A calm voice came from the corner. Robin sat by the window with a thick book spread across her knees, opened to around two-thirds of the way through.

"No!"

Baccarat and Lucas answered in unison.

Like puppets controlled by the same string, they turned their heads together and precisely fixed their gazes on Robin in the corner.

Robin turned away and buried her gaze back in her book.

"Don't look at me. I can't either."

The atmosphere in the cabin instantly became awkward.

To Be Continued