Caria's Sewers

The casino was empty.

When Jack charged through the front entrance with Colin and Godo, the hall held nothing but rows of chips no one had collected and playing cards scattered across the floor. The chandeliers were still lit, bottles still lined the bar, and a few cigars still smoldered in the ashtrays. But the people were gone. Gamblers, guards, dealers—every last one had vanished.

"They ran fast." Godo stood in the middle of the casino with his iron club, looking around. His army boots made no sound on the thick carpet. "Are the Caroni Family all rats?"

Colin crouched and ran a finger over the carpet, then held it up. Water clung to his fingertip. Not liquor—dirty water, with the telltale stink of a sewer. His wings spread slightly behind him, feathers stirring in the draft from a vent. "They went down."

Jack said nothing. His gaze swept the hall and settled on a half-open iron door behind the bar. A faded notice was nailed to it, the writing too blurred to read. But the rust had been worn off the handle, exposing bare metal beneath. The door saw frequent use.

Colin walked over and pushed it open. Beyond lay a descending staircase. The concrete steps were narrow, their surfaces worn smooth and shiny by countless feet. Oil lamps hung on the walls, casting a dim yellow light that reached less than ten meters. Damp air rose from below, thick with mildew and the reek of urine.

Caria Island's sewers were a smugglers' golden route. A hundred years ago, they had been the largest underground trading hub in the West Blue. Later, the Mafia took over the route and turned the sewers into a sprawling maze. There were paths in every direction, places to run and hide, and choke points that were easy to defend. The Caroni Family had operated here for twenty years, building the sewers into a second base.

Jack descended, his army boots thudding against the concrete steps. Colin followed, wings tucked behind him and nearly brushing the walls of the cramped stairwell. Godo brought up the rear with his iron club over one shoulder, grumbling about how much he hated sewers.

Godo stepped into the filthy water and swore. "There's something in this water."

"The rats ran off because your feet stink," Colin called from ahead, a trace of amusement in his voice.

Godo swore again but said nothing more.

The tunnel split three ways ahead. Water rushed through the passage on the left. The one on the right was narrow and low. The middle passage was the widest, but it was pitch-black, with no end in sight. Jack stopped at the fork. Colin crouched, dipped his fingers into the current on the left, and gauged its speed and direction. Then he stood and pointed to the middle passage.

"The middle. The water flows east, toward the center of the island. The casino's above us. Their base should be deeper underground."

Jack said nothing and stepped into the middle tunnel.

After the ninth turn, the tunnel suddenly widened. The vaulted ceiling rose from two meters to four, and the passage doubled in width. Side passages and hidden doors appeared along the walls. This was no longer just a sewer. It was an underground base, deliberately remodeled. Niches had been carved into the walls to hold oil lamps and weapons. The wastewater had been diverted into drainage channels on either side, leaving a dry path down the middle.

Footsteps sounded ahead, hurried and chaotic, echoing off the brick walls until it was impossible to tell where they came from. Godo tightened his grip on his club. Colin spread his wings slightly, his feathers bristling and his pupils narrowing to pinpoints.

Jack did not stop. He kept walking at an even pace.

Mafia men poured out from different directions. Some carried knives, some clubs, and some came empty-handed. Jack's fists cut through them, each blow landing squarely on a face or chest. Cracking bones and screams echoed between the brick walls, blending into a dull roar.

Colin struck from Jack's flank. His wings opened in the cramped space, the edges of his feathers sharp as blades. They slashed bloody lines across the Mafia men's arms. He moved fast, his falcon agility letting him weave through the crowd. Every sweep of his wings raised a spray of blood.

Godo blocked the way behind them. His iron club whirled like a windmill, smashing back every Mafia man who tried to attack from the rear. His army boots held firm on the slick ground, as though nailed in place.

In less than two minutes, more than a dozen men lay in the tunnel. Some moaned, some twitched, and some no longer moved. Wastewater flowed beneath them, carrying off some of the blood. The rest seeped into the brick joints, staining the gray mortar dark red.

Jack shook the blood from his fists and kept going.

After about twenty meters, the tunnel opened into a circular chamber roughly ten meters across. Its vaulted ceiling rose high above them, with an iron-grated ventilation shaft overhead. Four tunnels met here, their wastewater flowing together into a stagnant black pool at the center. Garbage floated on the surface, along with rotting wood and a dead rat.

Viper Caroni waited for Jack on the far side of the dead-end chamber.

He crouched in the shadow of a tunnel mouth, his body pressed almost flat against the ground. He was unnaturally large. In his half-beast form, he stood nearly three meters tall, his body thicker than an ordinary person's torso. Scales covered most of his skin, gleaming dark green in the torchlight. His forked tongue flicked from the corner of his mouth, quivering rapidly as it caught scents and heat.

The Snake-Snake Fruit, Viper Form.

Caroni was so large that he blocked the entire tunnel mouth. His dark green scales gleamed in the torchlight, each as big as an adult's fingernail, neatly arranged like armor. His neck was thicker than his head and could swell to twice its size. Fangs glinted pale yellow inside his mouth, clear venom dripping from their tips.

Jack stopped and looked at the snake. Caroni watched him too, his pupils contracting as his tongue flicked faster. He was assessing his opponent through a snake's instincts: tasting heat and scent with his tongue, searching for weaknesses with his eyes. Where was Jack's weakness?

Jack remembered the skill he had gained last time. He had yet to use Mystic Shot. He raised his right hand, pressed his index and middle fingers together, and aimed at Caroni's chest. An energy bolt gathered at his fingertips, a yellow point of light shining in the darkness like a tiny sun.

"Take this—Six Meridian Divine Sword!"

The energy bolt shot from his fingertips too fast for Caroni to dodge. It struck his chest. His scales did not crack, but the pain was real. Blood seeped from the wound and ran down the edges of his scales. Caroni opened his mouth and hissed.

The Blade of the Ruined King's attack effect triggered at the same time. A sliver of Caroni's life force was drained away and flowed back into Jack's body along the bolt's path.

Caroni recoiled sharply. His wound ached, and the scales where he had been hit burned as though branded with hot iron. His pupils widened for an instant, then narrowed again as he fixed his gaze on Jack's fingers.

Light flared at Jack's fingertips again.

A second Mystic Shot. Caroni was ready this time. He jerked right, and the bolt grazed his left shoulder, tearing away a layer of scales and flesh. Blood sprayed onto the brick wall, leaving a dark red streak.

A third shot. Caroni could not dodge this one. The tunnel was too narrow and his body too large, leaving him little room to move. The bolt struck his abdomen. Scales burst apart, and blood poured out.

Caroni began to panic. His pupils dilated and contracted in rapid succession, his tongue flicked erratically, and his body writhed uneasily in the shadows. He was not looking for a chance to fight back. He was looking for an escape route. His gaze darted around, searching for the nearest side passage, the nearest hidden door, the nearest crack he could squeeze into.

Jack saw what he intended.

He raised his right fist, aiming not at Caroni but at the brick wall behind him. His hardened knuckles punched a crater into it. Cracks spread outward from the impact, and the whole wall shook. Fissures opened in the vaulted ceiling overhead. Bricks loosened, and dust sifted down. The stagnant pool rippled from the shock; the waves reached the walls and rolled back.

Caroni's pupils shrank to pinpoints. He realized Jack was not trying to hit him. He was cutting off his escape. The brick wall was collapsing, the tunnel was narrowing, and his only way out was being sealed.

He could not run anymore.