Chapter 16

Bang!

The dull crash of something heavy hitting the ground rang out.

The man flew over the boy's shoulder, his cheekbone cracking sharply against the paving stones.

Bloody froth and broken teeth seeped between his fingers as his curled body twitched on the ground.

The alley fell silent for a moment.

The others stared wide-eyed until a muffled roar came from the ground. "K... kill him!"

Figures immediately lunged forward.

The first man to reach him pulled something from behind his waist-a cold metallic flash thrust straight toward the boy's heart.

The boy did not retreat.

His leg rose faster than the thrust. The instant his toe struck the man's wrist, the metal flew from his grip, spinning skyward and tracing a bright arc across the dim alley entrance.

While the man stood stunned, the boy had already closed in.

His gathered knuckles jabbed out like a bird's beak, driving precisely into the cartilage of the man's Adam's apple.

"Urgh-"

The man staggered backward, both hands clutching his throat. His face rapidly turned from red to blue as he dropped to his knees, mouth open, unable to draw a single breath.

As the boy withdrew his hand, he spun and kicked backward, driving his sole hard into the second man's crotch.

The sensation of bones breaking traveled up his leg.

With a sharp crack, the unlucky man's eyes bulged, his mouth opening so wide it nearly tore his jaw apart.

Agonizing pain instantly drained every ounce of strength from him, and his body toppled stiffly to the ground like a wooden post.

The jab and kick happened in the blink of an eye.

Only now did the ** kicked into the air earlier finally fall, its blade pointing straight at the top of Rossi's head.

Smack.

He reached up and caught it, his five fingers closing precisely around the falling handle.

He carried the motion forward with his wrist, pressing the cold blade against the Adam's apple of the third charging thug.

The sharp touch froze the man in place, and a wet stain immediately spread across his crotch.

"I..."

"I surrender!"

What mattered most when you lived on the streets?

Knowing which way the wind was blowing.

Ahem, everyone, if you think this is decent, how about sparing a vote?

"The Four Suits?"

The name he extracted made Rossi pause, four distinctive faces immediately surfacing in his memory.

"Now that you're scared-"

Swish.

The ** in his hand stopped just above the thug leader's bloodstained nose.

The knife tip.

The pupil.

The pupil reflected the knife tip; the knife tip pointed at the pupil.

The slightest tremor of the wrist holding the knife would let this leader say goodbye to his right eye, then put on an eye patch and make his living at sea.

The thug leader did not even dare breathe heavily now. He dared not swallow the saliva collecting in his mouth, afraid that a single gulp would leave him with one eye.

"What are the names of your four bosses?"

The knife was poised over the chopping block, the fish laid out before it.

At this point, even the toughest had to learn to bend.

Once the man had given all four names, Rossi moved the ** away from his eye, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing his chin.

Trebol, Pica, Diamante, Vergo...

It really was those four.

From the interrogation, he learned that Trebol was currently nineteen, Diamante fifteen, Vergo eleven, and Pica only ten... Judging by that, perhaps only Trebol had already eaten a Devil Fruit, while the other three were still blank slates?

No, Diamante should already have some skill with a sword.

"What's wrong, Rossi?"

Doffy approached, carrying the Flintlock Pistol.

To him, these were nothing more than a few street thugs.

They had even survived the three-way fight to the death aboard the Pinta. What was there to care about in some thug Family on land?

"Nothing... I'm just a little interested in these 'Four Suits.'"

"Let's head back to the ship fir-"

Rossi broke off before finishing.

His brow furrowed. Four figures of varying heights had blocked the alley entrance, sealing off their way out.

"I say, I say,"

Four figures blocked the alley entrance.

The man in the center wore a bulky blue coat, blue-and-white-striped trousers, and a chain around his ankle that dragged along the ground.

Sunglasses sat on his nose, a bowler hat pulled low over his head. He held a cane in his palm, and two strings of pearls rose and fell against his chest with each breath-every inch a nouveau riche who had just walked out of **.

"You hurt our men, and now you want to slip away?"

His voice was sticky, as though his mouth were full of syrup.

Beside him stood a tall, thin figure in a white shirt and black cape, a Rapier angled toward the ground. "Brat, will you kneel yourself, or do we have to help you?"

Doffy did not answer.

The flintlock's barrel rose, and fire erupted with a bang.

The ** tore through the air and buried itself in the forehead beneath the bowler hat.

Droplets of blood scattered, and the man's head snapped backward.

But a moment later, that head slowly straightened.

As though brushed by invisible fingers, the flesh around the wound writhed and closed, leaving only a dark red spot.

"I say, I say-"

The nouveau riche tilted his **. "To ** without even saying hello-aren't you looking down on me a little too much?"

Doffy narrowed his eyes.

It was not fear, but irritation.

Smoke still drifted from the muzzle, yet his target was completely unharmed.

"Careful."

Rossi's voice came from behind and to his side. "That thing isn't human."

-It's a Devil Fruit.

Thick, tea-colored fluid surged beneath the blue coat, wrapping around a scrawny body concealed within the mucus.

Attacks that landed on it would only slide away, as though striking a lump of wet mud.

Trebol raised his cane.

Two silent shadows suddenly lunged out.

One was almost Rossi's age, with a bowl cut and sunglasses hiding his eyes. Beneath his checked shirt, the lean muscles peculiar to a young boy stood taut.

He charged at Doffy so fast that the second ** only grazed his afterimage.

Doffy stepped back half a pace, swinging the gun's grip into his opponent's path.

The barrel rotated half a turn in his palm as Doffy brought its metal end toward the approaching figure.

The Flintlock Pistol's wooden base cut through the air, smashing downward with heavy momentum.

His breathing was steady, his eyes free of hesitation.

In the other direction, a moving wall of flesh filled Rossi's vision.

Heavy footsteps shook the loose stones in the alley.

The figure was not particularly agile, but every step made the ground tremble slightly.

Rossi's finger had already pulled the trigger, and the ** whistled out.

The person opposite him merely raised both arms-the muscles on them writhed, gleaming oily in the dim light, twisting and coiling as though alive.

The dull thud of the bullet hitting skin was followed by the faint sound of flesh tearing.

A scarlet blossom burst across the bronze arm, but remained only on the surface.

Instead, the wounded boy forced a shrill screech from deep in his throat.

The voice was piercingly high, utterly at odds with that body.

Rossi stepped back half a pace.

He saw the arm sweeping toward him, a full size thicker than his waist.

He ducked, and the arm skimmed his hair before smashing hard into the brick wall beside him.

The explosive crash of shattering masonry filled his ears.

Dust spread through the air. A ragged hole remained in the wall, cracks spreading outward like a spiderweb.

The entire wall was **, on the verge of collapsing.

The corner of Rossi's mouth twitched.

He stared at the face distorted by muscle and the frame that far exceeded its age-was this really a ten-year-old's body?

The shrill shout rang out again. "Stop!"

The huge hand pried a large chunk of broken brick from the hole in the wall and hurled it with a sweeping motion.

The chunk whistled toward him through the air.

Rossi turned sideways. The brick struck the ground behind him, fragments splashing against his trouser legs.

That voice bored into his ears like a fine needle stabbing his nerves.

A sudden heat surged from his chest, burning away the last trace of his desire to retreat.

Instead, he stepped forward.

The fabric of his sweatpants instantly pulled taut around his suddenly swelling leg muscles.

Power exploded from beneath his feet and surged upward. As it passed through his waist and abdomen, the muscles there contracted sharply and sprang back, their outlines clearly visible even through his clothes.

His spine was like a fully drawn bow, storing power on the verge of release.

He charged straight toward that mountain of flesh.

Dock sector three.

Workers carrying wooden crates filed down the Pinta's gangplank, their metal hobnails striking the damp planks with dull thuds.

Wicks adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, his fingertips brushing the edge of the manifest, but his gaze was not on the cargo being moved.

He needed to confirm certain things personally, which was why he stood in the briny wind of an early spring evening.

The man beside him in a black suit resembled a stone statue.

Sunglasses hid his eyes, but could not hide the fine scars on his neck and the backs of his hands.

On the man's belt buckle, the number "66"

gleamed coldly beneath the dock's dim yellow gaslights.

"The situation is clear now."

The man's voice was low, like rusty gears turning. "I'll assess what they're worth, then decide how to handle them."

Wicks nodded without speaking.

He knew where this man, code-named "8674,"

came from-that organization whose name lurked behind many security companies in the North Blue.

Supposedly, this man had suffered severe injuries on a battlefield in the New World, diminishing his strength. Even so, here in the waters of the North Blue, he remained a sharp enough blade.

An explosive crash of shattering masonry suddenly came from a distant alley.

Then came a howl of pain, incongruously shrill.

Rossi's right arm swelled in that instant.

It was no illusion. Beneath his sleeve, his muscle fibers seemed to have been forcibly injected with something scalding, the blood vessels beneath his skin throbbing.

The weapon he held-call it a weapon for now-the bones from shoulder to wrist gave faint creaks, as though unable to withstand the surging power.

The swing was not actually fast.

But it was heavy.

So heavy that the air whined as it was torn apart.

The chunk of masonry in Pica's hands, taller than a person, split into two along a clean plane the instant it met that cold gleam, like fat sliced open by a hot knife.

The cut was smooth; even the fine grain inside the masonry was visible.

The cold gleam did not stop.

It continued forward, licking toward Pica's spread fingers.

Pica reacted with a speed that seemed impossible for his enormous body-he pulled back his hand, turned, and brought his left arm, swollen like a tree trunk, across his front.

It was an instinctive defense. His muscles tensed to their limit, the surface of his skin taking on a rocklike bluish gray.

Hiss.

The sound of the blade cutting into ** was very soft, almost drowned out by the waves far beyond the dock.

Only then came the blood.

A great deal of blood gushed from the wound, so deep that bone was visible, taking on a dark red hue in the dim yellow evening light.

Pica staggered backward, every step shaking the ground. His left arm hung at his side, blood dripping from his fingertips and striking little dark pits in the dust.

"Awooo-"

The scream was comically shrill, an absurd contrast to his size.

Rossi stood where he was, his weapon angled toward the ground.

He held his chin slightly raised, his gaze sweeping over the faces opposite him, which had changed color.

It was not arrogance; he had to maintain this posture-that last strike had drained all the strength from his arm, and now the muscles throughout his right arm were twitching slightly, so weak and sore that he could barely hold his weapon.

So damn tough.

That was what he thought.

Striking it had felt like splitting through a layer of old bark wrapped around steel.

"Trebol."

Diamante's voice turned cold. He drew the rapier at his waist, its slender blade tracing a silvery arc in the dusk. "Our turn."

The fat man who had been leaning on a cane all this time-Trebol-took a step forward.

His movements were slow, almost sluggish, but the eyes hidden behind his round spectacles stared at Rossi like a venomous snake.

Good.

Rossi took a deep breath, drawing the salty, damp sea breeze into his lungs.

Far from feeling nervous, he wanted to laugh.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward involuntarily, only for him to force them back down.

Vergo still stood where he was, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.