Chapter 20

"Please... save them-"

Bang!

"Next, the left leg."

Blood burst from his right arm at the shot.

Watching the boy his own age lying in the dark red pool, both arms wounded, Doffy simply reloaded the ** and shot without expression.

"My hands, my feet, my life... you can take them all!"

Vergo jerked his head up from the ground. Behind his slipping square sunglasses, his eyes shone with something close to pleading.

Not for himself, but for those people who had pulled one another forward through the mud.

"As long as you're willing to rescue Torre and the other two, everything I have is yours."

But if they wanted to pry his mouth open through pain and learn the whereabouts of that Devil Fruit-it was utterly impossible.

...Family?

"Hmph. What do you say?"

Doffy turned his face, casting a sidelong glance over.

Rossi said nothing. He crouched down and reached out to the person in the pool of blood.

"Torture probably won't work on him.

Besides, we've already attacked the Jedi Family's people. Since that's the case-"

"We might as well finish the job."

He pulled Vergo up from the ground and settled their next course of action.

"Uproot the entire Jedi Family.

Then everything both families have accumulated will be ours."

Whatever they had done in the past, those businesses, channels, networks of connections... from now on, they would all belong to someone else.

"...Thank you."

Vergo used the offered support to straighten up. Blood still flowed steadily from the wounds in his arms, but he forced himself not to utter a single groan.

That toughness certainly befitted a ruthless character who had trained his ** to such a level.

"Let's treat your wounds first."

Now that they had decided to join forces, keeping him alive was naturally the first step.

Rossi took out bandages and deftly dressed his wounds.

Afterward, Vergo refused anyone else's support and started walking on his own.

He really was tough, and only eleven years old.

Bolkin's fingers tightened around his gun's grip, then relaxed.

Rossi and Doffy clearly knew nothing about this place. They had even been willing to pay compensation and apologize-so the ones who had destroyed his home could only have been the Four Suits.

The house built from two generations of savings, his grandfather's and his father's, along with that compensation payment, was no more than a speck of dust to be casually brushed away in their eyes.

He did not understand what a Devil Fruit was or just how much a billion Beli amounted to, but the man before him named Vergo was his enemy.

"Let's go, Bolkin."

Rossi's backward glance sent a chill through the boy, like seawater suddenly pouring down his collar on a winter night.

Bolkin lowered his muzzle and hurried after them.

"Yes, Rossi."

The shriek of the whip's tip tearing through the air erupted almost simultaneously with the dull sound of flesh splitting.

The instant its barbs tore open the thin back, a bloody furrow over ten centimeters long appeared.

The man suspended in midair by chains forced half a muffled groan through his teeth.

The torturer flicked his wrist. Shreds of flesh flecked with bloody foam traced a half arc through the air and landed on the ground with a splat.

Several hounds drew closer, their tongues sweeping the floor. The sounds of swallowing were especially clear in the silence.

"Who would have thought,"

The balding man seated on the sofa turned the ring on his thumb. "That Trebol, the leader of the Four Suits, would look like this."

The hanging man's limbs were long and thin, every rib protruding. Tangled black hair covered a square, filthy face.

Opposite him, the potbellied, balding man wore a finely tailored suit. Brown curls ringed his shiny crown, and his smile was so mild it was almost benevolent-if one ignored the blood filling the room, he looked more like a charitable country gentleman.

Alcatte Thompson, head of the Jedi Family, nicknamed "Big Bucks."

The nickname came from his longstanding talent for dropping bundles of Beli into the palms of mayors, sheriffs, and even nobles in the royal capital.

With their tacit approval, his business knew no limits: **, illegal drugs, human trafficking, forced labor... in the waste disposal district, who did not lower their head and hold their breath upon hearing his name?

Except for those few brats who did not know their place.

"You thought being good in a fight meant you could turn the world upside down?"

The amiable fat man snapped his fingers. Someone immediately offered him a cigar and carefully lit it.

Cigar smoke spiraled upward in the dim light, like some slow declaration.

Thompson-the man whom the people of Spandamruze called "Big Bucks"

behind his back-narrowed his eyes, his gaze settling on the body before him that barely looked human anymore.

Whip marks crisscrossed it, skin peeled back, and the air was thick with the smell of rust and scorching.

He liked that smell. It proved the reality of power better than any figures in a ledger.

"You won't last long on these seas if all you can do is throw punches."

His voice was level, as though stating the simplest of facts.

The name Four Suits had only emerged in the past two years, like barnacles suddenly growing on a reef.

Three fools who did not know their place had thought brute force and a few strange tricks would let them carve out territory of their own.

And the result? Before the Jedi Family had even truly acted, another force passing through had already battered them bloody.

Thompson had merely given things a push and easily pried open the doors to their lair.

Now their three leaders lay like torn sacks in his cellar.

"Your ability, just like that face of yours,"

Thompson tapped his cigar, scattering ash onto the bloodstained floor. "Is a paper lantern. It only looks intimidating."

He knew the secret of this man named Trebol.

The viscous substance that covered his body year-round was merely a creation of the Sticky-Sticky Fruit.

Against opponents who knew nothing about it, it could indeed create the illusion of invulnerability to blades and bullets. But once its fear of fire was known, that thick slime became the deadliest burden: a slow-moving living target that could be set alight at any moment.

"But I'm willing to give you a choice."

Thompson leaned forward slightly, and the leather sofa gave a faint **.

Naturally, he had his reasons for keeping these three alive.

Rumor had it that the Four Suits still had an uneaten Devil Fruit hidden away. That was what truly interested him.

"Hand over the Devil Fruit, and you can walk out.

Everyone in this port knows that I, Thompson, never go back on my word."

There was even a trace of what could be called sincerity in his tone.

He stood, accepted the black top hat and silver-inlaid cane his subordinate handed him, carefully put on the former, and took a firm grip on the latter.

"Your two brothers, Pica and Diamante,"

He walked to the door and turned his head, his voice echoing between the cellar walls. "Are receiving equally warm hospitality in other rooms at this very moment."

He paused, allowing the chill in his words to sink in fully.

"Whoever reveals the Devil Fruit's whereabouts first will be the only one breathing tomorrow's air.

As for the other two..."

He gently pulled open the door, and faint light sliced in from the corridor. "They can take their brotherly affection with them and feed the fish at the bottom of the sea."

The cellar returned to its oppressive gloom.

Only the sharp crack of the whip tearing through the air remained, followed by a groan clenched firmly in a throat.

Trebol raised his head. A faint, murky gleam showed through the slits of his swollen eyelids.

He spread his lips, exposing bloodstained teeth. His voice was hoarse, yet carried a grating sneer:

"Trying to question us... with tricks meant for children?"

"Who do you think we are?"

"Continue."

Thompson's icy voice came from outside the door, utterly unruffled.

Crack!

The whip kissed his body again, taking another strip of flesh.

Trebol's entire body convulsed violently, veins bulging in his neck, but he forcibly swallowed the cry of pain that followed.

"Then let's see who breaks first."

Thompson's voice faded into the distance, and his footsteps vanished above the stone steps.

In fact, the reports from the other two secret rooms were equally displeasing.

No matter what pressure was applied, the other two captives kept their jaws clamped as though welded shut.

The outcome stirred a familiar irritation in Thompson, like an abacus bead stuck where it should not have stopped.

Family? Loyalty?

He adjusted his cuffs, the corners of his mouth turning down.

Then cling to those useless things and rot together in the dark.

Dusk sank beyond the edge of the sea.

The clamor of the workshops finally ceased.

Whether adults covered in grease or children who had learned silence too early, all now dragged their feet back to the corners where they sheltered-those cramped spaces called "home,"

where they could briefly catch their breath.

Though towering chimneys and factories had carved up Spandamruze's outline, though machinery roared without pause throughout the day, large stretches of the town were still swiftly swallowed by darkness when night spread.

Light belonged to other people: candle flames flickered behind glass shades, and electric lamps turned windowpanes a warm yellow.

As for everyone else? Best lie down early. More long hours of work awaited tomorrow.

Yet movement in the shadows awakened at this very moment.

A brief scrape of metal pierced the silence.

At the edge of Upper Town, the iron cover of a roadside drain shifted aside.

Several figures climbed out one after another, damp grime clinging to the hems of their clothes.

"That estate is the target."

One of them lowered his voice and pointed toward the walled cluster of buildings nearby.

"Follow the original plan."

The boy in the lead pushed up his sunglasses, their lenses reflecting the scattered lights in the distance. "You were distracted just now."

The person he addressed raised a hand and swept his overlong blond fringe back.

His hair already covered his brow ridge. It was time for a trim-once tonight's business was over, perhaps he should find a barber.

"It's nothing."

He lowered his hand, a hint of self-mockery in his tone. "It just suddenly struck me that we seem to keep moving from one conflict to the next."

They had only fought that group of four in the morning. After regrouping in the afternoon, they had cleared out another batch of peripheral lackeys. Now they had slipped through the underground pipe network into the enemy's heartland, preparing to carry out a so-called "infiltration."

Their days were rather too packed.

"Survival means fighting. What's strange about that?"

The boy in sunglasses answered as though it were self-evident.

The other fell silent for a moment.

That was indeed difficult to refute.

In this world, unless one was content to become the most insignificant speck of dust, battle was the norm.

And choosing to become dust-he glanced at the man following silently behind them-could bring precisely the most undeserved disasters: being crushed amid a peaceful life by the aftershocks stirred up by the strong was commonplace too.

"Let's begin."

The blond boy said no more, turning his gaze toward the estate.

Figures moved behind brightly lit windows. Patrols took turns passing both inside and outside the walls, keeping the place tightly guarded.

"The moment you signal, we'll move in to support you."

The boy in sunglasses nodded.

Since their objective was to bring back the captives, naturally the one who could eliminate sound would scout ahead first.

Unfortunately, that ability could only erase sound. If it could conceal his presence as well, perhaps he could have strolled openly through the front gate.

The thought flashed past.

He pulled up his coat's hood, slipped into the shadows cast by the roadside trees, and approached the estate's outer wall without a sound.

"You two get ready as well."

The boy in sunglasses turned to the other two.

"Understood."

One of them answered calmly.

To rescue the three companions he regarded as family, he had long since put life and death out of his mind.

Vergo bound two cutlasses firmly to his palms.

As the fabric tightened, it tugged at the wounds on his arms. He frowned but made no sound.

As soon as chaos broke out in the distant mansion, he would be the first to charge inside.

Bolkin climbed out of the dank passage and carefully lowered the wooden barrel from his shoulder.

Rossi had told him not to touch what was inside.

Of course, he had no idea that the barrel's contents were far more dangerous than he imagined.

Even in this crudely made form, if that quantity ignited, never mind Bolkin himself-probably more than half of that dark cluster of buildings opposite would collapse as well.

The young were always fearless.

Rossi crouched low, moving forward on hands and feet along the shadows of the trees.