Chapter 23

The smell of gun smoke mingled with blood, forming a pungent residue that clung to the back of the tongue.

Rossi watched the bodies shudder violently under the impact of **. The scraping of iron hooks against collarbones grew shrill, and then everything fell still.

After seven gunshots, only the faint creaking of swaying iron hooks remained in the basement.

The group continued upward.

Trebol lay on Diamante's back, every jolt drawing a stifled gasp from him.

Pica's left arm hung at an unnatural angle, and the wound at his temple was still bleeding. Yet he remained at the front, knocking open a half-closed wooden door with his broad shoulder.

The instant the night wind rushed into the passage, Rossi drew a deep breath.

Cold air washed through his lungs, diluting the smell of ** that had collected in his nose.

The main house's corridors were unnaturally empty. Moonlight ** through the broken window frames, cutting sharp patches of light across the floor.

As they neared the manor's front entrance, Rossi suddenly raised a clenched fist.

Everyone stopped at once, their breathing instantly dropping to the faintest whisper.

There were people in the courtyard.

It was not an ambush-the other side had not even bothered to hide.

Moonlight illuminated more than twenty figures. Gleaming long blades alternated with dull gun barrels, forming a curved barrier before the half-open iron gates.

The two men at the front were talking quietly, one gesturing to indicate the angle of encirclement.

This was trouble.

Rossi glanced over the three behind him.

Trebol's consciousness was already fading, and Diamante's arm trembled slightly as he supported him. Pica could still stand, but blood loss had left his face as pale as paper.

Forcing their way out would only turn the badly wounded into targets.

"I'll clear a path."

Pica spoke in a low voice, his high-pitched tone a strange contrast to his massive frame.

He tried to straighten his back, but the wound in his left shoulder made his movements stiff.

Diamante shook his head and hitched Trebol higher on his back. "You won't get through.

"They have at least five guns."

Doffy had already retreated into the shadows in a corner, his gun barrel extending half an inch through a broken window.

Moonlight fell across his profile, outlining his taut jaw. "We need to create confusion."

Rossi's gaze settled on the covered walkway beside the main house.

Several broken barrels were piled there, with the outline of the stables farther away.

The night wind suddenly shifted, carrying the smell of hay and animal dung.

"Take the west side."

He spoke quietly, tracing a short route through the darkness with his finger. "Over the low wall and we'll be in the back alley.

"But we need to draw attention away from the front gates."

The corner of Doffy's mouth curved slightly. "Easy."

He pulled the trigger.

The ** did not fly toward the crowd, but struck a stone ornament ** the courtyard.

Shattered stone sprayed outward, raising a gray-white cloud of dust in the moonlight.

The formation before the gates immediately stirred. Some crouched to find cover, while others ** wildly toward the main house.

Gunshots tore through the silence of the night.

"Now!"

Rossi was the first through the main house's side door, his boots shattering the moonlight scattered across the ground.

Hurried footsteps followed him. Diamante's breathing rasped like a worn-out bellows.

Pica brought up the rear, looking back every few strides to check for pursuers.

The low western wall cast a deep black shadow in the moonlight.

Broken glass embedded along its top reflected a cold gleam, like a row of tiny fangs.

Doffy stepped forward. Before Rossi could speak, he had already turned his face sideways and curled his lips.

"Don't underestimate me."

With that, he walked straight out through the doorway.

His gaze swept ahead from behind his sunglasses. Large dark-brown stains soaked his neatly tailored little suit, looking like splashes of old rust in the dim light.

The two men holding blades outside immediately tensed.

But when they saw the figure emerging, their raised weapons froze in midair for a moment-he was alone and empty-handed.

What was he planning?

Then something erupted.

It was not wind, yet everyone's clothes whipped backward. It was not sound, yet it made their eardrums ring.

With that blond figure at its center, the air abruptly grew thick and scorching. Everything in sight began to twist and dissolve, until nothing remained but an all-encompassing dark red.

That color had weight, pressing against their chests until they felt stifled. It also had thorns, piercing their skin and burrowing into their marrow.

The thugs at the very front suddenly buckled at the knees. Like sacks stripped of their bones, they fell one after another, their eyes rolling back as they lost consciousness completely.

Rossi froze.

Conqueror's Haki... had he already honed it to this degree?

"Con... queror..."

In the corner, Trebol struggled to prop up his upper body. His clouded eyes fixed on that retreating back, his trembling lips squeezing out a few broken syllables.

"Let's get out first."

Rossi looked away and turned toward a nearby rooftop-a dark figure was leaping swiftly across the tiles, each rise and fall unnaturally light as he rapidly approached.

A few hundred meters from the town hall, a villa stood quietly in the Upper Town.

The living room had an astonishingly high ceiling, crystal chains hanging from its dome and intricate gold-leaf scrollwork covering its walls.

Dozens of candelabras lined the walls. Their burning wicks gave off a distinctive, rich, warm smell of fat-the wax had been extracted from sperm whales' skull cavities, and a single candle cost as much as half a year's food for an ordinary family.

Every candle was lit now, making the hall as bright as noon.

"They were taken away?"

The enormous sofa sank deeply beneath a slightly plump man, who reclined against cushions sewn from some kind of sea beast leather, his fingers supporting his chin.

A girl knelt at his feet, his gold-threaded dancing clothes as thin as cicada wings. A furry tail hung behind his hips, but his eyes were as empty as hollowed-out shells.

"Yes, Mr. Thompson."

Across from him, the man in the brown suit nodded from his armchair.

His bowler hat was pulled low, its shadow hiding his high nose bridge and leaving only his tightly pressed lips visible.

He adjusted his tie knot with a certain rigid elegance.

If not for the metal bat at his waist, he would have looked more like an office clerk than one of the Jedi Family's members renowned for their fighting prowess.

Qiao set down the report in his hands.

"By the time I reached Jasmine Manor, the targets had already withdrawn with three officers from the Four Suits Family. Their trail vanished into the city's sewer network."

He was the figure who had been moving swiftly across the rooftops earlier.

Unlike Toru, who relied on packs of hounds in combat, Qiao's strength lay hidden beneath his seemingly lean frame-explosive power and speed beyond those of ordinary people.

"Why didn't you follow them in?"

A coarse voice cut in, openly accusatory.

The man who spoke was Qiao's complete opposite.

Bulging muscles strained beneath his tight vest. An ammunition belt crossed his chest, ** was tucked at his waist, and a long-barreled weapon was strapped to his back. He looked as though he had just returned from a battlefield.

Vincenso.

True to his codename, this man favored a fighting style built on pouring out firepower.

His personality was as direct as the weapons he wielded.

"Sorry,"

Qiao took out a handkerchief and lightly covered his mouth and nose. "Only rats are accustomed to crawling through sewers."

Merely saying the word made his brows draw together slightly.

"If Toru were still alive, we could have sent his 'children' after them.

"Unfortunately..."

Toru had already disappeared, leaving only a few barely recognizable remains at the scene.

"Hmph. Toru was useless, and so are you!"

Vincenso interrupted again, his words landing like blows from a blunt weapon.

The mildness instantly vanished from Qiao's face.

His eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and the air abruptly chilled.

"All right, all right."

A third voice rose, its smooth amusement dispersing the tense atmosphere.

A man wearing a scarf and a long trench coat emerged from the shadows, his bearing as relaxed as a performer about to take the stage.

Paul.

He handled negotiations and communications for the Family, known for his eloquence and certain methods best left unspoken.

"We're all brothers here. Why lose your temper?"

He walked to the icebox in the corner of the hall and took out glasses and ice cubes.

Amber liquid poured into the glasses with a crisp clinking sound.

Paul first handed a drink to Thompson, seated at the head, then carried the other two glasses between the men facing off.

"Qiao had his reasons for that decision."

He took a sip of his drink, his gaze sweeping over everyone.

"They dealt with Toru and dozens of people at the manor. Their strength shouldn't be underestimated."

"Add those three newly rescued Four Suits officers, and if we'd rushed into the sewers-that sort of place is far too easy to set an ambush in."

Paul spoke unhurriedly.

Vincenso folded his arms. In the end, he merely snorted and offered no further objection.

The sea breeze carried a salty tang as it battered the ship's side.

The people on deck silently watched the pitch-black water until that mushroom-shaped head of hair broke through the waves first.

When Vergo's face surfaced, a tiny squid was clinging to his cheekbone.

His raised arm supported a sealed iron chest, water dripping steadily from its edges.

"Pull him up."

Rossi signaled with a nod.

Bolkin threw down a rope and pulled together with the middle-aged man beside him.

The rope drew taut, and the soaking figure was hauled onto the deck.

In fact, the entire Pinta was crowded with Bolkin's blood relatives-his grandfather, his aunt, and his younger siblings.

After witnessing the scene in the Jedi Family's basement, Rossi could not possibly leave these people in town.

Some choices needed no weighing at all.

The iron chest was passed into the hands of the man covered in bandages.

Torpol shaped the mucus seeping from his fingertips into a key and inserted it into the lock.

As the lid sprang open, the dim yellow light from the cabin revealed a fruit: pear-shaped, its skin covered in spiral patterns.

Doflamingo's gaze fell on the fruit.

He had seen a sketch in an illustrated guide-it looked exactly like this.

More strange shapes flashed through his memory: a cantaloupe-like fruit covered in cactus spines, or an ordinary-looking one no different from a common persimmon.

The latter had once been eaten by a careless person by mistake, setting off a series of absurd events.

"It's yours."

Torpol held out the fruit.

He turned his head to glance at his three companions, reading the same resolve in their eyes.

Then he stepped back, lowered his right knee to the ground, and bowed his head beneath the man receiving the fruit.

"Our past entanglements end here.

"What I am about to tell you all is-"

The sound of knees striking the ground followed in succession.

Diamante, Pica, and Vergo dropped to one knee almost simultaneously, bowing their heads to the pink-haired boy.

They had already exchanged glances earlier, and their movements now were as coordinated as though they had rehearsed them countless times.

"That shock that knocked every member of the Jedi Family unconscious earlier,"

Diamante's voice trembled with something close to fanaticism. "That power is called 'Conqueror's Haki.'

"Only kings chosen by fate possess that aptitude."

Trebol's sticky gaze remained fixed on Doflamingo.

To this man covered in mucus, the boy before him was destined to stand above all others.

A hoarse rasp rose from his throat, and he could hardly wait to utter his oath.

"Let us follow you. Let us-"

"Stop."

Another voice cut in, cleanly interrupting Trebol's unfinished sentence.

Rossi stepped forward, placing himself between his older brother and the four men.

His gaze swept over Trebol's mucus-covered face, and a trace of instinctive aversion stirred within him.

Having inherited all this body's memories, Rossi had long since come to regard Doflamingo as his brother by blood.

They had struggled together to survive in the mud, supporting each other all the way to this day.