Chapter 27

Lazy notes drifted from the piano in the corner as elegantly dressed men and women raised their glasses and murmured...

Compared with the dump, where thick smoke blotted out the sun, and the docks, steeped in the salty reek of the sea and sweat, this place seemed like an illusion conjured from nothing.

"He's here."

The wait did not last long.

Just as the intelligence had described, a man in a brown suit, a bow tie, and a bowler hat approached the restaurant's main entrance.

A high nose and deep-set eyes outlined a calculating face, and every step carried the mannerisms of the so-called upper class.

Vergo's breathing paused almost imperceptibly.

"That's 'Batter' Qiao."

Rossi glanced across the dining room.

A knife and fork danced in the man's hands, their silver gleams tracing precise arcs.

The steak was cut into perfectly equal cubes, each just the right size to be slipped elegantly into his mouth without splashing a single drop of sauce.

Even the angle of his folded napkin conveyed a deliberately trained, almost rigid "respectability."

Qiao.

One of the Jedi Family's officers, notorious for his brutality.

It was said that the sound of his victims' skulls shattering could compose a lengthy requiem.

Rossi looked away, an indescribable heaviness settling in his stomach.

In a world where fists and ** decided everything, these elaborate manners were like a ridiculous stage costume draped over a body of unknown depths.

He only hoped the strength beneath that costume was not as hollow as this theatrical meal.

At the same time, in Upper Town, at Rose Manor.

The hall smelled of leather mingled with cigar smoke.

Paul tugged at the overly bright bow tie around his neck-embroidered with intricate patterns-and strode toward **.

His habitual smile had vanished, and the edges of the paper clenched in his hand were slightly wrinkled with sweat.

"We have news, Mr. Thompson."

The enormous body sunk into the sofa shifted and waved a hand, signaling him to continue.

The sofa's leather supposedly came from some giant deep-sea beast, cool and tough to the touch.

Paul cleared his throat and looked down at the intelligence. "The ones who took away the Four Suits' remaining ** were two brothers.

"One is named Doflamingo, the other Rossi."

He spoke quickly. "They first appeared at Red Harbor in the New World and slipped aboard a ship called the Pinta, doing the lowest kind of manual labor."

He paused and stole a glance at his boss.

Thompson's eyes were closed, his fingers tapping slowly on the armrest.

"After the ship entered the North Blue, things fell apart on board.

"The captain, the navigator, and the man in charge of the sailors fought each other. None of them survived.

"The brothers took control of the ship amid the chaos.

"After delivering the people they were supposed to deliver, they left without stopping and sailed straight to Spandamruze."

Paul's breathing quickened a little. "First they approached the merchant Wesker, then they clashed with the Four Suits.

"Later, they dared to provoke us... probably because they had their eyes on that Devil Fruit the Four Suits had."

"Heh."

A short snort came from the sofa.

Thompson opened his eyes. Those little eyes, squeezed between folds of fat, held no warmth, only the scrutiny of someone long accustomed to power sizing up prey.

"Climbing up from the bottom, seizing a ship, and even snatching food from my mouth..."

He spoke slowly, as though weighing every word. "Luck alone wouldn't manage that."

A pity.

He leaned forward, the leather rustling faintly. "Surely they don't think getting their hands on some wreck of a ship qualifies them to prance around in front of me?"

His voice was calm, even faintly amused, but the chill in his words raised the hairs on the back of Paul's neck.

Even if they fled to the ends of the sea, he would drag those two brats who did not know their place back here.

Some thoughts made his fingertips tremble merely by crossing his mind.

"There's one more thing, Mr. Thompson."

Paul suppressed his unease, clear dissatisfaction entering his voice. "Since those brothers got mixed up with the Four Suits, I gathered all our subordinate leaders at the manor to stand by, just in case.

"But Qiao..."

He gritted his teeth. "He went out alone.

"Just to-have a meal?"

Thompson leaned back into the sofa, his smile deepening until he looked almost indulgent.

"Let him."

He waved a hand and looked out into the thick darkness beyond the window. "That's just how Qiao is."

Others might not know, but Thompson did.

Qiao, now so meticulous in his behavior, as though he had been born to stand amid splendor, had once been the lowliest creature in the mud.

The sort of "object" that had to kneel at a single glance from his master and even hold his breath.

Because his face was passable, a swordsman had bought him, ostensibly as a personal manservant, but in reality... he knew all too well how a past branded into the bones revealed itself in twisted ways through every deliberately elegant movement now.

The woman crouched at his feet was as docile as a cat. When his fingertips touched her hair, a fleeting trace of pity crossed Thompson's heart-it lasted perhaps a tenth of a second.

He had always been generous to capable subordinates.

Qiao had merely gone out for lunch. Even if he bought the restaurant, it would hardly matter.

The waiter bowed, seeing off the guest who had finished his meal with respectful words.

His suit was crisp, his shoes spotless, and every step was so precise and steady that its length seemed measured with a ruler.

In the shadows of an attic opposite, Rossi rubbed his chin with his thumb.

"This man's no pushover."

Beside him, Vergo offered a rare pointless remark. "Isn't that obvious?"

Which of the fighters who had secured a place in the Jedi Family was easy to deal with? The four of them had always moved together before precisely to avoid meeting disaster when alone.

Especially now, with Trebol still recovering from serious injuries, the situation was all the more tense.

"Your ability makes sound disappear, right?"

Vergo lowered his voice.

After going through life and death together, if he still could not see through Rossi's abilities, he would hardly deserve the secret identity he would hold in the future.

He paused. "But that ability probably won't do much against 'Batter' Qiao.

"With just the two of us, it'll be hard to keep him here."

He did not fear the end, but he would not throw his life away for nothing.

"Relax."

Rossi turned and headed toward their previously chosen ambush position, not a trace of fear visible on his profile. "I value my life more than anyone.

"If things really become hopeless, I have something else prepared."

Prepared? Vergo frowned slightly, but asked no more and followed in silence.

After all, only two days ago, they had stood on opposite sides.

Sunlight spread evenly over the streets, unable to penetrate the shadows writhing beneath the town's skin.

After lunch, heading to the waste disposal district to inspect the Family's businesses was part of Qiao's daily schedule.

His life was so regular it bordered on a rigid ritual.

Thus, when he stepped onto the secluded path leading to the disposal district, the excessive silence around him brought him to a halt.

His leather sole lightly ground over a pebble.

"No need to hide."

The instant Qiao spoke, a thin, small figure leaped from the rooftop.

A cutlass thrust silently toward the bowler hat, its blade gleaming cold as ice-

Almost simultaneously, the man in the ** of the road pressed his left hand against his brim and reached toward his waist with his right.

A metal bat flashed in the sunlight, tracing a short arc.

Bang!

The descending figure seemed to strike an invisible sledgehammer and flew sideways into a brick wall.

Weblike cracks burst outward with the impact.

"Heh."

The man in the suit and bowler hat lowered his wrist, blocking downward with his bat. The sharp clang of metal made the air tremble.

A short blade thrusting up from below was held fast.

"I thought you rats had already fled out to sea-"

Qiao's brow cast deep shadows, his lips curling into something almost delighted.

"But you actually came back to die."

He twisted and pushed his bat, sliding Rossi's short blade aside.

Then he stepped half a pace forward, driving the round-ended metal bat straight at his opponent's face like a rapier.

Though blunt, with such terrifying force behind it, the weapon could shatter a skull in an instant.

Smack!

Unable to withdraw his blade in time, Rossi jerked his left arm up and forcibly deflected the thrust.

A nearly ** jolt ran through his arm.

This was far beyond the strength an ordinary build could possess, rivaling even those hulking men over two meters tall.

And-

The bat suddenly drew back.

Without a recovery motion or a pause to gather force, the metal bat moved only a tiny distance before exploding forward again, thrusting straight at Rossi's chest.

"Zero Style: Fang Thrust Fang!"

What?

Boom!

Rossi was flung backward.

"Hmph."

Though he had sent his opponent flying six or seven meters with one thrust, Qiao frowned.

The instant the bat touched him, the boy had used its force to kick backward, actively retreating at speed.

"Cough... that strength and speed defy common sense."

Rossi flipped upright, held his short blade across his body, and wiped the blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

Had he taken that blow head-on, his ribs would probably have already broken.

Thud.

On the other side, Vergo finally dropped from the wall he had been smashed into.

He hunched forward and tightened his grip on his cutlass. With Rossi in front and him behind, they boxed Qiao into the ** of the path.

"Where are the others?"

Qiao idly twirled his bat, raising his head to look around.

"You two children really don't think much of other people."

Rossi wiped the bloody foam from his mouth and forced himself upright, his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

The figure opposite let out a sneer.

"The fight isn't over. What are you in such a hurry to shout about?"

The soft velvet sofa sank deeply beneath a corpulent body reclining against it.

His silk robe hung open, exposing a massive belly, and the sparse hair atop his head shone greasily beneath the wall lamps.

Thompson suddenly opened his eyes, a cold sharpness flashing in his pupils beneath his lids.

"Interesting... they really had the nerve to come back."

He raised his foot and kicked Girl, who lay curled at his feet with a leather collar around his neck, to the edge of the carpet.

Girl gave a muffled whimper and curled up like a frightened little animal.

Thompson had already risen, the hem of his silk robe knocking over the crystal glass on the coffee table.

"Everyone, come in."

The instant his words fell, the heavy oak doors were pushed open from outside.

Two figures stepped in first.

The man on the left was wrapped in gleaming yellow metal chains that clattered as he walked; the one on the right wore a brightly colored silk scarf, his coat hem brushing the threshold.

Behind them poured a dark mass of figures, the sound of metal rubbing against leather filling the spacious sitting room.

"Move out."

Thompson's voice was quiet, yet it made the air tighten. "Qiao has run into a little trouble."

The man in the colorful scarf hesitated. "Sir, could Qiao already be..."

"No."

Thompson cut him off, his tone certain. "Qiao won't go down that easily."

He remembered clearly how that man, treated as "special merchandise,"

had spent years passing from hand to hand, silently observing and imitating amid humiliation, until he finally made his buyer's swordsmanship his own and carried out the ** that shocked the Underworld.

Even if his opponents were those two brats who had recently been making a name for themselves, along with the rumored "Four Suits"

The help they had sent wanted to finish Qiao off in a short time? Absolutely impossible.

Almost at the very moment the Jedi Family's elite forces turned out in full.

In a narrow alley sliced by the shadows of high walls at the boundary between Upper Town and the processing area, the sharp clang of metal shattered the afternoon stillness.

"Where's all that swagger you had just now? Where did it go?"

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

A long metal staff as thick as a child's arm traced streaks of dazzling white light in the sunshine.

It was no longer a bat, but seemed like a giant steel python come to life, sweeping, smashing, parrying, blocking, whipping up an impenetrable zone of death that forced two small, thin figures to retreat continually, their soles scraping against the rough ground with an ear-piercing sound.