Chapter 28

The man wielding the staff moved in broad, sweeping strokes, every swing carrying a heavy rush of wind that could shatter bone, yet his transitions were as swift as lightning.

Those moves did not belong to staff fighting at all. Fierce thrusts and cunning jabs were unmistakably the essence of swordsmanship, yet he performed them with a solid metal staff, adding an even more brutal sense of pressure.

This was the fighting style of a man who had clawed his way out of hellish "training"

and buried his instructor with his own hands.

"Train for a few more years, and perhaps you'll make me take you a little seriously."

The metal staff twisted and flicked sharply, knocking aside two short blades trying to slip through.

Then its tip darted forward like a snake's tongue, while a low sweeping kick swept out silently.

Clear, teeth-grating cracks of bone rang out almost simultaneously. The two boys flew backward as if struck by an invisible sledgehammer, crashing heavily into a cluttered corner.

"But as you are now,"

the man said, lowering his staff and standing straight, his breathing as steady as if he had just finished a stroll, "there's only one way this ends for you."

For a moment, only ragged breathing remained in the alley.

Rossi and Vergo leaned against the cold brick wall, their clothes torn in several places and seeping blood.

Their opponent, the man called "Qiao,"

had not even broken a sweat at his temples.

Strength, courage, technique-the elements of combat stood in such stark relief.

Against overwhelming physical superiority, a visible gulf stretched between two boys just beginning their growth spurts and a core Family member tempered by bloodshed.

A sweat-soaked undershirt clung to skin, and every breath tugged at the dull ache in the ribs.

The web of Vergo's hand had split, thin trails of blood winding down the wooden handle of his bat.

He stared at the figure ahead-the man named Qiao had not even sweated. He merely adjusted his grip on the staff calmly, as though preparing for an afternoon practice session.

Ten days.

Rossi had studied under Gion for only ten days.

He himself had only picked up a few scattered moves from Diamante.

The difference was not technique, but muscle memory accumulated over time, angles etched into the marrow by a thousand swings.

They had lasted this long through reckless, relentless fighting, through the stab Rossi had launched from the flank while Vergo took a sweep head-on with his shoulder-even then, it had left only a shallow mark on their opponent's arm.

Death.

The word was light, yet it weighed so heavily in his chest that he could barely breathe.

Vergo glanced toward his companion.

Rossi was unfastening something from behind his waist, its metal surface gleaming coldly in the dim light.

It was oddly shaped, like a short tube drilled with numerous holes.

"Time to get serious."

Rossi spoke.

His voice was calm, unnaturally so.

Qiao stopped moving.

He stepped back half a pace and held his bat horizontally at shoulder height, the white cloth wrapped around its handle fluttering faintly in the night breeze.

This world never lacked surprises: some race's bizarre innate gift, mechanisms hidden in the shadows, those fruits cursed by the sea... He had seen too many people who thought victory was certain die through carelessness.

"As customary,"

Rossi said, sliding his blade back into its sheath, the scrape of metal unusually clear in the silence, "I'm Rossi.

The Calm-Calm Fruit lets me erase sound."

Just as I thought.

Qiao had already noticed something wrong-Vergo had made no rush of wind when he pounced from the rooftop, and Rossi's footsteps as he charged low to the ground had sounded as though he were stepping on cotton.

Had the difference in strength not been so great, that ambush should have succeeded.

"That ability doesn't sound very threatening, does it?"

Rossi took out a lighter.

The instant the flint scraped, an orange-red flame leaped up, illuminating the short metal tube between his fingers.

The fuse caught with a hiss, its sparks rapidly burning down.

Qiao's pupils abruptly contracted.

That thing... was **? With a fuse that short? Madman-

Qiao had only just begun moving his foot backward when Rossi raised his hand.

The perforated metal tube traced an arc and fell toward the flagstones between them.

"Take a look at this-"

Fire burst from the gaps in the tube, and the low-grade mineral powder compressed inside instantly released energy far beyond ordinary **.

Gas surged wildly through the holes. It produced no scattering fragments, but drove out a visibly distorting ripple.

The ground shuddered.

Dust showered from the brick walls beside the road, and windowpanes hummed and trembled.

Qiao felt as though hammers had slammed into both his temples, and warm liquid ran down his ears.

He raised a hand to wipe it away. His palm was scarlet.

The world swayed, every color blending into a dark red blur.

He opened his mouth, forced a few indistinct syllables from his throat, and dropped to his knees as his legs buckled.

A hundred-and-seventy-decibel blast had ripped through his eardrums in a tenth of a second.

His heart hammered in his chest, pounding hard enough to hurt his ribs.

His vision flickered between light and darkness, and his limbs were too weak to lift.

Someone with a slightly weaker constitution would already have lost consciousness.

"Something that incapacitates people through sound."

Rossi stood where he was, without even a flutter of his clothes.

Silence enveloped him, shutting out the blast.

A few steps away, Qiao had already curled up, his fingers digging into the gaps between the paving bricks, his knuckles strained white.

"The principle is simple-when gas rushes out through the holes, it carries a sound wave powerful enough to stun someone.

Add a few other things, and it can turn into a blinding ball of light."

He walked forward, his boot soles grinding over the debris on the ground. "Unfortunately, you can't hear a word of this now."

Against Qiao at full capacity, even he and Vergo together might not have won.

But the man before him, blood seeping from his ears and eyes unfocused, no longer posed a threat.

Rossi drew that ** from behind his waist.

He pushed off, cracking the paving bricks into a web beneath his foot.

His whole body shot forward, the wind it stirred striking his face cold and sharp.

The dull sound of the blade tip entering flesh burst out.

The impact sent Qiao flying backward, his back slamming hard against the wall.

Dust showered from the bricks. He coughed once and lowered his gaze to his chest.

The blade had sunk in completely, leaving only a length of ebony hilt pressed between his ribs.

The one holding it was a blond boy whose eyes were like frozen ice.

The corners of Qiao's mouth moved, as though he wanted to speak.

But his heart had already stopped beating. The light in his pupils dimmed bit by bit, until it went out entirely.

Cold metal pierced his chest, pinning the bowler-hatted figure firmly to the mottled wall.

Rossi let go, leaving the weapon where it was.

He turned his face, glanced at Vergo, who stood frozen in place, and jerked his chin toward the other end of the alley.

"What are you staring at? Time to leave."

As his words fell, the two swiftly slipped beneath an open manhole beside the street and vanished.

Nearby, on the flat roof of a three-story building, a man in a black suit and sunglasses slowly straightened up.

He had witnessed that entire brief, deadly scene.

He was a grade B employee of the Germa 66 Security Company, number 8674.

"One strike... and he finished off 'Batter' Qiao."

He murmured to himself, his voice betraying no emotion.

By his assessment, that Jedi Family officer was roughly as strong as a pirate with a bounty of ten million Beli.

If that weapon cost less than five million to make, it undoubtedly possessed extremely high combat value.

"I need to report to the supreme commander."

The powerfully built man, his face cold and hard as rock, made his decision.

Loyalty to Germa 66 was his core directive, inscribed into the foundation of his existence.

He cast one last glance at the hazy outline of Upper Town, then crawled backward as nimbly as a feline, slipped soundlessly over the edge of the roof, and blended into the crowd on another street.

Qiao was dead.

He sat with his legs splayed on the cold ground of the alley, his back resting against the ** base of the wall.

Apart from the extra length of metal in his chest, he looked almost entirely unharmed. Even his slightly comical bowler hat still sat squarely on his head.

His posture looked less like a thug who had just been killed and more like a down-and-out scholar resting on the street, lost in thought.

But he truly was no longer breathing.

"You... you've got to be kidding..."

A group of men in black coats stood silently in a semicircle, the air as stagnant as a solid.

At the very front stood "Big Bucks"

Thompson, his features twisted by extreme shock and rage, veins bulging like earthworms across his bald scalp.

He stared fixedly at the murder weapon embedded in his subordinate's chest. After a few stunned seconds, he suddenly let out a beastlike growl, lunged forward, and kicked viciously!

Bang!

Qiao's ** rolled away under the kick, his hat tumbling off and becoming covered in dust.

His last shred of dignity shattered with it.

"Get up! Useless trash!!"

Bang!!

Another kick landed heavily on the body that had already lost its warmth.

The watching Family members' cheek muscles twitched in unison, as though that heavy thud had struck their own ribs.

"I gave you everything! Your life belongs to me too! Who gave you permission to die on your own?! Huh?!"

Thompson's fury was not without cause. "Batter"

Qiao had always been known for his well-rounded strength and wealth of combat experience. With virtually no obvious weaknesses, he should have been extremely difficult to kill quickly.

Only a few short minutes had passed between noticing the disturbance of battle and leading his men to this alley.

If the enemy could finish Qiao off completely within minutes, without even leaving him an opening to escape... then using the same method against Thompson himself probably would not be very difficult either.

That was the true source of his fear.

Other people could die, but he was different. He was an "underground emperor" who controlled the lives and deaths of over ten thousand people.

How could he die? How could he possibly die?

"Mr. Thompson,"

a low voice came from behind him, interrupting his frenzied kicking.

Wearing his conspicuous bow tie, Paul reached out to stop his leader as he prepared to continue abusing the **.

"Qiao is already dead,"

he said, keeping his voice very low, "but he left clues behind at the end."

He crouched, turned over the body that had been kicked aside, and rested his fingertips beside the dead man's cheek.

Dark red blood had congealed in his ear canals, yet there were no signs of external injury.

"These were ruptured from within."

He stood, his scarf swaying with the movement. "Sound-some kind of intense sound wave attacked him directly."

His gaze swept over both sides of the alley.

The walls bore cracks from impacts and several low scrapes. All those marks were close to the ground, the highest no more than waist level.

"Two people, both very short."

He paused. "Qiao was keeping them suppressed. Judging by the marks, he had almost complete control of the situation."

He sighed, the wind lifting the hem of his trench coat slightly.

"But he didn't expect them to have something like that hidden away.

In an instant, the outcome reversed... He didn't even have a chance to escape."

After listening, Thompson finally stopped fidgeting.

He raised a hand to straighten his disheveled collar and glanced at the ** on the ground, a trace of disgust passing through his eyes.

"Burn this area clean."

His voice was calm. "Consider it a send-off for Qiao."

The surrounding subordinates acknowledged the order in unison. No one questioned it.

Over more than a decade, this leader had established unquestionable authority with an iron fist. Even the most absurd order would be carried out in full.

"Paul, Vincenso,"

Thompson said, turning to walk toward the other end of the street, "come have something to eat with me."

When the doors of the Gilded Rose Restaurant were pushed open, chaos immediately broke out inside.

Recognizing who had entered, the guests rose and left their tables one after another. Even those who normally enjoyed considerable standing hurried out with their heads lowered.

The three men sat down in a corner, their expressions cold as ice.

A waiter brought over their plates, trembling with fear.

Thompson grabbed an entire rack of ribs with his bare hand and tore into it as though he had been starving for days.