Chapter Fifteen: Sniper

For nearly half a month, Mod was diligent and honest. He did more than was required of him, never less. As for what he ought not do, he didn’t even allow himself to entertain the thought. By embodying the perfect value of a laborer, he slowly became part of the weapon shop’s circle.

Although Saul often expressed satisfaction with him, Mod did not let himself grow complacent. He remained prudent in word and deed, careful not to cross any boundaries or behave inappropriately. He understood well: Saul’s easygoing nature was genuine, and when he accepted Mod, he hadn’t cared about his background or past, only the value he could demonstrate at present. But if Mod failed to show his worth or incurred Saul’s displeasure, his situation could change in an instant.

Therefore, Mod was always highly attentive when dealing with Saul. As for Sunny, once he had figured out her temperament, they became familiar after just ten days.

When Mod identified his second target, the greatest challenge wasn’t how to eliminate his prey, but rather Saul’s attitude.

“Sunny, if I take out the guy next door, do you think Saul will take issue with it?” Mod leaned against the half-closed shop door, tilting his head to peer through the crack and observe the alley.

Sunny glanced up at Mod’s profile and replied coolly, “Which guy?”

“The one called Albo Red. You gave me the information yourself—his name isn’t a fake, is it?”

“Are you questioning my intelligence skills?” Little informant Sunny raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp as needles.

Mod thought to himself, you even need several hours to go over a single newspaper…

But he dared not show it, and answered solemnly, “How could I possibly doubt your abilities? Every time I look at the neighbor profiles you give me, I can’t help but wonder how professional an agent must be to dig up such thorough details.”

When he first received the neighbor dossiers from Sunny, the sheer level of detail made Mod marvel at just how unlucky one would have to be to end up with a neighbor like her.

Sunny, unmoved by Mod’s flowery flattery, sniffed, “A lot of people in town use aliases, so I can’t guarantee the accuracy of some information regarding real names. But if it’s someone next door, I can guarantee it.”

Mod asked carefully, “Did they offend you?”

“No.”

“Then why dig up so much on them?”

“Because they live next door.” Sunny looked at Mod as if he were the odd one.

“…”

Mod was left speechless, and quickly steered the conversation back. “You still haven’t answered my question. If I kill Red, will Saul be upset?”

“How would I know?”

“Alright.”

“You have nothing to do with Red. Why do you want to kill him?”

“He’s too noisy.” Mod made up a motive on the spot.

The truth was, he’d noticed this neighbor because several times, Red had passed the shop drunk, shouting at the top of his lungs in the alley about his exploits. Most of his drunken boasts were about his deeds during pirate raids—how many he’d killed, the cruel ways he dispatched the stubborn ones.

Yet what stuck with Mod was not Red’s drunken bragging, but the ugly pride he took in using these acts as badges of honor.

Thanks to Red’s big mouth, Mod realized there were plenty of suitable targets right under his nose—no need to go far afield.

Hearing Mod’s supposed motive, Sunny nodded in sudden understanding. “True, that guy is really loud.”

“You believed that?”

“?”

…

Everything was ready except for the final signal.

After careful consideration, Mod decided it was best to first sound out Saul’s attitude. If Saul didn’t care, he’d immediately take up his gun and ambush Red. If Saul objected, he’d have to abandon the idea.

If he had something like a silencer, he wouldn’t have to worry so much—he could seize an opportunity to shoot Red with impunity. But the core issue was that he was still too weak. If he were strong enough, disposing of a chosen prey would require no thought for the consequences.

That evening, after dinner, Mod sought out Saul. When he stated his intention, Saul, smoking a cigarette, regarded him sidelong.

“Why do you want to kill Red?”

Just as with Sunny, Saul wanted to hear his motive.

This time, Mod dared not offer a flippant answer like “he’s too noisy.”

“For practice,” he said.

It was a response he had prepared in advance—direct and unadorned.

Saul looked at Mod in mild surprise, studying his expression. In the world of pirates, using someone’s life for practice, to see blood, was commonplace. Just as Saul had once made Mod kill the intruding Watt to sever his ties with the past, so too now.

But Saul hadn’t expected Mod to propose it himself—he’d thought to give him more time to adjust. Still, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Saul offered no objection, but did give a warning.

“You’ll bear the consequences.”

Concise words—a reminder, and tacit approval.

As for whether Red lived or died, it mattered to Saul even less than what was for dinner that night.

“Understood,” Mod replied, elated.

With Saul’s response, he could carry out the deed without restraint. As for potential repercussions, he had already prepared himself when he got the information from Sunny. At worst, Red’s pirate crew might seek revenge. But as long as he did the job cleanly, there was little to fear.

Three days later, under a moonless, windy sky, Mod hid in the shadow atop a building, his Usopp musket assembled, eyes scanning the end of the alley by the faint lamplight.

From the corner at the far end to his hiding spot was about a hundred meters. Given the smoothbore flintlock’s accuracy, its range was well within a hundred meters—less than a rifled gun, but sufficient. Taking aging and other factors into account, Mod planned to wait until Red was within sixty meters before pulling the trigger.

He had watched Red leave at dusk, and now eight hours had passed. Earlier, the alley had been busy with passersby, so there was no good opportunity to shoot. But now, with night deep, the street was deserted and his worries were fewer. As long as Red returned at this hour, Mod would not hesitate to fire.

Time slid by; the moon hid behind black clouds. Visibility in the alley was poor—without the wall-mounted lanterns, it would have been pitch dark.

Mod waited patiently.

After several dozen minutes, Red had yet to appear, but his voice arrived first. Mod tensed, focusing his gaze at the alley’s end.

Moments later, two figures appeared, walking side by side.

“Two of them…!”

Mod cursed inwardly.

A smoothbore flintlock only held one shot—after firing, it would take some time to reload. Which meant that even if he managed to snipe Red, the other person would have ample time to find cover and, judging by the sound and the spray of Red’s blood, pinpoint Mod’s location.

Would he have to give up?

Yet Sunny had said that Red’s pirate crew would set sail at noon tomorrow, and Mod couldn’t act in daylight, lacking the cover of night.

In other words, if he missed this chance, he had no idea when another would come.

Mod frowned. As the two men drew closer, the window of opportunity narrowed.

In his indecisiveness, Mod never noticed the pair of eyes watching him from the shadows.