Chapter 28: Street Fighting

The auction hall was decorated much like an opera house. On the first floor, the seats fanned out in a semicircle, all facing a stage where every item up for bid could be seen clearly. The second floor consisted of private boxes set into the walls, each with its own stairway slanting down toward the auction stage.

At this moment, the hall was packed to capacity. Even the demanding private boxes on the second floor were fully occupied. Upon the gilded, dazzling stage, a composed middle-aged auctioneer was enthusiastically congratulating the buyer who had just won a female slave.

In the seats near the front, Saul’s eyes were glued to the newly auctioned slave, his gaze, hungry as a wolf’s, roving over her most vulnerable places.

He swallowed involuntarily. Only when the slave was escorted backstage did he click his tongue in regret.

Beside him, Arthur silently shifted away.

“So pale, so full,” Saul remarked, wiping away the drool from his chin and then, without hesitation, smearing his hand on Arthur’s clothes.

“You—!” Arthur stared at him, shocked and furious, barely restraining himself from smashing the seat over Saul’s head.

Saul acted as though nothing had happened, crossing his legs with an air of nonchalance.

Arthur held back, blaming only himself for being foolish enough to sit next to Saul.

“It’s about to get lively in here,” Saul muttered suddenly, almost to himself.

“What do you mean?” Arthur looked at him in confusion.

Saul grinned, speaking softly as if to himself, “Anything that can so easily stir the heart—”

“Hm?” Arthur’s expression grew serious, as if he suddenly understood.

Then Saul continued, “—is often like filth, easily clouding the eyes of certain people.”

On the stage, the auctioneer spread his arms, his voice still powerful and impassioned.

“The next item is the last slave to be auctioned tonight. As the highlight of the slave category, I trust it will not disappoint. Now, please feast your eyes on our final offering.”

With his final words, he abruptly gestured toward the left side of the stage.

With a rumble of wheels, a heavy iron cage mounted on a cart was pushed to the center of the stage by two burly staff members.

Inside the cage sat a fishman, his skin a dusty ochre, his body powerful and bound with unbreakable chains. He sat cross-legged, his head bowed, as still as death.

He showed no sign of injury, but an aura of defeat clung to him.

The auctioneer approached the cage, smiling.

“This is tonight’s grand slave finale: a Sabretooth Sharkman. I know—those of you interested in this lot have come prepared, and those not interested have no use for it.

“So, if you’ll permit me, I’ll skip the introduction and proceed directly to the demonstration.”

No sooner had he finished than a staff member on the other side of the cage pressed a button on the cart.

A sharp crackling noise split the air as a bright current of electricity coursed through the fishman’s body.

With a scream, the previously lifeless fishman convulsed violently, mouth opening wide in a desperate, piercing wail. The gaping maw revealed what set his kind apart: rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Among the audience, those intent on claiming the fishman were already restless, prepared to raise their paddles and bid the moment the auction began.

Kazt was among them. This fishman slave was the prize he intended to win at any cost.

...

Behind the stage, a chaotic array of cages imprisoned the slaves awaiting their fate.

Almost all were women of striking beauty and form, though a few strong male slaves were present as well. Regardless of gender, every slave listened to the agonized screams echoing from the stage, heads bowed in silence, eyes full of despair.

Within one cage, more like a pet carrier than a prison, lay a slender, snow-white skunk.

Curiously, this skunk had no stench—instead, it exuded a strange, pleasant aroma.

Curled up in the cage, its pitch-black, human-like eyes calmly watched the human slaves. Its gaze was uncannily human, completely devoid of any fellow prisoner’s resignation.

It looked at the other slaves as though regarding a pitiful herd.

...

Night deepened, the air cooling with the breeze.

Maud silently tailed his three targets.

Shortly after they left, a few more drunken men staggered out of the tavern, heading down the street in another direction.

Once they had gone a ways, Sabo pushed open the tavern door and stepped outside. Discreetly, he glanced at the distant men, then, acting with uncanny similarity to Maud, slipped after them in the darkness.

Maud, heading in the opposite direction, was unaware of this.

He kept his distance behind the three targets, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike.

He was in no hurry. As long as he could secure his prize, even waiting till dawn was acceptable. That was one of his hunting principles.

Trailing his prey from afar, Maud let time pass. Half an hour slipped by before opportunity finally presented itself.

He watched as the three men finally stopped wandering and turned into an alley. Maud’s eyes brightened, and he followed quickly.

The three men, arms slung over one another’s shoulders, had no inkling that Death himself was stalking them.

They ambled aimlessly, until by chance they found themselves at the end of a narrow alley, where a bar, strangely enough, glowed with a lit sign.

“Huh, a bar in a place like this?” one man said, rubbing his eyes in surprise.

“Why not have a few more drinks?”

“Sure,” another replied, their spirits lifting at the prospect.

Bang, bang—

Suddenly, two gunshots rang out in the alley.

Scalding lead cut through the night, striking two men in the back. Bright flowers of blood bloomed on their shirts as they collapsed forward.

“Hmm?” The last man, untouched, reacted instantly. Without hesitation, he dragged one of his wounded companions in front of him as a shield and looked toward the source of the gunfire.

Bang.

Another shot rang out. The human shield’s back bloomed with a second crimson flower.

At the other end of the alley, Maud—who had fired the third shot—was surprised.

He had brought three pistols, allowing him to fire three times in quick succession. The first two shots, fired with a flintlock in each hand, struck the two prey who were armed. He had avoided vital organs, ensuring they would bleed out but not die immediately, so he could claim their experience.

Then, switching to “Usopp,” he’d fired at the last target, the one with a sword. He hadn’t expected this final prey to react so quickly and ruthlessly, using his companion as a shield with no hesitation.

Realizing the two wounded men would soon bleed to death, Maud discarded “Usopp” and charged at the swordsman.

Seeing Maud coming, the swordsman hesitated for a moment. Instead of drawing the flintlock from his shield’s belt, he shoved the companion aside and drew his long blade.

Maud was already upon him, dagger in hand.

The swordsman didn’t retreat, but lunged forward, thrusting his blade straight at Maud, hoping to use its reach to finish the fight in one blow.

Maud suddenly ducked low, narrowly dodging the thrust. Two flashes of steel crossed in the blink of an eye.

Maud slipped past the swordsman, spun, braked with his heel, and glanced back.

A heartbeat later, blood spurted from the swordsman’s wrist and throat.

It all happened in the span of a lightning flash.

Seeing his opponent bleeding out, Maud rushed forward, stabbed the swordsman in the lower back, and pinned him to the ground.

Quickly, he searched the fallen prey for their bounty posters, glancing at the names. With barely a moment to spare, he summoned his notebook and, before the three men expired, jotted down their information with a quill.

“Just in time,” he murmured, releasing a slow breath as he completed the last entry.

“Tch.”

A surprised exclamation echoed from the end of the alley behind him.

Startled, Maud instinctively closed his Hunter’s Notebook. The bloodstains on its surface immediately beaded up and dripped to the ground.

He crouched, grabbed a flintlock from his prey’s belt, spun on his heel, and aimed the barrel at the source of the voice.