Chapter Five: The Mortician

Mad Hatter Town was a den of iniquity, infamous across the West Sea as a haven for pirates to squander their ill-gotten gains. At the same time, the tendrils of countless underground powers wound tightly through Mad Hatter Town, allowing every form of illicit enterprise to flourish as wildly as spring flowers in bloom.

The main catalyst for this thriving chaos was none other than the Pirate King Roger, who, with a few words before his death, ignited the Great Age of Pirates. Yet, the true root lay in the straightforward web of human desires.

For instance, brazen pirates plundered the wealth of lawful citizens. In turn, the underworld bosses devised countless ways to coax that money back out of the pirates’ pockets. Thus, as an ungoverned land of squander, Mad Hatter Town gave rise to a myriad of businesses.

Slaves.
Organs.
Weapons.
Pleasure districts.
Anything that might easily stir the nerves of ordinary folk could be found here in abundance.

Among the many shadowy professions in Mad Hatter Town was that of the “Undertaker.” Their principal duty was collecting corpses, occasionally moonlighting as doctors, and maintaining direct partnerships with organ dealers. Arthur, whom Sunny had summoned to collect bodies, was one such undertaker—neither the best nor the worst, but certainly among the notable few.

When Saul had brought back the former Mod, it was Arthur who had overseen his treatment. Now, as the person responsible for Mod’s care, Arthur was genuinely surprised to see him awaken.

“What do you mean, ‘he’s actually awake?’”

Saul detected something amiss and shot Arthur a sharp look. It was Arthur who had sworn that, after treatment, Mod had over a fifty percent chance of waking, which was the only reason Saul had agreed. At the time, Saul reasoned that even if Mod didn’t wake, he could still sell him on the black market and at least mitigate his losses, so he’d consented.

Looking back, the odds of Mod’s recovery had clearly been less than half. Caught in a slip of the tongue by the seasoned Saul, Arthur didn’t bother making excuses and simply shrugged.

“If I hadn’t said that, how else could I have landed your business?”

“You conniving scoundrel, may you die a miserable death!”

Saul cursed him outright.

“Right back at you,” Arthur replied, either emboldened by the mask he wore or by sheer shamelessness, completely unfazed.

“Besides, you made a profit. You realize, a human slave’s starting price is half a million, and you only paid fifty thousand for the treatment. You should be satisfied.”

“Mod isn’t a slave,” Sunny suddenly corrected.

She held back the rest of her words—Mod was, in fact, a laborer.

Arthur glanced at Sunny but didn’t respond. Instead, he set aside his work and strode over to Mod.

As Arthur approached, Mod tensed inwardly. This man clearly wasn’t someone to trust.

Arthur was a big man, towering over Mod by almost half a head. He peered down at the bandages wrapped around Mod’s forehead and, without warning, reached out to grab them.

But Mod was prepared. The moment Arthur moved, Mod took several steps back, deftly evading the attempt.

“Oh?” Arthur’s eyes flashed with surprise. His movements had been swift and sudden; he didn’t expect Mod to dodge. Based on his earlier diagnosis, Arthur had been certain that, even if Mod woke, his motor functions would be impaired, certainly not restored to this degree so quickly.

Yet the reality was before him. If nothing else, Mod’s regenerative power alone was extraordinary.

The look in Arthur’s eyes quickly changed, replaced by a calculating glint. This was prime merchandise—exactly the type coveted by his special clientele. Not only would it sell well, but it would fetch a price far above market value.

With that thought, Arthur stepped forward, intent on further assessing Mod’s condition.

But then, abruptly, he halted.

He glanced back at Saul, who sat behind the counter smoking his pipe, face expressionless. The gaze Saul directed at him was sharp as a blade.

Arthur realized then that this seemingly ordinary boy had already caught Saul’s eye; turning him into merchandise was a lost cause.

Regretful, Arthur could only abandon any thought of negotiating a deal with Saul.

“My apologies—it’s just that seeing a patient I treated awaken made me a little overexcited. I almost forgot I’m just the undertaker here,” Arthur said, fabricating a casual excuse for his earlier overstep. He returned to the corpse and resumed the work that had been interrupted.

Only then did Saul’s expression ease. Though being swindled left him uncomfortable, he never doubted Arthur’s professional ethics—every coin spent had truly gone into Mod’s treatment. Otherwise, Saul would have sent Arthur out of here feet first, years of acquaintance or not.

Mod watched Arthur’s retreating figure.

So, Arthur, was it…

Beside him, Sunny tilted her head, studying Mod’s profile, her eyes filled with curiosity.

By the corpse, Arthur examined the wounds, then drew a fine, threaded needle from his collar.

“The heart’s been stabbed several times, so I can only offer you sixty percent of the going rate.”

“Fine. Just finish up and get lost,” Saul said impatiently, exhaling a puff of smoke.

Arthur said no more. His right hand, holding the needle, danced in a blur over the wounds. In mere moments, the ragged gashes were stitched up flawlessly, not a drop of blood escaping.

Watching Arthur’s handiwork, Mod couldn’t help but recall a woman from his previous life—one who wielded needle and thread as weapons, notorious for being impossible to provoke.

Damn it.

Even a character like Arthur, who hadn’t made so much as a cameo in the original story, possessed such skill?

And Saul—short as he was, his strength was unmistakable.

And this was only the West Sea…

What then would the Grand Line or the New World be like?

Mod’s thoughts grew heavy. He’d need to be much more careful in choosing his prey. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake and become the hunted instead.

In truth, Mod was overthinking it. Birds of a feather flock together; anyone who could work alongside Saul was no pushover. And pirates like Saul, relics of a bygone age, were few and far between in out-of-the-way places like Mad Hatter Town.

With the stitching done, Arthur tossed a small pile of money on the table, then hefted the corpse and left. Once he was gone, the shop’s door shut once again, business for the day ending early.

As for the bloodstains, it was naturally Mod’s job to clean them up.

Though hungry and thirsty, Mod had no choice but to accept his current circumstances.

Thankfully, Sunny already regarded him as a colleague and kindly offered him a piece of bread and a cup of water.

After swallowing the bread and draining the water, Mod’s stomach was at least somewhat appeased. He picked up his tools and began to clean the bloodstains.

At this point, Saul went upstairs to his room, while Sunny remained.

Inside the counter were two stools, one high, one low. The low stool was for Saul to stand on, the high one for sitting.

Sunny sat on the low stool, resting her chin in her hand, watching Mod scrub the floor.

Only after he’d cleaned everything to a shine did she finally voice her earlier question.

“How did you manage to dodge him?”

“Huh?” Mod looked at her in confusion.