Chapter Fifty-Six: Within Reach

There were still about fifteen minutes left before the appointed time when Maud arrived at Nightfall Bar.

Wolf Rat was already fully prepared by the time Maud stepped inside.

Seeing Maud armed to the teeth, Wolf Rat suddenly felt an urge to carry a weapon himself.

“Shall we go?” Maud asked.

Wolf Rat nodded and rose from his seat.

Behind the bar, Tatamu took off his uniform, revealing a physique of striking, rock-hard muscles.

He slipped on a black short-sleeved shirt before stepping out from behind the counter.

“Tatamu?” Maud looked at him, puzzled by his actions.

Wolf Rat explained, “It was my idea. With Tatamu watching my back, I can focus on drawing fire. Of course, his assistance comes at a price.”

“I see.” Maud glanced at Tatamu’s bulging muscles, thinking that his mastery of hand-to-hand combat must be formidable.

In this small, inconspicuous bar, both Wolf Rat and Tatamu were men of considerable skill. Out on the bustling streets, by contrast, most pirates were loud and ostentatious, yet lacked real strength.

In comparison, Wolf Rat and Tatamu’s low-key, reserved demeanor seemed more fitting for the underworld.

Wolf Rat hadn’t initially planned on hiring Tatamu for protection—and he’d have to pay by IOU, no less. But after being burned by Maud before, he’d developed a shadow of anxiety. Having Tatamu nearby simply set him at ease.

The alleyways were silent in the late night, broken only by the faint scuffling of rats.

The trio left Nightfall Bar and walked through the alleys, heading toward the docks.

…

Every pirate crew arriving at Mad Hatter Town would always leave a team behind to guard the ship before disembarking. This was standard practice.

After suffering serious injuries at Battleaxe Tavern, Elbe did not return to his ship. Instead, he recovered at the largest inn in town.

Even in such a state, Elbe dared to split his forces in two, revealing a certain flaw in his character.

By contrast, Kazt, who stayed quietly aboard his ship to heal, seemed far more prudent.

Until his wounds healed, he kept all his forces concentrated on defending the ship.

Aboard the Spiked Snail Pirate Ship, in the captain’s cabin.

The room was brightly lit as Kazt lay reclined on his bed, his expression cold and severe.

His body was almost entirely wrapped in white bandages.

The bedside cabinet was piled with jars of medicine, and the air was thick with their pungent scent.

During the recent fight, Elbe’s “Swift Sword” had clearly dominated—he had stabbed numerous bloody holes in Kazt’s lower body, and his upper body hadn’t been spared either.

For most, a few such wounds would have been fatal. But Kazt, relying on his Devil Fruit powers, withstood Elbe’s relentless assault and seized an opportunity to incapacitate him with a single “Black Hoof.”

Yet Kazt, too, was rendered powerless by blood loss.

This evenly matched, mutually ruinous battle had been witnessed by a few reckless bystander pirates.

Compared to Kazt, who was left battered and bloodied by Elbe’s rapier, the young man named Usopp had not only dodged Elbe’s rain of thrusts but had even managed to slap him.

It was a stark contrast—enough to hurt one’s pride.

Because of this, Usopp’s name began to spread among the onlookers, especially among the pirates. In their circles, any newcomer making waves would quickly become the talk of the taverns.

Just like Ace, who had recently made headlines as a rookie pirate and had become the hottest topic in every bar.

Pirates loved nothing more than to praise one newcomer while tearing down another.

Moreover, one of the fastest ways for a rookie to rise was to defeat a well-known “veteran” with their own hands.

Under this peculiar trend, the events at Battleaxe Tavern became a textbook case of this dual narrative.

Those who thrived on chaos would drunkenly belittle old hands like Elbe and Kazt, using it as an excuse to boost Usopp’s reputation.

Beyond the mainstream philosophy of strength above all, this tendency fulfilled a certain spiritual need.

As for how hard Usopp would fall from his newfound pedestal—that was not their concern.

Kazt was long accustomed to this culture—he, too, had trampled older rivals to reach his current status.

Yet having his reputation dragged through the mud in this way hardly left him in good spirits.

Because of Kazt’s mood, none of the Spiked Snail Pirates dared to cross him.

One of his officers, Wells, was no exception, but as the one responsible for reporting, he had become the only person besides the ship’s doctor to regularly approach the captain.

Wells entered the captain’s cabin and, under Kazt’s impassive gaze, walked to the bedside.

Kazt looked at him and asked coldly, “Any developments?”

“Since we increased our patrols, the number of sentries from the other pirate crews has noticeably dropped. We’ve also mostly identified their positions. Should we…” Wells drew a finger across his throat.

Kazt’s expression was icy. “No. But if they cross the line, show no mercy.”

“Understood.” Wells nodded. His report finished, he left the cabin to continue his duties.

Kazt glared coldly at the closed door and let out a sharp snort.

The recent raid on the Bolkin armed merchant ship had certainly brought Kazt both fame and a substantial haul.

But it had also drawn the attention of jealous rivals.

After all, Bolkin was one of the West Sea’s most famous trading houses—a single successful plunder meant profits in the hundreds of millions.

Before Kazt was injured, these rivals could do nothing but envy him.

Once wounded, however, they circled like wolves scenting blood.

Yet, even wounded, a lean camel is still bigger than a horse. The Spiked Snail Pirates, for all their recent losses, remained a formidable threat.

Such is the nature of a high-bounty pirate crew.

…

On the warehouse rooftop at the docks.

Maud and his companions hid in the shadows, beyond the reach of the lights, watching the Spiked Snail Pirate Ship moored in the harbor.

From this vantage, they could just make out crew members patrolling the deck, stationed at nearly every corner, forming a tight defensive line.

After observing for a while, Wolf Rat whispered gravely, “Tight security. How do we make a move?”

Maud said nothing, carefully studying the deck and calculating the distance to the ship.

Fixing his gaze on the direction the pirate flag fluttered, Maud suddenly said, “Shoot the bird.”

“What?” Wolf Rat looked at Maud in confusion.

He watched as Maud unstrapped the long rifle from his back, set up his aim, and pointed it at the deck of the Spiked Snail.

Wolf Rat immediately understood Maud’s plan.

He knew Maud’s marksmanship was good, but the distance exceeded the effective range of a flintlock. Without other advantages, even the best sharpshooter would struggle to hit a target at such range.

A reckless long-range shot would only expose their position and intentions.

Still, Wolf Rat did not voice any warning.

Tatamu glanced at Maud’s flintlock. Even with an extended barrel, he doubted it would be effective at this distance.

“It’s out of range.”

“It’s within range,” Maud replied calmly, sighting down the barrel at a figure on the distant deck. “An elder once told me, for a gunman, blind confidence is not always a bad thing.”

He gauged the wind’s subtle assistance and factored in the elevation.

In the final moment, he felt a vague certainty—“this will do.”

Maud squeezed the trigger.

The lead bullet traced a straight line through the night, crossing nearly a hundred and fifty meters, and struck a patrolling Spiked Snail crew member squarely in the head.

A clean kill.

The man dropped wordlessly to the deck, dead.

The sudden turn of events instantly put the rest of the crew on high alert; they all looked anxiously toward the source of the gunshot.

But they saw nothing.

Wells, the ship’s marksman, immediately sensed what had happened and shouted, “Find cover!”

Meanwhile, atop the warehouse, Tatamu and Wolf Rat stared at Maud in astonishment.

After a moment, Tatamu murmured with admiration, “Impressive.”

Wolf Rat remained silent.

He knew all too well the importance of a skilled sharpshooter ahead of a boarding battle at sea.

Yet, the finest marksmen were almost always pirates themselves…