Noon.
The upscale, cool-hued fluorite color lamps, a totally uncool trash band.
The audience at the bar was even less refined.
"What a terrifying... pair of thick-shell crabs."
Archer was chugging his drink.
He and Morison were inside a dance club.
Morison was an interesting fellow and didn’t despise Archer; on the contrary, he found him quite amusing.
Just like he didn’t use a long sword, Archer beca a social challenge, escalating the difficulty to hell level, annoying people to the point of being loathed by man and dog alike, creating trouble just for the fun of it, which provided Morison an opportunity to practice his skills.
Morison was fastidious to the extre, reckoning that killing people for no reason was like swinging a golf club—a sign of psychopathy.
This duo had beco a horror story well known in Heaven Port, a cautionary tale to steer clear of the disfigured face accompanied by a drunkard, by all ans necessary.
This dance club was considered one of the classier joints.
The large space was filled with many platforms, with cages on top that increased the isolation vibe, each containing a dancer engaged in a lively performance.
These dancers could leave their platforms at any ti for a fifteen-minute private session in the VIP room, emphasizing a production-line workflow; as soon as one dancer left, another would take her place.
"Indeed terrifying," Morison comnted as he too downed his liquor, clearly impressed.
The clientele differed starkly from those at Black Sail establishnts—full house mainly pirates and fugitives.
Yet without any effort, the two of them secured the best view in the house, as the previous occupants conscientiously vacated their spots.
"Big is big, but the quality leaves sothing to be desired; I prefer the bamboo shoot type. That would call for seeking out Mika the elder."
Morison dropped an explosive comnt, musing that Mika could be considered Bai Xiaosheng, having compiled the "Military Firearm List," which ranked the weaponry and martial arts prowess of Heaven Port’s Fireworks Girls.
Utmost importantly, it included contact addresses and fee schedules.
Morison would go so far as to call it the "Death Note"!
Could playing with this not lead to getting hit by a car?
The bartender in front of them, sporting a shock of long black hair, was a pretty woman with tattoos of various fierce Magic Beasts inked across her arms—a full sleeve of floral designs that spoke volus of her character.
Being a bartender was one of the few occupations in Heaven Port where a woman could earn a handso salary—if the establishnt was profitable, sotis even around thirty silver coins or so. Generally, they also had boyfriends to protect them, so nothing untoward would happen.
There were female pirates in Heaven Port as well, but they were few and far between.
"You two are with Black Sail, right? I have a friend who’s just the bamboo shoot type."
The bartender didn’t mince her words.
"Really now? How much does she charge?" Morison asked, his speech just as tricky and unexpected as his moves.
The bartender smiled and said, "It’s free, she’s into skin, bones, and flesh—fruit. You catch my drift? She only likes pirates from the Bounty Order."
"How fascinating..." Morison was left without a response.
The Boss of Heaven Port was a person of considerable vision.
Perhaps because of his repeated failed entreaties to Beima Duchy to accept a truce—no one wanted to adopt such a distant outpost that would add to their administrative burden. Stationing troops there was also a massive drain, and any Admiral sent there would surely be gradually corrupted. Overseeing the trade routes with the Far East while keeping the Emperor at a distance, corruption was virtually inevitable.
Furthermore, Heaven Port also served as a pirate sanctuary; a bunch of people who couldn’t make it at sea, coming ashore to commit murders—wasn’t that even more terrifying?
So the Boss had an idea: if you won’t grant an official title, I’ll make my own. Proclaim a nation!
List it on the market, attract financing, establish defenses, launch a propaganda campaign.
But nobody took him seriously—the ga was played at service launch, dispersed at service closure, no investnt, the main attraction being the companionship offered.
Even though the Boss’s nation-building failed.
He was soone capable of reviewing his failures, summarizing, iterating on versions, and strengthening his strategies.
And he even managed to dabble in ideology!
He tried to subtly change people’s perception of Heaven Port, hiring a bunch of intellectuals to insanely write stories in praise of pirates, their freedom, bravery, passion, robbing the rich to aid the poor, and the code of honor among thieves – it was only real n who were the sons of the sea.
Printed and published by small country workshops, the sales were quite good inland and the circulation was unstoppable despite bans.
Because the area of the Western Continent is terrifyingly vast, many people spend their whole lives without ever seeing the ocean, filled with infinite imaginations.
However.
He failed, too.
Because of the public execution of pirates, these dirty and disorderly fellows simply didn’t have the handso appearance described in books. They were rely desperados begging for food, baring their teeth which were all patched up with inferior tals, shattering the illusions instantly.
In the dance club.
Morison also understood there was male minstrel’s flesh and skin, there were Military Master knights’ flesh and skin, even bandits from the mountains had their offspring, and even beggars had their progeny. In short, the only thing missing was anything belonging to pirates.
At least those mountain bandits had a stable life with their holiday villas, and even the begging had so sort of advantage in Asia Minor.
Pirates, not a single advantage could be found, and one could say they were at the very bottom of the disdain chain among won.
Frankly, this bartender just wanted to find a long-term al ticket for her friend. Where could one find such a good deal? A pirate’s flesh and skin girl? If you ended up with one, you’d be thrown into the ninety-ninth level of the Abyss, never to ascend to Heaven after death.
But Morison didn’t care, he was a rich Boss and could afford the cost.
"Please make sure to tell about this bamboo shoot-shaped..."
Morison hadn’t finished speaking.
Swan ran in sowhat frantically.
"Trouble, I heard from our informants, soone’s gone to kill Mika. It’s those guys we bumped into on the street yesterday, the ones selling hallucinogens, they’re back for revenge."
Swan hurriedly spoke to Morison.
Morison’s eyebrows furrowed, how could that be? Mika was top talent, educated or not, his cultural level was second only to Fen’s. On this island, even so so-called doctors resorted to consulting the calendar, blood-letting, and drinking holy water.
Mika was simply punching below his weight; if such a talent fell, finding soone else capable of both chopping down enemies and treating the wounded would be as hard as ascending to the heavens.
They must go imdiately.
At the sa ti.
In a room on the third floor of a brothel.
The prostitute had already been driven out.
Mika was cornered by more than a dozen hallucinogen traffickers, all fierce and intimidating characters, each with a weapon in hand.
"So many brothers here, I’m really sorry for any offense before."
Mika showed weakness, having not brought any weapon himself thinking he’d be safe for a while, it was his own complacency, after all, there were quite a few on the island who weren’t afraid of dying, but he had a strategy.
"Heh, turned coward now, haven’t you? Even Black Sail’s n flesh and blood, you get frightened to that point, watch how I chop him up."
The leader hadn’t finished speaking.
Mika quickly took out a homade beak-shaped mask from his clothes, put it on, and threw with all his might a small glass bottle from his pocket, shattering it in the face of the leader.
In an instant, a purple-red smoke spread, containing a vaporized neurotoxin made from the gland of a Flying Electric Snake Demon and anesthesia drugs, an expensive concoction Mika was reluctant to use under normal circumstances, kept as a last resort. It could blind the eyes and cause the muscles to paralyze and weaken in a very short ti.
"Wha..."
The leader was closest when it exploded, unable to speak, his eyes painfully burning as if corroded, unable to open, while his whole body felt immobilized, as if his blood had congealed.
The ten-plus n behind him all exhibited the sa symptoms.
"Sorry about this, but bla your lack of education, knowledge changes fate."
Mika took a foldable knife from the side cabinet, adeptly stabbing it into the carotid artery of the leader’s neck, twisting the blade viciously before yanking it out, blood rushing out eagerly.
The other ten or so n also couldn’t move; Mika chopped their heads off one by one like slaughtering chickens, using the leader’s long sword. One of the Beastn had a particularly tough neck, taking Mika seven or eight chops to sever the head.
In a short while, the place turned into a slaughterhouse, blood everywhere, with severed heads rolling on the floor.
When Swan arrived with Morison, they found Mika wearing the beak-shaped mask, drenched in blood, panting heavily while the purple smoke had completely dissipated. Mika had chopped up more than ten n by himself, scattered across the floor.
"The Beaked War God it seems."
Swan couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had never witnessed Mika take action before and always thought of him as a gentleman, despite a bit of lewdness and passion for excitent.
Morison was speechless, making a pointless trip, the bamboo shoot-shaped was a bust.
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