The island's climate was as capricious as ever. After several bouts of rain, the clouds over Kalmar City remained thick and heavy, like an inky shroud that refused to dissipate. When night fell, the city was engulfed in darkness, with only the scattered glow of streetlights piercing through.
Sherlock and Manny, posing as ordinary patrons, sipped their drinks lightly at a bar. Their gazes occasionally flickered toward Kuro, seated a few tables away.
After receiving a signal from William, Tony had personally traveled to Kalmar City with a few bold and capable subordinates. Since Red-Leaf Village bordered the Navia Kingdom, the journey wasn't far, and they arrived before the Red-Beard Pirates had departed.
It was rare for pirates to come ashore, and they wouldn't leave without indulging themselves. Besides, the supplies they needed—especially military-grade equipment—were no small expense and required time to prepare.
However, unlike his crewmates, who were reveling in their brief respite, Kuro appeared deeply troubled.
He drank one glass after another, pouring the liquor down his throat. His once meticulously groomed attire was now wrinkled, and his usually neat hair had become disheveled.
Kuro despised pirates. He hated the drunken, foul-smelling crew members, the stench of sweat and unwashed feet permeating the ship, the shared toilets and basins, the constant companionship of the salty sea breeze, and the rare opportunities to come ashore, which the crew treated like grand festivals.
He loathed everything about life on a pirate ship. What he desired was to be like Arcadio Buendía, a noble living in a spacious mansion, surrounded by impeccably dressed servants and maids. He dreamed of sipping fine tea from exquisite porcelain cups, savoring delicate pastries while leisurely reading the newspaper.
He longed to converse gracefully with the elite of high society at elegant banquets, rather than rubbing shoulders with a bunch of foul-mouthed, liquor-soaked pirates, constantly on the run from the Marines.
But all these beautiful fantasies had been shattered by reality. When Hayreddin had beaten him, the blows had landed not only on his face but also on his psyche.
Despite considering himself better educated and more intelligent, and often carrying an air of superiority when dealing with the crew, Hayreddin's actions had made one thing clear to him:
The self-proclaimed exceptional Kuro was insignificant in the eyes of a pirate leader.
And when Arcadio learned of the incident, he hadn't cared at all. Kuro was nothing more than a minor figure, not even worth as much as a pirate captain.
Over the past few days, Kuro had been haunted by a single thought: If one day Red-Beard Barbarossa killed him, would Arcadio turn against Barbarossa for his sake?
Deep down, Kuro already knew the answer, and it filled him with bitterness. All he could do was drown his sorrows in alcohol.
Several bar girls, noticing Kuro's relatively fine clothing and his generous spending, approached him one after another. But he waved them away irritably. "Get lost!"
The girls, offended, waved their handkerchiefs at him in frustration and left, muttering complaints. Manny chuckled at the scene and asked Sherlock, "When's he leaving?"
"Soon. William said he's on ship duty tomorrow, so he has to return to the ship tonight," Sherlock replied, taking a sip of his drink, his eyes glinting. "Stay focused. We can't afford to lose him."
"Look at him, drunk as a skunk. How could we possibly lose him?" Manny replied, but he straightened up and stopped talking, taking the task more seriously.
Meanwhile, Hayreddin was muttering curses under his breath. The alley was full of potholes, each filled with rainwater. In the dim light, they resembled landmines, requiring constant vigilance to avoid stepping into them. In the slums, such alleys were everywhere.
Because of his abrasive personality, even his fellow pirates kept their distance. Hayreddin didn't have a regular entourage, but he didn't mind.
In the shadow of a wall, something seemed to stir. Squinting, Hayreddin realized it was a drunkard lying unconscious by a puddle, mumbling incoherently.
A cruel smile spread across Hayreddin's face. He pulled a dagger from his boot, crouched beside the drunkard, grabbed a handful of his filthy hair, and exposed the man's mud-covered neck. Then, with the sharp blade, he slowly drew it across the man's throat.
As the drunkard clutched his neck, blood gushing uncontrollably, Hayreddin's eyes widened in exhilaration. His nostrils flared as a strange excitement filled his mind. Even the foul stench of the alley seemed less unpleasant in that moment.
Only after the drunkard fell silent did Hayreddin sigh with satisfaction and stand up. But as he turned toward the alley's entrance, he froze.
At the mouth of the alley stood a man, motionless. The darkness obscured his expression, but the faint light from outside revealed his red hair and the gleaming katana in his hand.
Hayreddin glanced behind him. At the other end of the alley, another man had appeared, also holding a katana, blocking his escape.
It didn't take a genius to figure out their intentions.
These two men were, of course, Edmond and Aramis.
Hayreddin wiped the blood off his dagger onto his shirt. After a brief hesitation, he suddenly bolted toward the alley entrance where Edmond stood.
Edmond sneered, raising his katana as he charged toward Hayreddin. At the other end, Aramis also silently rushed forward.
Their mission was simple: Hayreddin was not to leave this alley alive.
The sound of boots splashing through puddles shattered the alley's silence. As Hayreddin closed in on Edmond, he let out a low growl and swung his curved blade down at Edmond's head.
Edmond raised his katana, blocking the strike. But Hayreddin's other hand, holding the dagger, thrust toward Edmond in a concealed attack.
Edmond merely shifted his body slightly, dodging the dagger. He then grabbed Hayreddin's wrist, tilting his katana to deflect the curved blade to the side.
In the next instant, Edmond bent his arm and drove his elbow into Hayreddin's chest, striking the xiphoid process.
Hayreddin staggered back two steps, his chest tightening. Behind him, the sound of rapid footsteps grew louder, followed by a thunderous shout.
"Get on your knees!"
Aramis had reached Hayreddin's back, slamming the sheath of his katana into the back of Hayreddin's knees. A sickening crack echoed through the alley as Hayreddin's knees twisted into an unnatural angle. He let out a scream, collapsing to his knees, barely holding himself up with his hands.
But before he could recover, Edmond stomped on Hayreddin's hand, the one still gripping the curved blade, breaking his fingers with a sickening crunch.
Hayreddin howled in pain, flailing the dagger in his other hand aimlessly. But Aramis grabbed his arm from behind, straightened it, and Edmond drove his knee into Hayreddin's elbow with a sharp crack. His forearm hung limply, and the dagger clattered to the ground.
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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