The Hunter of Pirates

The residential area, a part of Mad Hat Island, occupied only half the size of other districts, with a stark contrast in vibrancy.

This zone was reserved for pirates and underground individuals seeking a permanent place to settle. But most inhabitants were either old pirates like Sol, who had retired from the seas, or those who had been maimed in battle yet retained enough wealth to live out their days.

These people had lost the capital to hope for the future, surviving instead in a state of lingering decay.

Under such influence, the residential district exuded a pervasive air of stagnation and despondence.

Every alleyway reeked of a "dead rat" stench. Corpses lying in the streets were a common sight.

After all, not every pirate discarded by the times could live like Sol—possessing the means to trample on money itself.

He could open a shop in a place where closure was inevitable, indulge daily in the pleasures of the flower streets and taverns, and even splurge on famous blades that would never see battle.

In contrast, others could only spend what little money they had left on fleeting comforts.

They might buy a bottle of booze, sit in a bar listening to young pirates boast with vitality, reminiscing about their own past glories, and savoring the last drops of liquor.

Or they might spend it in the gaudy flower streets, exchanging money for familiar, invigorating glances, even if those glances were mere fabrications bought with cash.

Once their funds were depleted, they'd either await death or struggle on a bit longer.

Why did the same pirates end up living such drastically different lives? 

Mobin knew the answer well.

It was strength. The power to determine one's own destiny.

To live freely and well, one needed the strength to override others' will.

Especially in this world, it was an undeniable truth.

Without it, one could easily end up like the pirates currently blocking his path in the alleyway.

Mobin looked up, observing the group of pirates ahead—maimed, wielding rusty, jagged blades, their bodies hollowed by indulgence, their gazes void of vitality and filled only with malice.

He silently drew his dagger.

A few more alleys, and he'd be out of the residential area.

Despite being ambushed, Morin's thoughts lingered on how much distance he still had left to cover.

Before making his move, however, he overheard a conversation.

"The stomach is mine..."

"I'll take below the knees."

"Alright, the rest is yours."

It had been a long time since these remnants of pirates encountered someone as young and fair-skinned as Mobin in this area.

Excitement trembled through their voices.

A mere dagger couldn't intimidate them.

Had they not already pawned their flintlocks for liquor, they could have ended this boy's life with a single shot and saved themselves the effort.

Facing futures compressed to the brink of extinction, their minds gripped by cold, dark despair, nothing else mattered.

As long as they could taste fullness once more.

As long as they could feel liquor sliding down their throats again.

Impatient, they raised their blades, confirming their split of the spoils before charging at Morin.

They could already see their rekindled futures—a single day of reprieve was enough!

Or so they imagined.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, their "prey" vanished.

Before their thoughts could catch up, a chilling sensation bloomed across their bodies.

Were they... struck?

They collapsed, blood gushing from their wounds.

They had overestimated themselves and underestimated Morin's threat.

Realizing that hope was lost and death was imminent, they howled in despair.

Mobin stepped past the fallen pirates without pause.

To avoid being splattered with blood, he had deliberately avoided slashing arteries or other areas that would cause excessive bleeding.

This ensured that the pirates—irrelevant and unworthy of any further effort—would approach death slowly, drip by drip.

Ignoring the anguished cries behind him, Mobin turned a corner and pressed on.

This insignificant episode was nothing more than a microcosm of the world he now inhabited.

Though there were rays of light capable of piercing the darkness within these microcosms, in the age of the great pirates, people were more inclined to confront the inescapable shadows.

Before truly embracing this world, Mobin understood his priorities.

Before he could stand tall, he first needed to secure his footing.

Becoming stronger was his immediate goal.

After traversing a few more crooked alleyways, Mobin finally exited the residential district and stepped into a sunlit main street.

The ever-present stench and lifelessness of the previous area were instantly dispelled by the bright daylight.

On the bustling street, armed pirates moved about, creating a noisy, lively scene.

Since the auction had concluded, most pirates drawn to the area were in no rush to leave.

Rest and indulgence were often more important than setting sail.

Moreover, many anticipated the navy's response—military ships likely patrolling the waters outside.

Though the navy couldn't interfere directly in Mad Hat Town, casting nets in the surrounding waters to capture weaker pirates was entirely plausible.

Experienced pirates preferred to avoid such risks.

Mobin blended into the crowd, quietly observing the pirates who passed by.

Most were burly men, though there were female pirates—fewer in number and built like walking bears.

Compared to them, the waitresses in taverns were practically angels.

"I'll just head straight to a tavern."

With limited time, Mobin aimed to return to the weapons shop before sunset. He had no intention of wandering aimlessly.

At night, he could rely on the cover of darkness to navigate rooftops and avoid getting lost. By day, however, finding a specific tavern required more effort.

That said, he wasn't targeting the tavern he visited the previous night.

In Mad Hat Town, taverns were everywhere. Every district had them, varying in size.

Walking along the street, Mobin slowed his pace whenever he spotted a tavern.

Small ones were skipped.

Large ones with sparse patrons were also ignored.

After covering a kilometer or two, he finally found a sizeable tavern bustling with activity.

[Battle Axe Tavern]

Mobin glanced at the sign—two bloodstained axes crossed around a bottle of liquor—then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Roughly half an hour later, a meticulously groomed Wolf Rat arrived at the Battle Axe Tavern's entrance.

He took out a small mirror and examined his reflection.

Admiring his "irresistible charm," Ratsnout muttered to himself, "That hour-long bath was worth it."

Then, attempting to plaster on a friendly smile, he mused, "Handsome and approachable—making friends should be a piece of cake!"

Satisfied, he tucked away the mirror, pushed open the tavern door, and walked in, oblivious to the odd looks he received from nearby pirates.

"What a creepy guy," one pirate muttered, summing up Ratsnout's peculiar smile with brutal honesty.

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