Chapter Thirty-Two: That Person... Is Saving the Fishmen?

As for who fired the shots to lend a helping hand, Modre had no way of knowing, nor did it seem to matter much. Listening to the increasingly fierce sounds of battle in the distance, he could easily imagine the carnage unfolding there. As the instigator, Modre felt only a hint of regret. In this line of work, debts are always repaid in kind.

He felt no guilt toward the pirates. Circling through the maze of buildings, he eventually reached the other side and soon climbed onto the nearest rooftop.

Upon reaching the rooftop, Modre was surprised to find that, at some point, many people had gathered atop the surrounding buildings. A glance revealed that some even held food and bottles of wine. As he drew closer, he could hear their cheers.

He regarded them thoughtfully. Making them his next targets seemed a reasonable option. Yet, with a better opportunity presenting itself, he let the idea go.

He silently withdrew his gaze and turned toward the battle raging in front of the auction house. His attention focused mainly on the blood-soaked fish-man slave fighting for his life.

Some pirates, having felt his gaze sweep over them moments before, were gripped by a sudden chill. They chalked it up to the coolness of the night and quickly downed a few more gulps of liquor to warm themselves.

Meanwhile, the melee below was reaching its climax. Some, sensing things were going badly, withdrew from the chaos in time. But more of them, driven by the injuries of their comrades and the fact that their bosses were still inside the auction house, stubbornly remained on the scene.

After the explosion inside, these underlings had wanted to rush in to check on their leaders, but were held back by the auction house’s armed guards. From the auction house’s perspective, letting so many people storm in after an incident would only worsen the situation and jeopardize the merchandise that had already been sold to the guests that evening.

Given the armed squad’s solid reasoning, these men reluctantly trusted the auction house’s strength. This became the flashpoint for conflict. Once the situation devolved completely, they gave up restraint, gathering in a murderous frenzy and surging toward the auction house entrance.

In less than a few minutes, over a hundred bodies littered the ground. At least a third of them had fallen to the fish-man slave.

Since escaping the auction house, the fish-man slave had killed every human who barred his way, but he remained somewhat bewildered. He didn’t know what had caused the explosion inside, nor who had taken advantage of the chaos to open his cell. He didn’t even know why the fighting had erupted.

All he understood was that freedom now lay before him, and he seized his chance, running for his life through the majority of the hall.

What he couldn’t comprehend was that none of the humans inside, not even the one who had just spent a fortune to purchase him, tried to stop his escape. They let him flee in peace.

What the fish-man slave didn’t realize was that, to those attending the auction, he was nothing more than a priced commodity, something to be bought and sold with money.

Since he was just something money could buy, why would anyone risk their life for him? Even Kazzett, who was determined to have him, would not risk himself to stop an escaping fish-man slave under these circumstances. He was only a commodity, after all. If something went wrong, the auction house would be held responsible. This deeply ingrained perception was far beyond the understanding of the desperate, fleeing slave.

Having finally escaped the hall, he immediately found himself in peril again. As despair threatened to overwhelm him, another incomprehensible scene unfolded before his eyes: the humans turned on each other in a sudden slaughter.

The fish-man slave saw hope in this chaos. "Arlong was right—humans are a vile species, unworthy of existence!" With the pressure lessened, the fish-man slave unleashed a frenzy of deadly attacks. He stopped caring about the blades flashing behind him, determined only to break through with greater speed.

Such reckless abandon cost him dearly; in just a few seconds, several deep, bleeding wounds were carved into his flesh. Yet the results were clear: he finally broke through to the edge of the battle.

No longer hemmed in by a suffocating crowd, he now faced only a fragile line of men, easily scattered with a swing of his arm.

"Out of my way!"

With a roar, the fish-man slave crashed through the last weak barrier. Bathed in blood, he dashed madly down the long street.

All that mattered was reaching the sea. If he could just make it to the sea...

That thought consumed him.

Seeing the fish-man slave break out, the pirates watching from the sidelines were startled. Several drew their pistols, treating the fleeing slave as a moving target for their amusement, and aimed their guns.

Bang! Bang!

Gunshots rang out, bullets slicing through the night toward the running fish-man slave.

Most of the shots missed, the pirates’ marksmanship abysmal, but a few bullets grazed the slave’s arm and waist, sending arcs of blood into the air.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, the fish-man slave did not slow for a moment.

The pirates laughed wildly, delighted by their cruel sport.

A new volley of shots followed, bullets raining down on the fish-man slave, leaving him as vulnerable and battered as a small boat in a raging storm.

At a nearby alleyway, Clara watched the fish-man slave flee under a hail of bullets, her ears filled with the gunfire and the pirates’ shrill, arrogant laughter.

Her brow furrowed deeply, fingers unconsciously tightening around the important blueprint she held, wrinkling the paper. It wasn’t pure pity she felt for the fish-man slave, but a deep disgust for the atmosphere of the moment.

Her childhood had taught her a simple truth: there is good and evil among both fish-men and humans. Goodness and wickedness are not determined by race.

Bang! Bang!

Another deafening burst of gunfire. But this time, it was followed by the dying screams of two pirates.

Two shots, from an unknown source, struck down the pirates who had been shooting with the greatest glee.

Clara froze. Her keen hearing picked out two fleeting gunshots from the chaos. She followed the sound, spotting a masked figure moving swiftly across the rooftops.

"Who is that...?"

Clara’s eyes widened. She watched the figure quickly holster a pistol, then draw a long-barreled musket from his back. With a quick motion, he swung the gun and fired without seeming to even aim.

With the sound of the shot, Clara’s gaze shifted in time to see a pirate, who had been leveling a rifled gun at the fish-man slave, collapse to the ground.

"Is that person... saving the fish-man?"

Clara stared after the figure, her eyes filled with incredulity. Who could it be? A Marine? A bounty hunter? It couldn’t possibly be a pirate, and certainly not a fish-man.

She stood rooted to the spot, mind racing. Who in this cesspool of a place would risk themselves to save a fish-man?

The one who fired the shots was none other than Modre, who had been watching the battle closely. Seeing the fish-man slave break through, he felt a surge of satisfaction and quickly followed. He then noticed pirates emerging from taverns and gambling dens, using the fish-man slave as target practice.

"How dare you lay hands on my prey?"

Without a second thought, Modre drew his gun and shot dead the three most enthusiastic pirates.

Thus, he became the cause of Clara’s astonishment.