Chapter Forty-Five: The Invitation

Half an hour later.

Mod leaned against the wall of a secluded alley, his head tilted back as he caught his breath.

The fierce back-and-forth with Albe had drained him of nearly all his strength. After fleeing the tavern, he’d run nonstop for twenty more minutes.

So even after resting here for over ten minutes, he still hadn't quite recovered.

His mind, in particular, was exhausted from overusing the “Heartdrop Fist Listening,” leaving him mentally fatigued.

But if not for that, Albe would have turned him into a pincushion.

“I barely escaped with my life.”

He took a deep breath, finally finding time to reload his flintlock.

Recalling the perilous situation in the tavern, Mod knew that if not for Wolfmouse’s timely intervention, even if he’d thrown the place into chaos, he’d likely have fallen right there.

“How fortunate. Truly.”

He still felt a lingering fear.

Thankfully, with the aid of “Heartdrop Fist Listening” and his not-too-shabby physical condition, he’d managed to parry Albe’s sword strikes.

At least now, he’d witnessed firsthand the strength of someone with a bounty over thirty million.

“Kazt and Albe, was it…”

Summoning the Hunter’s Notebook, Mod recorded the intelligence he’d just acquired through painful experience.

When he finished, he stowed his quill and silently gazed at the names Albe and Kazt.

“If I take them head-on, I’ll have to pay a hefty price to take down Albe. As for Kazt, with just firearms, I don’t stand a chance in a direct fight. Even a sneak attack might not finish him in one shot.”

He put the notebook away, muttering softly to himself.

Today’s events had made him keenly aware of a marksman’s limitations.

Once the enemy closed the distance, all he could do was try to get away.

Granted, if he was fast enough, he could kite and harass his enemy—maybe even take them down.

But if his gun lacked the power to truly threaten them, then all he could do was survive, not win. In other words, if he couldn’t kill his prey, the Hunter’s Notebook would be useless.

And this was a fight at the thirty-million level.

If he faced opponents with bounties over a hundred million, what could a gunman accomplish in a world of pirates, given the current standard of firearms?

Thinking further, Mod could only look to Usopp as a reference.

Did that mean the only road left for a marksman was to act as support?

But he had no companions—what support could he give?

At that thought, Mod suddenly wanted to go back and ask Saul.

Ask how, on all his journeys, he’d fought his battles.

If he stood alone against a formidable enemy, what tactics and strategies could he use to overcome them?

“In the end, hand-to-hand combat and the sword are more reliable.”

He sighed softly, though he wasn’t about to abandon marksmanship. After all, the more skills the better, and with Saul’s veteran guidance, even if he wasn’t dominant, it would still be a solid trump card.

Still, he wanted to master a close-combat skill as soon as possible.

“Time to go home. I didn’t find a suitable target tonight, but at least I gathered some valuable information.”

When his strength had mostly returned, Mod didn’t dare wander the streets this late.

Besides, the aftereffects of “Heartdrop Fist Listening” left him feeling quite unwell.

His mastery of the technique was still basic, and he lacked “Nen” to ease the burden. Combined with the limits of his current body, it was remarkable he’d managed to use it so well under those circumstances.

“Now, where am I?”

He glanced around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

He’d run without looking back and had no idea which neighborhood he’d ended up in.

After a moment’s silence, Mod looked up at the rooftops.

It was still rather early. Walking up there would be too conspicuous.

Maybe he should wait here until nightfall?

He pondered the idea.

At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed from around the corner.

Mod’s eyes narrowed, and he drew his pistol, ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

The footsteps drew closer, and a figure rounded the corner.

When he saw it was Wolfmouse, a strange glint flickered in Mod’s eyes.

“Brother Wolfmouse, I’m so glad you’re alright!”

He quietly hid his pistol behind his back and, before Wolfmouse could speak, launched his “heavy punch” of a greeting.

Hearing Mod’s words, the battered Wolfmouse resisted the urge to beat him to a pulp.

“Just barely got away,” Wolfmouse replied with a forced grin, his blood-soaked right hand holding a white polecat.

The polecat seemed injured; its hind legs dangled limply, looking every bit as sorry as Wolfmouse himself.

Mod glanced at the polecat and explained, feigning innocence:

“Brother Wolfmouse, I’m really sorry about earlier. When you started shouting behind me as we were escaping, I thought the enemy was on us. It scared me so much I shuddered. When I came to, the polecat I’d just rescued had somehow flown out of my arms.”

Wolfmouse’s mouth twitched.

The polecat hung its head, too battered to even mock Mod’s shamelessness.

Soon, Wolfmouse collected himself and quickly spoke up to support Mod’s story.

“I understand, I understand. If it were me, I’d probably have done worse.”

As he said this, he missed the incredulous look in the polecat’s eyes.

“Is this human an idiot?” the polecat thought bitterly.

Mod didn’t notice the polecat’s peculiarity either. He looked at Wolfmouse and shook his head with a sigh. “No harm done. It’s all in the past, and we both made it out alive—that’s what matters.”

“Exactly, it’s—uh, yes, that’s what matters,” Wolfmouse replied, feeling as though he’d just swallowed something foul but was forced to act as if it was delicious.

“Oh, right. This is something you dropped. If not for wanting to return it, I’d have gone home to tend my wounds by now.”

With that, Wolfmouse lifted the utterly defeated polecat.

That was his excuse for tracking Mod down—though a flimsy one.

He wanted to seize the opportunity to break through Mod’s wall of indifference.

“Oh, isn’t that Albe’s pet?” Mod corrected him with an earnest look.

Wolfmouse’s face lit up with realization. “Ah? So it’s Albe’s? I thought it was yours, so I carried it all this way.”

As soon as he finished speaking, he tossed the now-useless polecat aside without a second thought.

The polecat hit the ground, jostling its broken bones, and let out a pained cry, nearly speaking aloud—thankfully, it held back.

“Two shameless bastards—you’ll be struck by lightning one day!” the polecat cursed in its heart, stifling its whimpers.

Wolfmouse had no concern for the polecat’s feelings. He surveyed their surroundings and, feigning surprise, said, “This is pretty close to my place. Brother Usopp, why not come over and let me—uh, rest a bit?”

He’d originally meant to suggest tending their wounds, but realized Mod wasn’t hurt at all—he was the one battered head to toe, his hands nearly useless.

“Heh,” Mod chuckled softly.

Wolfmouse paused, then asked tentatively, “Heh… means you agree?”

“Alright, I’ll rest at your place for a while.”

Mod had intended to refuse but changed his mind.

He’d sensed Wolfmouse had his own agenda, but back in the tavern, if Wolfmouse hadn’t blocked Kazt…

For that, Mod didn’t mind seeing what tricks Wolfmouse had up his sleeve.

Seeing Mod agree, Wolfmouse was elated—his efforts had not been in vain.

He kept his composure, saying, “Follow me.”

With that, he headed off.

Mod discreetly pocketed his pistol and followed.

After a few steps, he suddenly looked back at the white polecat, which was dragging itself away, trying to escape.

“Brother Wolfmouse, do you think polecat meat is edible?”

At Mod’s words, Wolfmouse stopped and also glanced at the white polecat, falling into a moment’s contemplation.

Pierced by two malicious gazes, the polecat froze, lying flat without daring to move.

“Savages…”