Chapter Thirty-Six: Invincibility and Shamelessness (Part Two)

After the Don Quixote family appeared, the speed at which people vanished from the streets of this town was akin to rushing home to bed their wives—or perhaps to catch someone else doing so. In any case, there was no fastest, only faster, and ultimately, only dead sooner. The town seemed emptied in an instant.

Within the buildings bordering these deserted streets, countless cold, fearful, and even hateful eyes might be observing Qiubai and his companions through cracks and peepholes. Yet, faced with an overwhelming difference in power, the residents had neither the strategy nor the courage to resist. They could only yield to whatever was demanded of them. As for the pirates, who stood in a position to plunder and kill at whim, their attitude toward ordinary people was naturally one of disdain and contempt—so they paid no mind to these ants’ glares.

There was no need to care. Hatred could, theoretically, turn to revenge, but in this town, how likely was such a thing? No one even bothered to consider the question.

“This is the place.”

After turning several corners, Gladius led the group to a set of tightly shut doors. This was likely the mafia’s den.

Without waiting for anyone’s reaction, Gladius extended his arm and pressed his palm against the gap in the door. His forearm suddenly swelled, ballooning like an inflatable toy. Then, with a muffled sound distinct from ordinary gunpowder explosions, the door burst apart under the power of the Pop-Pop Fruit, the thick panels flying into the house's interior.

This man was a bit too impatient... Qiubai shook his head inwardly. There’s no sense in always resorting to explosions—what’s the point? Really, Ain should handle this; she could simply revert the brick-and-stone building to a pile of mud: energy-saving, clean, pollution-free, and most importantly, quiet.

After the blast, the sound of weapons being readied quickly followed. Countless gun barrels were now aimed at the entrance.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of mafia members had gathered here—perhaps they were holding a meeting, only to find themselves surrounded by five people.

Regardless of intensity or scale, the mafia’s frequency of brawling was at least equal to, if not higher than, the pirates’. Even in their own headquarters, this group maintained a high degree of vigilance.

The mafia looked professional and intimidating in their uniform black suits. In terms of technology and weapon development, the North Sea had always been far ahead; for example, the first repeating revolvers were invented here. Qiubai was certain that the guns before him were loaded with lead bullets, but he couldn’t tell which weapon could fire continuously.

But the Don Quixote family paid no heed to such conventional threats. If one of their officers were actually killed by random gunfire... well, so be it. It was only that level of strength, after all.

In truth, Qiubai himself was unimpressed by this show of force. He genuinely didn’t fear being shot; his defense was unbreakable. He possessed armor that, theoretically, could withstand any flying or thrown weapon—one of the rare defenses within his “intrinsic domain.”

“Pandaheye, you’re here, aren’t you?” Gladius stepped into the room and spoke.

To anyone listening, his voice sounded like a death knell.

Pandaheye was the leader of this mafia, the ruler of the town's underworld—or, more precisely, merely Don Quixote’s agent.

Even though this agent had tread carefully and worked diligently, Doffy’s side still felt he hadn’t done enough.

“Gladius…”

Don Quixote’s arrival didn’t surprise Pandaheye; on the contrary, it seemed entirely expected.

With a broad, meaty face, sparse Mediterranean-style hair, a thick beard framing his cheeks, and fierce eyes—if you turned his face upside down, used his beard as hair and his hair as a beard, perhaps he’d even be handsome.

He had the bearing of a mafia boss capable of controlling this town, but that was all he was: a boss of a single town.

People with Pandaheye’s status were often respectfully nicknamed “Little P.”

Little P pushed aside his subordinates and strode up to Gladius and his group—not out of courage, but out of rationality. Against these people, hiding further back would have achieved nothing.

As Pandaheye’s men realized who the guns were trained on, half dropped their weapons in terror, while the other half stood frozen, likely their minds already crashing from fear.

“Pandaheye, you’ve failed to remit the required funds for two consecutive months. That’s not what we originally agreed upon, is it?”

Gladius’s voice was cold and sharp, like a deep spring; its chill made one’s scalp tingle. “The family helped you defeat your enemies and seize this town, but you haven’t fulfilled your obligation…”

By now, Qiubai understood: with no top officers present, Gladius was in charge, and all negotiations fell to him.

“It’s true, our payments to the family have been less these past two months, but there’s a reason—because we…” Pandaheye tried to explain, but the Don Quixote side had no obligation to listen, nor any intention to do so.

Failing to meet the quota was failing to meet the quota—what more was there to say?

“Qiubai,” Gladius called him by name. “Do you see that abandoned church outside the window?”

“Blow it up.”

“…Again?”

Qiubai glanced at Senor. What was this sudden, out-of-the-blue order about?

“To be safe, Pandaheye’s men are split between two locations; the other half is hiding in that church,” Senor explained.

So that’s it, Qiubai immediately understood. Because Pandaheye hadn’t paid up, they were going to eliminate half his strength without further ado.

That’s very “Don Quixote.”

The church stood alone atop a small hill—a conspicuous target.

“It’s over two thousand meters away, a large target. Nothing difficult about it,” Qiubai boasted, the bow already appearing in his hand. If the original owner of the weapon said this, it would be believable; from Qiubai’s mouth, not so much.

“Wait! You can’t—”

Pandaheye hadn’t finished speaking when a shocking explosion erupted on the open ground five hundred meters to the left of the church.

“Sorry, first shot slipped a bit. Hold on.” In short, sniper Qiubai’s first real combat outing was “unexpectedly” a complete failure.

As Qiubai nonchalantly loaded another arrow, Pandaheye snapped out of his shock. He didn’t know how this man could unleash an attack more powerful than artillery with a bow, but he did know that if his men took a hit like that… then he’d have no men left.

Qiubai’s actions made Little P extremely nervous; he shrilled anxiously in protest.

The first miss was luck, but Pandaheye wasn’t feeling lucky. What if that was just a rangefinder? What if the next shot was for effect?

“You can’t—”

A violent explosion sounded, this time behind the church.

Then came the third, and the fourth…

He was right: Qiubai’s attacks were overwhelming. This wasn’t effect firing; it was saturation bombardment. Yet, after circling the target with explosions, not a single blast actually touched the church.

“You, you… please carry on.” At this point, Little P was so frightened he could barely speak.

Was this man… just here to set off fireworks?

The Don Quixote group was equally bewildered.

Qiubai took a deep breath, humiliation fueling his anger. He’d expected to miss, but hadn’t anticipated being mocked by a Mediterranean hairstyle.

He nocked another arrow and suddenly swung around.

Caught off guard, the arrowhead nearly jabbed Pandaheye’s meaty face.

“Mr. Gladius, if you want to eliminate half their strength, then surely this half… will do just as well?” Qiubai’s voice was earnest, but he showed not a trace of embarrassment or anger.

If the mountain won’t come to him, he’ll go to the mountain. Qiubai had, after all, found a solution—at this distance, he refused to believe he’d miss.

If he did miss, he swore to become Lao G’s apprentice and wear diapers with everyone.

Truly shameless. As a sniper, did he have no pride at all?

There was a saying, left to the world by the late Professor Roja—a famed historian, archaeologist, linguist, sociologist, and gynecological sage felled by the Navy’s guns:

The mediocre fear nothing, the foolish know no dread, and the scoundrel is invincible.