After Ben refused to team up, Franke was only mildly disappointed. It wasn't like he'd seriously expected Ben to agree—it was just a casual suggestion, after all.
"Well then, good luck to you," Franke said, patting Ben on the shoulder.
With that, he shook out his coat and turned to leave with a stylish flair befitting a mature man—only to freeze mid-move.
Ben's large, powerful hand was now resting firmly on his shoulder.
"Hold up. I've got one last favor to ask," Ben said.
"If there's no profit in it, I'm not interested," Franke muttered, about to complain.
But Ben cut him off: "Get me a gun."
Franke looked at him in confusion. "You came to me for that? Don't you already have a few?"
"Not your run-of-the-mill stuff. I want something meaner. More brutal," Ben said as he pulled a pistol from his waist and set it on the table.
In truth, this world wasn't technologically backward. In fact, Ben often felt that some of its tech surpassed that of his previous world. Especially in the war-torn Western Regions. He'd heard that the Empire's central zones had even flashier and more advanced tech—though he'd never seen it for himself.
So, with decent industrial and technological development, the emergence of firearms was only natural.
As a member of one of Sphinx Street's more violent gangs, Ben was no stranger to weapons. The pistol he placed on the table was a very common "Westward Type" sidearm, not unlike a Beretta.
Franke studied the pistol thoughtfully and then asked, "I might be able to get something... but can you even afford it?"
Ben grinned. "I'll throw it in my house. You can handle the sale. Don't bother giving me the money—I just want the gun. Deal?"
Franke's eyes lit up. "So you're really skipping town, huh? Not gonna lie, I sold my place two days ago. Got some practice. Your house is even better than mine. Should fetch a good—"
He stopped short before mentioning a price. No point in haggling when Ben didn't even want cash.
"Wait here. I just happen to have something on hand. I was gonna deliver it to another buyer, but screw it—I'm leaving anyway. What does it matter who I sell it to?" Franke said before disappearing behind the bar.
Ten minutes later, the door burst open, and Franke emerged, straining as he lugged a heavy iron case.
"Give me a hand," he grunted.
Ben stepped over the bar and effortlessly hauled the case onto the table.
"Still strong as ever," Franke said, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Or maybe you're just out of shape," Ben replied, rolling his eyes.
Franke didn't argue. Instead, he quickly popped open the case and said, "I can't get you an automatic rifle—too hard for me to source. But I figured this might be more your style…"
Ben's gaze immediately locked onto the monstrous weapon inside.
"A hand cannon?" he said in surprise.
"Yep. I couldn't handle the recoil with my build, but you? This thing was made for someone like you," Franke said proudly, slapping Ben's muscular arm.
He continued, "This is a standard-issue officer sidearm from the Chatal Legion—the Angry Bull Type-6 Hand Cannon."
The Empire's military had many elite legions. The Chatal Legion was one of them—its ranks filled almost entirely with physically enhanced superhumans. Over 90% had abilities related to strength, durability, or muscle mass. Every officer was an able user.
Civilians often called it the "Muscle Legion," and naturally, their weapons were oversized, high-caliber, and devastating.
The Angry Bull Type-6 hand cannon was one of their signature weapons.
Ben picked it up from the case, tested its weight, and jokingly aimed it at Franke. The cannon's massive barrel practically swallowed up Franke's head.
"Hey, don't point that at me! I know it's not loaded, but it's still scary!" Franke protested, shoving the muzzle away.
Though technically a standard issue sidearm, this officer-level cannon was a work of art. Its deep indigo body gleamed, and an intricately engraved charging bull raced across the barrel.
Looking over at the fist-sized rounds still in the case, Ben grinned in satisfaction.
Originally, he'd hoped to get something more high-tech—maybe even an electromagnetic pistol—after selling his house. But now, seeing this beast of a weapon, he realized this was exactly his style.
After admiring it for a while, Ben stood up, grabbed the ammo Bendolier holding 20 rounds, buckled it around his waist, and holstered the hand cannon. The weight dragged at his belt, but instead of discomfort, it gave him a strange sense of security.
Even if a berserk elephant charged at him right now, Ben was pretty sure he could one-shot it.
"Ammo?" he asked.
"That's all I've got on hand," Franke replied, waving dismissively. "But this kind of cannon uses very simple ammo. Big caliber, low precision. Just find a halfway-decent factory later—they can whip some up by hand. Doesn't have to be fancy."
And that was true. Hand cannons didn't need pinpoint accuracy.
Ben nodded. He didn't press further. Instead, he pulled out some paperwork and his house deed from his coat and handed them over.
"I guess this is really goodbye."
Franke smiled and took the documents. "I'll stash these away. Let's have a drink after."
With that, he disappeared into the back room again—but by the time he returned, Ben was already gone.
Franke stood there for a moment, silent. Then he sighed, a bit wistfully.
"Wonder if we'll ever meet again… Ben."
Meanwhile, Ben had left the fight club and slipped into a deserted alley.
There, he silently muttered, "Open."
Immediately, his stamina drained rapidly, the air froze, and a rift opened in front of him—the portal to another world.
As the multicolored glow shimmered around the doorway, Ben noticed something odd: the blue portion of the glow seemed to dim slightly.
And when he focused on the other colors, his stamina drained even faster—as if the portal were trying to switch to a different world entirely.
"Wait… do the different colors correspond to different worlds?" Ben wondered.
But now wasn't the time for testing theories. He didn't get creative—he simply activated the portal and peeked through.
A quiet alley lay beyond.
Perfect.
Ben stepped into the portal for the first time and crossed into the pirate world.
The moment his feet touched the other side, he silently muttered "Close." Behind him, the portal sealed shut and vanished.
He already knew the language here wouldn't be a problem—he'd clearly understood Blackbeard the last time. As for reading and writing, well… in this world, literacy probably wasn't widespread anyway.
"My first step is to figure out—where the hell am I?" Ben muttered.
Then, with casual confidence, he strolled toward the mouth of the alley.
From the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, it seemed he'd landed near a market street.
(End of Chapter)