Drum Kingdom – The Snowy Night at Vilia Port
"Huff… huff…"
A gust of icy wind howled through the port, snatching up a crumpled copy of the World Economic News and sending it tumbling down a pitch-black alley. A young man in a tattered padded coat caught it mid-flight.
He glanced at the paper, dated October 21, Sea Circle Calendar 1507. Realizing it was from two days ago—a copy he'd already read—he tossed it aside.
"Kid, time to work. Take this to the drop point."
Behind him, a scar-faced man in a black winter coat took a drag from his cigarette, the glow briefly lighting up his weathered features as he checked his watch. Blowing out a thick stream of smoke, he shoved the young man forward and ordered coldly.
The youth's black, messy hair framed a face that, despite his thin frame and shabby coat, was striking enough to stir envy even in beautiful women. His skin was pale, almost delicate—spoiled only by the angry red burn scar on his right cheek.
At the scar-faced man's command, a trace of nervousness flickered across the boy's wind-burned face. He quickly accepted a small package and a single-shot flintlock pistol, then started toward the unlit, pitch-dark dock.
His footsteps were silent, even on snow. On this snowy night, he moved like a ghost drifting through the stillness.
With each step, Aaron strained his ears for any sound. Only after confirming there was nothing unusual did he take the next step. To avoid noise, he wore no shoes—only threadbare, hole-ridden socks. His feet were numb and bluish from the cold, but he endured without complaint.
Ever since he'd died and awoken in this world, he'd seen the depths of human cruelty. Pain no longer moved him—only survival, strength, and revenge against those who had treated him worse than an animal.
Tonight, survival meant delivering this smuggled cargo to a certain ship moored at the dock.
This was his first job in the Drum Kingdom's Frosthorn Gang. Tonight would be his tenth successful delivery—enough to earn him official membership.
With nine runs behind him, Aaron, whose night vision was excellent, reached the meeting point without trouble: a small, unremarkable boat.
Still, he stayed alert. Life as a slave under the Celestial Dragons had taught him to never lower his guard. It was that vigilance that had kept him alive under their inhumane rule and honed survival skills most never learned.
Those skills were about to save him again.
The boat seemed lower in the water than before, and the surface around it rippled. Trained ears caught faint breathing. His nose, long accustomed to the scent of blood, picked up a trace of it on the icy air.
Something's wrong.
Aaron froze. The package he carried contained a rare Drum Kingdom medicine known as Healing Goddess—a top-tier hemostatic salve offered as Heavenly Tribute to the Celestial Dragons. The kingdom strictly forbade its export, punishing offenders with death.
In this chaotic world, however, Healing Goddess could mean the difference between life and death, and its black-market price often soared to hundreds of thousands of Berries per bottle. The profits were irresistible to smugglers, even with a death sentence hanging over them.
The Frosthorn Gang was one link in this smuggling chain, and Aaron was nothing more than one of its disposable cogs.
Blood and breathing meant only one thing: the gang's crew aboard was dead, and killers were waiting for him to deliver the goods.
Survival was his only thought.
He began to back away silently, trying to slip away before the people on board noticed him. But he knew he couldn't get far—there were many "cogs" like him in this operation, and if this end had been compromised, the others were likely in danger too.
That was why the Frosthorn Gang issued even their lowliest errand runners a single-shot pistol—just enough for a desperate fight.
A gunshot shattered the night.
Aaron bolted through the snow.
The killers realized they'd been exposed. Flashlights cut through the darkness, catching sight of his fleeing form. Three men armed with pistols broke off in pursuit, while another kept the beam fixed on him to guide them.
Shots cracked through the night. The pursuers shouted threats, demanding he hand over the goods.
Their aim was sharp—several bullets came close, one grazing his ear and nearly stopping his heart.
But without shoes, Aaron's footing was poor; he slid on the snow more than once. Hearing their voices draw nearer, he hurled a small pouch far ahead and shouted, "Stop chasing! I dropped it!"
One man veered off toward the thrown pouch. The other two kept coming. Clearly, they weren't about to abandon their hunt over one package of uncertain value.
Damn… they've gotten smarter from dealing with my predecessors.
The pouch he'd thrown was fake. The real cargo was still with him—losing it would mean making an enemy of the Frosthorn Gang as well.
Still, he was slower than his pursuers, and the street where the scar-faced man had been waiting was far away. Worse, he didn't know if the man had stayed.
The one piece of luck was that the two men still on him had run out of bullets.
"Brat, when I catch you, I'll skin you alive and lock you in a cage!" one of them snarled, now less than five meters behind.
Cage.
Lock you up.
The words lit a fire in Aaron's chest. His eyes sharpened, forehead veins standing out.
It was time to gamble everything.
He'd never expected the Frosthorn Gang to save him—this cruel world had taught him only to trust his own strength.
Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself calm. His eyes glinted faintly red.
In that instant, he saw them—two large men charging at him—without even turning his head. The darkness didn't matter; to him, their movements were as slow as turtles.
Observation Haki—the power he had gained in hell.
It was still weak: only a five-meter range, two seconds of use, and a one-minute cooldown. He saved it for the moments that decided life or death.
One second was enough.
He leapt, twisted midair, and landed facing them. His single-shot pistol was already in hand.
Bang!
A tongue of flame burst from the barrel. The first man fell, a hole in his forehead.
In less than a second, Aaron reloaded and fired again. The second man dropped the same way—shot clean through the brow.