Chapter 47 — Come With Me, Bullet
"Four!"
"Three!"
"Two!"
"Last one!"
Number Nine, covered in blood, tossed aside his shattered flintlock and collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, his eyes fixed on the bodies around him.
All thirteen enemy soldiers lay dead.
He had survived.
Once again—he had survived.
He didn't know how much longer this life would go on—
Maybe a few more years, maybe a decade, maybe his entire existence would be nothing but this.
But he was determined never to fall.
Bang!
Splatter!
Just as Number Nine finally let himself relax, a gunshot cracked from afar.
The bullet grazed past his head by a hair's breadth—
—but this time, he wasn't so lucky.
His right ear was torn clean off, blood instantly pouring down his cheek.
He staggered upright, ignoring the pain, and turned toward the shooter.
There—
"Number Nine… Never thought you'd actually survive."
From the darkness ahead, a familiar figure stepped into the light.
It was the same comrade who had betrayed him earlier, expression blank, rifle raised, eyes filled with scorn.
"Why…?"
Number Nine's voice was low and hoarse.
He could endure betrayal.
He could endure abandonment.
He had always survived—always watched silently as those who turned on him eventually met their own deaths.
He never blamed anyone—
He simply told himself he wasn't strong enough yet.
But to see this man return, rifle aimed not at the enemy but at him—
It left him breathless.
"Why? There's no why. I just wanted to see if you'd finally die… you monster."
Click.
The bolt locked in place.
At this distance—Number Nine had no chance to dodge.
His body was spent.
If that shot landed in his chest or legs, it was over.
And as death drew close, his mind drifted over the scraps of his short, bitter life.
Abandoned by his mother as a baby.
Taken in by the kingdom's war orphanage—raised as nothing but a weapon.
He'd always been stronger than other children, and that strength had kept him alive, again and again.
At the start of Sea Circle Year 1485, he'd first set foot on the battlefield as a boy soldier.
Serving in Douglas Gray's company, known only by the designation Number Nine.
In just two months, he had fought in more than a dozen engagements—
Every time, he came back alive.
Eventually, he began to notice the disgust in his comrades' eyes.
They started calling him "monster."
It hadn't been long before they turned on him outright.
And now, that same rifle—once pointed at their enemies—
—was aimed straight at him, simply because he had survived again.
"It's… so damn frustrating…"
Bang!
Ting—!
"What!?"
A white cloud materialized in front of him—
The bullet that should have punched through his arm instead struck something soft and harmless, falling to the dirt.
Yes—
Lady Luck had spared him once more.
Even without the cloud, the bullet's slight deviation might still have given him an opening to counterattack.
A figure descended from the sky, placing itself between Number Nine and the gunman.
The newcomer glanced at the wary, rifle-wielding youth and shook his head.
A massive hand of cloud formed out of thin air, wrapping around the attacker and flinging him far into the distance.
Ross hadn't killed him—
He simply removed him from the scene.
Then he turned to the dazed boy behind him.
His voice was calm, unhurried:
"I've been watching you for quite some time now. Would you like to come with me?"
Looking into Bullet's eyes, Ross made the invitation plain and direct.
No elaborate explanations—
Just the simple truth:
I've taken an interest in you.
Number Nine lifted his head.
He didn't ask why—
Because it didn't matter.
From the day he'd been taken in, he'd understood—
He had never really had a choice.
It had been that way before—
It was that way now.
From one master's tool—
—to another's.
What difference did it make?
"I understand."
His voice was dull as he nodded.
He lacked the means to survive on his own—
So he could only accept.
Ross studied him, feeling a weight settle in his chest.
In truth, he had located Bullet long ago.
But he hadn't reached out—
—not until this moment, when Bullet still had the will and strength to fight back.
There was a reason for that.
Ross didn't just want to be a benefactor—
He needed to be Bullet's savior.
Not merely the man who bought him out of an orphanage—
—but the one who rescued him when all hope was gone.
Because Ross knew perfectly well—
One day, he would not be able to truly restrain this child's power.
When Bullet approached thirty—
—he would almost certainly surpass him.
And when that day came—
A mere "buyer" would never be enough to make Bullet choose to stay at his side willingly.
This was different from the way he treated Sakazuki.
Ross loved his family.
And if he wanted to keep them safe in this vast, unforgiving sea, then having a top-tier enforcer at his side was absolutely essential.
For that, he had no choice but to scheme against an eight-year-old child—
—simply because that child's name was Bullet.
Maybe this is why, even as a transmigrator, I never awakened Conqueror's Haki, he reflected quietly.
I see myself too clearly. I can't even maintain the tiniest beautiful illusion.
Ross let out a long, silent breath.
Then he looked at Bullet and said:
"Choose a name for yourself. I'm going to take you away from here. You'll start a new life—and I'll train you. You'll become the tool that protects my family."
His tone was deliberately flat, as if reciting lines prepared long ago.
The black-and-white mask—sternness and kindness in measured doses—was always the most effective way to break someone down.
And at this moment, he was playing the part of the "black mask."
"A name? I… can have something like that?"
Number Nine stared blankly at him.
So in the end, he really hadn't escaped being a tool.
But—
He could at least have a name, instead of a cold, numbered designation.
"Of course."
"Then… I'll be Bullet."
Bullet—taken from the word bullet.
It was the only name he could think of that felt true to what he was.
Ross nodded, his expression unchanged.
"Mm. Not bad. Do you have anything you need to take with you?"
"No."
"Then let's go."
Ross's voice was calm and unfeeling as he raised his hand.
A cloud rose beneath their feet, lifting them gently into the sky and carrying them into the distance.
Bullet didn't look surprised.
Instead, he turned to gaze silently down at his homeland.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small medal.
Only the most distinguished warriors were awarded such a decoration in battle.
It was everything he had ever owned—his entire past.
From above, he could see the smoke of war rising across the archipelago.
Today's battlefield was only a fragment of the endless conflict.
In Galzburg, war never stopped.
The flames consumed everyone, the only difference being how near or far you were from them.
After a moment's hesitation, Bullet let the medal slip from his fingers.
It tumbled away, falling to the scorched earth below.
No one would know he had left with another man.
His records here would end with a single note: Deceased.
Someone else would inherit the designation of Number Nine.
And he—
—he would begin a new life.
A life with a new purpose—
A reason to keep surviving.
So let the honors of my past die here with the boy I used to be.
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