"Outsider, this isn't the right time for you. While you still can, I suggest you leave."
The shopkeeper gave his solemn advice after pocketing the coin, then lowered his head and resumed weaving the straw ropes. Duke shrugged, watching the man's practiced hands at work.
At some point in history, Queen's Grass, once only good for feeding pigs, had somehow gained a mystical reputation for warding off the horrors of Soul-Eclipse Night. Every year before the festival, people would scramble to gather Queen's Grass, twist it into straw ropes, and burn them on the night of the eclipse, believing the smoke would shield their homes from evil.
In reality, it did nothing.
At best, it offered a sliver of psychological comfort.
"Nice craftsmanship," Duke said with a smirk, then turned to leave.
Meanwhile, a few loafers lounging nearby exchanged glances and began following him slowly.
The shopkeeper gave Duke a glance from under his brows, fingers clutching the coin tucked inside his coat. He muttered, "Naïve kid, flashing your wealth like that... might as well offer yourself up as shark bait or rat feed."
Strolling down the bustling streets, Duke seemed oblivious to the fact he was being followed. Hands tucked into his coat pockets, he moved at an unhurried pace, occasionally stopping to purchase local trinkets.
A long skirt adorned with bright fish scales. A necklace made of beast fangs. A conch horn that let out low, haunting moans when blown. Even a statue of the Serpent Mother.
All perfect gifts for his friends back in Piltover and Zaun.
Maybe that offbeat fish-harpoon launcher would catch Jinx's eye. The sea-beast hunting net could go to Caitlyn. That bottle of strong liquor, brewed with unidentifiable sea-creature limbs, might be something Viktor would appreciate... assuming he had finally gotten somewhere with that girl named Sky.
The fang necklace? That's for Vi. The Serpent Mother statue? Camille. And as for Orianna, whom he hadn't visited in a while?
Naturally, buy, buy, buy. He packed a full inventory of gifts for that sweet bun-haired girl.
Before long, Duke found himself in the harbor district. Standing on the edge of a dock, he watched shark fins slice through the water below and sighed.
"Look at that, I've met so many interesting people along the way. Not bad."
"But for every good friend, I've run into three idiots."
Rolling his eyes, Duke slowly turned around, only to find a group of thugs grinning viciously at him. There were more than a dozen, each armed with makeshift weapons.
Their gear was pitiful: fish-gutting knives, rusty cleavers, half-snapped harpoons wrapped in cloth, a sharpened hook welded onto a pipe, and the best of the lot, a battered flintlock musket.
It gave Duke a whole new appreciation for how dire the weapon situation was in Bilgewater.
Selling weapons here could make someone filthy rich.
"Hey kid, been tailin' ya for eight damn streets. Finally cornered ya!"
"Thought you liked sightseeing so much? Why don't you try sightseeing in hell?"
"Hand over your cash. Strip off your clothes. Take a dive in the water. Do that, and we'll spare your life."
"Move it! Don't test my patience!"
"Is this really the standard of thugs in Bilgewater?"
Duke rolled his eyes again. He'd been marked ever since he'd tossed that coin to the shopkeeper. The shopping spree afterward had been partly for his friends, but mostly a test to see just how many vultures were circling.
To his surprise, only this many showed up.
Here, conflict could be sparked by something as simple as wearing a shiny necklace or flashy clothes. People assumed you were soft, rich, easy pickings. Or maybe your brass belt buckle caught the sunlight just right and looked like gold.
They'd knock you out cold, strip you clean, and vanish, regardless of whether you lived or died.
If you didn't wake up in time, odds were you'd end up on someone's butcher slab by morning.
In Bilgewater, might was law. Power was the only truth. The law of the jungle wasn't metaphorical here, it was gospel.
Nine out of ten residents were criminals. And the last one? Just hadn't been caught yet.
"So, you think I'm easy prey?"
Duke slowly rolled up his sleeves, widened his stance, drew a breath, and shifted his weight downward. His left hand clenched in front of his chest, right arm pointed straight down.
"Hand over the coin!" the thug with the musket bellowed, lifting his weapon and firing.
Bang!
As the gun fired, Duke vanished from sight.
The echo of the shot caught the attention of a returning traveler nearby.
Smoke still curled from the musket's barrel, but the "fat sheep" had disappeared. The thug stepped forward, glancing around in confusion.
They'd had their eyes on Duke ever since he arrived.
Sharkskin boots, handmade. A sweater spun from genuine Freljordian wool. Ionian cloth trousers and coat. Any one of those pieces could fetch dozens of Gold Krakens on the black market.
And then the guy started throwing money around like confetti.
They had no doubt they'd picked the right mark.
Yet in the very first move, their prey vanished like a ghost.
"What the hell..."
"I'm over here."
A mocking voice came from behind them. The thug spun around, heart racing. Duke was standing a few meters away, hands still buried casually in his pockets.
"How the hell did he get there?"
"Something's off about this guy."
"So what? Just think of how many Gold Krakens he's worth!"
"People die every day in Bilgewater. Why not him today, and we get rich?"
"All in! First one to take him down gets half his stuff!"
With that cry, the gang charged forward, eyes gleaming with greed.
"I've been holding off on testing this because the damage was too intense for Piltover. But here? Perfect."
Duke slid forward with his right foot, anchoring his left like a nail. His figure flickered, vanishing from view.
Fist-Gun Combat Technique – Smoothbore Slide!
Like gliding on air, Duke reappeared before the leading thug and punched fast and hard. His sharp senses captured every detail: the opponent's swinging machete, and his rotting teeth bared in a snarl.
Boom!
The first blow hit with a thunderous crack. The man's arm and weapon exploded into pulp. Duke withdrew, then struck again, elbow coiling inward.
BOOM!
The second man was punched straight through the chest. It was as if he'd been shot point-blank by a flintlock.
Fist-Gun Combat Technique – Flintlock Blast!
Two down in a blink. Duke had intended to stop there, but more blades were already swinging his way. He drew his fists close to his waist and let them fly.
Fist-Gun Combat Technique – Gatling Barrage!
Anyone caught in his attack range was shredded, like being hit by a hail of bullets. Flesh and bone were pulverized into a mangled mess.
In mere seconds, only the leader with the musket remained.
Duke glanced at the carnage beneath his feet, then at his spotless fists.
"A terrifying technique. Whoever turned firearm mechanics into martial arts was a lunatic, a genius of killing."
"This kind of style must've been made for war."
The last thug was shaking like a leaf. Duke gave him a look.
"I've killed enough today. Drop your weapon, jump in the water, and I won't touch you."
"But... the razorfish, "
Seeing the look in Duke's eyes, the thug let out a shriek, flung his gun away, and dove into the water.
Maybe the fish would eat him. Maybe he'd escape.
But staying on land guaranteed death.
Watching the splash, Duke rolled his eyes, for the 273rd time, and carefully sidestepped the gore.
He'd expected the technique to be powerful, but not this powerful.
And yet, despite the noise, the onlookers barely reacted. Some turned and left. Others waited for Duke to move on so they could scavenge the corpses.
"What a mess of a city."
Duke muttered to himself, then spotted a bearded man with a cigar, holding a double-barrel shotgun and watching from nearby.
The moment he saw him, Duke stroked his chin with interest.
What luck. He'd run into that famous conman's partner.
But judging from the man's stance, it looked like he was here for a little "clean-up work."
"Relax, buddy."
The bearded man, Graves, lowered his shotgun and gave a crooked smile.
But with his scarred face, it looked anything but friendly.
"You trying to play the vulture? Wait for the mantis and catch the cicada?"
"Now now, don't be like that."
Graves had witnessed the brutal takedown, and all thoughts of taking advantage vanished. Hugging his prized weapon, Destiny, he grinned.
"I'm just here to go fishin'."
Duke cast a glance at the shotgun and curled his lip.
"With a toy like that? Yeah, fishin's about all it's good for."
Graves' expression darkened. He bit down on the cigar and took a long draw.
You could insult him. You could insult his background, his crimes, even his scumbag partner Twisted Fate.
But you did not insult his gun, his Destiny.
That was sacred.
"Take it back."
Graves raised his weapon, aiming it straight at Duke. His voice low and gravelly beneath a puff of indigo smoke:
"Take it back, kid."
End of chapter...
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