In a calm and tranquil sea area.
On a discreet yet luxurious armed merchant ship.
Victor, a maritime intelligence broker and black market merchant, leaned back in his large desk made of rare wood, somewhat irritably flipping through a stack of intelligence reports his subordinates had just gathered.
He had just finished resupplying the Golden Dream.
According to the original plan, his fleet should have already set sail, heading to another sea area to conduct a transaction with another important client.
As a result, the Lunatics from the Storm Church stirred up the entire sea area like they were on steroids.
Their patrol ships were everywhere, crashing around recklessly, severely disrupting normal shipping order.
To avoid unnecessary trouble, he had to put all subsequent arrangements on hold.
"Damn Storm Church—a bunch of idiots who only think with their muscles," Victor muttered under his breath, tossing aside a report about a blocked shipping lane.
He picked up the next report, his gaze casually sweeping over it, and then his fingers stopped.
"A bounty for the Disease Maiden?" he mumbled, a hint of interest in his eyes.
He carefully read the contents.
"Bounty—Monqi Brando—Alive—Ten thousand."
Ten thousand…
"Tsk," Victor clicked his tongue, his fingers rhythmically tapping the desk, his eyes gleaming with the shrewdness unique to a merchant.
Of course, he knew Tracy, the Disease Maiden, that female pirate known for her diseases and beauty.
But he was more curious about the background of this "Monqi Brando" fellow, who could prompt Tracy to issue such an exorbitant private bounty.
It was rare for a private bounty to exceed ten thousand pounds, excluding those from the Official, and such an occurrence might not happen for many years.
Moreover, the name Monchi Brando also resonated with him.
He picked up a few more documents from the desk.
One was a commission from Iceberg Admiral Edwina, seeking the whereabouts of a missing young adventurer named Brando.
Another was a secret report from an informant connected to the Storm Church, indicating that the high-ranking members of the Church in Bayam also seemed to be secretly monitoring a survivor named Brando who had gone missing in a shipwreck.
Victor looked at the several intelligence reports, all featuring the same name, and the expression on his face grew increasingly playful.
His intuition as an intelligence broker told him that the Brando in these three pieces of intelligence should be the same person.
He couldn't help but lean back in his chair, muttering to himself in a tone of someone who had discovered an unparalleled Tracy:
"Who exactly is this 'Monchi Brando'? Why does it feel like everyone is looking for him now?"
"It seems I'll have to use the Shawshank Firm's intelligence network."
Bayam, evening.
Alger was currently blending into the crowd, unhurriedly trailing behind Danitz.
He watched the other man turn left and right through the intricate alleys, finally stopping in front of a dilapidated civilian house in an extremely secluded location.
"Is this his latest stronghold? He's really hidden it well," Alger thought to himself, hiding around a distant corner.
"Going directly to his door won't work! It's too obvious and could easily make him wary."
"I'll wait for him to reveal a flaw here." Just as Alger was pondering his next move, whether to continue monitoring or find an opportunity to "pass by," a furious curse from Danitz suddenly erupted from the dilapidated house:
"Damn it! You can't run far!"
Immediately after, the door was violently flung open, and Danitz rushed out in a panic, running towards an even more secluded alley.
"The prey ran away?"
Seeing this, Alger's heart stirred with joy, and he immediately followed.
"Come, have another drink, you can still—drink—"
As soon as he chased into the narrow, dirty alley, a reeking drunkard staggered and collided with him head-on, mumbling incoherently.
Alger frowned, an undisguised look of disgust on his face.
He slightly angled his body, intending to walk around him.
But the drunkard, as if boneless, swayed and blocked his path again, a strong smell of alcohol mixed with the sour stench of vomit assailing his nostrils.
"Get lost!" Alger cursed under his breath, no longer able to maintain his patience, and extended his arm, pushing the obstructive fellow away.
The drunkard crashed against the nearby brick wall.
The wall, already old and in disrepair, emitted a crisp "crack" with the impact.
"What?!"
To Alger's astonished gaze, the entire wall collapsed with a "crash"!
Broken stones and bricks, like a small mudslide, narrowly crashed onto the spot where he had just been standing, the stirred-up dust making him cough repeatedly and blurring his vision.
With this delay, he lost track of Danitz.
"Damn it!" Alger cursed in a low voice, feeling a surge of annoyance.
When did his luck become so bad?
Damn it, where did he go?
Time passed minute by minute, and the Sun also set.
"Bang!"
Just as Alger had searched around fruitlessly and was about to give up, a crisp gunshot suddenly rang out from another alley nearby!
Alger's heart stirred, and he immediately rushed in the direction of the gunshot.
To his pleasant surprise, as soon as he rounded the corner of the alley, he ran right into a familiar figure, none other than the "Monchi Brando" from the bounty poster!
He appeared injured, one hand clutching a bleeding wound on his abdomen, his clothes stained crimson.
He was limping, trying to escape, his face filled with fear and despair.
Not far behind him, Danitz was chasing him furiously, a smoking pistol still in his hand.
"Damn it!"
"Quick! Stop him!" Danitz shouted as he saw Alger.
Seeing this, Alger no longer hesitated.
He pushed off with force, his body shooting out like an arrow from a bow.
Facing the severely wounded and panicked "Brando," he didn't even use any Beyonder abilities, relying only on his superhuman physical fitness.
With a clean and swift takedown, he instantly pinned the other party firmly onto the cold, dirty ground.
"Pfft—" The pinned "Brando" spat out a mouthful of blood, struggled twice, and then became completely still.
At this moment, Alger's mood reached its peak.
Danitz, this fellow, had indeed caught this target worth ten thousand pounds!
And, he was so careless as to let him escape!
Now, I not only witnessed all of this, but I also personally helped him catch the person.
If he doesn't split the money with me, it's completely unreasonable!
Thinking of this, he immediately felt a surge of joy.
When Danitz ran over, panting, Alger still maintained his pinning posture, his knee firmly pressing down on his "prey" below him.
He intended to have a good discussion with Danitz about the ancient and fair topic of "finders keepers."
Seeing the smile on Alger's face, Danitz frowned and said nothing.
It was completely the expression of someone whose good deed had been interrupted.
"Hmph, no matter how unwilling you are, it's useless, who told you to make a mistake and let him run away?"
"Moreover, the person is still under me." Looking at Danitz's expression, Alger felt a bit disdainful inside, but a smile still appeared on his face.
"Ah, you'll get a share."
Seeing this, Danitz sighed helplessly, seemingly resigned to his fate—he looked at Alger, then squatted down.
He first glanced at "Brando's" abdominal wound, then reached out to check his breath, and finally flipped his eyelids.
"Good, he died exactly as planned.
The black market potion, the mental shock, plus the Spirit-Exterminating Bullet—Brando really thought of everything." Danitz forcibly suppressed the smile in his heart, trying to make his expression appear dazed and annoyed.
"Danitz?" Alger, seeing this, also snapped out of his joy; he noticed that Danitz's expression seemed a bit off.
After thinking about all the saddest things in his life.
Danitz suddenly looked up, glaring at Alger with an expression like he was looking at an enemy, and burst out cursing:
"Damn it! I told you to stop him! Why did you kill him?!"
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