Ch.158 (Gore warning!)

"*Whistele*~~This is a high-quality item."

"After dying, it hasn't been that long, right? Let's leak it on the darknet. There'splenty of people who want a kid's organs. The brain, though, that's no good."

Several men are gathering on the roadside.

They are discussing the handling of the small corpse lying in front of them.

A child's corpse has various uses, especially the organs that are valuable.

On the blacknet – the underground market dealing even with illegal items – how much would it fetch?

Just as the calculating minds of the men couldn't be stopped, a gunshot rang out.

"I'll give you three seconds. Disappear."

The gunshot echoes through the neighborhood.

The men, who instinctively flinch, turn around to see a tall figure holding a handgun in his right hand.

Wearing sunglasses, it's hard to see the shape of the eyes and the color of the emotions can't be discerned.

Most likely, the gaze is sharp, and the intent to kill is easily sensed.

Survival of the fittest. There's enjoyment of life only if they can preserve it.

The men scatter like spiders. Watching them flee, the young man, still holding the gun, scans his gaze left and right.

There's no apparent hostile presence. After confirming that, he secures the safety, holsters the gun in the shoulder holster hanging inside his jacket, and looks at the small corpse beyond his sunglasses.

Approaching the silent figure, he kneels beside it and peers into its face.

"... Fuuhhh...What a bad kid. Breaking the promise unilaterally. I was looking forward to the next ten years."

The face is swollen, bruises evident, and the young face, with a deep dent on the crown, is lightly caressed by him as he lets out a deep sigh.

"... I was looking forward to how good of a woman you would become..."

Below the neck, it's considered impolite to look.

From the inner pocket of his jacket, Moore crams a soft pack, an oil lighter, and a USB memory card into the pocket of his slacks.

He takes off the black jacket, wrapping the small, lifeless body with it. It's so small; he thinks about the size and height.

Carrying the body in a sideways hug, he starts walking.

His destination is the bar.

-----

.

.

.

Having started running, the question arises: Will the Underworld Queen's group really not let those bastards escape?

Some slight anxiety begins to sprout in his mind, but...

"Well... at that time..."

...Everyone should be found and killed. It takes time and effort, but the outcome won't change.

Carrying the girl wrapped in a black jacket in his arms, he walks for about ten minutes.

"Ah, sorry for the trouble."

"Welcome back, Mister."

Sitting on the car's hood, the female leader, with long legs wrapped in thigh-high boots crossed, responds. A thin cigar is clenched in her mouth, and she leisurely exhales purple smoke.

"...Who's that girl?"

"My savior."

"I see."

Sakura, who ties her hair with a vibrant large ribbon and is the head of the Seimei-kai, and Moran, the head of the Botan-kai, with an intellectual subordinate by her side, acknowledge the presence of the small body carried by him.

Receiving something condensed into the description of a savior, they respond with a nod, although sparing with words.

"Consigliere."

"Yes, Boss. Mister, over here."

A slender woman wearing a white fedora soft hat approaches Moore.

Moore, feeling cautious, squints her eyes behind the lenses of his sunglasses. Nothing that, Rosanna jumps off the hood she was sitting on and shrugs her shoulders. Perhaps the car is quite sturdy, as the hood is undented, and there's not much disturbance in the vehicle. Or maybe it's because her own body is relatively light.

"Mister, I understand your feelings, but... you can't kill them while holding her, right?"

"As the Boss says. Please leave her with us."

"...…"

"...I swear I won't do anything like leaking her on the blacknet."

Taking extra precautions, Rosanna declares, and finally, he hands over the small body wrapped in the jacket to the Consigliere.

"...She's my debtor. Try to handle her roughly. I'll make sure you die."

"...Understood."

As the consigliere, accustomed to Rosanna's unreasonable and chaotic requests as the boss, she nods reluctantly, feeling a spine-chilling gaze and a low voice that she hasn't felt in a while.

Having entrusted the small body, which would have grown into a fine woman after ten years, to the consigliere, he casually unbuttons the sleeves of his shirt. Both left and right.

Rolling up his sleeves and exposing both elbows, he heads towards four men kneeling on the street, still restrained in front of the bar. There's one more, but Moore miscalculated his strength, causing him to die. As a result, he remains sprawled on the street, left in the position he fell.

"...It's a hassle to say a lot of things. I'll make it brief. – I won't use guns. Bullets are too precious."

Those with glass shards piercing their entire bodies, wrists or armpits slashed, knives stuck in their thighs, and some with broken bones from blunt force – all of them look up at him as if their gazes are repelled.

"Did you think you could die easily? I apologize for betraying that expectation. I sincerely apologize. Now it's time for the bullying you weaklings love so much. Honestly, this isn't my hobby. I want you to believe that. – Can someone cut the wires?"

Acknowledging that everyone's arms are looped behind their lower backs, he urges them to release the restraints.

Sakura nods, signaling to her organization members. They seem to have understood the details. Some of them grab pliers and move behind the men, cutting the thin wires that were tightened enough to cut into their wrists.

Then he walks towards the man with the knife stuck in his thigh. Apparently, he wasn't allowed to die from excessive bleeding. It seems he received makeshift tourniquets using shoelaces or wires.

Regardless of the pain caused by the deeply embedded knife, Moore, indifferent to the suffering, grabs the knife and forcefully pulls it out.

"Ugh!? Aaaah!!?"

"Don't make such pitiful sounds if you are a man."

He wipes the blood off the damaged blade of the knife on the man's clothes. The blade is damaged, making it even more painful. It's his fault for not sharpening it properly.

"...Tch, how dare you try to attack me with such a shoddy knife. Do you know? Being stabbed or cut with something like this is not only more painful but also slower to heal."

Well, it's not like it'll heal again – Moore's thought lasts only a moment.

The damaged knife gripped in his hand – the broken tip of it is thrust into the man's eyeball.

"Gah!? Agah!! Aaaah!!!?"

A squelching and dull, wet sound follows as the man, now acutely feeling the pain, reflexively tries to close his eyelids. However, something seems to be obstructing it, preventing him from shutting them.

"You're lucky guys. If you had violated her more, I would've treated you better..."

Following the knife, pulled out with a slurping noise, the gelatinous vitreous humor drips down from the eye socket in a pitiful manner.

"Do you like jelly? Unfortunately, I'm not a fan... Does it suit your taste?"

Without changing his expression, Moore's fingertips pick up the eyeball hanging by only the optic nerve. Forcefully tearing it off along with the optic nerve, he pushes the gooey eyeball into the screaming man's open mouth.

"Come on, savor it well. Tasty, isn't it? No? Swallow it properly."

- No guns will be used.

Finally grasping the meaning of the declared words, the men and those watching this scene – the women and members – Finally understood it to the bone.

"Sis, maybe it's better to stop at least for show?"

"....Then Jin, why don't you try to stop it?"

"Give me a break. Are you indirectly telling me to die?"

If they were to appeal against the organizer of this gruesome show or call for its cancellation, they wouldn't know what kind of repercussions might follow.

Despite her appearance, Moran shrugged her shoulders to her close aides who could read the situation.

"Confucius preached benevolence, Mencius preached righteousness... but to go to such lengths for a debtor...?"

The thoughts of ancient philosophers from thousands of years ago – especially Confucian or Confucianism-like thoughts in this context – are being echoed here.

Certainly, whether this aligns with Moran's often-uttered virtues of "benevolence" and "righteousness" is a delicate matter.

To put it bluntly, it's nothing more than personal retaliation or punishment.

However, speaking those words, even if they may seem insulting, it's just a story of some filthy kid becoming a sacrifice. In the Outer Rim, it's a tale as common as dirt.

Moran doesn't know the details of the circumstances, but a young man exuding an atmosphere of chivalry and martial arts called the girl his "savior." It's strange how she can inexplicably accept that he, who doesn't seem to have the personality or disposition to stay silent when his savior is harmed, refers to her as such.

To the onlooker, it may seem like an excessively harsh retaliation, but for him, it's probably just a very ordinary one.

"...How nice. I feel like sharing a cup."

- There goes Sis's bad habit again...

Catching her leader, who is smiling with a hand on her well-defined jaw, one of the close aides lets out a big sigh.

"Ki--ple---just---...!"

"...Kill you, huh? The spineless guy bit his own tongue and died. I have to make up for that. Really sorry."

A lucky guy. Even though the probability of dying after biting your own tongue is dubious – there was one who, with his last strength, bit it off to commit suicide.

So, to prevent the same thing from happening again, Moore grabs the last remaining person by the collar, considering the force, and repeatedly punches his cheek with measured strength.

The jaw shatters, and most of the teeth fall out. It's now impossible to bite off his own tongue.

"If you're a man, endure it without teeth. ...Ah, sorry. I forgot there are hardly any teeth left. My bad. Well then, endure it with your guts. You're a man, right?"

Only a few teeth remain in the oral cavity. The man, with his face swollen and bleeding profusely from the shredded mouth, pleads desperately. Please kill him quickly.

But unfortunately, he is not that kind of compassionate person.

This is not torture. It's not even an interrogation. There's absolutely no information he wants to ask or acquire.

"...I'll torment you thoroughly and torment you to death. I'll let you taste more than what I did for my savior before letting you die."

Grasping the collar, pulling forcefully, and rubbing their foreheads together, he calmly declares.

Thanks to the dark black lenses, only a thin sliver of eyes is visible, and for the man, it must be frustrating. The eyes, which should be able to convey the hope for a shock of death just with a gaze, are hidden.

Suddenly, he tilts his head back significantly, and eventually, with the recoil, a dull sound echoes as his forehead collides with the man's.

A mere headbutt, but it's still a headbutt.

The man's forehead splits open, revealing a fragment of the white skull. Even that fragment has cracks running through it.

"Hey, what are you passing out for... Tch... He's gone and died without permission."

He was supposed to have controlled the force well. Then, it must have been the fault of the other party.

The man, still grasping the collar, is already slumped, his swollen eyelids slightly opening, breath halted.

Having declared to torment him to death, it's unimpressive if he's already dead.

Losing interest, Moore releases his grip, and the man falls backward onto the street like a puppet with its strings cut.

"Mister."

Approaching from the side is Rosanna. She offers her handkerchief to him. Faintly, it carries the scent of the same rose that she engraved on her skin as a tattoo.

"Use it?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Really? It's quite a splash of backflow, though."

His cheeks, fists, and shirt are splattered with the red backflow from the men.

Although she extends it as if to wipe it off, he declines, taking out his own handkerchief from the pocket of his slacks and begins to wipe himself off haphazardly.

With a shrug, Rosanna puts away the unused handkerchief.

"...It's a nice smell. A scent I like. It would be a shame to dirty such a fine thing."

"Is that so?"

If that's the reason, it's not bad at all.

Rosanna, with narrowed eyes, tilts her head slightly and smiles.

"...What about that girl?"

"─She's here. What would you like to do, Mister.?"

The Consigliere, who had been standing behind Rosanna, steps forward, carrying the girl.

Moore, who had put away the handkerchief, reaches out to the girl, but he stops midway and lowers his arm.

He can't touch her with these dirty hands.

"...I'd appreciate it if you could bury her. I don't know the customs here in the Outer Rim, but..."

"Then, will you leave it to me?"

Rosanna, who spoke from the side, catches his attention through the sunglasses.

"...You won't gain anything from it. It'll be nothing but trouble."

"Is the trouble of burying someone you call a benefactor a problem for someone like you, Mister?"

"...No."

It won't be a problem. Implicitly acknowledging this, he glances at Rosanna with a sidelong look through his sunglasses.

"Then, leave it to me. First, let's make her presentable. Don't worry; I promise not to handle her roughly."

"...If you handle her even a little roughly, I'll kill you."

"Sure, sure."

----How exciting~~

The closer she looks, the more her spine shivers and an inexplicable heat rises in her lower abdomen.

She responds lightly, but it takes a bit of effort to maintain the composure that seems slightly disrupted.

With a nod to the Consigliere, prompting her to tidy up, the aide returned the gesture.

"Oh, right. What's her name?"

"...Name?"

"You need a name to carve on the grave; otherwise, the burial has no meaning. What's her name?"

---Oh. The promise may have been doomed from the start.

"...It was an oversight."

"...Huh?"

"It's nothing. ─Anna. That's her name."

"Anna, huh. Got it."

Rosanna nodded as if promising to engrave it firmly on the grave.

After confirming that, Moore turned on his heel and returned to the rough interior of the establishment.

Inside the counter, the middle-aged owner and the remaining customers gathered at the edge of the store to welcome Moore. All of them reflected fear in their eyes.

"─Master."

"─Y-Yes!"

"─Bring the finest sake in this bar."

The flustered owner nodded vigorously, rummaging through the shelves behind.

On the floor, torn packaging and silver foil lay scattered, and Moore picked up a half-eaten chocolate.

He wasn't fond of sweets.

However, as if he had forgotten that, he removed all the packaging and silver foil, pinched the chocolate with his fingers stained with unwiped blood, and pushed it into his mouth.

While chewing, the owner placed a bottle of sake on the counter table.

A sweet and slightly bitter chocolate that melted and disappeared in the mouth.

"For Anna."

He cut the seal of the grabbed bottle, brought the pouring mouth directly to his lips, and swallowed it forcefully.

After ten years, the day to share a drink with the person who would have become a good woman to his liking will never come.

It's truly regrettable. She must have turned into a woman who suits his taste if it happens.

The contents of the bottle were quickly emptied in one go.

The dull sound of placing the now empty bottle on the counter table, followed by a deep sigh as if savoring the aftertaste of the sake, resonated in the store.

---

**Anna (アンナ):**

Derived from the Hebrew feminine name "Channah," meaning "favor" or "grace," which is Hellenized to Anna in Greek.