A wide swath of teeth flew across the ground.
Rockefeller Charlotte didn't even glance at Bess, who lay moaning on the dirt, his mouth bloodied and swollen. Instead, Charlotte bent down and casually picked up the gang boss's golden tooth, now stained crimson. He was desperately short on money—very short.
"Uuuugh…!"Bess clutched his mangled mouth in agony, eyes wide with disbelief and pain as Charlotte calmly pocketed the tooth. After a few seconds of searching through his loot, Charlotte gave Bess one last, contemptuous kick.
WHAM!
The gang boss flew through the air like a ragdoll and collapsed in a heap next to his defeated underlings.
"Get lost. I better not see your face around here again."
Charlotte's icy voice echoed through the market square. The bystanders, who had watched in terrified awe, instinctively backed away. Even Bess's henchmen scrambled to their feet, lifting their boss and fleeing without another word.
Watching the chaos, Charlotte couldn't help but laugh for the first time in a long while.
"Wahahahaha!"
It felt good. After a year of silence in the mountains—training in solitude, speaking to no one—he had almost forgotten what it was like to vent. Even if he could tolerate loneliness, that didn't mean the isolation hadn't built up inside.
After catching his breath, Charlotte returned to his stall, reorganizing the furs neatly and resuming his role as vendor. To his relief, some townspeople still had the nerve to approach, drawn by the high quality of the pelts. The most valuable ones sold quickly, and before long, Charlotte had made a profit of 140 million Baileys.
The rest of the furs, however, were of lesser quality—practically worthless. As the day wore on and the sun began to sink, Charlotte packed up what remained and headed to the blacksmith district. He had plans.
"Boss! I want some iron tools made!"
He called into the forge. A burly blacksmith stepped out, hammer in hand.
"Coming! What can I do for you, young man?"
Charlotte handed him a carefully drawn blueprint. "Here. Just follow this design. How long will it take?"
The blacksmith unfurled the parchment and stared. His brows furrowed as he examined the odd schematics. These weren't farming tools or standard weapons. The designs were strange—clearly custom, and complicated.
"Hmm… these pieces are unusual, and I don't have all the materials on hand. It might take a month."
"A month?!" Charlotte scowled. That was too long.
"Fine. Just make the first few pieces. I'll find someone else for the rest."
"Deal." The blacksmith nodded and accepted the down payment without protest.
Charlotte then visited the town's other two blacksmiths—there were only three in total—dividing the orders between them. He gave each of them a week. No delays.
With his errands complete, Charlotte made his way back to the dilapidated thatched hut on the outskirts of town—the same one he hadn't set foot in for over a year. Isolated, crumbling, drafty—it wasn't much, but compared to a year of sleeping under trees, it would do just fine.
He lay on the rough bedding and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
Meanwhile, in a not-so-luxurious—but relatively large—house elsewhere in the village…
Four or five bruised and swollen men stood stiffly at attention. They were the bruised remnants of the Wild Wolf Gang.
On the couch sat Bess, the gang's humiliated leader.
BANG!
He slammed his fist against the table.
"That brat is DEAD. Even the gods won't save him this time!"His words hissed through bloodied teeth, his face twisted in rage.
"Did you find out who he is?" Bess asked sharply, turning to his men.
"Yes, boss. He's just some orphan living in a broken-down hut on the west side of town. Everyone knows it. Wasn't hard to find."
Bess stood up, walked to a side cabinet, and pulled open a drawer. From it, he withdrew a small but elegant pistol.
"We're ending this tonight."
Under cover of darkness, Bess led four or five of his thugs toward the western edge of town.
Before them stood the rickety thatched hut, its roof sagging and its walls full of holes. Under the pale moonlight, Bess could see Charlotte's silhouette inside—fast asleep.
Perfect.
As they crept within 20 meters of the shack, Bess raised the pistol and aimed it straight at Charlotte's head.
BANG!
The shot rang out.
But in that very instant, Charlotte's body twitched instinctively. Every hair on his body stood on end. In his mind, he saw a split-second vision—his own head exploding.
He snapped his head to the side.
The bullet grazed his scalp.
Charlotte jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat.
"WHO?!"
With a furious roar, he burst out of the hut and locked eyes with Bess.
Bess froze.
He'd aimed right at the kid's head. Charlotte should've been dead.
How had he dodged it?
But Charlotte already understood what had happened.
His anger exploded.
"I let you walk away this morning—and now you come back to assassinate me? You really want to die!"
With a burst of speed, Charlotte shot forward and drove a punch straight into Bess's chest.
His fist pierced through.
It went all the way out the other side.
Bess's body froze in shock.
"Ah… ah…"He tried to speak, but no words came. After a few seconds, his head slumped forward.
Dead.
Charlotte pulled his arm back, flicked the blood from his hand, and turned toward the remaining gang members.
They stood paralyzed.
Some turned and bolted. Others stood, trembling in place.
Charlotte gave chase, effortlessly catching the runners in a few quick strides. He didn't strike hard—just fast. One kick each, and they were down.
He grabbed two by the ankles and dragged them back.
As soon as Charlotte touched them, he saw flashes in his mind—memories, movements, thoughts.
"It's over. I'm dead. Forgive me, my love…""Let me go! I swear I'll kill you!"
Charlotte looked at the one still struggling.
He's still got murder in his heart.Without a word, Charlotte crushed the man's sternum with his foot. A single twist. He died instantly.
The other captives trembled in horror.
"Don't kill me, please—don't kill me!"
Charlotte squinted, disturbed by the flood of thoughts entering his head. He wasn't sure why it was happening—but he had a theory.
He turned cold eyes on the surviving men.
"You're from the Wild Wolf Gang. Where does your boss keep the money?"
He had spared them for one reason: treasure.
He knew the gang had squeezed wealth from the townsfolk for years. Even if it wasn't much, to someone like Charlotte—who had nothing—even 100,000 Baileys was worth killing for.
The thugs glanced at one another nervously.
Finally, a boy with a bandage on his head raised a trembling hand.
"I'll tell you! I'll talk!"
"Go on."
"T-the money… Bess kept everything in a safe in his manor! You can take it anytime… it's all there!"
Charlotte stepped forward and grabbed his arm.
"Are you telling the truth?"