After filling his stomach once again, Aaron went inside, took a quick bath, changed into a set of clean but worn clothes, and asked Williams for some money before parting ways with him and Shuma.
It was only just past seven in the morning, yet the colossal beast that was Velia Port's docks—constantly swallowing and spewing out vast amounts of cargo—was already wide awake. Countless dockworkers bustled about, unloading and hauling goods. Even from a distance, Aaron could hear the shouts and calls echoing from the wharf.
The Frosthorn Gang's territory on the docks was in the eastern sector—the most prosperous part of the harbor. This area had the largest number of deep-water berths, capable of accommodating massive merchant ships.
As a newcomer, Aaron was unknown to most members of the Frosthorn Gang working the docks. So, when he arrived at one of their local strongholds, many members eyed him with open hostility. Some even drew their blades or leveled pistols at him.
"Hello, everyone. I'm Aaron, the rookie who joined yesterday. Please take care of me from now on."
Facing the wary gang members, Aaron quickly explained himself while removing his shirt, revealing the Frosthorn Gang's tattoo on his back. He then put on a submissive, respectful smile and gave them a deep bow, showing them proper deference.
The moment his tattoo was revealed, most of the men in the stronghold lowered their weapons and instead watched Aaron with curious eyes as he bowed and scraped before them.
Though he looked a bit sycophantic, he gave off a good first impression—at least he didn't seem like the troublesome type and showed plenty of respect to his seniors.
That said, this didn't mean they had accepted him. Until their leader gave the nod, no one would go out of their way to deal with Aaron.
Seeing this, Aaron pulled out a stack of Berries—about 100,000—and, with a pained expression, respectfully offered it to the burly man surrounded by the others.
The Frosthorn Gang had been around for years, large and well-established, with numerous factions within. Even Reggie, who commanded the smallest crew, had his men split into several sub-groups, each led by a small boss managing their own section of the docks.
Currently, Reggie's forces were divided among three such bosses: Jass, Luther, and Hoffman.
The stronghold Aaron had come to belonged to Hoffman, the weakest of the three. Because of his weaker position, Hoffman's territory was the smallest and often saw the most clashes with rival gangs.
Aaron had already learned about Hoffman from Shuma—he was a man of pure greed, with a passion for gambling.
Unfortunately for him, his gambling skills and luck were terrible. He frequently lost every Berry in his pockets and had a bad reputation for dodging the massive debts he owed to the casinos.
The only reason he was still alive was because the Frosthorn Gang backed him, his own combat skills weren't bad, and he controlled part of the docks—giving him the means to eventually pay back what he owed.
Naturally, the best way to win over such a man was to hand him money directly—exactly what Aaron was doing now.
A hundred thousand Berries was a small fortune for the average person.
From Aaron's appearance alone, it was obvious he didn't come from wealth—at most, an ordinary background—so pulling out that kind of money was a clear sign of sincerity.
"So you're that Aaron, huh? I heard from the boss last night that you were assigned to my section of the docks. Word is you not only protected the Healing Goddess but also took down two Dars Gang punks in the process. Nice work, kid. From now on, you stick with me, Hoffman."
Greedy though he was, Hoffman knew how to judge people. Normally, he wouldn't bother bullying someone who looked as poor as Aaron, but seeing him produce such a generous tribute put him in a very good mood. Laughing, he clapped Aaron on the shoulder.
Without another word, he took the money from Aaron's hands.
That was enough to signal that Aaron could now operate under Hoffman's protection.
"Yes, Boss Hoffman. I'll be at your service from here on out."
Aaron kept his head bowed, answering with utmost respect.
Hoffman was very satisfied with his attitude. Perhaps considering the generosity of the earlier gift, he decided to give Aaron a chance to show off his skills. Smiling, he said:
"Aaron, my friend, if you could drop two Dars Gang thugs on such a dark, snowy night with nothing but a single-shot flintlock, your marksmanship must be impressive. Why don't you give us a little demonstration?"
Hearing this, Aaron was inwardly delighted—his "tribute" had already paid off.
In the underworld, strength was the number one measure of status. This was a perfect stage for him to win recognition from the other Frosthorn Gang members.
"Then allow me to do my humble best," Aaron replied gratefully.
Shooting bottles was the most common way the Frosthorn Gang tested marksmanship.
With Hoffman's word, one of his men brought over some empty bottles. Aaron was also handed a five-shot revolver and some ammunition.
Since it was a new gun for him, the others politely gave him a moment to get used to it.
But soon, all eyes were glued to his hands.
At first, his motions of unloading and reloading were clumsy—taking a full ten seconds. Many of the Frosthorn Gang members with firearms experience laughed at him.
Ten seconds to reload in a real fight? You'd be riddled with bullets long before you finished.
But their laughter quickly died. On his second attempt, Aaron's movements were so fast they could barely follow them—done in the blink of an eye. He repeated it again and again, each time at the same blistering speed.
This was the product of intermediate-level marksmanship—a skill Aaron had honed during his time as a slave forced to participate in deadly games for the amusement of the Celestial Dragons.
While others trained for sport, Aaron had trained to survive. His master had entered him in a game dreamed up by some bored Celestial Dragons: each would select a slave with no prior firearm skills and see who could teach theirs to shoot the best within a week, then compete in a target challenge.
Given unlimited bullets and guns to practice with—and the knowledge that losing meant death—Aaron had trained with desperate intensity.
Within a week, he'd mastered the basics and, to further improve his odds of survival, had relentlessly drilled unloading and reloading to shave every fraction of a second from the process. He survived—and in doing so earned his master's favor, slightly improving his life as a slave. The downside was that it got him entered into more of these death games.
Forced to keep improving, Aaron eventually became an expert marksman, familiar with all manner of firearms in this world.
"Looks like the kid really does have some skill. Now let's see if he can actually hit something," Hoffman said, impressed by Aaron's fluid motions.