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"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
At Hoffman's signal to begin, five members of the Frosthorn Gang simultaneously hurled their empty bottles into the air.
Seeing this, Aaron instantly fired five consecutive shots—each one hitting its mark with pinpoint precision, shattering the bottle's neck every single time.
But it didn't end there. The moment his first five bullets were spent, another five Frosthorn Gang members tossed up their empty bottles.
Without so much as a flicker of change in his expression, Aaron reloaded with lightning speed and fired another five shots. Once again, every bullet struck the bottle's neck dead-on.
"Clap, clap, clap!"
Hoffman couldn't hold back his applause, shouting out a loud "Well done!"
The other Frosthorn Gang members joined in, clapping and offering genuine praise for Aaron's display of marksmanship.
And it truly was genuine. These were men who often clashed with rival gangs at the docks—they knew full well that having a skilled gunman at their back could mean the difference between life and death. A capable sharpshooter meant fewer worries about getting picked off by a sniper from the enemy's side.
After all, if the enemy fired from concealment, they'd inevitably give away their position, and that's when your own sharpshooter could take them out.
"Thank you, Master Hoffman, and thank you, seniors, for your praise," Aaron replied humbly. "I've still got much to learn. I hope you'll all look out for me in the future."
There was no arrogance in him. Instead, Aaron wore a modest smile and bowed deeply to everyone present.
A man with such skill, yet so humble and respectful—it was no wonder the Frosthorn Gang members' opinion of him soared. Many promised outright to watch his back from now on.
"Brother, how about patrolling with my squad from now on? The area we cover is crawling with beauties. I guarantee you'll find yourself a girlfriend in no time!"
"Don't listen to him, Aaron! This guy's still a chick himself. Come with my group—we're always hauling in big shipments. You'll eat like a king every day."
"Hmph! Both of you shut it. A sharpshooter like Aaron obviously belongs with my team. With him around, those punks from the Dars Gang wouldn't dare act so high and mighty!"
…
In no time, the patrol captains under Hoffman were all fighting over him.
Aaron's performance had proven beyond a doubt that he was a top-notch gunman, and now everyone wanted him in their squad. With him, their combat power would soar, and their chances of survival would improve dramatically.
But Aaron wasn't foolish enough to choose a patrol group himself—doing so would only make enemies. He immediately left the decision to Hoffman, his immediate superior.
As Hoffman's man, it was only natural for Hoffman to decide where he went.
Hoffman was pleased with Aaron's tact. In the end, he placed Aaron in a unit where his skills could shine—a patrol group whose territory overlapped with the docks controlled by the Dars Gang. There, Aaron would serve as the team's main source of firepower.
Aaron showed nothing but obedience to this assignment, even feigning a touch of excitement. He thanked Hoffman profusely, as if he'd just been entrusted with an important role.
That kind of attitude made him even more likable. Hoffman, in fact, found himself tempted to pull Aaron out of such a dangerous post altogether—capable and personable subordinates like him were rare.
But then he remembered the last time the danger patrol had clashed with the Dars Gang—they'd nearly been wiped out. If Aaron's firepower could change that, keeping him there was worth the risk.
Truthfully, Aaron was more than satisfied with the arrangement.
The danger patrol's frequent clashes with the Dars Gang weren't just about overlapping turf. The real prize was a prime stretch of deep-water berths, perfect for mooring large and giant merchant ships.
And merchant ships meant protection money—one of the gangs' biggest sources of income in Villia Port.
The fees from large and giant vessels were especially lucrative, and neither the Frosthorn Gang nor the Dars Gang wanted to let the other take that "meat" from their mouths. Disputes over who collected in the overlap zone were inevitable—and so were the fights.
Aaron didn't fear conflict. In fact, he welcomed it. He knew it was in dangerous places like this that a man could rise quickly and earn true respect.
To him, these dockside skirmishes were nothing compared to the constant tightrope he'd walked in the service of the Celestial Dragons.
The danger patrol had twenty-five members, including Aaron. Twenty of them were swordsmen—close-combat fighters wielding katanas—while only five, Aaron included, were trained gunmen.
The imbalance between melee fighters and ranged specialists was obvious.
Aaron wasn't surprised. As a marksman with Intermediate Gunmanship, he knew that talent alone wasn't enough—becoming a true gunman required money. Without burning through piles of bullets and wearing out countless firearms, there was no way to master the craft.
And bullets were a gold-devouring beast. Even with the Frosthorn Gang's decent pay—ten thousand Berries a month easily with side earnings—most members couldn't afford to train as gunmen after covering their living expenses.
Swordsmanship, on the other hand, was cheap. Apart from a small training fee and the cost of a single blade, progress depended purely on effort. Anyone willing to put in the work could pick up the basics.
Plus, the docks were under the authority of Reggie, an old master swordsman in the Frosthorn Gang who ran a popular sword dojo. Naturally, there were far more swordsmen than gunmen in units like the danger patrol.
But swordsmanship was easy to learn, hard to master—and true sword masters were rare. Most couldn't hope to do what Zoro could, slicing bullets out of the air with a blade.
That's why, in gang clashes at the lower levels, gunmen often had more impact than swordsmen. A strong shooter, properly protected, could take down multiple enemies—or even wipe out the opposition entirely.
"I'm looking forward to this…"
Aaron tucked his revolver into his waistband, secured it, and lowered his head with a faint smile. Then, wearing a perfectly convincing fake grin, he quickly fell in step with the danger patrol, chatting and laughing with the others as if he'd been with them for years.
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