Tortuga's black market was hidden in a slum in the deepest part of the town.
There were no shops, no signs, only temporary stalls.
The stalls were piled high with goods of unknown origin:
Stolen jewels, smuggled spices, and weapons and equipment salvaged from naval battles.
The air was filled with a strange mixture of gunpowder and cheap rum.
Everyone wandering here had eyes full of vigilance and greed.
Roger, with Gibbs and Billy, walked in swaggering, flintlock pistols loaded and tucked into their waistbands.
Their appearance immediately attracted many gazes.
Mainly because Roger's demeanor was so out of place here.
He looked too clean, too composed, not at all like a desperado living on the edge.
"Hey, look at that kid, so fair-skinned and tender. Is some young master out here to experience life?"
"Probably a fat sheep from some unlucky merchant ship, robbed clean and dumped here."
A wave of ill-intentioned chatter and sneers came from around them.
Gibbs and Billy immediately tensed up, their hands resting on the hilts of their knives.
"Don't mind them."
Roger, however, was unfazed. He walked straight towards the innermost stall in the black market.
That stall was the largest in the entire black market, and also looked the most formidable.
The stall owner was a one-eyed, scar-faced strongman.
He was bare-chested, revealing a chest full of black hair, and was slowly wiping a formidable-looking cannon with an oiled cloth.
Behind him, a dozen cannons of various sizes were haphazardly arranged.
"Boss, I'm here to see the goods."
Roger walked up to the stall and got straight to the point.
The one-eyed scar-faced man raised his head, glanced at Roger, then looked at the nervous Gibbs and Billy behind him, a hint of disdain flashing in his single eye.
"See what? My stuff here isn't something you paupers can afford."
His voice was scornful.
Roger didn't get angry.
He smiled and said, "Whether I'm a pauper or not, you'll know once you see my money pouch."
"I just want to know if your goods are truly as they appear, or just useless scrap metal that looks good."
"What did you say?!"
The one-eyed scar-faced man shot to his feet with a "thump."
He was a head taller than Roger, casting a huge shadow.
"Kid, are you tired of living? How dare you call my goods scrap metal?!"
Several of his subordinates also gathered around, their faces fierce.
The atmosphere in the black market instantly tensed.
The onlookers instinctively stepped back a few paces, preparing to watch a good show.
"Whether it's scrap metal or not, I'll know once I see it."
Roger faced the taller scar-faced man without the slightest fear.
He walked to the cannon that the scar-faced man had just been wiping, extended a finger, tapped lightly on the barrel, and listened to the sound.
Then, he walked to another rusty old cannon and ran his hand along the inner wall of the muzzle.
He examined it very carefully.
Sometimes he frowned, sometimes he shook his head.
The one-eyed scar-faced man and his subordinates watched him go through the motions, their faces full of mocking smiles.
In their eyes, this kid was just putting on an act.
What could a guy who hadn't even grown all his hair know about cannons?
"Had enough looking, kid?"
The scar-faced man said impatiently.
"If you can't afford it, then get lost and don't waste my time doing business."
"I'm done looking."
Roger straightened up, pointed at the scar-faced man's most prized, gleaming cannon, and shook his head.
"This cannon, though it looks new, is actually a defect."
"During casting, impurities got mixed into the barrel, and there are tiny cracks inside."
"It's fine for firing solid shot, but if you use high-charge exploding shells, it will definitely burst within three shots."
He then pointed to the rusty old cannon.
"This cannon, though it looks old, uses excellent Swedish steel. The inner wall of the barrel has minimal wear. With some maintenance, it will be even better than the new one."
Finally, he pointed to the eight inconspicuous 12-pound short-barreled cannons in the corner that looked uniform in size.
"Only these eight are truly British goods."
"From their style, they should have been removed from a Royal Navy frigate."
"They're well-maintained and are the best goods here."
After Roger finished speaking, the entire black market fell silent.
Everyone looked at him as if he were a monster.
And the one-eyed scar-faced man, the mockery and disdain on his face had long disappeared, replaced by endless shock and horror.
Because what Roger said was accurate, word for word!
That new cannon indeed had problems; he had tricked it from a drunken Dutch merchant.
He had tried it once himself and almost blew off his hand.
And that old cannon was indeed his hidden treasure, which he had stolen from a Swedish armed merchant ship when he was young.
As for the eight British cannons, he had secretly removed them from a grounded Royal Navy warship not long ago and hadn't had a chance to sell them yet.
These secrets, only he knew.
This young man, how did he know?
He just tapped and touched, and he saw through everything?
Damn it, is this kid a devil?!
"You... who exactly are you?" The scar-faced man's voice trembled.
"Who I am isn't important."
Roger pulled a money pouch from his 懷 and threw it onto the stall.
With a "bang."
The heavy money pouch hit the wooden table, and the gold coins inside made a crisp, pleasant clinking sound.
"These eight cannons, and all the 12-pound solid shot and grapeshot you have here, I'll take them all."
"Name your price."
Roger's calm tone, combined with the uncanny discernment he had just displayed, created a huge contrast.
At this moment, no one in the black market dared to underestimate this clean young man anymore.
Their gazes towards Roger were filled with awe and fear.
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