The next morning, Davy stepped out of his inn and walked toward the Loguetown Marine Base.
"It's him—run!"
A single scream shattered the morning calm.
In an instant, the bustling street emptied like a tide receding.
Davy continued walking at a relaxed pace, expression unchanged.
He had slaughtered only pirates and gangsters—yet the brutality of his methods had imprinted itself deeply in the hearts of the townsfolk.
They feared him.
Feared that even a slight shift in his expression might send their heads rolling.
He had grown used to the stares of terror. The avoidance. The refugees of one man.
"E-En… benefactor!"
A timid voice called from behind.
Davy paused.
He had already noticed the girl in the crowd earlier—though she fled with the others, she had returned with her father.
It was, of course, Mark and his family.
They had bought back their noodle shop—losing money in the process, but compared to losing their daughter, it was a blessed ending.
"You need something?"
Davy turned.
Dina immediately shrank behind her father, trembling violently.
She knew he saved them.
But after witnessing the nightmare he created in Execution Square… after a night of screaming nightmares… her body still responded only with fear.
Mark, however, forced himself to remain composed.
"Thank you… thank you for saving my family. Please, accept this small token of gratitude."
He removed the heavy bundle from his back.
Every coin they had saved over years. Their entire livelihood.
Forty years of life had taught Mark that the world was ruled by the strong.
Whether Davy saved them intentionally or accidentally didn't matter—
When a tiger walks by your home, you offer meat whether he's hungry or not.
He hid the pain in his eyes, tore open one corner of the bundle, and held it out with both hands.
"Your payment has already been made," Davy said flatly.
"Paid…?"
Mark blinked in confusion.
He didn't remember paying anything.
"What… what do you mean?"
He couldn't help but think:
Please don't tell me he's after my daughter…
"When I collect the bounty from the Marines, that bounty comes from your taxes," Davy said calmly.
"So in a way, you already paid me."
Mark slowly lifted his head.
Davy's young face—clean, composed, and unusually earnest—reflected in his eyes.
It was the first time he truly looked at the man.
At first he had taken him for a naive rookie who didn't know the world.
Now he sensed something else.
Something sharp, something resolute.
"I…"
Mark froze, not knowing what to do.
If he insisted on giving the money, he feared angering Davy.
If he didn't insist, he feared Davy was only pretending and would retaliate later.
And yet his gratitude was real.
"A bounty hunter doesn't take double payment for the same job."
Davy offered a simple excuse.
Money meant little to him.
He had one mouth to feed, no unnecessary expenses, and the treasures looted from pirates already made him comfortable.
And he was about to claim a massive bounty.
He turned to leave.
He had no interest in lingering.
Too much contact would only breed anxiety—and he had no patience to play nice with civilians.
"D-Davy… sir!"
Mark shouted desperately.
Davy frowned. Still not done?
But Mark inhaled deeply and shouted with all his strength:
"THANK YOU! My family will never forget your kindness—not in this lifetime!"
Davy's frown eased.
He resumed walking.
He didn't look back—
but the corner of his lips lifted despite himself.
"You are feared by others…" Mark's voice trembled but rang firm.
"But I, Mark, know the truth. You're not like those greedy hyena bounty hunters.
You're… a good man!"
Davy chuckled, shaking his head.
A "good man," with hands drenched to the elbows in blood.
If only Mark knew.
The family did not follow further.
Other townsfolk still fled at the sight of him—
but now, Davy no longer cared.
Not merely in expression—
but in his heart.
At least someone can tell the difference between me and a pirate.
Suddenly, as he walked alone through the street, his eyes narrowed.
A cold light flashed.
He turned sharply.
"Who?"
From the shadowed corner emerged a figure wrapped entirely in bandages and hidden beneath a cloak.
"You're the one who killed Alvida, Haus, Luther… and Bartolomeo, correct?
The bounty hunter called Davy?"
He rattled off the names in one breath—his voice sharp, grating, like metal scraping glass.
"I asked who you are."
Davy's hand slid to the hilt of his sword.
He despised stalkers.
He despised being watched.
And he especially despised cowards pretending to be mysterious.
Feeling Davy's undisguised killing intent, the stranger immediately raised both hands.
"Wait—easy! Calm down! I'm a bounty hunter too!
From Baroque Works!
You can call me… Scott!"
Baroque Works?
Davy's expression tightened.
Baroque Works—BW—
an organization rooted in Alabasta, claiming to seek a revolution but truly aiming for the Ancient Weapon Pluton.
Founded by one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea:
Sir Crocodile, the Sand-Sand Fruit user.
The invitation of a Warlord had just appeared before him—wrapped in bandages.
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