Wooo!
Amid a short blast of the horn, the fully loaded Black Lagoon torpedo boat slowly sailed into the harbor.
"We're almost at the pier, bosses." Dutch's voice came through the loudspeaker.
"Oh, a faceless Buddha." On the deck, Koko—visiting Roanapur for the first time—curiously observed the Buddha statue standing at the harbor entrance—a solitary stone grotto figure with broken arms and a deliberately defaced face.
It seemed to declare silently: this was a lawless land of sin beyond even the Buddha's salvation.
At the bow stood Vela and Balalaika, side by side against the wind.
The humid sea breeze, tinged with brine, slapped against the boat, pressing clothing tight against their bodies and whipping at their hems with a faint flapping sound.
"Why not restore it?" Koko stepped forward a few paces and asked.
"Because it can't be done. And there's no need." Balalaika merely glanced at the girl, took a drag of her cigar, exhaled, and replied with a lifeless smile.
After their heart-to-heart talk aboard the Eclipse yacht that afternoon and reaching a cooperative understanding, she had already grasped Koko's temperament and ambitions.
A young arms dealer who held an extremely pessimistic view of the world, yet cherished a vision of peace and order.
Her so-called "restoring the Buddha" meant cleaning up the chaos and restoring order.
Balalaika couldn't do it.
Even adding Mister Chang of the Sun Yee On Triad, it still couldn't be done. Roanapur was born of international currents and coincidences far beyond the power of individuals to correct—unless a major nation or a super conglomerate intervened.
Besides, they made their living off this.
Chaos, to them, was a ladder. An opportunity.
The world needed a dark underbelly to contrast its brilliance. Nations and organizations needed a spittoon to dispose of their dirty work. Criminals needed a promised land of their own.
Blocking was worse than channeling.
If the seas were ever truly calm and clear, she and her subordinates would have to find another way to survive.
Koko frowned, gazing thoughtfully at Roanapur—decadent and dilapidated, yet strangely glittering with excess.
Suddenly, a slender hand struck her lightly.
"Ow!"
Her thoughts were interrupted.
"Enough. Don't overthink things beyond your reach. Grand philosophical problems aren't something a high school dropout who never even attended university can figure out." Vela chuckled, tapping the girl's head before ruffling her hair vigorously. "If you've got the time, read more books instead. Honestly, where did you get this Eastern Orthodox savior complex? You insisted on coming, yet you're wearing that world-weary, bitter expression."
"The world doesn't need saving. And it certainly doesn't need you to do it."
"At least not the you right now."
As she had said before—Vela understood Koko's peace ideal, but she did not agree with it.
If a person could, through thought alone, conceive of a perfect, highly feasible solution capable of ending all conflict and violence once and for all—and then implement it—then that being would not be human.
It would be a god.
Let alone a teenager.
Understanding required accumulation.
"Oh." Koko covered her now-messy hair, pouting in protest.
"You're not that much older yourself. So what if you went to a top private high school and an Ivy League university? One day I'll—" she huffed, muttering under her breath.
"Koko, what are you mumbling about?" Vela cast her a sidelong glance.
"Ahem, I was saying the wise Miss Vela has a point."
Too lazy to press further, Vela said casually, "Observe more. Think less. Got it?"
"Got it." Koko regained her lively, playful air and stuck out her tongue.
Lehm and Valmet exchanged smiles of relief.
The young lady had grown up aboard cargo ships, without companions her age. After leaving Mr. Floyd, she had traveled the world with the fleet, witnessing countless human tragedies. She had matured too early, becoming pessimistic and prone to overthinking. They saw it. They worried.
They wanted to advise her, but either their status made it inappropriate or they simply lacked the words.
At times like this, Vela—both friend and elder sister—was just right.
She could reason with her. And she could act.
Perfect.
Soon, amid Koko's loud declarations about making donations and applying to some British private school, vrrrrrr—
The torpedo boat began to slow.
Under the hazy moonlight and dim streetlamps, it docked safely at the pier frequently used by the Lagoon Company.
"Comrade Captain." On the pier, a Hotel Moscow mercenary who had been waiting stepped forward.
"Good work, Sergeant." Balalaika nodded, then turned slightly and gestured in invitation. "It's a rotten place, but—welcome to Roanapur, Miss Hekmatyar."
"Mm." Koko jumped down eagerly, looking around with excitement.
A crude wooden pier. A filthy dock. Rust-streaked factory buildings. An old dry dock barely large enough for small boats to be repaired...
The air carried the metallic tang of seawater—perhaps even a strong hint of rot.
Slavic mercenaries stood guard at the perimeter, AKs slung over their shoulders.
Dressed in Soviet-style olive training uniforms, the aura of soldiers clung to them unmistakably—not costume, but lived experience. Compared to former comrades now working at VAR Company, they looked somewhat shabby, but more than intimidating enough to deter the rats lurking in the shadows.
From those dark corners, Koko could clearly feel greedy, covetous stares.
As if they wanted to strip her bare and devour her whole.
Then—thud.
"Good evening, City of Evil."
Vela landed lightly on the pier, her hand resting on Koko's slender shoulder.
"City of Evil? Heh. Quite fitting." Balalaika, her fire-scarred face illuminated dimly, stepped off the boat as well.
Fully armed, Nova and the others followed behind.
Their footsteps thudded across the planks, wood creaking under their weight.
The hidden gazes vanished instantly.
Too frightened to linger.
One unlucky fool even knocked over a trash can in his panic.
Vela ignored it and waved a hand. "Yellow Flag."
Locke, walking last, watched Vela and the others depart. After a long moment, he looked up and said with a hint of regret, "Over there... uh, looks like Paul-san's place is on fire again?" He gazed toward the Yellow Flag bar. Thick black smoke and flames rose prominently against the thin, rust-colored dusk.
Explosions and intense gunfire echoed intermittently from other directions.
Roanapur was especially lively tonight.
"Guess we won't be drinking at the Yellow Flag for a week. Hope Paul doesn't go bankrupt this time." Benny stepped out of the PT boat's cabin and handed a cardboard box filled with electronics to Locke. "Careful. All brand-new, unopened goods."
"Yeah, yeah." Locke nodded. After setting the box down carefully, he looked toward Dutch, who was carrying a plastic crate onto the deck. "Leaving Revy there alone won't be a problem?"
"She brought it on herself."
Dutch calmly tossed a crate filled with body armor and plates onto the pier, then dusted off his hands. "Let her spend a night with the EMTs. Better than letting her get drunk and stir up more trouble."
Damn it. Who would've thought that in the time it took to pick out goods and place orders, Revy would go crazy enough to gamble—and even try to take advantage of the client.
"Fair enough." Locke shrugged. "Knocked out in one punch. Revy probably needs to lie down for a while."
As he spoke, he cast a quick glance at the blonde beauty being escorted into a vehicle, surrounded by others.
Tsk, you really couldn't tell at all. The refined and elegant Miss Russell is actually an even fiercer warrior than Revy? Sigh, I'm such an idiot. Truly. I only knew she was generous, wealthy, and beautiful—but I forgot to consider where her money came from, how she safeguarded both her fortune and her looks, and how she kept those mercenaries under her command in line.
Judging people by appearance is a bad habit. I need to remember that in future guild dealings.
Silently accepting another box of computer components from Benny, Locke unloaded and stored the goods while lecturing himself to learn from the lesson.
...
Elsewhere, inside and outside the half-destroyed Yellow Flag bar.
Flames spread. Smoke coiled thickly.
The surging heat distorted the air.
The VAR mercenary squad, led by Ivan, had completed their capture-and-kill deployment and now stood on full alert facing the blasted entrance of the bar.
Clack. Clack. Heavy footsteps approached through the smoke. Then a figure emerged from the haze and fire—carrying a suitcase and umbrella, dressed in a long black-and-white maid uniform—stepping across shattered glass, splintered wood, and puddles of liquor stained red with blood.
"Roberta!"
The blond-haired, brown-eyed boy—Garcia—struggled and shouted.
Li, assigned to guard the "goods," silently pressed him down.
"Surrender now and no one gets hurt." The tall mercenary named Ivan stepped forward slightly and pointed toward Garcia, who was tied to a palm tree across the road. His voice was deep and steady. "Otherwise, you, him, and every member of the Lovelace family in Venezuela—will all die."
"..."
Roberta lowered her eyes and remained silent.
But the faint tremor in her hands betrayed the storm within.
After a moment—
Clang! She released the suitcase and umbrella-gun.
The integrated suitcase weapons case hit the ground. The latches sprang open, scattering bullets, shotgun shells, grenades, and hand grenades across the pavement.
Ivan said nothing. He gestured for his teammates to move the weapons aside.
"Now. Hands on your head. Walk forward."
Roberta complied.
Seeing this, Garcia's eyes reddened with tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Roberta. I'm useless. It's all because of me that you—"
"Slowly get on the ground. Let me see your hands. Relax. We bear you no ill will. Our caution is based solely on your past record." Ivan spoke as he approached.
Roberta remained silent.
"Okay, looks like this job's going smoothly," one mercenary posted on either side of the entrance muttered, lowering his rifle.
At that moment—zzzt!
The Yellow Flag neon sign above the bar crackled from heat and smoke. Sparks flew. A letter fell off, causing the two mercenaries stepping forward to kneel and restrain her to hesitate for a split second.
Boom!!
Another explosion.
The interior of the bar detonated again.
A delayed bomb.
The blast shattered the remaining doors and windows.
In the instant that the VAR mercenaries outside were disrupted by the heatwave and flying debris, Roberta moved.
"Haah!!" she roared.
Rising onto her toes, steel-like thigh muscles tightening in an instant, she launched forward like a giant frog, slamming directly into Ivan.
In a flash, Ivan was knocked off his feet.
They rolled together across the road in a tangle.
"Shit!" The two mercenaries who had been about to bind her were caught off guard and cursed as they gave chase.
Then they kicked something cylindrical.
Smoke grenades. Several of them.
Bang!Hisssss—
Smoke began spreading rapidly.
"Fuck, where'd the smoke grenades come from?!"
"Under that maid bitch's skirt!"
"What? How the hell was she hiding those?!"
The two rushed headlong into the smoke.
The next moment, a few dull thuds sounded. In the view of the other VAR members, the two charged in—and were almost instantly thrown back out. One doubled over, hissing in pain. The other crashed face-first onto the ground.
"Ivan!"
The covering mercenaries raised their rifles, but Ivan and Roberta were still grappling inside the smoke, indistinguishable from each other. Even with thermal imaging, they couldn't fire—not to mention the boss's order was to capture her alive.
One mercenary dragged a fallen comrade behind cover and asked, "Gunshot or knife wound? What happened?"
"N-no. Just got kicked. That maid—so strong. And she might have grenades on her. She's trying to take Captain Ivan hostage." The unlucky man wheezed, tearing off his face covering, chest bruised from the kick.
Before he could finish speaking, a dark object spun out of the smoke.
It rolled to a stop near Garcia's feet.
Li looked closely.
A FAST tactical helmet. One of the attached headsets was smashed—likely struck by a heavy punch that snapped the strap and joint.
"Fuck," Li muttered.
The Lovelace family maid was this outrageous? Even Crazy Ivan was being suppressed.
"Roberta..."
Garcia stared wide-eyed at the swirling smoke.
Will she win?
Hope rekindled in his eyes.
"Ugh." A muffled groan—but female.
Roberta was injured?!
As if answering Garcia's fragile hope, her figure emerged at the edge of the smoke, steps slightly unsteady.
Opposite her stood the burly Slavic mercenary, helmet gone, mask and goggles stained with blood.
He shouted, "Don't fire! I'll handle this."
Then he pressed his hand to his chest radio. "Boss, request permission to fight her one-on-one... Yes. Understood."
He removed his goggles and tore off his mask, revealing a cold, taciturn face. Blood trickled from his left eye socket.
"Hah. So it's you, Ivan Dragunov. No wonder." Roberta spat out a mouthful of blood. She glanced at the worried Garcia and gave him a faint smile before turning back. "I never imagined that the former Soviet heavyweight boxing champion, recipient of the Gold Star Medal, would fall so far. A hero reduced to a blood-drinking hyena."
"That was the past." Ivan Dragunov raised his fists indifferently.
"You should've realized—my boss doesn't want to kill you. We have no ill will toward you. The ones who kidnapped the last heir of the Lovelace family were the Manizales Cartel. We merely arrived at the right time."
"And what payment do you seek?" Roberta's lips curved in mockery. "The rare earth resources in Venezuela controlled by Master Diego?"
"I don't know and don't care. I only execute orders."
"What a loyal dog. What, did that crushing home defeat at the end of 1985 awaken your servility?"
"Say whatever you like." Ivan Dragunov lifted his face—one that seemed born incapable of smiling. "I don't deny my defeat. But now, I just want a proper fight with you. Ever since Rocky suffered brain damage and retired, I lost my target for revenge." He wiped the blood from his left eye. "Your punches are heavy. Powerful and precise. They remind me of his—punches thrown for revenge and protection."
"FARC's ace assassin. The Hound of Florencia. Don't disappoint me."
"And if you lose?" Roberta asked coldly.
"Lose?" Ivan bared his teeth. "If you can manage it. The Boss has authorized me. Win, and you'll get to speak with her. You can take your young master home—and gain VAR Company's assistance and preferential terms."
He shifted his stance lightly, massive, corded muscles moving with surprising ease. In the next instant, power surged from his feet. With agility that belied his size, he lunged forward and threw a crushing punch.
Roberta did not retreat. She stepped in to meet him head-on.
In an instant, sharp cracking sounds filled the air—flesh colliding with flesh, fists slamming into faces.
...
Meanwhile, on the coastal highway.
The motorcade.
"Something unusual?" In the back seat of the central car, Koko, chin resting on her hand as she watched the nighttime streets of the "City of Evil," raised an eyebrow at Vela.
Vela shook her head and set down the radio casually. "All within calculations. This is a trial. A show of force for future cooperation on one hand. On the other, it's a test of the Hound's upper limits." She paused slightly. "In her natural state. No drugs."
The base data collection for the [Cyber Tyrant ♀] project had already begun.