Chapter 46
Chapter 46
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 46
Chapter Title: Cant (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Cant's appearance changed the air in an instant.
Botti, who had been desperately feigning calm, brightened noticeably, and the other beggar companions followed suit.
Not just their faces—their emotions shifted from anxiety, tension, and fear to relief and joy. To Oliver, the sight was utterly fascinating.
To provoke such a change just by showing up...
Joseph and the Pharmacist wielded similar influence, but in a different way.
They merely instilled tension in others, while Cant did the opposite: he eased it, bringing true relief.
He'd stood out from the first glance, but this level... It was truly intriguing.
Oliver was curious.
What was it about this man that commanded such widespread support? It was a type he'd never encountered before, which only made him more eager to find out.
Of course, not everyone was thrilled.
Even so, Cant brought solace and trust to the majority.
Could it be tied to the way he'd helped Oliver for no reason?
Oliver felt an itch of curiosity he couldn't ignore.
"So, what exactly are you planning to do however you please? Young friend. I'm curious."
Cant said as he approached the bowler-hat beggar.
His limp leg and ragged appearance clashed with the intimidating aura that didn't suit his wrinkled face.
The old man petting his dogs, the bowler-hat beggar, and the other beggars all shrank back unlike before.
They hid it well on the surface, but they exchanged glances and edged away bit by bit.
All but one. The bowler-hat beggar.
His heart churned with hot fury and rivalry.
"You're Quarterstaff Cant? The famous fixer from back in the day? For real? You sure don't look it."
"Believe me or not, doesn't matter. Young friend. Point is, I'm just another beggar now. So as your senior, let me give you some advice."
"Advice?"
"Yeah. Advice. Looks like you've been strutting around with some pride. Forget it. 'Cause now you're just a beggar. Good with your fists or not, doesn't change that."
"Don't lump me in with a has-been like you. That limp tells me you got forced into this life, but I'm different."
"Oh, you poor fool. Willing or not, beggar's a beggar. Anyway, answer me. What were you gonna do?"
"What was I gonna do? Hmm... Let me think... Ah! Beat the shit out of those puny little beggar bastards with my fists, strip 'em down to their underwear, and string 'em up. Like this!"
The bowler-hat beggar bellowed and swung wildly.
Knuckle dusters gleamed on his hand—heaven knows when he'd slipped them on. Had it landed, Cant's face would've burst like a rotten melon.
Had it landed.
Before the fist connected, Cant tilted his head back just a touch and flicked out his quarterstaff—the one he'd been using as a cane—to tap the incoming arm.
Incredibly, the sneak attack fizzled out.
Frustrated, the bowler's face flushed red and purple as he charged again. Cant merely thrust the staff forward lightly, clipping his throat.
Such swift, fluid motion.
Had the bowler not clutched his neck, it might've been hard to tell he'd even been hit.
"Gah—! Guh... You fuckin'—"
He never finished.
Cant whipped the quarterstaff around to crack his temple.
He crumpled like a puppet with its strings severed, and his beggar crew rushed in after him.
But it was pointless.
The first two went down the same way, and soon no one dared approach.
"Anyone else wanna try?"
"Kh...!"
The tension hung thick. Then someone broke in.
"That's enough."
The old man surrounded by dogs spoke up from his squat.
"...Dog old man. When'd you burrow under the Mole?"
"What's it to you?"
"Just caught me off guard. That ain't like you."
"Off guard? Personality? Heh... Gotta do unexpected shit to eat sometimes. But your moves are still sharp as ever. Ghostly, even."
"Old man's never seen real ghosts, that's why. I barely keep myself alive. You wanna fight?"
His big, ugly dogs growled at the words. Or... they growled while whimpering. They looked downright spooked.
"Hmm... Nah. Mole's orders were to hold this alley. Not scrap with you. I'll pass—these mutts ain't in fighting shape anyway."
"Then get lost."
"Thanks. Hey, you young punks. Help him up."
His scared underlings hauled the unconscious bowler and the fallen ones away, faces twisted with resentment and fear.
The old man rose smoothly.
"Well, we're off then... Not looking for trouble, but gotta report this to the boss."
"Boss'd be the Mole, right?"
"Yeah... One thing, though. Why not join up with Mole's crew like me? You could look after your own that way."
Cant's face flickered with doubt. Just for an instant.
"...Honestly, it's tempting. But no."
"Your funeral. Figured as much."
"I get it. Why I took those last words back then... Damn."
A conversation lost on Oliver. Still, he could tell Cant shared some bond with the dog old man.
Context suggested it was about the priest from before the boss took over.
Oliver's curiosity stirred again.
How could a dead man wield such sway?
The dead should fade with death.
Like Joseph, Anthony, Dominic... The questions kept piling up.
After the dog old man and his crew left, Botti spoke.
"Ha... Talk about perfect timing. How'd you know?"
"Just wandering when I heard punks were jacking bread around here. Came to check. Sure enough... Everyone okay?"
"Okay? Hell yeah! Been scraping by on these streets forever! Bread's safe too."
Botti said, patting his bread-stuffed pouch.
Cant undid the bundle at his waist, revealing lumpy onions, potatoes, carrots, and corned beef tins.
"Good. Means we feast tonight."
The group dove into meal prep the moment they got back. Well, Cant did most of it.
He chopped up broken furniture for firewood, got a blaze going, then hunkered down to dice the sorry-looking veggies into tiny bits—probably to cook fast and even, or share 'em out fair.
He tossed a bit of corned beef into the heated pot to render the fat.
Once the fat slicked the bottom, in went the potatoes, followed by carrots, onions, and the rest.
Warmth and a faint food aroma filled the rundown building that served as their beggar den.
When the veggies softened, he poured in water, crumbled hardtack biscuits with his knife, dumped them in, then added the corned beef.
"Cant..."
Iron Fist approached from guard duty outside.
"Ah, perfect timing. Almost ready—let's eat."
"Uh, yeah... Got something to tell you."
"What?"
"That... Red Nose, Harmonica, the old-timer and his grandson are back."
"...Good. Everyone eats together then."
"You know that's not good news."
Iron Fist grumbled. Cant stayed quiet.
A silence born of shared street savvy.
But silence wouldn't fix it, so Iron Fist pressed on.
"Crackdown season again, looks like. Income's drying up more."
"Pick up extra gigs then. Got a decent pile lined up—like digging through trash at that intersection up ahead."
"Rundown factory bosses, cheapskate restaurant owners, lowlife thugs... Peanuts for the hassle. And spotty at that. We'll just scrape by forever."
"Lucky us. Means no starving."
"Cant!"
Iron Fist bellowed.
Loud enough for the whole den to hear. Everyone caught the grim vibe and looked away.
He dialed it back to a whisper.
"This ain't sustainable. Crackdowns ramp up, cash drops. Tightening belts won't cut it. We gotta get aggressive."
"Aggressive... Didn't we agree to drop it?"
"...Don't see it as bowing down—call it cooperating. Mole wants you. Play ball, and he guarantees cash and safety. The stable life you've always wanted for the crew."
Cant paused mid-stir and eyed Iron Fist. His gaze was gentle, but firm.
The kind of strength that shamed bad decisions.
"Yeah, you're right. Joining Mole'd make life easier and safer than this."
"No, I ain't saying submit—"
"Work with him top or bottom, it'd be comfy. But you know what kinda shit the Mole pulls? Sorry, I'm no hero gonna stop him, but I ain't teaming up either. Call it... my bare-minimum conscience."
"Just rumors, ain't it?"
"Rumors don't spawn from thin air. 'Specially not ones about crippling kids for begging or trafficking flesh."
"...Even if true, so what? If it's real, we cooperate harder. Sitting ducks here? We'll get swallowed eventually."
Swallowed... Looked like the beggar gangs had their own turf wars, black magic style.
Explained the wariness toward the Mole.
Cant mulled it over, then spoke.
"Under Mole, we'd have a proper inn roof over our heads, steady weekly pay... But nah. I pass."
"Cant..."
"Sick of scraping that way. Hate it for real... If it's too rough, I won't stop you bailing. But that's my limit. Don't drag me in. I'm serious."
"...Yeah, got it. Sorry."
Iron Fist backed off quick—figured more talk was pointless.
Seemed agreeable on the surface, but resentment bubbled underneath.
He couldn't fathom Cant. Oliver was right there with him.
Most folks chased bigger bucks, comfort, safety... Least, everyone Oliver'd seen.
Yet Cant brushed off the lure.
Key point: he wasn't above it.
The temptation shook him. Money. Ease. Security.
He got the appeal all too well. And still turned it down on his own steam.
Oliver wanted answers.
Why ditch something better?
Was that the spark drawing real loyalty from others?
He had to know.
Oliver chewed over the minion-relayed chat, then spoke up.
"......First off, guess I need to figure out what this Mole's deal is?"