Chapter 237
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 237
Chapter Title: Which One Is Scarier?
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Favela.
A word for Brazil's slums, akin to shantytowns in some country or America's ghettos.
Among them, Paraisópolis was a massive favela with over 300,000 confirmed residents, notorious in São Paulo for all sorts of reasons.
The haphazard pile-up of shacks and illegal structures looked like toy blocks scattered everywhere.
Gang members openly strutted around with guns in hand.
Gaunt slum dwellers sprawled on the streets, using the sky as their blanket.
If Rose, the Blue Dragon Princess, had seen this, she might have wanted to carpet-bomb the place with mountains of donations.
This was a place where such scenes were everyday life.
"Hey, business is booming these days, right? How about paying a bit more protection money?"
"Shove it up your ass, officer. Even if business is good, the boss takes it all. You think I've got anything left to feed you?"
"Don't be so stingy between partners."
"Partners my ass—you're just a parasite sucking off criminals."
"A parasite with guns and power, though."
Jair openly collecting money right in the middle of the street was possible because this was Paraisópolis.
Brazil was like that in most places, but here especially, the collusion between corrupt cops and gangs was no secret.
No, it was better to flaunt it openly.
That way, no idiots got any funny ideas.
Of course, the gangs handled any such idiots—bullet to the back of the head or selling their families into prostitution—but processing disappearances was still a hassle.
It got even more annoying if foreigners or big shots were among the missing.
"Huh? Officer, what's that?"
"What...? Huh?"
That was why.
In Paraisópolis, where even decent cars didn't dare venture for fear of theft.
Not even here did it hesitate, barreling down the narrow road and stopping smack in the middle—a single vehicle caught Jair blinking in surprise.
'A truck? No, an armored car? But it looks way too luxurious for that...'
Befuddled by the bizarre, massive vehicle he'd never seen before, only for a moment.
Soon, his face hardened.
"...That's the Quetzalcoatl emblem, isn't it?"
"What?"
The gangs freaked out at the mention of Quetzalcoatl.
As they watched warily, the man who stepped out from the truck's cab was a black-haired young man with arrogant eyes.
He glanced around once.
Then headed to the back and tapped the rear.
"Please step down, Mistress."
Vrrr.
It happened right after.
The truck's rear lowered automatically into a ramp, and a vault-like thick metal door inside swung open, revealing a woman.
Neat green hair.
Layers of robes wrapped around her.
Gloves encasing both hands.
At a glance, she exuded noble elegance utterly out of place in a slum, paired with a sickly beauty.
The moment the slum dwellers on the street saw Maia's green hair, they yelped in terror and scrambled to their feet.
Scattering in all directions with frightened expressions.
But Maia ignored their reactions.
She merely gazed coldly at Rimon, who smiled welcomingly.
"...I wondered if I'd still have it after so long, but your driving skills are impressive."
"I learned well back in the day."
Whether driving a military truck through World War artillery barrages counted as "learning" was debatable, but Rimon answered shamelessly.
Either way, he'd never been hit by shells or gotten into an accident, then or now.
She furrowed her brow at him briefly.
Then Maia clicked her tongue and asked.
"Did Arvela tell you why I'm here?"
"Yes."
"Then you know what you need to do from now on."
"No, not really."
Rimon answered immediately.
Looking at Maia, who stared steadily back, he continued innocently.
"I can't just guess and handle unassigned tasks on my own, can I?"
His orders were to drive the truck here, not to anticipate Maia's intentions and act independently.
Arvela would have praised it as the attitude of a pro slave, but Maia scoffed.
"Then here's your order. Somewhere in this favela is a gang boss named Antonio. Find him and capture him alive."
"...You're telling me to find someone I've never seen in this massive place?"
In a giant favela with over 300,000 people, track down one person—a gang boss, no less.
It was like asking a famous detective's grandson or a São Paulo native to find a needle in a sand dune.
But Maia didn't twitch an eyebrow.
She merely twisted her lips slightly.
"Can't do it?"
As if mocking him for selling himself at such a high price yet balking at this simple task.
Cold sneer on her face.
Rimon narrowed his eyes at her.
'So, you want to see what I'm capable of, huh?'
He chuckled inwardly.
He instantly saw through why Maia gave him this order: to watch him fight.
It was a cunning ploy.
If he fought with anything sword-like, she'd immediately figure out his identity.
But instead of rejecting the obvious provocation, Rimon smiled faintly.
"I didn't say I couldn't."
"Then do it."
"As you command."
Like a lazy but obedient slave.
Rimon nodded and sprang into action.
Even as other slum dwellers fled, he strode toward the gang members who hadn't backed off to save face.
Startled by his sudden approach, they reflexively raised their guns, but Rimon casually asked.
"Hey, who's your boss?"
"O que?"
"Quem é o teu patrão?"
Too abrupt a question—they just gawked, unable to respond.
Rimon decided to help them understand.
"Alright, different question. You know where this Antonio guy's at?"
"...Why?"
Their faces hardened instantly.
Seeing their clear tension—different from vague wariness before—Rimon grinned.
"Bingo."
"What?"
"I figured I'd have to beat up a bunch to find that Antonio bastard, but hitting the minions right off the bat? Lucky me."
"You son of a...!"
Just a hunch, but it paid off.
One gang member yanked his pistol trigger at the smirking Rimon.
Click!
But the gun didn't fire.
Rimon had already grabbed it and flicked the safety on.
"Pulling a gun just for one question... You guys really don't see people as people, huh."
Staring straight into the struggling gangster's eyes as he tried to wrench it free, Rimon smiled coldly.
"Guess that means I don't need to treat you like people either."
Crunch!
"Gaaahhh!"
"You fucking bastard!"
"Die!"
The gangster collapsed screaming as his fingers crumpled like twigs.
The others, seeing their comrade, flew into a rage and aimed at Rimon.
Firing wildly with allies in the line of fire, not giving a damn about consequences—pure gangster move.
But they were too slow.
While they aimed, Rimon had snatched the dropped pistol from mid-air.
Bang bang bang!
"Urk!" "Ugh?" "Kyaak!"
Spinning barrel, ear-splitting blasts, short screams.
It all happened in a flash.
Rimon, not even turning his head, just twisted his arm three times, firing without aiming.
With three shots, their guns shattered or flew off; they collapsed clutching bloody or broken arms.
In the blink of an eye, four gangsters down. Rimon spun the pistol on his finger, about to holster it on his belt.
Then he paused.
"...Tch. Old habits die hard, huh."
'Damn that Billy—got me picking up bad habits.'
Grabbing a gun after so long, muscle memory from wandering the wastes with his idiot disciple kicking in.
Tsking briefly, with no holster, he just tucked it into his waistband and squatted before the groaning gangsters.
Propping his chin with both hands, bored expression.
"Should've just answered nicely when I asked. No need for this mess."
"You, you bastard!"
Thwack!
"Skip the family insults, revenge threats, or 'aren't you scared of repercussions?' crap. I've heard that routine a million times—boring."
Before the guy could finish, Rimon smashed his face, sending teeth flying like corn kernels.
He turned to the remaining three glaring with fury and fear.
Cold smile.
"Alright, first come, first served—one spot. Who's gonna spill where your boss is?"
"Eat shit!"
"We'll get you!"
"Wait! We don't know where the boss i—gurk!"
"Too bad, three losers."
One gut punch, one face to the ground, one neck chop.
All four out cold. Rimon stood, as if he hadn't expected much anyway.
Grinning, he glanced aside.
"Congrats, you're the grand prize winner. Nice one, officer."
"M-me? Why me?"
The cop had been dazed from Rimon's approach till now, finally freaking out at the question.
Rimon grinned innocently at Jair.
"Told ya—first one to talk about the boss gets the deal."
"That includes me?"
"Why not? Thought you were exempt?"
You're basically brothers with the gangsters after taking their blood money, right?
Pointing at the wad still in Jair's hand, mocking him. Jair paled.
"N-no, I can't say."
"Can't?"
"Yeah! You foreigners might not get it, but around here, even whispering Antonio's name gets you killed!"
Jair gritted his teeth.
If word got out he'd snitched on Antonio's location, not just him—his whole family would face gruesome revenge.
Better to die than open his mouth.
Especially since he vaguely knew who was behind Antonio.
"Oh, really? Can't be helped then."
"Then...!"
"...You think I'd say that?"
Rimon gave Jair a icy look.
That terrified face alone screamed corrupt cop who'd been involved in such "revenge" directly or indirectly many times.
So Rimon sneered.
"Hey, officer, wanna hear something fun?"
"Threats won't work! I won't talk!"
"Even if I told you whose orders I'm on to grab that bastard?"
"...!"
Jair paled without realizing.
It hit him then.
In Brazil, only two kinds could brazenly smash gangs.
Suicidal maniacs or lunatics backed by someone scarier than the gangs.
The Quetzalcoatl-marked truck and the green-haired beauty watching with arms crossed made it obvious which.
"Threats from the Green Dragon Clan or gang revenge—which scares you more? Pick one."
A wretched life.
A wretched death.
Which appealed more?
Faced with Rimon's smiling question, Jair could only despair.