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POW! And the gunshot fired. It was a sound that was felt more than heard, one that squeezed Sariyu’s guts, yet she proceeded forth. Though she pushed the elf girl away, the shot was fired before she even touched her. Sariyu and others turned their gaze downward diagonally. There was a hole in the pillow right next to Lirzod’s head.

Two people were strolling through a street at a quick pace. “I wish I could be of more help, but I’ve never had the opportunity to make acquaintance with important people on this ship,” Hundred’s voice lacked confidence but contained some comfort. “That said, I’m sure the news of what happened in the hall would have long reached many decks. So, I don’t think it’s too late to find a good healer. We just have to go to the right places.”

Inside the commander’s room on the twelfth deck, four of Hardy brothers were kneeling on the floor and looked to be in dire straits. The four of them were wearing lockets made of a single tooth. Fimbry wasn’t with the others, for he was not only suffering from severe fever but was also injured too much to tag along with his brothers. “There’s a rule that none shall be murdered on this ship,” Sean, who was seated in his chair, coldly looked down at them. “You guys didn’t keep that rule in mind, but if it wasn’t for that same rule, you five brothers would have probably lost your lives by now, given the ruckus you’ve caused in the hall. Simple guilty squats don't cover your misconduct.” He chewed his cigar that was almost over. “Dozens got burned by the flames, but fortunately, only a few suffered serious injuries; however, if any of those people die, then you guys are doomed.”

On the twentieth deck, at Knuckle Street. 777 just reached there but got stopped by the guards. Only after paying five copper, he was allowed to enter the street, which was quite livelier than the last time he came here, and though everyone wore clothing from different places of the world, they all had one thing in common about them—the copper-coated knuckle dusters. 777 stopped by the reception desk, which was on the side of the road. “What’s on your knuckles, mister?” the petite receptionist, who was the only one of the two women of the guild, asked him politely. Another guard was standing only a few feet beside the desk. Only the receptionist and the guards were wearing guild uniforms—long blue suits with green borders, and a roaring white hound symbol on their backs with bloody knuckle dusters covering its paws.