Chapter 40: Even an Old Dog Still Has Teeth

Lewis was just as stunned by the thunderous roar of gunfire as anyone else. Having relied on the power of his True Name to suppress Velen and his men, he had been waiting for his subordinates to arrive. Seeing them disembark and launch their assault, he had ignored Velen and turned to pursue Zola’s cargo truck. In his eyes, this ragtag group of misfits stood no chance against his hand-picked elite from the Prohibition Bureau’s Special Operations Division. Even with their superior numbers, the outcome was inevitable: total annihilation. Confident, he had quickly leapt onto the back of a truck, intent on catching them red-handed and taking everything.

However, the moment he stepped onto the roof, his ears were assaulted by a deafening barrage. The gunfire sounded like a series of thunderclaps, or perhaps a typewriter clattering incessantly. When he looked back, half of his men were already dead. The survivors were wounded, scrambling desperately for cover behind the vehicles. The men of the Boretta family showed no signs of stopping; they discarded the empty magazines of their weapons, slotted in fresh ones, and resumed their relentless hail of fire. His men could not even lift their heads. What on earth were those things? He had never seen such weapons before.

With no other choice, Lewis jumped off the truck to bolster his defenses. If he didn't return, his men would be wiped out. This was his first mission in command; if he lost everyone, he wouldn't know how to answer to Marvin.

Seeing Lewis dash back through the pouring rain, Zola felt a sudden, belated sense of terror. "That was close..." He wasn't stupid; he immediately realized that this man was the hidden expert who had come to deal with them personally. It would have been the end of them, had it not been for the wall of lead provided by Velen and his men. What kind of guns were those? They were absurd.

"Look at them—now those are real men," Zola said, gesturing toward Velen’s group. He swore that once they got back, he would get his hands on a crate of those guns. If they had them, who in Itasca would they ever have to fear?

The wind and rain raged on. So too did the gunfire from Velen’s men. Aside from a few jammed weapons, most of them fired until their fingers grew hot. The prohibition agents were pinned down so thoroughly they couldn't even raise their heads, their own small pistols useless by comparison.

Yet, Lewis’s heavy, purposeful stride drew Velen’s undivided attention. Lewis... this guy still wasn't dead. Velen naturally recognized Lewis and knew exactly how formidable he was. There was no time to ponder why the Evans family hadn't finished him off. Velen leveled his Winchester typewriter directly at Lewis, leading another rain of lead toward him.

Even with the power of his True Name, Lewis was still vulnerable to bullets. After dodging a few, he was forced to take cover behind one of the trucks Zola had left behind, bellowing, "Do not fire at me!" It sounded like an absurd command, given they were enemies, but Velen and every gunman of the Boretta family felt their hands involuntarily lower their weapons. An irresistible force was compelling them.

"Get in the trucks, go!" Velen, a veteran of many scraps, recognized that Lewis’s True Name had been invoked. He immediately opened the door to his vehicle and climbed in, the others following suit.

Lewis noticed their movement instantly and charged out, regardless of the danger. Velen had no choice but to lift his weapon and open fire again, growling, "Go! Don't worry about me!" He knew Lewis’s strength too well. They might be suppressing him with sheer firepower now, but the moment their magazines ran dry or he closed the distance, they would all be lambs for the slaughter. The Boretta family couldn't afford another loss of their core elite; these were the seeds he had painstakingly trained for the young master, and they could not die here. He didn't mind staying behind—he was just an old dog, after all.

Fortunately, his suppressing fire held Lewis back, buying his men the chance to board the vehicles and escape. Just as Lewis shouted his command again, Velen seized the moment and scrambled into his own truck. This was the value of seasoned combat experience; even if one were a mere mortal, a True Name wielder wasn't necessarily invincible. Using that split-second gap, he started the engine and tore off along the road they had come from.

Lewis did not rush to pursue. Instead, with a dark expression, he raised his gun and aimed at Velen’s tires. One shot. Two shots. Velen’s tires blew out. The vehicle swerved, slammed into a tree by the roadside, and the front of the truck crumpled with a sickening crunch.

Lewis ignored the vehicles disappearing into the rain further down the road. He was beyond furious. Today was supposed to be his triumphant start, a mission executed with perfection. Everything had been going according to his script until that damn gun appeared.

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" Lewis frantically reloaded, then threw his gun to the ground in a rage. He couldn't bear it. This failure...

"Velen, you old dog, you’re something else!" Lewis knew Velen well, having dealt with him before. This old dog had always been obsequious in his presence, never even daring to charge him for drinks at his tavern. And now, he had bitten back.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you with a gun—that would be too easy for you." Lewis walked forward, rubbing his newly fitted alchemical prosthetic limb. "I’m going to beat you to death, one punch at a time. Then, I’ll dump your corpse on the doorstep of that little bastard Ethan, so he can properly admire my masterpiece. That’s going to be a beautiful sight! Damn it all!"

Lewis closed in on the wrecked truck. Velen hadn't been knocked unconscious by the impact. As Lewis ranted, Velen pushed open the deformed door. When he hit the ground, he realized his leg was broken. He couldn't run. He had never intended to run, not since the moment he decided to stay behind to cover their retreat.

Listening to Lewis’s approaching footsteps, Velen suddenly began to laugh. "Lewis, you won't catch me, because you aren't worthy."

The words made Lewis tense up. He immediately issued another command: "Don't shoot! Don't commit suicide!"

No gunshot rang out. Velen hadn't intended to use his gun; it was still back in the wreckage. Instead, he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a match from the lining of his trench coat. Sheltering the flame from the wind, he lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and began to whistle—a disjointed, wandering folk tune.

"Goodbye, sweetheart. Just remember: even an old dog has a few teeth left!"

He dropped the lit match.

*BOOM.*

Fire and an explosion instantly consumed everything. In Winster, it was still raining.