Kevin found a quiet bench in a small, sun-dappled park and read the email from Mori carefully. The details were illuminating, and a cold, strategic clarity replaced his earlier frustration.
Saro was a minor player on a massive board. His status wasn't derived from personal power or indispensability, but from the accident of his birth into a vast, gnarled family tree. He was one of many scions, each given a territory and resources to manage, their worth measured by the profit and influence they generated. Saro's "special acquisitions" division—which had included Kevin—was likely a pet project, a way for an unimportant son to try and carve out a unique niche. Losing his star "acquisition" wasn't just a financial blow; it was a humiliation, a public failure that weakened his standing in the relentless internal competition of the Tedoruka clan.
That's his pressure point, Kevin realized. Pride and position. Saro couldn't afford to let a runaway asset, especially one who now publicly disrespected him, go unpunished. But his resources for punishment were constrained. He couldn't casually deploy the family's true heavy-hitters—their rumored Nen users or elite paramilitary forces—for a personal grudge without permission from higher up. That's why the first move had been the Ritz family: deniable, local muscle.
The email confirmed that the Ten Dons, while powerful in the mundane world of crime and politics, operated under the tacit tolerance of the V5 nations. The Hunter Association existed in a parallel, often overlapping sphere, but with a key difference: it held a sovereign authority derived from its utility to the V5 in handling "irregular" phenomena. A licensed Hunter's data was sacrosanct, protected by layers of bureaucratic and digital encryption that even the Ten Dons couldn't crack without triggering a diplomatic incident.
Mori's final line in the email was succinct: "Pass the Exam. Get the license. He becomes a nuisance, not a threat. Until then, be a ghost."
Kevin deleted the email. The path forward was now a two-pronged race.
Prong One: Evasion & Intelligence. He needed to disappear from Saro's rudimentary tracking methods. The hotel confrontation had been a necessary shock, but it also pinpointed his location. His earlier plan to use a false trail to the mountains was now imperative. He would activate the "guide" from the forum, but not to go to the Makai range. He would use that contact to acquire local knowledge, perhaps even a secure safehouse in the Nancha region, off any digital grid. He would also reach out to his underworld informant for continuous updates on any Tedoruka-linked movements in Yorbian.
Prong Two: Exam Preparation & Strategic Alliance. The Hunter Exam was no longer just a personal goal; it was a tactical objective. He needed to pass, and pass convincingly, to raise his status from "missing asset" to "protected professional." Furthermore, his budding network was his true shield. He needed to solidify the partnership with Menchi and Buhara. Their connection to the Gourmet Hunter world and the Hunter Association could provide legitimacy and shelter. He drafted a new message to them, more urgent and open:
"Menchi, Buhara – Situation escalated. Former 'employer' (Ten Dons affiliate) actively seeking retrieval. Made statement of independence. Need to accelerate our collaboration. Can you use your Association contacts to verify my Exam application status/expedite? Also, if you have safe transit routes or trusted contacts in Yorbian highlands (Nancha region), would be invaluable. Willing to prepay with enhanced sample of Digestion Potion (v2.0, reduced side effects) and full analysis of Iron-Hoofed Antelope essence. – K"
He hit send. The offer was substantial—progress on the potion they wanted, plus unique research data. It was a down payment on the professional alliance they had discussed.
He stood up from the bench, the afternoon sun casting long shadows. The annoyance was gone, burned away by the cold fuel of analysis. Yorkshin City, with its glittering towers and hidden underworld, was no longer a playground to explore. It was a battlefield of information and influence, and he had just finished his first skirmish.
He hailed another taxi, this time giving an address in a commercial district known for outdoor and survival gear. He needed a few more pieces of non-traceable equipment before he vanished. As the city streamed by, Kevin's mind was already in the mountains, planning his next moves. He was no longer Kevin the runaway, or Kevin the aspiring Hunter. He was becoming Kevin the Alchemist, a free agent turning the toxic elements of his past into the compounds for his future. The gang lord thought in terms of ownership and punishment. Kevin thought in terms of chemical reactions, catalysts, and controlled transformations. The next time their paths crossed, Kevin intended for the reaction to be entirely on his terms.
The sound of his daughter's voice acted like a switch, pulling Leon's mind from the abyss of supernatural dread back to the mundane reality of a hospital room. He quickly folded the prophecy poem and tucked it under his thigh, forcing a pained but gentle smile.
"Neon. I told you to stay at the hotel with Uncle Carlo."
Neon, escorted by a weary-looking Carlo, skipped into the room, her eyes wide with a child's mix of concern and curiosity. "I was worried! Carlo said you had a 'work accident.' Did you fall down some stairs, Daddy?"
An accident. That was the cover story Bruto had concocted for anyone who asked. A 'structural incident' during a routine property inspection. Leon almost laughed, a bitter, hollow sound stuck in his throat. "Something like that, sweetheart. Just a few bumps and bruises. I'll be fine."
He saw Carlo's subtle, almost imperceptible shake of the head and the tightness around his eyes. The report to the higher-ups hadn't gone well. Bruto had likely downplayed Kevin's otherworldly prowess and emphasized their own failure, throwing Leon's team under the bus to save his own skin. They were now liabilities in a botched operation.
As Neon chattered about the cartoons on the hospital TV, Leon's mind raced again, but along a new track. The poem had proven itself. It had predicted the 'jackal' (the Ritz family mission), the 'eastward' journey, the 'minions,' the 'newborn beast's' disgust and violent rebuttal. It had promised his survival but warned of pain. Every line had etched itself into reality.
The final stanza was a choice. Spit out information and fall into unchanging decay, or break free from shackles and look towards the farther blue sky.
'Spit out information.' He could go to Saro's people, tell them everything—the poem, his daughter's strange trance, his detailed observations of Kevin's speed and the knotted gun. It might buy him a shred of favor, a slightly less severe punishment for the failure. But it would chain him deeper to a world that had just shown him its true, monstrous face. He would be 'decaying' in a gilded cage of constant fear and subservience.
'Break free from shackles.' The shackles were the Tedoruka family, the Ritz family, this whole life of being a small-time boss for indifferent giants. But how? He was a nobody with a broken crew, a daughter to protect, and a target on his back from both the alchemist and his own employers.
His gaze fell on Neon, who was now drawing a get-well picture on his bedside table with a stolen marker. The 'farther blue sky'… it had to be a future for her. A future away from gang wars and Nen-wielding monsters.
An idea, desperate and wild, began to form. The poem had come through Neon. It was a connection, however mysterious, to the world Kevin operated in. Kevin was an enemy of Saro. And Kevin had shown a strange… restraint. He hadn't killed anyone. He'd given them a message to deliver. He was powerful, but not mindlessly violent.
What if the 'choice' wasn't about reporting to one side or the other? What if it was about choosing a third side?
"Carlo," Leon said, his voice low. "Take Neon to get some ice cream from the cafeteria. I need a moment."
Once they were gone, Leon, wincing with every movement, pulled out his personal phone—a clean, unregistered burner he used for family. He navigated to a public, generic-looking forum for urban explorers—the same type of place Kevin had used. With stiff fingers, he typed a post:
"Seeking guide. Lost an important heirloom (antique silver pocket watch, family crest of intertwined serpents) in the eastern district during a recent… altercation. Believe it may have been found by a 'fast-moving' individual. Willing to pay for information leading to its return, no questions asked. Discretion guaranteed. Reply to [encrypted temporary mailbox]."
The description was vague but pointed: 'eastern district' (the hotel location), 'altercation,' 'fast-moving individual.' The 'heirloom' was a fiction, a hook. The 'intertwined serpents' could be interpreted as a reference to pharmaceuticals or alchemy by the right person. It was a shot in the darkest of nights.
He created the temporary mailbox and posted the message. It was a risk. It could be seen by anyone. It could be a trap laid by Saro's people monitoring all communications related to the incident. But the prophecy poem had told him to look for a 'farther blue sky.' This was his first, fumbling attempt to look beyond the walls of his current prison.
He lay back, exhaustion and pain washing over him. He was no Hunter. He was no Nen user. He was a wounded, minor gangster lying in a hospital bed. But he had a piece of paper that saw the future, and a daughter to protect. And he had just sent a message in a bottle out into the chaotic, dangerous sea, hoping it would reach the one person who might see it not as a threat or a plea, but as a potential piece on the board—a piece that had chosen to change sides. The game was far bigger than he'd ever imagined, and he had just decided to stop being a pawn.
Patreon Seasay