The hoodlum slid to a stop in a heap of torn earth and shattered asphalt, motionless. The dust from the initial impact was just beginning to settle, revealing the bandaged man still standing, though his makeshift bandage shield was shredded and his arms trembled violently. The sheer, concussive force of Kevin's opening blow had traveled through his defense, rattling his bones and stunning his nerves.
The hooded man, the presumed Manipulator, had wisely retreated further back, his hands weaving in the air, threads of invisible Nen likely already spreading through the environment. His face was pale behind his cowl, the quick and brutal dismantling of his two comrades sending a clear, terrifying message.
Kevin didn't glance at the downed Enhancer. His focus was on the remaining two. The bandaged man was the immediate threat; his ability to manipulate the bandages suggested a versatile, mid-to-long-range Conjuration or Manipulation skill. The hooded man was the wild card, his specific ability still unknown.
"You... you monster," the bandaged man rasped, his voice even more shredded than before. The bandages around his body began to writhe like serpents, tips sharpening into needle-like points. Dozens of them now levitated around him, a porcupine of lethal cloth.
"Monster is a strong word," Kevin said, his tone conversational as he began to walk calmly towards the bandaged man. "I prefer 'specialist.' Your bandages. Are they conjured, or are you manipulating pre-existing material?"
The bandaged man didn't answer. With a snarl, he thrust his hands forward. The sharpened bandages shot toward Kevin in a deadly hail, moving with the speed and precision of thrown daggers.
Kevin didn't dodge. He raised his arms, crossing them in front of his face and torso. His Ren surged, and the hexagonal transformation principle—now as natural as breathing—activated. His skin didn't just harden; the structure of his aura at the point of impact transformed, creating a lattice of microscopic, interlocking hexagons. It was his Iron Wall technique, applied not as a potion-induced change, but as a true, instinctive Hatsu.
Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting!
A sound like rain on a metal roof filled the air. The bandages struck with enough force to pierce concrete, but against Kevin's reinforced defense, they shattered their own sharpened tips or glanced off with showers of sparks. He advanced through the barrage unscathed, steps measured and relentless.
The bandaged man's eyes widened in horror. He poured more Nen into his ability, the bandages whipping around to try and entangle Kevin's legs, to bind his arms.
Kevin simply stomped down. The hexagon-reinforced sole of his boot crushed the grasping cloth into the dirt. He reached the man in three more strides.
"Conjuration, then," Kevin observed, as if conducting a field study. "Good tensile strength, poor piercing capability against structured defense. Lacks mass for bludgeoning." He reached out, his hand moving with deceptive ease through the flailing bandages. He didn't aim for the man's head or chest. He grabbed a thick cluster of bandages near the man's shoulder—the apparent source point of the conjuration.
The bandaged man tried to pull back, to dissolve the bandages, but Kevin's grip was a vice. With his other hand now free, Kevin formed a knife-hand, his fingers and the edge of his palm taking on the same razor-sharp hexagonal property.
"Scatter," Kevin said softly.
His hand swept down in a short, clinical arc, severing the entire bundled cluster of bandages from the man's body. There was no blood—the bandages were Nen constructs—but the man screamed as if amputated, a psychic feedback jolting through his system as his Hatsu was violently disconnected. The remaining bandages in the air dissolved into motes of light.
The bandaged man collapsed, clutching his shoulder, his Nen system in disarray.
Kevin turned his head. The hooded man had frozen, his weaving hands still. He was staring, his confidence utterly shattered. The fight had lasted perhaps twenty seconds. His Enhancer was down, possibly dead. His Conjurer was disabled, screaming in psychic pain. And the target hadn't even broken a sweat, analyzing their abilities like specimens.
"I... I surrender," the hooded man stammered, lowering his hands. "The commission... it's not worth this."
Kevin nodded, as if accepting a reasonable business proposal. "Wise. Deliver a message for me. Tell Saro Tedoruka the consultation fee for wasting my time is one billion jenny. The retrieval attempt fee is two billion per operative, payable upon failure. He can send the invoice to the Hunter Association post office, care of Kevin, after the next Hunter Exam results are published. Any further unsolicited contact before then will be considered a hostile acquisition attempt, and my counter-offer will involve permanent asset liquidation. Do you understand the terms?"
The hooded man nodded frantically.
"Good. Now, take your colleagues and leave. Your vehicle is that way." Kevin gestured vaguely back toward the road.
He didn't watch them scramble to drag their unconscious and wounded into the car. He picked up his suitcase, brushed a few specks of dust from his sleeve, and continued his walk to the airport, the night once again silent around him. The encounter was less a battle and more a quality inspection—a swift, brutal assessment of the product Saro had purchased, found severely defective, and returned with a sternly worded warning about the supplier.
As the lights of the airport terminal grew brighter ahead, Kevin's mind was already miles away, in the mountains, on the puzzle of the Exam, on the meeting with Mito. This skirmish in the Yorknew outskirts was just administrative paperwork. The real work lay ahead.
The message, sent from the bandaged man's phone, was deliberately vague, menacing, and perfectly tailored to strike at Saro Tedoruka's specific vulnerabilities: his pride, his paranoia about internal rivals, and his fear of exposure. Kevin didn't sign it. He didn't need to. The implication that his hired "professionals" had been compromised and their communications hijacked would be far more unsettling than any direct threat.
He found the car keys in the hoodlum's pocket. The vehicle was a nondescript, dark sedan parked a short distance down the access road. Perfect. He loaded his suitcase into the trunk, then, with a grim efficiency born of necessity, dragged the three bodies off the roadside and into a thicket of scrub brush. He didn't have time for proper disposal, nor the inclination for gratuitous cruelty. He left them where they wouldn't be immediately spotted from the road. They were a message in themselves, one Saro would receive when his men failed to report.
The drive to the airport was quiet. Kevin used the time to center himself, letting the adrenaline of the short, brutal fight dissipate. He analyzed his own performance. The Iron Wall transformation was now a reliable, instinctive defense. His physical stats, enhanced by training and residual potion effects, were formidable. But his offensive options were still limited to enhanced physical strikes and crude Nen applications. He needed a dedicated attack Hatsu, something that leveraged his unique strengths as an alchemist. The Exam preparation period would be the time to develop it.
At the airport, he abandoned the sedan in a long-term parking lot, wiping it down for prints as a matter of principle. He boarded the overnight airship to the Yorbian highlands with minutes to spare.
As the airship climbed above Yorknew's glittering grid, Kevin looked down at the shrinking city. It was a nexus of power, ambition, and rot. He had navigated its shadows, made contacts, forged a tentative alliance, made an enemy, and defended his fledgling independence with brutal clarity. He was leaving it richer in resources, poorer in time, and with a clearer understanding of the board.
He pulled out his phone. There was a reply to his forum post from the potential "guide" in the Nancha region. It was terse and to the point: "Meet at the White Goat Inn, North Ridge, day after tomorrow at dusk. Ask for Old Man Fen. Cash only. No questions."
He also had a reply from Menchi and Buhara, sent to his secure account:
"K – Association confirms your application is registered and 'under review' (standard). No expedite possible, but your file is flagged due to sponsor (Bisky). That's good. Re: safe routes – attached map with three green paths. Used by herb foragers, avoids main patrols. Red 'X' is a Gourmet Hunter safehouse cache (code: 'Hungry Ghost'). Stocked with basics. Use if needed. Digestion v2.0 sample and antelope analysis received. Promising. Buhara says the pollen integration theory checks out. Be careful in the mountains. The air is thin, but the things that live there have thick hides and sharp teeth. – M & B."
The attachment was a detailed topographic map of the Nancha region, with hand-drawn routes and a single, discreet 'X' in a remote valley. It was more than he'd hoped for—tangible support from his new network.
He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. The past weeks had been a whirlwind of learning, conflict, and connection. From the methodical research of the wetland to the culinary artistry of the Gourmet Hunters, from the ethical framework of Begel to the bloody pragmatism of the Yorknew alley, each experience was a reagent added to the solution that was becoming him.
Ahead lay the mountains, Mito, and the secrets of his past. Ahead lay the Hunter Exam, the gate to his future. And somewhere in the shadows, a spoiled prince of the underworld was likely fuming over a cryptic text message, his cheap solutions having failed spectacularly.
Kevin allowed himself a small, cold smile. The alchemist was departing the arena of petty thugs and mid-level gangsters. He was heading to a higher altitude, both literally and metaphorically. The reactions were still proceeding, the compounds still mixing. The final product was yet to be determined, but one thing was certain: he was no longer just reacting to his circumstances. He was actively synthesizing his own path. The airship droned on, carrying him toward the dawn and the waiting peaks.
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