The air in the forest seemed to freeze for a fraction of a second. The two Kurta tribesmen, trained for vigilance in their isolated world, barely had time to widen their eyes—their scarlet irises already beginning to flicker with alarm—before the world went dark.
Two soft thuds followed, almost inaudible beneath the rustle of leaves. The two scouts slumped to the forest floor, unconscious, not dead. The short man, Feitan, was already back beside the Leader, wiping his hands on his jacket with an expression of mild distaste.
"Too easy," he muttered, his voice muffled by the high collar.
"Good. Now we know we're close," the Leader said, his voice calm, analytical. He glanced at the fallen men. "Their clothing matches the description. This is the perimeter guard. The main settlement will be deeper, likely in a more defensible position—a valley or a plateau."
The blonde woman, Machi, knelt beside one of the unconscious scouts, her Nen threads already extending from her fingertips like silvery filaments. She probed gently at the man's temples. "Their mental resistance is... sharp. Primed for alarm. A communal warning system, perhaps? Their agitation resonates." She withdrew her threads. "If we trigger a mass emotional response, it will be loud. And messy."
The beast-like man, Uvogin, cracked his knuckles, a grin splitting his face. "Loud and messy is fine! Let them get angry! Makes the eyes pop better!"
The ronin, Nobunaga, rested a hand on his sword hilt, his eyes scanning the deepening shadows between the trees. "A defensive tribe, isolated, with a legendary trait they must hide. They will not be unprepared. They will have traps, ambush points, fallback positions."
The baby-faced man, Shalnark, pulled out a smartphone, tapping it thoughtfully. "No signals to jam. Purely analog defense. That makes it simpler, in a way. Harder to spoof, but easier to overwhelm with direct force."
The Leader listened to his troupe's assessments, a faint smile on his lips. This was the Phantom Troupe's way—a swift, brutal efficiency tempered by individual eccentricity and cold analysis. They were not mere brutes; they were artists of theft and slaughter, and the Scarlet Eyes were a priceless piece of art their patron had commissioned.
"Our objective is the eyes," the Leader reiterated, his voice cutting through the chatter. "A minimum of five pairs, extracted under conditions of peak emotional agitation to ensure color purity. Secondary objective: gather intelligence on their population, defensive capabilities, and any unique Nen abilities. Tertiary: any other valuables of interest. Uvogin, Nobunaga—you are the spearhead. Draw their fighters. Provoke the emotional response. Feitan, Machi—flank and isolate. Secure the targets once enraged. Shalnark, Pakunoda," he glanced at the silent woman observing from the rear, "intelligence and containment. I will oversee."
He didn't need to give detailed orders to each. They understood their roles, their synergies. They were a perfected machine of predation.
"Let's give these 'devils' a reason to truly rage," the Leader said, and began walking forward, his steps silent on the pine needles. The Troupe fanned out behind him, their earlier boisterousness gone, replaced by a predatory quiet. The forest, once just a setting, was now a hunting ground. Dusk was falling, and with it, a darkness far deeper than night was descending upon the hidden valley of the Kurta clan.
Miles away, in a different part of the same vast forest, Kevin was following Mito towards the tribe's outskirts, completely unaware that the very nightmare the Kurta had hidden from for generations—the nightmare of collectors and butchers—had just crossed their threshold with a specific, horrifying shopping list. The kindness he was traveling to offer was about to collide with a wave of absolute, calculated malice.
The scent of pine and damp earth was now irreparably fouled by the coppery tang of blood and the sharp, ozone-like aftertaste of spent Nen. The Kurta settlement, hidden in a bowl-shaped depression amidst ancient trees, was no longer a sanctuary. It was an abattoir.
Kevin and Mito moved like ghosts through the twilight undergrowth, using *Zetsu* to its absolute limit. The carnage they slipped past was methodical, efficient, and told a clear story. The bodies of Kurta warriors—men and women who had clearly fought with ferocious, desperate skill—lay broken by overwhelming force. Crushed bones spoke of monstrous physical power (Uvogin). Clean, severing cuts indicated a master bladesman (Nobunaga). Small, precise puncture wounds that caused catastrophic internal damage hinted at a speed-focused assassin (Feitan).
And the eyes. The hollow, bleeding sockets were a constant, horrific refrain.
Mito's breathing was a ragged, controlled whistle through his nose. The red in his eyes was a smoldering coal, held in check only by Kevin's iron grip on his shoulder and the brutal logic of survival. To reveal themselves now, in a blind rage, would be to add two more corpses to the pile.
They reached the edge of the tree line overlooking the central clearing of the settlement. The scene there was one of organized horror.
A blonde woman (Machi) stood calmly to one side, Nen threads gleaming faintly as they bound a group of terrified children and elders into a silent, immobile cluster. A man with a baby face (Shalnark) was pacing among a row of kneeling, wounded adult tribespeople, tapping his phone against their temples, apparently extracting information. The beast-like man (Uvogin) was laughing, holding a struggling Kurta warrior by the throat with one hand while casually batting away attacks from two others with the other, his *Ren* a visible, violent aura.
The ronin (Nobunaga) had his sword drawn, its blade clean, standing guard near the Leader. And the Leader himself—a man with an air of detached intellect—was examining the eyes of a recently… harvested individual, held in a stasis container by the short, punk-clad man (Feitan).
There were nine of them. Their auras, even restrained, were like black holes, warping the feel of the clearing. This was no random gang or hired muscle. This was a unit. A pack of predators, each a master of their form, working in chilling concert.
"The Phantom Troupe," Kevin breathed the name, the information from the Hunter Association's most-wanted bulletins clicking into place. Legends. Supernova-class criminals. And they were here for the Scarlet Eyes.
Mito trembled, a low growl building in his throat. One of the kneeling women was his sister. A boy in the bound cluster was his nephew.
Kevin's mind raced, cold and clear despite the adrenaline. Assessment: Nine S-Class threats. Objective: Theft of genetic material (eyes). Secondary: Intelligence gathering. Tertiary: Annihilation of resistance. Current status: Objectives nearly complete. Our assets: One highly-skilled martial artist (Mito, emotionally compromised). One Transmuter/Alchemist (self, with limited combat Hatsu, potions: 2 Iron Wall, 1 Blank Meteor, 2 Healing). Enemy disposition: Concentrated, confident, minimally guarded flanks due to overwhelming superiority.
A direct assault was suicide. Even a distraction would likely only get them instantly killed.
But the Troupe was almost done. They would leave soon. And they would take their gruesome trophies and their intelligence with them.
Kevin made a decision. It wasn't heroic. It was tactical, and it was cruel.
He leaned close to Mito's ear, his voice a barely audible vibration. "They're leaving. They have what they came for. If we attack, we die, and we change nothing."
Mito's head jerked towards him, eyes blazing with betrayal.
"Listen," Kevin hissed, his grip tightening. "They're recording. The baby-faced one. He's downloading their knowledge. Their history. Their weaknesses. If they leave with that, nowhere will be safe for any Kurta, ever. Your entire people become an open book for any future collector."
He saw the horrifying understanding dawn through the rage in Mito's eyes.
"Your son," Kevin pressed, the words a knife twist. "His location. His condition. It will be in there. They will know."
That did it. The personal, specific threat cut through the generalized fury. Mito's rage focused into a diamond-hard point of cold purpose.
"What do we do?" Mito's voice was a stripped wire.
"We don't stop them from leaving. We follow them. We find out where they go. Who they work for. And we steal back the intelligence. The eyes…" Kevin glanced at the stasis containers, his stomach turning. "…that's a problem for later. But the data is the immediate threat. We track them. We wait for a moment of separation, distraction, anything. And we take the phone, or the one who holds the data."
It was a desperate, near-impossible plan. Tracking the Phantom Troupe was like tracking a typhoon. Stealing from them was akin to plucking a fang from a sleeping dragon. But it was the only move that wasn't immediate suicide and offered a sliver of future hope.
Mito gave a single, sharp nod. The red glare in his eyes didn't fade, but it changed. It was no longer the wildfire of rage; it was the focused beam of a cutting laser.
Below, the Leader nodded. Uvogin dropped the lifeless warrior. Shalnark pocketed his phone. Machi's threads retracted, leaving the bound group sobbing but alive—a deliberate act of mercy, or perhaps simply because their utility was spent. The Troupe gathered, indifferent to the devastation around them, and began to move, melting back into the forest from which they came.
Kevin and Mito, two shadows filled with grief and a terrible new resolve, waited a full five minutes before moving. Then, like wraiths clinging to the trail of demons, they began the most dangerous hunt of their lives. The kindness Kevin had come to offer was ashes. Now, there was only the grim calculus of survival, vengeance, and the desperate theft of a future. The alchemist's path had led him into the heart of the world's darkest economy, and the only formula left was one of shadow, patience, and an almost certain, violent end.
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