The name Phantom Troupe landed in Kevin's mind with the weight of a tombstone. It wasn't just a label; it was a category of horror, a confirmation of the absolute, amoral scale he had witnessed. His fingers tightened slightly on the phone.
"The Phantom Troupe," Kevin repeated, the words tasting of ash. "What do we know?"
"Officially? Very little that's concrete," Begel's voice was grim, the tone of a conservationist who'd seen too many species wiped out by an unstoppable, unnatural force. "They're classified as A-Class, sometimes S-Class, Bounties. They're thieves, assassins, and… collectors. They take what they want, whether it's art, artifacts, or people with unique traits. They operate globally, leave no witnesses when they choose not to, and have never been permanently stopped by any government or Hunter Association task force. Their membership is fluid but seems to revolve around a core. The number is often cited as thirteen, but active cells can be smaller. Your description of nine fits a standard operational unit."
Kevin's gaze drifted back to the box containing the Scarlet Eyes. Collectors. That word, cold and clinical, fit perfectly. The Kurta weren't people to them; they were a source of a rare collectible. The slaughter wasn't passion; it was harvest.
"Why?" Kevin asked, the question hollow. "For money? The Scarlet Eyes are valuable, but for beings at their level…"
"It's rarely just about money," Begel cut in. "Sometimes it's a commission from an anonymous, wealthy patron with… specific tastes. Sometimes it's for the challenge, or to add to their own private trove. The Troupe's motives are opaque. They follow the whims of their leader, a figure known only as 'The Leader' or sometimes 'Chrollo Lucilfer.' He's a strategist, a connoisseur of the rare and the terrible. If the Scarlet Eyes are one of the World's Seven Great Beauties… that's exactly the kind of thing he'd covet."
A connoisseur. Kevin thought of the calm, bookish man observing the slaughter. The one whose analytical gaze had sent chills down his spine even from a distance. Chrollo Lucilfer. The name was a key to a door he wasn't sure he ever wanted to open.
"What do I do?" Kevin's voice was quiet, stripped of its usual analytical edge, revealing the raw shock beneath.
"For now? Nothing they would notice," Begel said, his tone shifting to one of urgent practicality. "You have survivors. Your priority is to get them to absolute safety. The Troupe's primary objective was the eyes. They got most of them. Two survivors and one missing pair are an operational footnote, not a priority—unless you make yourself one. Disappear. Use every resource I've given you. The safehouse routes, the contacts. Get the woman and the child into a protected identity program. The Hunter Association has a few for extraordinary circumstances; I'll start the inquiries. But it will take time, and it requires you to have your license."
The Hunter Exam. It was no longer a personal ambition. It was a necessary tool, a credential to access the kind of protections that could hide someone from the Phantom Troupe.
"And the eyes?" Kevin asked, looking at the box.
"Keep them safe. Hide them. They are evidence, and they are a… connection. But do not use them, do not try to sell them, do not let their aura leak. If the Troupe has a way to track their property, that box is a beacon. You need specialized Nen containment."
Kevin's mind, forced back into problem-solving mode, began to whirr. Specialized containment… The Soul-Settling Amber he had. Its property was to negate aggressive spiritual reactions. Could it pacify the lingering resentment in the eyes? Could it mask their signature?
"I might have a way to mask them," Kevin said. "Alchemically."
"Good. Do it. Then, you focus on the Exam. Pass it. Get the license. That's your shield and your access key. Once you're a Hunter, we can move more openly to secure the survivors. And you…" Begel paused. "You've made an enemy of the most dangerous thieves in the world. You need to become someone they would think twice about stealing from. That means power, Kevin. Not just potions. Real, undeniable power. The kind that makes you more trouble than you're worth."
The call ended with more instructions—coordinates for a remote, secure landing strip, codes for a network of safe-houses. Kevin put the phone down. The morning sun through the window now felt brittle, insubstantial.
He opened the box again. The Scarlet Eyes floated, serene and terrible in their preservative bath, the dark wisps of resentment coiling like smoke in the liquid. He took out the small, precious piece of Soul-Settling Amber. He would grind a fraction of it to dust, introduce it to the solution, try to transmute its pacifying property into a spiritual seal around the eyes.
It was a new kind of alchemy. Not for enhancement, but for concealment. Not for unlocking potential, but for locking away tragedy.
He looked out the window at the clouds below. Yorknew City awaited, a jungle of a different kind. The Phantom Troupe was out there somewhere, their ledger noting a minor discrepancy—a missing pair of eyes, two escaped witnesses. For now, he was beneath their notice. He had to use that time. To hide, to grow, to forge himself into something that could one day stand between such darkness and the light, not as a victim or a bystander, but as a guardian. The path of the Alchemist had taken a sharp, dark turn. Now, he would learn to brew in shadow, until he was strong enough to bring his own kind of light.
The air in the abandoned building was thick with dust and the coppery scent of fresh blood. The sight that greeted Machi was unprecedented in her years with the Troupe. Uvogin cradled a grotesquely swollen, purpling arm, his face a mask of pain and simmering fury. Phinks had one forearm in a crude sling, the other heavily bandaged. Nobunaga was unconscious on a makeshift pallet, his breathing shallow, with Machi's own Nen threads already woven through his torso like a macabre tapestry, stemming internal damage. Kortopi sat in a corner, cradling his reattached but still lifeless-looking arm, a vacant expression on his face. And there was the body bag, ominously still.
Chrollo stood apart, his expression unreadable as he carefully placed the case of Scarlet Eyes on a broken crate. He glanced at Machi. "The operation encountered an anomalous defense mechanism. Post-mortem Nen, catalyzed by external agents and collective tribal怨恨. It manifested with high virulence and targeted precision. Menching is deceased."
Machi's eyes widened fractionally. Menching, dead? Not in a glorious battle against some Hunter legend, but killed by the vengeful ghost of their prey? It was… inelegant. Profoundly unsettling.
"The targets?" she asked, her voice flat, pushing down the unease.
"Primary objective secured," Chrollo said, tapping the case. "Two secondary targets escaped with external assistance. One adult male, identity unknown, but possessing combat proficiency and alchemical knowledge. He is responsible for Feitan's initial injury and the escape."
He didn't elaborate on the "how." The failure spoke for itself.
Feitan, leaning against a wall with his own injuries tended, hissed, "I will peel his skin."
"Log his description," Chrollo instructed Shalnark, who was already tapping on his phone. "Add him to the pending ledger. Priority: low. He is a variable, not a threat."
The distinction was clear. The man was an irritant, a disruptor of their clean harvest, not someone who fundamentally challenged the Troupe. Yet, he had cost them.
Machi moved to the wounded, her Nen threads glowing as she began more detailed work on Uvogin's shattered elbow and Phinks's fractures. As she worked, the others reported in more detail. The story of Mito's transformation, the psychic assault, the entity's hate-fueled intelligence, and its gruesome effectiveness.
"It learned," Nobunaga rasped, having regained a sliver of consciousness. "It assessed our… attitudes. Punished accordingly." He coughed, a wet, painful sound.
Chrollo listened, absorbing the data. The Kurta's final defense was a fascinating data point—a form of emotionally-triggered, chemically-boosted Post-mortem Nen with a rudimentary moral algorithm. It was a unique biological and Nen-based phenomenon. He filed it away under "Kurta – Defensive Traits" in his mental catalogue. The loss of Menching was regrettable, a flaw in their otherwise flawless intelligence and their own momentary underestimation. It would not happen again.
"We depart within the hour," Chrollo announced. "Machi, stabilize them for travel. Pakunoda," he turned to the silent woman with the grave eyes, "extract Menching's memories of the event before disposal. I want the sensory data of the entity's attack."
Even in death, a member could yield useful information. Pakunoda nodded, moving toward the body bag with a somber expression.
"The eyes will be delivered as agreed," Chrollo continued, looking at the case. "The commission is fulfilled. The cost has been recalculated and remains within acceptable bounds." His gaze swept over his injured troupe. "Rest and recuperation are the next objectives. We will lie low until all are operational. The world will not miss us for a time."
There was a collective, grim sense of acceptance. The Troupe was a resilient organism. It had been wounded, but not crippled. A member was lost, a price paid. The treasure was secured. The equation, in Chrollo's mind, still balanced.
As Machi worked and Pakunoda performed her grim duty, the others settled into a weary silence. The adrenaline of the fight and the shock of the supernatural assault were fading, leaving behind bone-deep fatigue and the cold knowledge that even spiders could be bitten by the insects they considered beneath notice.
Far away, on the airship soaring towards Yorknew, Kevin finished his call. He had just arranged, through a complex chain of favors and promises of future potions, for a completely untraceable, private ground transport to meet him upon landing. It would take him, Rosana, and Pairo not to a hotel, but to a secure warehouse owned by a black-market logistics company that owed Begel a considerable debt. From there, they would vanish into the immense, anonymous underbelly of Yorknew City.
He looked at the box containing the sealed Scarlet Eyes, now wrapped in a cloth infused with powdered Soul-Settling Amber. The dark wisps of resentment were fainter, quieter, as if lulled to sleep. It was a temporary measure, but it would have to do.
He had the name now: Phantom Troupe. He had the face of their leader, Chrollo Lucilfer, burned into his memory. He had a debt of blood owed to a dead friend and a shattered people.
The alchemist closed the box and looked out at the horizon. Yorknew's glittering skyline was coming into view, a maze of opportunity and danger. His path was no longer one of simple discovery. It was a path of hiding, of forging strength in the shadows, of preparing for a day when the ledger would be presented, and a price far beyond jenny would be demanded. The first phase of his new work had begun: the synthesis of invisibility. The next would be the distillation of power. And the final reaction… that would be one of reckoning.