Meteor City, District One Cathedral.
Several figures slowly walked in from the street, draped in cold gray moonlight, heading toward the cathedral.
The person at the very front had both hands tucked into the pockets of a black coat; the inverted cross on his back still gleamed in the night.
On a high slope less than three hundred meters from the cathedral, the leader who guided the spiders came to a halt.
The others stopped behind him.
The gray moon had not yet fully set. Before the cathedral, dense silhouettes already stood across the open ground.
Everyone had their eyes closed, holding white flowers, dressed entirely in black—like participants in a grand funeral.
A row of children in white robes sang a long poem without joy or sorrow in their childish voices.
"Rest in my arms; let the sins be mine."
"Spirits return, spirits return."
"Lord, hear Your teachings and grant me light."
"Lord, hear Your guidance and grant me resolve."
"Lord, hear Your command and grant me clarity..."
"O merciful Lord..."
"Please grant forgiveness and let the grieving souls find rest..."
"Please grant mercy and let the grieving souls find rest..."
"Please grant compassion and let the grieving souls find rest..."
...
The prayers echoed in all directions. The night wind stilled, so as not to disturb the spirits returning home.
Within the sung prayers, an elderly man in a white robe slowly walked out and stopped before the crowd.
The prayers ceased. The night wind suddenly rose.
"We reject nothing."
The elder of District One raised his withered hand and drew a cross over his chest.
His exposed, clouded pupils faced the moonlight, glinting with a piercing chill.
"...But do not think you can take anything from our hands."
The black-clad man closest to him calmly repeated his words:
"We reject nothing, but do not think you can take anything from our hands."
"We reject nothing, but do not think you can take anything from our hands."
Every person who followed in repetition wore the same expression of calm.
A numb calm. A calm that treated death as life.
The elder walked up to the first person and slowly extended his hands, clasping both of his.
On the backs of his hands were engraved two marks: one of the sun, one of the moon.
The elder released his withered grip and looked at the person before him, slowly speaking:
"The Lord will guide you."
The man met his gaze, bowed slightly, and replied:
"My heart is firm; my spirit is one."
The same exact marks appeared on the man's hands, identical to those on the elder's.
The elder smiled faintly and continued on to the next person.
Until he had shaken hands with each of the thirty-one people attending the funeral.
Black sedans arrived one after another. People in black suits filed into the cars.
The convoy stopped without a sound, and left without a sound—like a heavenly road guiding spirits home, or a long stairway sending them into hell.
Prayer and ritual stretched the darkness before dawn to its limit, as if dawn would never come again.
"Let's go."
As the convoy carrying death vanished at the edge of the garbage mountain, Chrollo's voice slowly sounded—light, yet enough to awaken the souls forced to drown in prayer.
...
Three hours earlier, the Troupe's base.
On the night before departure, all the spiders gathered in the main hall on the first floor. Even staying up all night failed to make these spiders, about to unleash a massacre, feel the slightest fatigue.
Chrollo still sat on the sofa. After everyone had gathered, he looked at Shalnark and smiled slightly, signaling him to begin arranging the plan as usual.
Shalnark rolled his eyes at their boss, who always loved dumping work on him. Then that same faint smile made him laugh so hard his legs went weak, leaving him no choice but to accept the task with a pained expression.
"Well then, this operation is split into two groups. The boss's side will be Feitan, Phinks, Machi, Kortopi, and Kisho."
He winked at the last person named, smiled briefly, withdrew his gaze, and continued:
"The rest can wait until six o'clock before setting off."
He raised one finger.
"But remember this one thing. No matter what method you use, you must arrive in Bartoniazi City of the Republic of Bartochia by three p.m. on August sixth."
"Why are we splitting up again?" Uvogin looked at Shalnark with dissatisfaction. "Everyone's here—why not just charge in and crush those pests in one go?!"
"Personnel assignments are decided by the boss~"
Shalnark narrowed his eyes. His words immediately shut Uvogin up.
Pakunoda glanced at Chrollo, who had no intention of speaking and was simply smiling quietly. Not wanting anyone to question any of his decisions, she said to Uvogin—who had shut up but still looked unhappy:
"The whole group moving together makes it easier to track our movements."
Shalnark smiled and reassured him:
"Relax. Anyway, on August seventh, you'll definitely get to have your fun."
Uvogin let out an "Oh!" indicating that this was acceptable, and stopped talking, satisfied.
"Boss, I want to join your group."
From a distance, Omokage—sitting distinctly apart from the other spiders—suddenly spoke.
Though he was making the request to Chrollo, his gaze remained glued to Kisho, who had not said a single word the entire time.
"Sure."
Chrollo's reply made Omokage happily squint his eyes, but the next sentence made his expression stiffen.
"But my group is full. If someone's willing to switch with you, then it's fine."
Kisho looked at the stunned Omokage and smiled sincerely, speaking up:
"Then how about I switch with you?"
He didn't know why Omokage kept targeting him with those looks, but at this point, he was no longer afraid of such unexpected trouble.
Well, honestly, switching into Shalnark's group might suit him even better.
Omokage: "...Forget it."
He quickly adjusted his expression, waved his hand with a smile.
"There'll be plenty of chances in the future."
Kisho shrugged, regretfully.
"Alright."
"Here—this is the map of Bartoniazi City, along with the locations of the reserved hotels."
Shalnark pulled out a stack of printed pages from some unknown corner beneath the armrest of Chrollo's sofa and handed them out.
"Check-in procedures have already been handled under different identities, so just remember your numbers and check in directly."
After noting down the information, Kisho shattered the paper into fragments with Nen, just like everyone else.
Thinking of something, he looked at Shalnark.
"I want to know—who's paying for the hotel rooms? Since this is a team operation, you're not going to refuse reimbursement, right?"
Shalnark froze, then walked over and grabbed Kisho by the neck.
"You've got money on the brain~"
After ruffling Kisho's hair into a complete mess, Shalnark finally let go, satisfied.
"You don't pay. Team operations have funds, and the funds are provided by the boss."
Kisho was stunned.
"So the boss is actually that generous?"
Feitan said darkly:
"Probably just because the boss is the richest person in the Troupe."
Machi glanced at Shalnark, a hint of amusement appearing on her face.
"...Because every time you gamble, the boss wins a lot of money from you, right?"
Shalnark's eyes widened. "...?"
Meanwhile, Kisho immediately delivered the finishing blow.
"Last time arm wrestling, the boss bet on me to win. Have you paid back the money you lost to him yet?"
Phinks whistled, fully embracing the Enhancer trait of loving chaos.
"A million, right? What were the odds again?"
An innocent Nobunaga was dragged into an unpleasant memory. His gaze darkened, his eyelids drooped, and his hand slowly moved toward his sword.
Shalnark outright exploded, shouting at Kisho:
"...You're sticking your nose in way too far!"
Just as Shalnark was about to pounce and give Kisho another new hairstyle, Chrollo gave a light cough.
"The timing's about right. Any conflicts can be resolved after the operation ends."
He smiled again at Shalnark.
"That includes paying back money."
Shalnark stared in disbelief, nearly suffocating. "...?"
Meanwhile, Chrollo had already grown serious, his gaze sweeping calmly across the faces of the named members.
He issued his order evenly.
"Move out."