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The chaos erupted like a powder keg. Within seconds, the once-orderly hall transformed into a frantic melee of 754 desperate souls.
Leo didn't move. He remained leaning against the cool stone of the corner wall, his number plate 321 pinned clearly to his chest. His posture was relaxed, almost bored, but his eyes were scanning the room with the precision of a predator.
He didn't need to hunt. In a room full of hundreds of people needing three plates to advance, a lone man standing still was the most tempting target of all.
"Target acquired!"
A lean man with spiked hair and a jagged combat knife lunged from Leo's right. He was fast for an ordinary human, his blade whistling through the air toward Leo's shoulder. At the same time, a heavy-set woman with brass knuckles swung a haymaker from the left.
They had coordinated instinctively, seeing Leo as an easy mark.
Leo didn't even push off the wall. He waited until the knife was inches from his skin, then shifted his torso a mere two centimeters. The blade hissed past, buried deep into the drywall behind him.
Before the man could pull the knife free, Leo's palm shot out, striking the man's solar plexus with a gentle-looking tap.
The man folded like a lawn chair, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. Simultaneously, Leo caught the woman's wrist, using her own momentum to spin her around and slam her into the spiked-haired man.
The two collided with a dull thud and slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Leo reached down, plucked the number plates from their chests—114 and 492—and added them to his own.
"That's three points," Leo muttered.
He looked at the number plates in his hand. He had reached the requirement in less than thirty seconds. However, Bucidola's instructions were specific: Collect three number plates and advance to the rooftop.
But the elevator was gone, and there were no visible stairs.
Leo looked up at the ceiling, then back at the fray. The muscular man he had noticed earlier was currently swinging a smaller examinee like a club, clearing a path toward the back of the hall.
The girl in ethnic clothing was gone. Leo scanned the room and spotted her—she was perched atop a decorative ledge near the ceiling, watching the carnage with a detached expression, three plates already dangling from her fingers.
She caught Leo's gaze and offered a tiny, predatory smile before vanishing into the shadows of the rafters.
"So the way up isn't the elevator," Leo realized.
He looked at the floor plan of the hall. Near the back, behind a heavy velvet curtain, there was a slight draft.
Leo started moving. He didn't run; he simply walked through the crowd. Anyone who got within two meters of him found themselves suddenly tripping over their own feet or being redirected into another fight by a subtle shove.
He reached the curtain and pulled it back. Behind it wasn't a door, but a vertical ventilation shaft with a ladder made of rebar.
"Direct and brutal," Leo commented.
He gripped the rungs and began to climb. Above him, he could hear the frantic breathing of other examinees who had figured it out.
The climb was nearly fifty stories. For a normal person, it would be an exhausting test of endurance. For Leo, it was a light warm-up.
He passed several examinees who were clinging to the ladder, their muscles seizing from the sudden exertion. One man tried to grab Leo's ankle to pull him down, but Leo simply flexed his calf, and the man's grip was shattered, sending him sliding back down the rungs.
Leo reached the top and pushed open a heavy circular hatch.
Blinding sunlight and the roar of the wind hit him instantly. He stepped out onto the rooftop of the office building.
The roof was wide and flat, offering a 360-degree view of Kalulu City and the sparkling ocean beyond.
Bucidola was standing near the edge, his trench coat billowing in the wind like a white sail. He was looking at a stopwatch.
He turned as Leo emerged.
"Number 321. You're the fifth to arrive," Bucidola said, his voice carrying over the wind. "Time taken: twelve minutes. Not bad."
Leo walked over and showed his three plates. Bucidola nodded and gestured toward a row of benches near the center of the roof.
"Sit. The first phase isn't over until the two hours are up. Or until enough of you die that the rest can't make the quota."
Leo sat down. Already on the benches were the youth with headphones, the ethnic girl, a man in a surgical mask, and a woman holding a parasol.
None of them spoke. They were all Nen users, or at least possessed a level of physical talent that bordered on the supernatural.
Over the next hour, more examinees trickled out of the hatch.
The muscular man arrived, covered in blood that wasn't his, clutching a handful of nearly ten number plates. He glared at everyone on the benches before slumped into a seat, panting heavily.
By the time the two-hour mark hit, only 142 examinees stood on the rooftop out of the original 754.
The mortality rate of the first phase was staggering, but in the world of Hunters, this was considered a "lenient" filtering process.
Bucidola snapped his stopwatch shut and checked the sun's position.
"142 of you. More than I expected," he said, sounding slightly disappointed. "But don't get comfortable. The rooftop was just the waiting room."
He walked toward a large freight helipad where a massive, twin-rotor transport helicopter was idling, its blades beginning to spin with a low, bone-shaking thrum.
"Board the craft. We're heading to the 'real' first phase location."
Leo stood up, dusting off his white suit. He looked at the other examinees—the "trash" had been swept away, leaving only the dangerous, the lucky, and the skilled.
He felt the familiar thrum of his Nen circulating beneath his skin, responding to the rising tension.
"Next stop," Leo thought, boarding the helicopter. "Let's see what the Seirin Group has in store."
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