The Fifth-Floor Black Market

The stairs grew narrower the farther down they went, and the smells in the air became increasingly mixed.

Cooking smoke mingled with the scent of rust and cheap spices, assaulting their noses. The fifth floor was a completely different world from the second. Stalls crammed both sides of the narrow alleys, and hawkers' cries, arguments, and dice rattling blended into a headache-inducing din. Pedestrians brushed shoulders—hunters with blades at their waists, paupers wrapped in rags, and furtive black-market merchants all squeezed together.

Kurapika walked at the front, his hat pulled low.

"Stay close. Don't wander off. This place is full of all kinds of people. Anything could happen."

Killua grabbed the back of Gon's collar to keep him from running off whenever he spotted something new.

"You hear that? Don't go charging around like a headless fly. If you cause trouble, no one's cleaning up after you."

Gon nodded, though his eyes still kept darting from side to side, curious about everything.

Leorio followed behind with his medical bag, looking around as he muttered under his breath.

"This place is way too chaotic. If the Troupe is hiding here, who could possibly find them?"

The group turned down an alley. Kurapika had been about to suggest finding an informant for information when he glanced back and stopped.

Two people were missing behind them.

Saitama and Genos had not kept up.

Killua frowned.

"Where did those two run off to?"

Kurapika signaled for everyone to wait where they were, then walked back a few steps. As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw Saitama squatting before a roadside snack stall, clutching several pieces of dried milk curd and gesturing at the vendor.

The vendor was a burly, bearded man. Holding up a skewer of grilled meat, he chatted warmly with