Anger and Calm

The lower-level hall.

Saitama leaned back in his chair. He had finished the compressed biscuits in his hand and drunk all his water. He shifted through several positions before finally sitting up and staring blankly at the floor.

An ant crawled out through a crack in the hole by the wall, following the lines between the floor tiles toward the center of the hall. He took out half a leftover sausage from his pocket, pinched off a crumb, and placed it in front of the ant. The ant touched the crumb, stopped, waved its antennae, then hoisted it up and continued crawling forward. Saitama pinched off another crumb and placed it in the same spot.

A new line of ants came crawling out of the hole, carrying biscuit crumbs from who knew where and reforming their ranks along the tile lines. He crouched down again and found that the ant by his shoe tip had returned, circling around where he had placed the crumbs. He broke off another tiny piece of biscuit and set it there. One ant spotted it first and carried it away. Another spun in place three times before being shoved aside by its companion. Even as it crawled away, it lingered for an extra beat at the spot where the biscuit crumbs had been scattered.

Second place was always the worst. The second checkout line at the supermarket was always faster, because the people in the first line were always digging for their wallets. The last time he queued up, he spent eight minutes in line. The person ahead of him bought three bags of rice, then turned around and pulled out two discount coupons. He had stood at checkout number two for six minutes, until his legs were nearly numb.

He chuckled again.

On the other side of the hall, Hisoka leaned against the wall, the playing card in his hand suspended in midair. The person who had cleared the test even faster than him was lying on the floor, arranging ants into a line. He was even muttering that one ant would always come in second and letting out a foolish little chuckle. His usual smile stiffened, and for the first time, the edge of the playing card between his fingers seemed unnecessary.

On the arena stage, the score was 1-1. Gon had won the second match, and morale was high.

From the shadows opposite, the sound of handcuffs being unlocked echoed against the stone walls. Zha Hu stepped out, broad and vicious-looking, his face thick with flesh and his right arm a steel prosthetic. The moment he appeared, he deliberately created an oppressive air of brutality. Every step landed heavily, producing dull thuds beneath his feet.

He walked to the center of the arena, pointed first at the nineteen red heart designs on his chest, then slowly turned halfway around so the examinees could see every heart clearly. "See these? Every one represents someone I killed with my own hands. Nineteen lives in total." His voice was not loud, deliberately rough and low, as if he were stating an utterly ordinary fact. "If any of you don't believe me, come up and try me."

Leorio took a step back, frowning as he quietly said to Kurapika, "This guy... he's even more troublesome than the last one."

Zha Hu's gaze swept across the five people on the other side of the stage before settling on Kurapika. He tilted his head and pointed his steel finger at Kurapika's nose. "You, pretty boy. We're fighting a death match—no weapons, blood must be drawn, and we fight to the death. Either the other side surrenders, or one side dies. Even if you surrender midway, I won't stop. If you're scared, say so now."

Kurapika did not get angry. His expression remained calm, as though he were watching a clumsy performance. He undid his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves up twice. "Fine."

Zha Hu froze. This person was not afraid of him. In the past, the moment he showed the red hearts on his chest, his opponents would already be trembling and begging for mercy. He glared at Kurapika, clenching his fist until the iron fingers shrieked against one another. "You're not afraid of dying? Let me warn you—in the Hunter Exam, there are more people crippled by severe injuries than there are dead. I've seen plenty like you. You got through the first round by luck, had teammates wipe your ass in the second, and showed your true colors in the third—do you understand? People like you just pretend to be calm, but really—"

"Are you finished?" Kurapika's voice did not fluctuate in the slightest.

The smile vanished from Zha Hu's face. He blanked for half a second—this man had not been frightened at all. With a roar, he swung his steel right fist violently at Kurapika's head. Kurapika sidestepped it. The steel fist howled past his ear and smashed heavily into the ground behind him. Boom! A crater appeared in the floor tiles, sending shattered stone flying as cracks spread out from the impact point. The air around them fell quiet for a moment.

That punch made everyone present reassess the prisoner. He was not relying solely on intimidation; he really had some skill. Gon furrowed his brow, and Leorio's hand clenched unconsciously. Kurapika stood by the crater, glanced down at the rubble by his feet, and showed no change in expression.

The punch had missed. Zha Hu panted heavily as he stared at the expressionless blond youth before him. At last, he realized that ordinary threats were useless, and that his own strength might not be enough to overwhelm his opponent. Gritting his teeth, he decided to use his final trump card.

He suddenly turned around, facing his back toward Kurapika and all the examinees, and tore open the clothing across his back. A black spider tattoo was revealed—twelve legs, but no number. It was the signature mark of the notorious band of thieves known to the world as the Phantom Troupe.

A smug, vicious grin forced its way onto his lips. He deliberately struck a pose so everyone could see the tattoo clearly. "Still not afraid now? This is the Phantom Troupe—the mass-murdering band of thieves! I'm one of them! There's more blood on my hands than you've ever seen!" He thought that invoking the Phantom Troupe's name would surely suppress the situation again and frighten off this unflinching blond youth.

But he had no idea who Kurapika was.

The entire arena fell silent.

The Phantom Troupe was the blood-soaked enemy of Kurapika's clan. Seeing someone misuse their symbol and flaunt it so brazenly, Kurapika's body suddenly stiffened and his pupils contracted. The next second, his eyes turned scarlet, Scarlet Eyes blazing as an icy, bone-piercing killing intent radiated from him.

Before Zha Hu could react, Kurapika had already vanished from where he stood. A heavy punch utterly crushed him. Zha Hu flew away like a rag doll, slammed heavily into the ground, and did not move.

Kurapika's Scarlet Eyes faded. He turned and walked off the stage. His voice was soft. "He lost."

Lippo's broadcast sounded from the monitoring room. "The death match rules state that the match can only end when one side surrenders or dies. He has neither surrendered nor died. The match continues."

Leorio panicked. "Then isn't that simple? Kurapika, go up there and make him surrender!" Kurapika shook his head. "I will not kill someone unable to resist. Once he wakes up, he will naturally surrender." Killua said coldly, "He won't wake up at all. He's faking unconsciousness. His goal from the beginning was to stall for time through this match and reduce his sentence."

Time passed second by second. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, one hour. Zha Hu lay motionless on the ground, even deliberately slowing his breathing to a crawl. After being knocked out, he intentionally pretended to be dead, pretended to be unconscious, and lay still to drag things out, completely locking up the schedule. Their remaining exam time dropped bit by bit from sixty hours. Leorio paced in circles with anxiety, while Gon and Killua also frowned.

In the monitoring room, Lippo held a cup of coffee, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth—this was exactly the outcome the prisoners wanted.

Back in the lower-level hall, Saitama was still crouching on the floor. The ants had long since carried away all the crumbs. The last few carried biscuit fragments larger than their heads, crawled over the tips of his shoes, and vanished into the crack in the wall. He brushed the biscuit crumbs from his hands, slowly stood up, walked back to his spot, and lay down again.