The Qualified

In the hall at the bottom of the tower, the proctors had already cleared away the roast flying beast's bones. The cumin and salt bottles were more than half empty, tucked into Saitama's pockets. Hisoka leaned against the opposite wall, turning a playing card in his hand. Beside him, a small pile of flying beast bones had been stacked into a neat little pyramid. Saitama sat in a chair with ten sausage wrappers in his pocket. Neither of them spoke. They just sat there.

The exit doors opened.

Illumi emerged from the shadows. He was gaunt, expressionless, and unblinking, with round-headed Nen Needles stuck all over his head and face. Every step was exactly the same length, like a puppet under someone else's control. He stopped in a corner of the hall without looking at anyone.

Saitama's gaze settled on the needle-covered man. He had seen that face change back in the anime. The needles altered its structure; pulling one out would reveal the true features beneath it.

He stood and walked up to Illumi.

"That thing in your face—is it actually stuck in there, or is it glued on?"

Illumi did not answer. The hall fell silent for a moment. The playing card in Hisoka's hand stopped mid-turn, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

Saitama reached out, gripped the end of a needle, and pulled it free. His touch was light, as if he were plucking out a hair. The instant the tip left the skin, the patch beneath Illumi's left eye shifted as though a fastener had come loose. The lines of his brow and cheekbone slid aside, revealing his real bone structure underneath—but only in a patch smaller than a palm. A dark, lightless eye appeared in the gap, an eerie contrast to the stiff, vacant face around it.

Illumi raised a hand and took the needle from Saitama's fingers. He moved without haste, but his hand was steady. He pushed the needle back into its original spot with a gentle press. The Nen Needle forced the exposed features back into place, fixing his facial structure in the shape of Illumi once more. The whole thing took less than three seconds.

"Who are you?" His voice was flat, but every word came out chillingly clear.

"Ha! Hahaha! Just checking if it was real. See you." Saitama glanced at his empty fingers, then turned and went back to his chair.

Illumi said nothing more. His hand lifted slightly inside his sleeve, and a needlepoint glinted with reflected light. The air in the hall suddenly grew taut. The card in Hisoka's hand stopped. He turned his head slightly toward Illumi without speaking, but tipped one corner of the card in his direction, a silent warning.

Illumi lowered his hand. The murderous intent cut off as abruptly as if someone had pulled the plug. He recognized Hisoka's signal. It was not a threat; it was a warning to back down. He returned to the corner of the hall and leaned against the wall, once again a puppet held in place by Nen Needles.

The exit doors opened again.

Hanzo came out, his bald head reflecting the hall's warm yellow light. As soon as he entered, he scanned the room. His eyes lit up when he spotted Saitama's bald head, and he hurried over.

"I'm Hanzo, a Hidden Cloud Style jonin." He pressed his palms together in a ninja greeting. "Lippo said back in the tower that a bald guy was the first to clear it. I knew it—bald guys are ridiculously strong! Just look at that shine."

Saitama looked at him. The two bald men stood face-to-face beneath the lights. Hanzo's head had a warm yellow sheen; Saitama's was a cool white. Hanzo pulled a business card from his ninja-gear pouch and offered it with both hands. "Saitama, my friend! Let's look out for each other in the rest of the exam!" Saitama took the card, read it, then looked at Hanzo's head. "Yours is pretty shiny too."

"Of course! Every morning, I use a special ninja polishing technique—"

Hisoka leaned against the wall, watching the two bald men debate whose head was shinier. The card in his hand stayed still for several seconds before he turned it again.

Hanzo's smile faded. He lowered his voice and asked Saitama, "That guy just now—you pulled out his needle, and he nearly killed you. Were you really not afraid, or did you not notice?"

"I noticed. It felt pretty cold."

"My master used to say there are only two kinds of people who don't bat an eye when someone targets them with murderous intent: fools, and people so strong they don't need to. Which are you?"

Saitama thought about it. "Probably the first kind."

Hanzo froze for a beat, then slapped his thigh and burst out laughing. Halfway through, he abruptly stopped and glanced at Illumi in the corner. Once he was sure Illumi wasn't looking over, he whispered, "When that guy asked who you were, it didn't sound like he wanted your name. It sounded like he wanted to know what you were."

"I know." Saitama took the salt bottle from his pocket and wiped a smear of cumin powder off its cap with the hem of his shirt.

Hanzo watched him clean the bottle. He opened his mouth, swallowed what he had been about to say, and quietly pushed the mechanism on his sword hilt back into place.

The exit doors kept opening. Bodoro emerged with steady steps; Pokkle came out panting and bent over to catch his breath. Hanzo went to offer them business cards. Other examinees followed, coming in twos and threes from their respective passages until they filled the open floor of the hall.

Then came the last group. Gon rushed into the hall and immediately spotted Saitama in his chair. "Saitama!" Killua followed with his hands in his pockets, humming an off-key tune half a beat faster than usual. He neither looked at Illumi nor slowed down as he passed the corner. Leorio collapsed onto the floor, clutching his head with both hands. His voice was already hoarse.

A proctor walked to the center of the hall and announced the names of everyone who had passed: Saitama, Hisoka, Illumi, Hanzo, Bodoro, Pokkle, Gon, Killua, Leorio, and several examinees who had arrived through other passages. With each name, another examinee stepped out of the crowd and into the light.

Illumi leaned against the wall in the opposite corner. The mark left by the needle was long gone, and his dark pupil pointed toward the back of Saitama's chair.

In front of the television, Genos stared at the screen. He replayed the moment the needle-covered man had shown murderous intent toward his teacher, frame by frame: the degree to which his pupil had contracted, the angle of his raised fingers, the metallic glint of a Nen Needle inside his sleeve. Conclusion: the examinee possessed the precise bodily control of an assassin. Threat level required further assessment. Genos set his open bag of chips on the coffee table and stood. The ignition valve for the thrusters in his mechanical arm popped out. Onscreen, his teacher was already sorting the wrappers in his pockets. Genos replayed the needle-pulling scene once more and confirmed that his teacher was unharmed. But that did not change his assessment. A threat was not cleared simply because the other party had backed down.

The thrusters warmed up. The sky outside had gone dark; he had no idea how long he had been sitting in front of the television. His teacher was still taking the exam, and Genos ought to go buy groceries. The thrusters shut down. He sat again, picked up the chips, then put them down. He would wait until he saw his teacher leave the tower safely before going out. At least until his teacher came out of the screen.