Game

The airship cruised steadily above the clouds. Seabirds occasionally flashed past the windows, while the outline of Glasses Island remained hidden below the horizon. The examinees were scattered through the lounge and corridors; some organized their gear, while others dozed against the walls.

Saitama sat in a corner of the lounge, taking sausage wrappers out of his pocket one by one and arranging them across his knees. Ten of them—enough to exchange for a supermarket raffle ticket. He rearranged the wrappers by shade, placing the lighter ones on the left and the darker ones on the right. Then he took out his salt and cumin bottles and checked whether their caps were screwed on tight.

The cabin door opened softly.

"Ohohoho—"

Chairman Netero walked in wearing wooden sandals and a yukata, carrying a cup of tea as if he were strolling through his own backyard. Beans followed behind him with a clipboard in his arms. Every examinee in the cabin looked up at once, and several who had been leaning against the walls instinctively straightened. The playing card in Hisoka's hand paused for half a beat.

"This old man just received a report from Lippo." Netero's gaze passed over the crowd and settled on Saitama in the corner. "The contents were very interesting. One examinee jumped from the top of the tower, cleared the test in three seconds, smashed through the outer wall—and then sat in the ground-floor hall eating free sausages for ten hours."

Saitama looked up at him.

"He also roasted a flying beast. Seasoned it with cumin and salt, too." Netero stroked his beard. "Lippo specifically noted in his report that the examinee asked whether the seasonings were free. This old man has been chairman for so many years, and this is the first time I've seen the words 'free cumin' in an examiner's report."

Several examinees turned to look at Saitama in unison. Hanzo stood there with his mouth open, recalling the flying beast wing he had eaten in the ground-floor hall, when he suddenly realized that barbecue meal had been officially filed by the Hunter Association.

Netero tilted his head at Saitama. "Interesting, interesting."

"This old man wants to see for himself." Netero set down his teacup, reached into his yukata sleeve, and fumbled around for a moment before taking out a rubber ball. It was small enough to fit in one hand, its surface worn smooth and glossy with age. "Let's play a game."

The breathing of every examinee in the cabin grew lighter at once. Hisoka's playing card stopped between his fingers.

"As long as you can take the ball from this old man before we reach our destination—" Netero tossed the ball between his hands, "this old man will personally grant you Hunter status in the name of the Hunter Association."

The cabin instantly erupted.

Leorio sprang from his seat. "Become a Hunter directly?! Why does he—"

Kurapika pressed down on his shoulder, hard. Leorio followed Kurapika's gaze toward Illumi in the corner—the needle-headed freak's fingers had subtly risen within his sleeve, the needle tip pointed toward Saitama. Leorio shut his mouth.

Hanzo said quietly, "A Hunter License. Not passing the exam—he'll be issued one directly. The kind personally signed by the chairman."

Saitama thought about it. "A Hunter License lets you ride buses for free, right?"

Netero stroked his beard. "All public transportation around the world is free. Buses, subways, trains, ships—even taxis are free. This old man has ridden free taxis his entire life."

"Okay, then."

Saitama stood and put the wrappers from his knees back into his pocket one by one. He was unhurried, stacking all ten neatly together.

Netero balanced the rubber ball on his right palm and tucked his left hand behind his back. He took only a single stance, one foot slightly drawn back and his center of gravity lowered. He still wore a smile, his shoulders appearing loose and relaxed, but the fingers of his hidden left hand spread slightly, the bend of his knuckles lowering just a fraction from how they had been while he leaned against the wall—not a relaxed posture, but a defensive gesture prepared to answer any sudden thrust. "The rules are simple: no weapons or Nen. Here in this cabin, try and see whether you can take this ball from this old man's hand."

Saitama walked toward him. There was no preparatory movement, no sprint, no feint. His pace was unhurried, the same speed at which he walked while waiting in line at the supermarket.

The instant he took his first step, Netero's body reacted. It was not a conscious decision, but muscle memory. His eyes no longer saw an ordinary examinee, but an immeasurable density approaching at a steady pace. Ninety percent of the power in his right shoulder had already been gathered, ready to erupt in the next instant. Saitama's stride did not change at all.

At the moment that hand was about to cover the entire ball, Netero instinctively stepped back half a pace. The instant his foot moved, he regretted it.

Saitama walked up to Netero, reached out, pinched the rubber ball between his fingers, and took it from his palm. Like picking up an apple from a table. Netero's right hand still held the pose of gripping the ball, its five fingers curved into a hollow arc, his palm facing empty air.

The rubber ball spun once in Saitama's hand.

"So I just take it? Didn't you say I was supposed to snatch this ball?" Saitama tossed the ball back to Netero—not threw it at him, but lightly tossed it. The arc rose less than thirty centimeters before the ball landed back in Netero's palm. That hand was still frozen in the posture of having received the ball, unable to immediately issue the next command for attack or defense.

The cabin remained silent for a full five seconds.

The playing card in Hisoka's hand slipped from between his fingers. He did not notice at all. That motion—from Saitama walking up to Netero, to reaching out, to taking the ball—he could only make out the final image.

Hanzo's sword hilt nearly slipped from his hand. For the first time in his life, he had seen someone put Chairman Netero in that state—not surprise, not anger. Bewilderment. An old man who had lived for over a hundred years stood in the middle of the cabin, looking down at his empty palm as though he had just discovered that a fist could be opened. A tiny sound escaped Hanzo's throat.

Netero looked down at his empty palm. He remained silent for a long time. Then he threw back his head and laughed, the sound making the cabin walls hum. It was not the dignified laughter of a chairman, but that of an old man who had waited a lifetime and finally found an opponent. "Ohohoho—after one hundred and ten years!"

He gripped Saitama's shoulders with both hands, his eyes shining like he had discovered a treasure. "In the name of the Hunter Association chairman, this old man formally promises that whether it is the fourth test a week from now or the final test, you need not participate. From this moment onward, you are a Hunter."

"So I'm a Hunter now."

"That's right."

"I don't have to take the exam anymore."

"You don't."

Saitama thought for a moment, then walked back to the corner and sat down. "Then I'll watch. I'll go back with Gon and the others after they finish the exam."

Several examinees looked at one another.

Gon was the first to react. "Saitama! You're amazing!" Kurapika's expression remained mostly composed, though a trace of bewilderment flashed through his eyes. Hanzo looked at the bald man who had just become a Hunter and was already folding wrappers again, muttering to himself. Hisoka bent down to pick up the card from the floor, lightly brushing its face with his fingertips. That card had slipped from his fingers just now—his only lapse while merely watching. In the corner, metal glinted faintly. Illumi withdrew his hand. His reaction differed from everyone else's—no shock, no retreat. Every needle tip simply turned away.

Netero was still laughing. He patted the cabin doorframe and said to Beans in a voice neither loud nor quiet, "Put this record into his file. And preserve every word of Lippo's report from earlier for me, especially the part about seasonings. This old man wants to keep it as a collectible." Beans lowered his head and wrote rapidly on the clipboard, his pen scratching across the paper.

Saitama took out his salt and cumin bottles, checked that the caps were tight, and put them back. A Hunter License meant free bus rides and free taxis, too. He would not have to walk to the supermarket anymore. But if he did not wait for Gon and the others to finish before going back, there would be no one to explain the whole crossing-worlds situation to Genos. He still had to wait. Besides, there was free salt.

Outside the lounge, Netero slowly returned to the observation room, the smile still not entirely gone from his face. He advanced the recording of Saitama's movement frame by frame, stopping at the instant the ball was taken. Fingers, wrist, shoulder, breathing, Nen pressure—all unchanged. There was no trace of Nen. No muscular preloading. It was like reaching for a cup of tea. He turned off the recording. There was no report left to write. This person required no assessment—one motion alone had made the Hunter Association's lifelong honorary chairman instinctively retreat half a step. Sitting before the observation room window and looking at the ocean beneath the clouds, he muttered to himself, "It took this old man a full one hundred and ten years to meet someone I could not evade in time. That retreat came too late, but it was also just right."

In the lounge, Saitama took the sausage wrappers from his pocket again and arranged them across his knees. When he had walked up to Netero earlier, the wrappers had been crumpled. He smoothed them out one by one and reordered them by shade. He only needed one more to exchange for two raffle tickets. Hanzo saw the scene from two seats away and silently looked elsewhere.