Game

The airship cruised smoothly above the clouds. A few seabirds swept past the windows now and then, but Glasses Island still lay below the horizon. The candidates were scattered through the lounge and corridors. Some sorted their gear; others dozed against the walls.

Saitama sat in a corner of the lounge, pulling sausage wrappers from his pockets and lining them up on his knees. Ten. Enough to exchange for a supermarket raffle ticket. He rearranged them by shade, lighter ones on the left and darker ones on the right. Then he took out his bottles of salt and cumin and checked that the caps were tight.

The cabin door eased open.

"Ohohoho—"

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

"I just received a report from Lippo." Netero's gaze passed over the crowd and settled on Saitama in the corner. "Fascinating reading. One candidate jumped from the top of the tower, cleared it 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 made a special note in his report: the candidate asked whether the seasonings were free. In all my years as chairman, this is the first time I've seen the words 'free cumin' in an examiner's report."

Several candidates turned toward Saitama at once. Hanzo stood there with his mouth open, remembering the flying-beast wing he had eaten in the ground-floor hall. He suddenly realized that barbecue had been officially documented by the Hunter Association.

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

"I'd like to see for myself." Netero set down his tea, rummaged inside his yukata sleeve, and pulled out a ball. It was small enough to fit in one hand, its surface worn smooth and shiny with age. "Let's play a game."

The candidates in the cabin all seemed to breathe a little more quietly. Hisoka's card stopped between his fingers.

"If you can take this ball from me before we reach our destination—" Netero tossed it from hand to hand. "I'll grant you Hunter status directly, in my name as chairman of the Hunter Association."

The cabin erupted.

Leorio sprang up from his seat. "Become a Hunter just like that?! Why does he—"

Kurapika gripped his shoulder, hard. Leorio followed Kurapika's gaze to Illumi in the corner. The needle freak's fingers had lifted slightly inside his sleeve, a needlepoint aimed toward Saitama. Leorio shut his mouth.

Hanzo said quietly, "A Hunter License. Not a pass on the exam—an actual license, issued directly. Signed by the chairman himself."

Saitama thought for a moment. "A Hunter License gets me free bus rides, right?"

Netero stroked his beard. "Public transport is free all over the world. Buses, subways, trains, ships—even taxis. I've been taking free taxis my whole life."

"Okay, then."

Saitama stood and put the wrappers on his knees back into his pockets, one by one. He took his time, stacking all ten neatly.

Netero balanced the ball on his right palm and put his left hand behind his back. His stance barely changed: one foot slid back, and his center of gravity dropped. He was still smiling, his shoulders apparently loose, but the fingers of his hidden left hand spread slightly. His knuckles bent a little lower than they had when he stood by the wall. He wasn't relaxed. He was ready to defend against a strike from any direction. "The rules are simple. No weapons or Nen abilities. Here in this cabin, see if you can take the ball from my hand."

Saitama walked toward him. No preparation, no charge, no feint. He moved at the same easy pace he used when walking through a supermarket queue.

Netero's body reacted the instant Saitama took his first step. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was muscle memory. His eyes no longer saw an ordinary candidate, but an immeasurable mass advancing toward him at an even pace. The Nen in his right shoulder was ninety percent primed, ready to burst out in the next instant. Saitama's pace did not change.

Just as Saitama's hand was about to close over the ball, Netero instinctively retreated half a step. He regretted it the moment his foot moved.

Saitama reached Netero, pinched the ball between his fingers, and lifted it from his palm. It was like picking an apple off a table. Netero's right hand still held the shape of the ball, five fingers curved around empty air.

The ball turned once in Saitama's hand.

"So I just take it? You said I had to grab the ball." Saitama tossed it back to Netero. He didn't throw it hard; it traced a gentle arc of less than thirty centimeters and landed in Netero's palm. Netero's hand stayed in the position it had taken to catch the ball. He couldn't immediately make it move for the next exchange.

The cabin stayed silent for a full five seconds.

The playing card slipped from Hisoka's fingers. He didn't notice. From Saitama approaching Netero to reaching out and taking the ball, Hisoka had caught only the final image.

Hanzo nearly dropped his sword. For the first time in his life, he had seen Chairman Netero wear that expression. Not surprise. Not anger. Bewilderment. A man over a hundred years old stood in the middle of the cabin, looking down at his empty palm as though he had only just discovered that a fist could open. A faint sound escaped Hanzo's throat.

Netero looked down at his empty palm. He was silent for a long time. Then he threw back his head and laughed, his voice making the cabin walls hum. It held none of a chairman's dignity. It sounded like an old man who had spent his whole life waiting for an opponent and had finally found one. "Ohohoho—after a hundred and ten years!"

He put both hands on Saitama's shoulders, his eyes shining as though he had found a treasure. "I formally promise you, in my name as chairman of the Hunter Association: you need not take the fourth trial next week or the final trial. From this moment on, you are a Hunter."

"So I'm a Hunter now."

"That's right."

"No more exams."

"No more."

Saitama thought for a moment, then returned to the corner and sat down. "Then I'll watch. I'll go back with Gon and the others once they're done."

The candidates looked at one another.

Gon was the first to react. "Saitama! You're amazing!" Kurapika kept his expression mostly composed, though a flicker of bewilderment crossed his eyes. Hanzo watched the bald man who had just become a Hunter start stacking wrappers and muttered to himself. Hisoka bent to pick up the card he had dropped, running a fingertip lightly over its face. It had slipped from his fingers just now—the only time he had ever fumbled a card while watching a fight. In the corner, metal glinted briefly. Illumi withdrew his hand. Unlike everyone else, he showed no shock and did not step back. He simply turned all his needlepoints away.

Netero was still laughing. He tapped the cabin doorframe and spoke to Beans in a voice loud enough to carry. "Put a record of this in his file. And preserve every word of Lippo's earlier report for me, especially the part about the seasonings. I want to keep it for my collection." Beans bowed his head and wrote rapidly on his clipboard, his pen scratching across the paper.

Saitama took out his bottles of salt and cumin, checked that the caps were tight, and put them away again. A Hunter License meant free bus rides—and free taxis. He wouldn't have to walk to the supermarket anymore. But if he didn't wait to go back with Gon and the others, no one would be there to explain the whole crossing-between-worlds thing to Genos. He still had to wait. At least the salt was free.

Outside the cabin, Netero walked slowly back to the observation room, the smile not quite gone from his face. He advanced the recording of Saitama's movement frame by frame and stopped at the instant the ball was taken. Fingers, wrist, shoulders, breathing, Nen Pressure—none had changed. No trace of Nen. No tensing of the muscles. It was as though Saitama had reached for a cup of tea. Netero turned off the recording. There was no report to write. This man needed no assessment. With a single movement, he had made the Hunter Association's honorary chairman for life instinctively retreat half a step. Netero sat by the observation-room window, gazed at the sea beneath the clouds, and murmured, "It took me a full hundred and ten years to meet someone I couldn't dodge in time. That step back came far too late—and at just the right time."

Back in the lounge, Saitama took the sausage wrappers from his pocket and lined them up on his knees again. They had gotten creased when he walked over to Netero. He smoothed them out one by one and rearranged them by shade. Just one more and he could exchange them for two raffle tickets. Two seats away, Hanzo saw what he was doing and silently looked elsewhere.