Landing on the Island

The airship began to descend.

Outside the window, a long, narrow island rose from the sea. Two connected lakes lay at its center, sunlight reflecting off their surfaces in two symmetrical patches of light—like a pair of glasses resting on green velvet.

"We've reached Glasses Island." Examiner Masta stood beside the cabin door and pushed up his glasses. "The site of the fourth test."

Saitama leaned against the cabin wall, legs stretched out and hands clasped behind his head. He glanced at the lakes outside, then closed his eyes again. He took three sausages out of his pocket, lined them up on his knees, and put them back. Then he took them out and put them back again.

The clack of wooden sandals came from the corridor.

Chairman Netero entered the lounge in a yukata, carrying a cup of tea. Beans trotted behind him with a clipboard in his arms. Netero stopped in front of Saitama, set his tea on the nearby table, and flexed his wrist. His joints cracked sharply.

"Saitama." Netero rolled up his sleeve, exposing a lean but sturdy forearm. "Would you like a one-on-one fight with me? In all my years, I haven't met many opponents worth taking seriously."

Every breath in the cabin grew quieter. Hanzo froze with his cup halfway to his mouth. It tilted, and water nearly spilled out. Kurapika said nothing. His gaze stayed on the forearm Netero had exposed. There was no visible definition to its muscles, but the tendons beneath the skin twisted together like the roots of an old tree.

Hisoka had been leaning against the cabin wall, spinning a playing card in his hand. At the words "worth taking seriously," the card stopped.

His pupils slowly contracted. It wasn't the way they had contracted when he assessed Gon's "potential" during the Hunter Exam. In Gon, he had seen an unripe fruit worth waiting for, worth cultivating—but it still needed time. This was different. Chairman Netero—the strongest man in the Hunter Association, a master of Shingen-Ryu and wielder of the 100-Type Guanyin—had said to an examinee's face that he had met few opponents worth taking seriously. Not a "promising seedling" like Gon. Not an "uncut gem" like Killua. An "opponent." Hisoka slowly peeled his back away from the wall and tilted his head, as if reassessing a collectible he had put in the wrong category.

Until now, he had labeled this bald man "unpredictable"—a judgment of style, not strength. He had seen the man strike up close in Trick Tower, but the punch to the flying beast's head had been so light that he couldn't draw any useful data from it. So he had kept the man in the "watch and wait" category, alongside examinees who had yet to show what they could do. Now Netero had given him a measure of the man's strength. With that point of reference, every action Hisoka had failed to understand rearranged itself into a new picture. Not "unpredictable." Beyond the range of prediction.

"No."

Hisoka blinked.

"I haven't even told you the rules—"

"Don't feel like moving."

Netero tried again. Saitama could attack first while he used only one hand. Flying beast meat. Any terms Saitama wanted. A formal match. Every offer hit the same wall. The only movement from that wall was a sausage coming out of a pocket and going back in.

Hisoka wasn't looking at Netero. He stared at Saitama—a man turning down the chairman of the Hunter Association in the tone he might use to refuse a supermarket sample. The playing card began spinning in his hand again, but far more slowly than before, taking several seconds for each turn. It wasn't excitement. He was waiting. Waiting to see what else Netero could offer, and how else the bald man might refuse. At the fifth refusal, the card stopped between his fingers, face down between his index and middle fingers. The flatter Saitama's answers became, the slower Hisoka breathed.

Beans suddenly stepped forward. The short secretary who had hidden behind the chairman since entering pushed up his glasses, opened his folder, and pulled out a printed sheet. "Premium hot pot set. Unlimited servings. Marbled wagyu, black pork belly, live shrimp, snow crab, handmade tofu, an organic vegetable platter. All free. The condiment station has sesame sauce, minced garlic, chili oil, chive blossoms, and fermented tofu. Also all free." He paused, then added, "There's already a copper pot one meter across waiting on the island. Four people can cook meat in it at once, and there's plenty of fuel."

Saitama stood up. "Let's go."

The playing card slipped in Hisoka's hand.

He looked down at it. Instead of flipping along its intended path, it had veered a fraction of a millimeter and landed on his knee. His fingers still hung in the air, held in the position they had been in when he gripped the card, but it was no longer between them.

The corners of his mouth began to rise.

It wasn't his usual easy, half-amused smile. It was slow and deep, like a crack silently spreading across ice from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He picked the fallen card off his knee, moving twice as slowly as usual. He raised it to his lips but didn't lick it yet. He let it hover there, face down, hiding the lower half of his face. Above the card, his pupils narrowed to slits. What shone through them wasn't bloodlust. It was something more primal—the satisfaction that welled up from deep in a hunter's bones when he finally confirmed the caliber of his prey.

"Not an unripe apple."

His voice had changed. Usually, it was languid and syrupy, with a teasing lift at the end of every phrase. That lilt remained, but beneath it lay a thin rasp, and beneath that, a long-suppressed tremor on the verge of breaking free. It was as though he were savoring a main course brought out from beyond the menu. He didn't know its name, its ingredients, how it had been cooked, or what he would taste in the next bite. That utter ignorance was drawing him in, step by step, toward that—ah!

"It's already ripe."

He slowly extended his tongue and licked along the edge of the playing card, little by little, as though unwrapping a carefully packaged gift with his lips and teeth. His body began to shake, starting at his fingertips. The two fingers holding the card trembled first, then his wrist, elbow, shoulders, and back, the shudder spreading downward in waves, almost like a spasm. A streak of pink Nen burst from his fingertips. The cards fanned out between his fingers, closed, then slowly straightened again. Nen threads stretched between them in a fine web of light, each twitching with the tremor of his hand. He slowly pressed the spread cards to his collarbone. The Nen Pressure from his fingertips passed along the side of his neck and reached through his whole body. His heartbeat was heavier and clearer than it was when he tracked prey. A faint, raspy breath escaped the depths of his throat, as though squeezed up from the bottom of his chest. It rose slightly at the end, trembling, restrained and satisfied. Each card against his collarbone picked up his Nen's vibrations and gave a faint hum, like finding the one key that fit a lock among a scattering of fallen keys. From his shoulders down his spine to the backs of his knees, his body fought to contain the excitement building within it. His legs were so taut they nearly cramped.

He held that near-euphoric excitement down for several long seconds.

Water spilled from Hanzo's cup. He didn't wipe it up. He didn't even notice it dripping from his fingers onto the floor. His knees bent slightly, and his hand settled on the mechanism of the hidden blade at his forearm. It wasn't a conscious defense, but a ninja's instinct. He sensed danger. Not bloodlust, but something harder to guard against: pure, heedless madness. Kurapika silently pressed his fingers to the back of his other hand, checking his pulse to make sure the whole scene wasn't an illusion.

Saitama and Netero had already reached the cabin door. Beans trotted ahead to open it and gestured for them to go through. Hisoka suddenly spoke.

"After the exam—" He lifted the cards from his collarbone and gathered them back into his palm one by one. His voice had not quite recovered from its rasp and carried a faint breathlessness. "Fight me."

Saitama stopped and looked back at him.

"A fight with our lives at stake. I won't accept a draw, surrender, or a break halfway through. Not until one of us dies." He held the last card between two fingers and gave it a slight wave toward Saitama. The cabin lights gleamed on its face, and a lingering pink trace of Nen clung to its edge. His smile returned, but it was different now. There was no excited trembling, no stifled moan. It was the smile of a man who had made up his mind and was announcing something certain to happen.

Saitama looked at him. A smile hung on that painted face, and the last trace of that shudder still lingered in his mismatched eyes. Saitama turned away and continued toward the door.

"Too much trouble. Besides, if you die after we fight, there'll be one fewer person in the story afterward."

He walked out of the cabin. The wooden sandals and footsteps faded into the distance.

Hisoka watched him disappear through the doorway. He slipped the last card into his pocket. His fingers were still trembling—not with disappointment. A deeper certainty was settling in. He tilted his head, and the smile at the corners of his mouth deepened, carving itself into the lines beside it. His voice was so soft that only he could hear it, like he was humming a lullaby only he knew.

"That's not up to you. Ripe fruit falls to the ground eventually. I'm just waiting for the moment it drops—or to give the branch a little push." He took his hand from his pocket and spread his fingers, tips pointing upward, as though caressing a main course he had already chosen and was about to order. He licked his dry lips. His Adam's apple moved slowly, and his pupils widened.