Hunting x Hot Pot

The golden light of Zero Hand faded, and the dust around the rocky platform slowly settled.

Netero did not return to the Hunter Association. Instead, he sat cross-legged beside the reef and regulated his breathing, slowly recovering the Nen he had drained away. Saitama did not leave either. He stayed by the bronze pot, cooking premium wagyu whenever he got hungry and dipping it in sesame sauce to fill his stomach. Whenever he got sleepy, he leaned against the reef and closed his eyes for a brief nap. The two remained quietly on the western side of the island, leaving each other undisturbed.

The sea breeze, laden with salty moisture, blew across the ocean and through the woods for three days.

No one disturbed this secluded battlefield, nor did any examinees set foot among these reefs. Three days passed quietly, bringing them directly to the fourth day of the Hunter Exam.

Deep in the dense forest of Glasses Island, the battle among examinees for number tags had long since reached a fever pitch, while the lingering warmth of the hot pot in the west of the island had only Gang begun to fade with the daylight.

On the fourth day, Hanzo was the first to collect six points. He moved silently through the canopy, having followed Examinee 197 for three full days and figured out all of his watch habits and the intervals between every shift. There were no wasted movements when he struck—a chop to the back of the neck, while his other hand had already seized the pin of the number tag. Hanzo spun the tag around his fingers and darted deeper into the forest.

Kurapika traded information to Hisoka in exchange for Leorio's number tag. Leorio gripped the recovered tag until his knuckles turned white, while Kurapika was already calculating the remaining gap in their score.

Bodoro buried his number tag in dried seaweed deep within a stone cave, leaving only his eyes exposed as he watched the entrance. Outside a crack in the cliff, Tonpa pulled out free juice and Nen stones, changed his story twice, and finally left carrying his own backpack.

Meanwhile, Gon moved silently through the canopy.

From dawn until noon, from noon until dusk, he followed Hisoka across the entire forest, over lakes, around cliffs, always maintaining the same distance.

At dusk, Bloodthirsty Butterflies began circling through the woods. Hisoka had Gang removed a number tag from the chest of a fallen examinee. The blood on his clothes had not yet dried, and his fingers had already rested on another prey's collarbone. His back was completely exposed, and the No. 44 tag beneath his collarbone swayed gently in the sunset.

Gon cast his fishing rod.

The line sliced silently through the air. It curved beneath Hisoka's armpit, passed through the wind-tossed folds of his shirt, and hooked the pin on the number tag. With a light tug, the No. 44 tag fell from Hisoka's chest.

"I got it!"

Gon reeled in the line, clenched the tag in his palm, and turned to run. His feet trampled dry leaves, tree roots, and half a hard pellet of monkey feed Hanzo had left on the ground on the fourth day. Wind howled past his ears, and his heart pounded like a drum in his chest. He ran out from the shadow of the cedars and reached a patch of bushes when his foot slipped—a blow dart silently sank into his body.

Numbness spread from the puncture to his shoulder, then along his entire spine.

He collapsed to the ground, his fingers still gripping the No. 44 tag.

The broth in the bronze pot bubbled away.

Saitama sat cross-legged beside the pot and slid the fifth plate of wagyu into it. The slices of meat quickly changed color in the boiling broth, their fat melting as their aroma drifted far away on the sea breeze. Beans sat beside him with a clipboard on his knees. Holding a bowl of sesame sauce, Netero was in the middle of telling them how he had hunted bears in the deep mountains for twenty years in his youth, until eventually the bears would take detours whenever they saw his shadow. Saitama picked up a slice of wagyu, dipped it in sesame sauce, put it in his mouth, and chewed twice.

Then he stopped.

His chopsticks hung in midair, a little wagyu fat seeping from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were still fixed on the pot, but he did not seem to be looking at the meat. He seemed to be looking at something farther away. Over the distant sea, a flock of Bloodthirsty Butterflies was flying over from Glasses Island, the red spots on their wings flickering in the sunset. Netero paused with his chopsticks. "What is it?" "Ah ha ha ha! Nothing." Saitama continued chewing, but much more slowly than Gang before. He swallowed the wagyu, rested his chopsticks on the rim of his bowl, and lowered his head to look at the broth. A fine layer of oil floated on the surface, gently trembling with the rhythm of the boil. He poked an oil bubble with the tip of his chopsticks, watched it burst, then picked up his chopsticks and continued eating.

Geretta bent down and picked up the two number tags.

He took No. 44—Hisoka's tag—from the spiky-haired boy's hand, then ripped No. 406—Gon's own tag—from his prey's chest. Two tags. He returned the blowpipe to his belt and looked down at Gon, sprawled on the ground with his fingertips still clutching at empty air. "You cast well." His voice was soft, as though he were praising something that had nothing to do with him. "Next time, watch your back." Then he turned and vanished into the depths of the forest.

Gon lay amid dry leaves and dirt. His fingers dug deeply into the soil.

Geretta had gone less than two hundred meters before he stopped.

Because Hisoka stood before him. A playing card spun around Hisoka's fingers—the one Gon had taken with the number tag Gang earlier.

He had waited a full five days for that fishing rod to swing. Now, when this fruit needed nourishment the most, someone had stolen its sunlight. That was not something he could permit.

Geretta's lips moved, as if he wanted to say something—perhaps to beg for mercy, perhaps to explain, or perhaps merely to ask how Hisoka had caught up so quickly. The playing card passed across his throat. The movement was light, like plucking a flower. Hisoka removed the two number tags from his chest—No. 44 and No. 406. He raised them into the sunset and turned them over for a look.

Hisoka crouched in front of Gon.

Gon's consciousness had not fully returned, and he could only barely open his eyes. Two neatly stacked number tags had appeared on his knee—his own No. 406, and Hisoka's No. 44. He raised his head to find Hisoka looking down at him. There was no smile on that face painted with makeup. His golden pupils slowly contracted beneath the shadows cast by Bloodthirsty Butterfly wings. After a long silence, a barely audible, hoarse murmur emerged from deep in his throat. "Until you can hit me, I'll leave this tag with you." He stood, turned, and disappeared into the dusk of the fifth day. The playing card began spinning again, the thin smear of blood along its edge repeatedly reflecting the moonlight as it turned.

Gon buried his face in the dry leaves. He did not want anyone to see his expression—not because he was in pain, but because he was unwilling to accept it.

On the sixth day, Kurapika and Leorio ambushed Pokkle at noon and collected six points. They found Gon that afternoon. Gon sat beneath a cedar tree with two number tags on his knee, wiping dust off the tip of his rod with his sleeve.

"You got it?" Leorio asked.

Gon leaned the rod against the tree root. "I got it."

The evening breeze blew from the direction of the cliffs, and red spots on Bloodthirsty Butterfly wings occasionally flashed deep in the forest. The three said nothing more and sat down separately beside the cedar's roots.

Elsewhere, Shiba hid in the canopy, preparing to hunt Illumi.

The glint of a sniper scope flashed once on a distant rocky ridge, followed by the sound of a Nen Needle piercing through the lens.

Illumi withdrew his hand into his sleeve and left with the same stiff, even steps.

West of Glasses Island, the remaining fire beneath the bronze pot was slowly dying out.

Saitama dipped the last slice of wagyu in sesame sauce and put it into his mouth.

"Ah, I'm full, I'm full!"

The sunset drew a golden line along the rim of the bronze pot, staining the boiling oil on the broth a dark red.

The sea breeze blew from the direction of Glasses Island. In the distance, several Bloodthirsty Butterflies were flying over the horizon.

He had waited five days just to wait for them to finish fighting. Tomorrow, it would be time to go back. Tomorrow was the last day.