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 restoring his drained Nen. Saitama did not leave either. He watched over the copper pot, cooking premium Wagyu whenever he was hungry and dipping it in sesame sauce to fill his stomach. Whenever he was tired, he leaned against the reef and closed his eyes for a short nap. The two remained quietly on the western side of the island, leaving each other undisturbed.

The sea breeze carried a salty, damp scent as it blew across the ocean and through the forest for three days.

No one disturbed this secluded battlefield, nor did any examinee set foot among these reefs. Three days passed quietly, bringing them straight to the fourth day of the Hunter Exam's hunting phase.

Deep within the forests of Glasses Island, the struggle for number tags had already reached a fever pitch, while the lingering warmth of the hot pot on the island's western side had only just begun to fade with the sunlight.

On the fourth day, Hanzo became the first person to gather six points. He moved soundlessly through the canopy, tailing Examinee No. 197 for three whole days. He had figured out every one of his target's watch habits and the intervals between each shift. When he struck, there was not a single wasted movement—a hand chop to the back of the neck, while his other hand was already gripping the pin of the number tag. Hanzo spun the tag around his fingers once, then darted deeper into the forest.

Kurapika traded information to Hisoka in exchange for Leorio's number tag. Leorio clutched the recovered tag so hard his knuckles turned white, while Kurapika was already calculating how many more points they needed.

Deep inside a stone cavern, Bodoro buried his number tag beneath dry seaweed, leaving only his eyes exposed as he watched the cave entrance. Outside a crack in the cliff, Tonpa took out his free juice and Nen stones, changed his story twice, and finally walked away with 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 and around broken cliffs, always maintaining the same distance.

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

Gon swung his fishing rod.

The line cut silently through the air. It slipped around Hisoka's armpit, passed through the wind-tossed front of his shirt, and hooked the pin of the number tag. With a light tug, the No. 44 tag came free from Hisoka's chest.

"I got it!"

Gon reeled in the line, clenched the number tag in his palm, and turned to run. His feet trampled dead leaves, roots, and half a hard monkey-feed pellet Hanzo had left on the ground on the fourth day. The wind howled past his ears, and his heartbeat pounded like a drum in his chest. He ran out from the shadow of the cedar trees and reached a patch of bushes, only for his foot to slip—a blow dart silently pierced his body.

Paralysis spread from the needle point to his shoulder, then across his entire back.

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

The soup base in the copper pot was bubbling away.

Saitama sat cross-legged beside the pot and pushed the fifth plate of Wagyu into it. The slices quickly changed color in the boiling water, their fat melting as the aroma drifted away on the sea breeze. Beans sat beside him with a clipboard on his knees. Netero held a bowl of sesame sauce and was in the middle of talking about how he had hunted bears in the mountains for twenty years when he was young, until eventually the bears would take a detour 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 as a little Wagyu fat seeped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were still fixed on the pot, but his gaze did not seem to be looking at the meat. It seemed to be looking at something farther away. In the distance, a flock of Bloodthirsty Butterflies flew over from the direction of Glasses Island, the red spots on their wings glinting in the sunset. Netero paused with his chopsticks. "What is it?" "Ah-ha-ha-ha! Nothing." Saitama continued chewing, but much more slowly than before. He swallowed the slice of Wagyu, rested his chopsticks on the edge of the bowl, and lowered his head to stare at the soup base. A fine layer of oil floated atop the broth, swaying gently with the rhythm of the boil. He popped 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 hand of the spiky-haired boy lying on the ground, then tore 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, who lay on the ground with his fingertips still clutching at empty air. "You cast well." His voice was soft, as though he were complimenting something that had nothing to do with him. "Next time, watch your back." Then he turned and disappeared into the depths of the forest.

Gon lay among dead leaves and mud. His fingers dug deeply into the soil.

Geretta had not even gone two hundred meters before he stopped.

Because Hisoka was standing in front of him. A playing card spun around his fingers—the same card from when Gon had stolen the number tag.

He had waited five full days for that fishing rod to swing. Now, just when this fruit needed nourishment the most, someone had stolen sunlight from it. That was not something he would allow.

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

Hisoka crouched in front of Gon.

Gon had not fully regained consciousness and 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 looked up to find Hisoka looking down at him. There was no smile on that painted face. His golden pupils slowly narrowed beneath the shadows of Bloodthirsty Butterfly wings. After a long silence, a whisper, so soft and hoarse it was almost inaudible, emerged from deep in his throat. "Until you can land a hit on me, keep this tag with you." He stood, turned, and vanished into the dusk of the fifth day. The playing card began spinning again, the faint bloodstain along its edge repeatedly reflecting the moonlight as it turned.

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

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

"You got it?" Leorio asked.

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

The evening wind blew in from the direction of the broken cliffs. From time to time, red spots from Bloodthirsty Butterfly wings flashed deep within the forest. The three of them said nothing more and sat down separately beside the cedar's roots.

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

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

Illumi withdrew his hand into his sleeve and walked away, his steps still stiff and evenly paced.

West of Glasses Island, the remaining embers beneath the copper pot were slowly going out.

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

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

The sunset cut a golden line along the rim of the copper pot, staining the bubbling oil on the soup's surface a dark red.

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

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