Shadow Walker

At this stage, running was no longer just a test of stamina.

His feet had long since grown numb from the soreness, his legs felt filled with lead, and even his fingers had begun to stiffen. Every breath was like fire burning in his lungs.

The fog had mostly dispersed, but the hot, humid air still clung to them like a shadow, constantly draining their strength. The grassland stretched to the horizon, but no one knew whether there was a true finish line ahead.

Everyone was relying on sheer willpower to keep going.

The group had stretched out again, splitting into several sections. At the front were a few people with exceptional stamina—Gon, Killua, Kurapika, and Leorio were all there. They said nothing to one another, but every one of them kept his eyes fixed on Satotz in the distance.

The middle section was made up of people who had regained their rhythm. Some were barely keeping up, while others stumbled along.

The rear consisted of those who were completely at the end of their strength—some gritting their teeth, some bleeding, some with weak legs, and some with unfocused eyes, liable to collapse at any moment.

Ryan, meanwhile, was nowhere in the group.

After escaping the grass maze, he had traveled along the outer edge of the wetlands, maintaining a safe distance all the while—not too fast, not too slow, and never drawing attention.

He knew that the final stretch of the selection zone lay ahead. There would be no more illusions or traps here. The true elimination would come from—their own bodies.

Or someone else's body.

"Hey, you!"

Suddenly, a candidate blocked Ryan's path on the right side of the grass ahead.

He was young, with short, stiff hair. A torn rain poncho hung over his body, and his eyes were red with exhaustion and hostility. Several scratches marked his body, and one of his shoe soles had fallen off, leaving him with only a sock.

"You're running pretty easily, huh?" He raised his chin and looked at Ryan. "You've stayed out of the group the whole time, and you're not even breathing hard or tired?"

Ryan did not stop. He merely angled his body slightly, preparing to go around him.

"What are you hiding from?" The man suddenly raised a hand and pulled down a grass stalk, blocking Ryan's way. "Afraid I'll figure out what you're up to?"

He lowered his voice and ground out, "I've seen through you. You're not an ordinary person. You've been keeping to the side since the wetlands, avoiding everyone, and you're especially good at finding routes. Are you someone from the Association?!"

"Or one of those undercover people sent to eliminate us?"

His voice grew faster and faster, as though he had endured too much repression and had finally found an outlet.

"Are you recording who falls behind? Waiting for someone to be unable to keep going so you can report it? You're an examiner, aren't you!? Is that it—"

Ryan stopped.

He said nothing.

He simply looked at the man—the candidate whose nerves had been stretched to the verge of collapse. Anger, suspicion, fear, and unwillingness mingled in his eyes, like a dying wolf snapping wildly in the last territory it possessed.

"Don't tell me you're not." The man growled again. "You're not an ordinary person, are you?!"

Ryan slowly took a step back, his gaze calm as still water.

He neither denied it nor answered directly. He only slipped both hands into his pockets and swept his gaze from the top of the man's head toward the grassland behind him.

The wind was blowing from that direction.

At that moment, the man froze for a beat, his eyes going blank.

The next second, Ryan suddenly moved. He slipped sideways into the wind corridor and passed lightly beside the man without making contact.

The man whipped around, but Ryan had already swept past him, disappearing into the belt of wind and blending into the next patch of tall grass.

His pace did not quicken, his breathing did not falter, and even his heartbeat did not ripple from the encounter.

He did not need to explain, argue, or fight.

He only needed to avoid being trapped.

The man stood where he was, watching Ryan's back disappear. As he panted, hesitation surfaced in his expression.

He suddenly began to wonder: Had that man simply never taken him seriously?

Had he truly suspected the wrong person?

But Ryan had already gone far away, giving him no chance to continue speculating.

He merely continued forward, leaving no trace like a shadow as he merged into the mud, sand, and wind of the examination.

The ground was no longer as sticky and slippery as before. In its place was a dry but soft layer of soil.

This was the wetlands' final stretch, the true "sprint zone"—no more illusions, traps, or obstacles. There was only the sound of the wind, the sound of footsteps, and the increasingly heavy sound of beating hearts.

The running continued.

Satotz was still running along the nearly straight path ahead. His pace had not changed at all, to the point that one might suspect he had been made by a machine. The candidates who had originally hoped he would "turn back and announce the finish line" had long since abandoned that fantasy. Now, all they could do was grit their teeth and keep going.

Gon's steps were steady. Though he was drenched in sweat, his eyes still shone with light. He silently kept close behind Satotz, his stride neither fast nor slow, as though he were imitating him—or searching for his own rhythm.

Killua kept his hands in his pockets, and little expression could be seen on his face. Only the beads of sweat at the corners of his eyes showed that he was not having an easy time either.

Kurapika's steps were precise, each one seeming carefully calculated. Leorio had already clenched his teeth. Sweat had soaked through his entire shirt, and a layer of mist covered his glasses, but he stubbornly refused to fall behind.

They all knew that the closer they got to the finish line, the less room there was for mistakes.

But they did not know that someone else was running beyond the grass.

Ryan.

He quietly advanced along the flank of the examination grounds, joining none of the small groups and appearing beside no one. His presence had been reduced almost to nothing, like a patch of silence in the air.

His Zetsu was still active. From the time he had left the illusion zone until now, he had maintained it for nearly an hour.

This was a feat of extreme control.

It was not only a matter of using Nen, but also of controlling his body, breathing, and rhythm of movement. If he had exposed even the slightest flaw for a single second, some perceptive candidate might have noticed him long ago.

But he had not.

Like a black shadow skimming along the ground, he passed over one grassy mound and stone after another from an inconspicuous position, running around the main path and evading the gazes left behind by those on it.

Then the sound of the wind suddenly changed.

The wind had not grown stronger. Rather—there was an unfamiliar sense of disharmony within it.

Ryan did not look back. He merely tightened his shoulders slightly before quickly entering a deeper belt of grass.

Three seconds later, a soft chuckle drifted over.

"Hehehe... You're still running?"

The voice came from behind and slightly to the left. It was Hisoka.

He had not approached. He was merely sitting on a large stone jutting up beside a tree root, his legs crossed as he idly spun a card in his hand, facing toward the sunlight.

He was not looking at the main path or at Satotz. Instead, he gazed toward the flank, where almost no one had walked.

"You..." he murmured, his voice as light as the wind. "You're always so good at hiding yourself... But the wind can expose a person."

He did not stand or say anything more.

The playing card simply slipped from between his fingers and floated lightly to the ground, revealing its face—the Jack of Diamonds.

He smiled.

Then—he did not move again.

Ryan continued forward. He did not look back, nor did he even confirm whether Hisoka had truly said those words.

He only knew that a person like that did not need a response.

The more he responded, the more firmly he would be locked onto.

His footsteps did not change. He merely slowed his breathing a little, then a little more.

There was no hesitation in his eyes. He simply kept them fixed on the track stretching toward the edge of the sky.

By this point, there was not much room left for thought in the running.

It was no longer about who won or lost, but who was still standing.

Who had not yet fallen.

He did not know where the finish line was, nor did he want to know.

He only knew that he could not—stop.