The fog over the finish plaza had cleared, and the sky had brightened somewhat.
The air after the rain was slightly cool, and the grass blades were damp, making soft sounds underfoot. The examinees gradually sat down. Some gathered in groups of two or three and gasped for breath, while others found places to lie alone, remaining completely still.
Satotz still stood before the stone monument. He said nothing, simply looking unhurriedly at every examinee who arrived, just as he had for the past six hours.
Only when the last examinee passed through the stone monument and the recorder finished quietly reporting the final number did he finally turn around and walk a few steps toward the center of the finish plaza.
He stopped and spoke. His voice was not loud, but everyone heard him clearly:
"First-stage trial—complete."
Everyone's breathing stopped for half a second after those words.
Then the area fell silent.
After a moment, he raised a hand, took a roster from his sleeve, and turned a page:
"A total of 405 examinees participated in this year's Hunter Exam."
"By the finish line, the total number of passers—148."
A faint uproar erupted among the examinees.
"148?!"
"That's not even half!"
"No wonder it felt like there were fewer and fewer people..."
Some lowered their heads in disappointment. Others revealed relieved smiles, while a few simply buried their heads in their arms, whether crying or merely wanting to sleep.
But no one dared complain loudly.
Because Satotz did not stop. He continued reading:
"Those who failed will be transported out of the examination area by Association vehicles in ten minutes."
"Those who passed, prepare to enter the next stage. The examiner will announce the location and rules of the second-stage trial in fifteen minutes."
He put away the roster, turned, and left without saying another word.
The black-clad Association coordinators silently set up rope barriers around the finish plaza, separating the passing and failing examinees.
The scene immediately split into two sides—survivors on one side, eliminated examinees on the other.
-
Ryan sat on a stone platform at the very edge.
He had not moved or responded to anyone. He simply watched the crowd outside the finish area gradually thin out as the convoy drove in and the eliminated examinees boarded one by one, like a farewell devoid of emotion.
He felt neither schadenfreude nor relief.
Because in his eyes—this was merely part of the process.
And the real test had only just begun.
He sensed two examiners in the plaza whispering to each other. One of them was holding his number sheet and tapping at the screen, while the other recorded something, occasionally glancing in his direction.
He showed no reaction.
He continued maintaining Zetsu.
Even while sitting, he kept his muscles in the slightest state of tension, as though his body could start running again at any moment—but on the surface, he merely looked like someone unaccustomed to relaxing.
-
Over with the protagonist group, Gon was biting into a piece of bread.
"Huh? There are only 148 people?"
"Fewer than I expected." Leorio sprawled on the ground. "Are these people's physiques really that poor?"
Killua curled his lip. "There were traps, terrain, people causing trouble, and Hisoka."
"Does Hisoka count as a trap too?"
Kurapika calmly looked toward the finish line. "He's the sort of person who does."
After a brief exchange, the group fell silent. No one asked what the next stage was, because they all knew—asking would be useless.
-
Ryan lowered his head and looked at the mud on his shoes.
The trial for this stage was over. He had neither performed outstandingly nor fallen behind. But the Association had noticed him, and Hisoka had noticed him too.
He needed to think.
In the second stage, should he continue hiding? Or should he start actively choosing a side?
He did not intend to answer that question immediately.
But he knew one thing:
The true selectors had never relied on running to make their decisions.
And he did not want to be the one chosen.
As the last Association vehicle carrying the eliminated examinees left the finish area, the atmosphere in the plaza gradually shifted from restlessness to stillness.
The grass after the rain had warmed somewhat, and the air still held moisture, but the sky was brighter than before.
The examiners began walking around the edge of the grounds in an orderly rhythm. They were no longer merely recording in silence, but had begun notifying the examinees one by one—those who passed could rest briefly where they were, and would enter the next stage in fifteen minutes.
But no one knew what the next stage was.
And no one dared ask.
-
Satotz did not appear again.
The next person to step forward was a man wearing a red apron. He had short hair, curled eyebrows, and an obvious burn scar wrapped around his arm. He stood before the stone monument, raised a loudspeaker, and spoke lazily:
"I'm Menchi, the examiner for the second stage."
"You're very lucky to meet me."
"Even luckier, because I have certain standards when it comes to people."
He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"I hate rude, uncultured, tasteless people."
After saying that, he directly threw out another line:
"Get yourselves ready within ten minutes and follow me. The trial grounds are in the woods behind the mountain. Anyone who walks too slowly—I'll eliminate on the spot."
With that, she turned and left without looking back.
The area fell silent.
Then came a sudden uproar, and someone whispered, "That person has quite a personality..."
"So we're supposed to follow her?"
"Behind the mountain? Did she just say the woods?"
"What does she do? She's wearing an apron... She's not a chef, is she?"
"Is the second stage about cooking?"
-
Ryan stood up without joining the discussion.
He glanced in the direction Menchi had left and noticed that the "woodland behind the mountain" she had mentioned happened to connect with the wetland exit via an ascending route. The woodland was highly likely to be enclosed—an "environmental control trial structure" commonly used by the Association.
In other words—
The next stage was very likely to take place in an enclosed area with restricted entry and exit, in a setup that strongly emphasized completing the task independently.
This was not merely about running.
It tested intelligence, judgment, and possibly even "comprehension."
The words "Gourmet Trial" gradually took shape in Ryan's mind. He had already begun recalling the cooking trial from his previous life, the one in which the protagonist group had been crushed by their "ability to understand and interpret."
But he could not expose himself.
He could not charge straight toward the objective like someone who already knew the answer.
He had to first observe who dared to move and who moved first, then build a judgment map from them.
He walked neither quickly nor slowly, maintaining a pace toward the rear-middle of the crowd.
-
On the Association's backstage conference screen, a new piece of data was checked off:
[Stage transition confirmed]
Number 405: Entered the Gourmet Trial preparatory formation. Heart rate stable, stride unchanged, behavior consistently maintained.
"He's still moving at his own pace," one examiner said quietly.
"But he's already begun observing the others," another, older observer pointed out. "He looked at Numbers 403, 118, and 224. His pace slowed—he's identifying the structure."
Netero sat in the last row, spinning his teacup as he chuckled softly. "Some people make you think they're waiting, when in fact they've already begun choosing."
"But—that's just fine."
"Let's see how long he can hold out before he 'takes action.'"
-
Ryan stood before the grassy slope at the mountain pass and looked up at the woods he was about to enter.
He knew that from this moment onward, running was no longer important.
What one could eat, what one could make, and what one understood—those were the true starting points of the selection.
The real test began at this "kitchen door."
And he would give his own answer.
But only on the condition that he was not recognized.
Before you continue