Half Eliminated

The fog over the finish-line plaza had dispersed, and the sky had brightened somewhat.

The air after the rain was faintly cool, and the grass was wet, giving softly beneath their feet. The examinees gradually sat down. Some gathered in twos and threes to catch their breath, while others found places to lie down alone, completely still.

Satotz remained standing before the stone monument. He said nothing, just as he had for the previous six hours, calmly watching every examinee who arrived.

Only after the last examinee passed through the monument and the recorder quietly reported the final number did he finally turn and walk several steps toward the center of the finish-line plaza.

He stopped and spoke. His voice was not loud, yet everyone heard him clearly:

"The first phase of the trial—has ended."

For half a second after those words, everyone stopped breathing.

Then, the area fell silent.

A moment later, he raised a hand, took a list from his sleeve, and turned a page.

"A total of 405 examinees participated in this year's Hunter Exam."

"As of the finish line, a total of—148 have passed."

Soft cries of surprise burst from the crowd of examinees.

"148?!"

"Isn't that less than half?"

"No wonder it felt like there were fewer and fewer people..."

Some lowered their heads in disappointment. Others wore relieved smiles. A few simply buried their heads in their arms, whether they were crying or merely trying to sleep.

But no one dared complain loudly.

Because Satotz had not stopped. He continued reading:

"Those who did not pass will be transported out of the examination area by Association vehicles in ten minutes."

"Those who passed, prepare to enter the next phase. In fifteen minutes, the examiner will announce the location and rules of the second-phase trial."

He put away the list, turned, and left without another word.

The black-clad attendants silently set up rope barriers around the finish-line plaza, separating the successful examinees from the unsuccessful ones.

The scene immediately split into two sides—survivors on one side, eliminated candidates on the other.

Ryan sat on a stone platform at the very edge.

He had not moved, nor had he responded to anyone. He merely watched the crowd outside the finish line gradually thin out as the vehicles arrived and the eliminated candidates boarded one by one, like an emotionless farewell.

He neither gloated nor felt relieved.

Because, in his eyes—this was only part of the process.

The real test had only just begun.

He sensed that two examiners in the plaza were already whispering to each other. One held his numbered file and tapped at a screen, while the other recorded something and occasionally glanced his way.

He did not react.

He continued maintaining Zetsu.

Even while seated, he kept his muscles in the faintest state of tension, as though his body could break into another run at any moment. On the surface, however, he merely looked like someone unaccustomed to relaxing.

Over by the main group, Gon was biting into a piece of bread.

"Huh? Only 148 people?"

"Fewer than I expected." Leorio lay sprawled on the ground. "Are these people really that physically weak?"

Killua curled his lip. "There were traps, terrain, people causing trouble, and Hisoka."

"Hisoka counts as a trap too?"

Kurapika calmly looked toward the other end of the finish line. "He's that kind of person."

After a brief exchange, they each fell quiet. No one asked what the next phase would be, because they all knew—asking would be useless.

Ryan lowered his head and looked at the mud on his shoes.

This phase of the test was over. He had not performed particularly well, but neither had he fallen behind. Yet the Association had noticed him, and so had Hisoka.

He had to think.

In the second phase, would he continue hiding? Or would he start actively choosing a side?

He was not ready to answer that question just yet.

But he knew one thing:

True selectors never relied on running to make their decisions.

And he did not want to be the one chosen.

As the final Association vehicle carrying the eliminated examinees drove away from the finish-line area, the mood in the plaza gradually shifted from agitation to calm.

The rain-soaked grass had begun to warm again. Moisture still lingered in the air, 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 notifying everyone one by one—the successful examinees could rest briefly where they were, and would enter the next phase in fifteen minutes.

But no one knew what the next phase would be.

Nor did anyone dare ask.

Satotz did not appear again.

Replacing him was another examiner: a woman in a red apron, with short hair, curled eyebrows, and a distinct burn scar wrapped around one arm. She stood before the stone monument and raised a loudspeaker, her voice lazy.

"I'm the examiner for the second phase—Menchi."

"You're very lucky to get to meet me."

"Even luckier, I happen to have standards for people."

She paused, the corner of her mouth lifting.

"I hate people who are rude, careless, and tasteless."

Having said that, she tossed out one final sentence:

"Get yourselves together within ten minutes and follow me. The test site is in the woods beyond the mountain. Anyone too slow—I'll eliminate them on the spot."

With that, she turned and left without looking back.

The area fell silent.

Then the crowd erupted. Someone murmured, "That person has way too much personality..."

"So we're supposed to follow her?"

"Beyond the mountain? Did she say the woods?"

"What does she do? She's wearing an apron... She can't be a chef, can she?"

"Is the second phase going to involve cooking?"

Ryan stood up without joining the discussion.

He looked in the direction Menchi had left, noticing that the "woodland beyond the mountain" she mentioned was connected to the wetland exit by an uphill route. The woodland was also highly likely to be enclosed—an Association-standard spatial-control trial structure.

Which meant—

The next phase would most likely be a closed-off test layout with restricted entry and exit, strongly focused on independently completing the assigned task.

This was not just about running.

It tested intelligence, judgment, and perhaps even comprehension.

The words "Gourmet Trial" slowly took shape in Ryan's mind. He had already begun recalling the cooking trial from his previous life, the one the main group had crushed through their ability to understand and interpret.

But he could not expose himself.

He could not charge straight toward the goal as though he already knew the answer.

He had to—first observe who dared to act, who moved first, then build a framework of judgment from them.

He walked neither quickly nor slowly, always maintaining a pace around the middle to rear of the crowd.

On the Association's backstage conference screen, a new piece of data was checked off:

[Phase transition confirmed]

Candidate 405: entered the Gourmet Trial preliminary formation. Heart rate stable, stride unchanged, behavioral pattern consistent.

"He's still moving at his own pace," one examiner said quietly.

"But he has already started observing others," another, older observer pointed out. "He looked at three people—numbers 403, 118, and 224. His pace slowed. He's grasping the structure."

Netero sat in the last row, rotating a teacup as he chuckled. "Some people seem to be waiting, when in fact they've already begun choosing."

"But—that works out perfectly."

"Let's see how long he can hold out before he makes a move."

Ryan stood before the grassy slope at the mountain pass and looked up at the forest he was about to enter.

He knew that from this moment onward, running was no longer important.

What could be eaten, what could be made, what could be understood—those were the true starting points of selection.

The real test began at this "kitchen door."

And he would give his own answer.

But only if he was not recognized.