The world doesn't officially belong to a class system, yet classes have always existed.
It uses layers of privilege to sort people into ranks. In the Hunter world, the Hunter Exam is a prime example.
If you pass and earn a Hunter License:
You can enter and exit 90% of countries with restricted entry and 75% of forbidden zones.
You can use it as collateral to obtain massive loans.
You can use 95% of public facilities worldwide free of charge until you die.
You can even sell it—and the proceeds can fund several decades of living.
So to gain these privileges, the exam gathers elite candidates from across the continent every year. Some fight through brutal trials—even bloodshed—in their homelands just to win a precious slot. And then… to be blocked and humiliated like this at the gate? Even a clay idol has fire in its belly.
Silence fell; the lounge seemed to glow red with angry "aura." The mummy, the snake handler, the muscleman, the bald ninja—one by one, candidates glared at Pariston.
The blond boy didn't fear—he thrilled. His very soul was trembling. Yes, that's it—those eyes that want to kill me—subarashii… He hugged himself in bliss as the crowd surged toward him.
They soon ringed him in front and back; the bare-chested brute even reached to grab him, fast and heavy. "Kid, let me play with you… I, Donovan, don't accept this 'trash' talk!"
"Donovan! The Donovan the Strong!"
Someone named him. "Donovan the Strong—sixteen-time consecutive World Powerlifting Cup champion. Bench-press record: 36 tons!"
"With him here, uh—"
Crack!
Before the "strongman" could touch Pariston, the fat bodyguard's single open-hand slap pulped him into meat paste.
Hsss— The stench of blood spread. The slurry lay at their feet; gasps hissed through the room, then came the screams.
Chaos. The ring of people recoiled in unison, as if they'd rehearsed it. Some clutched chairs and vomited; others' knees buckled, collapsing in puddles of yellow-white filth.
In an instant the lounge turned into a pit of panic.
"Young master, that fat one's an Enhancer." A palm reinforced with aura is a maul—whoever it hits dies. Doesn't mean Donovan was weak—Nen users vs. ordinary people is dimensionality reduction.
Gotoh watched through Gyo and saw it plainly. Roy remained impassive—but glanced, surprised, at the Kurta girl across the way. She turned pale for a heartbeat, then steadied—iron nerves.
"Well then. I'm done asking—who's in favor, who's against?" With Donovan as example, Pariston smiled around the room. At his feet lay countless little Donovans…
Silence. Someone finally muttered: "We can just rebook—might still make it. No need to die on this hill."
A trickle left, then a handful, then a crowd. In five minutes the vast lounge was nearly empty—just ten remained:
the mummy, the snake handler, the boy with a bow, the ninja, the Kurta girl, Gotoh—and Roy.
Clap, clap, clap… Pariston applauded. "So you're all that confident…"
"Good. Excellent." His gaze swept, lingering a beat on Roy; his smile widened. He pulled up a chair, sat, and propped his chin on one hand. "As I said, do me a favor. Since you won't…"
He toyed with them. "Either I kill you, or you are killed by me. Your choice."
Ding-ling-ling… ding-ling-ling…
"Attention passengers on flight L8975: boarding now at Gate L6…"
The announcement for the Saherta flight cut the air—tension dropped to freezing.
Pariston just watched them. The snake handler and the archer traded a look, snorted, and left. Pride had kept them here; Donovan's remains changed their minds. They had to admit: the fat guard was out of their league.
"Heh-heh-heh… wise men, those two. Don't let me keep you." Pariston waved them off and turned to the mummy. The man stiffened, fists curling, but his sense told him the boy himself was more dangerous than the guard. He left without a word—hoping to catch a later flight.
"Ahhh, all gone?" The ninja rubbed his bald head, glanced at Roy and Gotoh, and sighed. "It was three vs. four; odds were with me. Now we're short one… a ninja shouldn't stand under a crumbling wall. I'm out."
He flashed after the mummy to change tickets.
Soon only Roy, Gotoh, and the Kurta girl remained.
She pushed up her glasses, closed her book, and, without a word, walked toward the exit. Passing Roy, she nodded politely.
He returned the smile.
With several rows between them, only master and valet remained: one cross-legged, one hands in pockets, quiet from start to finish—showing no sign of budging.
A cold draft slid through the glass.
Pariston whistled, smiling as if he'd expected this.
He spread his arms, mock-admiring. "The world's top assassin family really does have presence."
One sentence outed Roy by name. Behind him, the two guards stared, shaken.
"Hey now—play's play, and jokes are jokes," the fat guard muttered. "Hill-chan, we'll protect you, but I'm not killing a Zoldyck."
Hands in his coat, the thin guard shot him a glare, brows knotted—silent.
Pariston spread his hands. "See? Even my people are spooked into silence. Roy Zoldyck, how about…"
"Let's play a game. If you lose—door on the left, exit. If you win—I'll bow and see you off and not say one extra word. How about it?"
"Young master…" Gotoh looked to Roy.
The boy closed his notebook, laced his fingers under his chin, and smiled back at Pariston. "I think it's better if I just kill you."
~~~
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