"Heh heh heh… how nice…"
Friendships in your youth are always the purest—and the most beautiful. Like today's sunshine: warm on your skin, warm enough to make you drowsy.
In the church—inside the small courtyard behind the prayer hall—Daniel Lauren sat as usual on his little stool, leaning against a tall colonnade with his eyes closed, basking in the sun. His ears, not yet deaf, had caught every word of their conversation. For a moment, it felt like he'd returned to his own reckless youth—Bible in one hand, sword in the other.
Only now… the "Bible" was still the Bible, but the sword was a Western rapier, and the man was no longer that man. He was old, old enough that he couldn't lift the sword anymore, and didn't want to recite scripture anymore either. He only murmured, "Lord, grant me mercy… let me die soon and go to Heaven."
"At least then my pointless life will finally be complete…"
"You should talk them out of it." A wave of fragrance drifted in from the corridor.
A veiled young woman stepped out—Renge. She wore a wide-brimmed hat as black as ink and walked over gracefully. Imitating the old priest, she leaned against the colonnade and tilted her face up at the blazing sun, then said flatly, "Those kids are too stubborn. Sooner or later, they'll pay for it."
And in Meteor City, "pay for it" meant death.
"You can't teach people." Daniel Lauren's crow's-feet were carved like ravines by wind and weather. He quietly savored the warmth, smiled, and said, "People are born with a kind of… self-destructive stupidity."
"If you tell them directly, they won't listen. The only way is…"
"They have to get burned first."
"I investigated them." Renge nodded, agreeing.
Daniel's eyelids twitched slightly.
Renge frowned. "And I got nothing. No background, no trail—like they just appeared out of nowhere. All I know is: he worships the sun, and he has an attendant named Kastro. That one has a little history."
She tapped her chin, thinking aloud. "Apparently Kastro used to fight in Heaven's Arena. Then one day he vanished and nobody ever heard from him again. Now it looks like… he got 'converted.'"
"Heh heh heh…"
Daniel Lauren lifted his chin against the marble pillar and squinted into the sunlight. Then he said quietly, "No background is the biggest background there is."
"The sun is good… the sun doesn't tolerate darkness."
"And likewise…"
"Darkness doesn't tolerate it either."
Renge fell silent.
The old priest's words were sharp—almost prophetic. Since Roy brought Kastro to settle into 4th Street, the master and servant hadn't killed anyone again. Even those who came with bad intentions only got a beating and were thrown out.
But…
4th Street had never been a kind place. It wasn't kind now. It would never be kind.
In just these few days of investigating, Renge had already found plenty of eyes fixed on 4th Street—on that pale church, on the "priest" named Taiyi, and on his attendant Kastro—watching like predators.
Some were from the Elders' Council. Some belonged to other factions. And some were the kind that made even her head ache—like that one… the one who was clearly high on something.
Renge suddenly remembered those sickly green eyes, and the twisted darkness barely contained beneath that calm face. Her chest rose and fell—her heartbeat speeding up.
Daniel Lauren chuckled and said, "If you're worried, go take a look."
Renge snorted and turned to leave. "Don't forget—I'm an undertaker. The more people die, the happier I am."
She forced the words out, stiffly: "Don't misunderstand. I'm going… to collect bodies."
She didn't wait for Daniel to laugh. She lifted her skirt and disappeared through the courtyard like a gust of wind.
Only the old priest remained, basking in the sun, mumbling to himself.
"Yes… yes…"
A moment later, his head drooped. A snot bubble rose at his nose as he nodded off.
…
Meteor City, West District, 4th Street.
The soup kitchen opened daily, one portion per person—one bun, one bowl of porridge. With a chef team on hand, plus the young but capable butlers Gotoh had carefully selected and sent over to keep order, things ran smoothly.
Kastro worked alongside Roy inside and out—sweeping, weeding, mopping—while also tracking and organizing materials needed to repair the church: stone, lumber, paint. With his silver hair, quick steps, and nonstop hustle, he was starting to look a little like Gotoh.
"Good work." That was the master's praise.
"Do your duty. Surpass Gotoh." That was Kastro's private rule for himself.
He carried a hoe as if it were a sword, kept his Breathing Technique running twenty-four hours a day, and each swing peeled turf cleanly in one precise bite. He stayed immersed—feeling his physique and aura capacity being pushed forward, slowly but steadily, by the Breathing Method. Drive poured out of him in an endless stream…
Until the soup tent suddenly erupted in noise.
Kastro's brow furrowed. He stopped, exhaled lightly.
"Looks like someone's here to cause trouble again."
"The master's kind—he won't stoop to you. But you idiots just don't know when to stop."
Fine, then.
He'd been itching for a place to spend his surplus strength anyway.
The silver-haired youth snorted, hoisted the hoe on his shoulder, and walked toward the commotion.
At the soup tent, he found two men and a girl—plus Chrollo, Shalnark, and Pakunoda, the three he'd seen before—facing off against the butlers who were serving food and keeping order.
And at the front—
A massive man built like a bear, bare-chested, wearing only a fur skirt, grinning viciously… had already traded a punch with one of Roy's butlers—Ueki, a young butler Kastro had met at the butler villas.
Kastro slammed the hoe onto the ground.
"Boom."
He stepped past Uvogin and Nobunaga and looked at the three behind them—Chrollo, Shalnark, Pakunoda.
"I didn't expect it to be you three."
His silver hair glittered under the sun.
"Praise the Sun."
Then, coldly: "What—didn't die last time, so you came back to deliver yourselves this time?"
Chrollo met Kastro's icy gaze and felt the killing intent in it. He swallowed hard, stepped forward, and bowed respectfully.
"Praise the Sun."
"You misunderstand."
Still bowed, Chrollo pointed at Uvogin and Nobunaga. He also signaled Pakunoda to quietly pull Sarasa aside. Then he said earnestly:
"I'm begging you—please teach those two a proper lesson. As long as they don't die, do whatever you want to them."
Uvogin and Nobunaga: "..."
They froze.
Uvogin snapped first. He exploded, grabbed Chrollo by the collar, and yanked him up off the ground.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"
Boosting someone else and humiliating your own—"Chrollo, you bastard, you're betraying us?!"
And in Clean-Up Squad, betrayal had a clear ending.
"Clang!"
Nobunaga drew his blade.
The rusted katana scraped out with a teeth-grinding screeech. He gripped it with both hands, leveled it… and pointed straight at Chrollo.
Kastro raised an eyebrow. Then his ear twitched.
From deeper inside the church, a faint mental message reached him.
He gave Chrollo a sideways look—and without any flourish, the hoe in his hand moved.
A streak of fire sparked as it cut the air—slow and fast at the same time—neither off by a hair.
It struck the katana that was aimed at Chrollo.
"Klang!"
Nobunaga felt a terrifying force slam up through the blade. His eyes widened in shock—then his tiger's mouth split, blood bursting out.
And the sword was knocked clean out of his hands by a single hoe swing.
Flame Breathing, First Form: Unknowing Fire!
That one strike instantly froze the air.
The flaming hoe spun once and returned to Kastro's shoulder. He took a step forward.
Shalnark and Pakunoda—already aware of how dangerous he was—dragged Sarasa back another step.
Uvogin's expression hardened. He let Chrollo go and stepped up with Nobunaga, both of them facing Kastro now, eyes blazing with battle hunger.
"Old man—can you still hold a sword?"
"I told you—call me 'old man' again and I'll cut you." Nobunaga ignored the blood pouring from his palm and narrowed his eyes at Kastro. That earlier flaming strike had been too fast for him to even react to.
"Watch it—his strength is insane!"
"Hah! Isn't that perfect?" Uvogin cracked his knuckles—pop—and stomped forward, fist raised.
"My strength isn't weak either!"
His iron fist ripped the air apart as it crashed down.
Kastro's bangs danced in the wind. In a heartbeat he judged it—
This feral man in the fur skirt had real power.
But…
There was still an unbridgeable line between ordinary and nen.
No aura nodes opened meant no body tempered by aura.
And Kastro, having fully mastered Total Concentration Constant, was running on an entirely different engine.
Even though Uvogin came in full-force, Kastro answered with a single light "Tiger Bite Fist"—striking the knuckles after Uvogin committed, yet arriving first.
Uvogin's punch was knocked back.
He flew, snarling, clutching his hand—crashed into a trash mound.
For the first time in his life, he'd been thrown this badly in a brawl.
And yet—
"HAHAHA… this is great!" His bones screamed, pain surged up, but his adrenaline never dipped.
He climbed out again.
And as Kastro struck Uvogin away…
A blade flashed.
Nobunaga, sharp enough to seize the brief gap between Kastro's old force and new force, slid in under Kastro's arm and thrust straight for his heart.
A soft sound.
"Ding."
The tip hit something like stone.
It was right at Kastro's chest—and yet it couldn't pierce even an inch. It couldn't even touch cloth. It was dragged into a "muddy sink" by an invisible resistance.
"What the hell is this?!"
Kastro had already wrapped himself in Ten.
To those who couldn't see aura, it felt like stabbing air and hitting a wall at the same time.
Pakunoda's eyes went wide. Sarasa froze.
Shalnark's throat bobbed.
And Chrollo—quietly—finally understood what he'd been trying to stop them from walking into.
Uvogin and Nobunaga had come for free bread.
What they'd found was a world they didn't even have words for yet.
~~~
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