The bars were old and rusted through. Weak.
With aura reinforcing his grip, Moro bent two vertical bars wide enough to slip through.
Ignoring the terrified stares around him, he ducked out of the cage. Hearing footsteps outside the cargo door, he instantly pressed himself to the side wall and grabbed another bar.
He tried to snap it clean off—no dice.
Time was short. He noticed the top and bottom weren't welded solid, so he wrenched the bent bar free from its frame instead.
Right then the cargo door swung open. Sunlight poured in, silhouetting a tall figure—and the unmistakable shape of a pistol.
Moro's eyes narrowed.
With his aura barely awakened, even a small-caliber round would mess him up badly.
More importantly, fine control over aura came from months of muscle memory. His body still needed time to relearn the flow.
Guns were still a hard counter.
The instant he saw the muzzle, Moro reacted on pure reflex—he hurled the twisted bar like a javelin.
Thanks to half a year of Emission training in his last life, direction and accuracy were perfect.
The spinning bar whistled through the air and smashed into the gunman's chest.
A scream. The man flew backward, crashing outside.
But at the exact same moment—tink—a faint ring of metal.
A Nen-wrapped throwing knife shot out of nowhere, aimed straight at Moro's leg.
A second attacker… and a Nen user!
In his haste, Moro could only twist slightly.
Shwick.
The blade sliced across his knee, spraying blood.
Moro's face tightened. Ignoring the burning pain, he retreated deeper into the hold, putting distance between himself and the open door.
He'd known there were two guards from the start.
But the truck stopping so suddenly—and one of them being a Nen user—caught him off guard.
More crucially:
The timing of that knife told him everything.
The Nen user had known what was happening inside before the door even opened. He'd sent the gunman in first as bait.
And when the door opened, the gunman hadn't been on high alert—meaning the Nen user hadn't warned him properly.
In other words, he'd deliberately sacrificed his partner to draw Moro out.
Cold-blooded bastard.
Moro pressed against the side wall, expression grave.
He glanced up at the dim ceiling corner—a tiny red dot blinked.
Camera.
He frowned.
He hadn't accounted for surveillance. Sloppy.
He never wasted energy on regret, though. Learn from mistakes—that was how he'd turned a tiny antique shop into a steady money-maker in under six months despite all the scams and setups in that business.
He'd been conned plenty of times. Each one just made him sharper.
Moro stared at the open door.
The Nen user still hadn't shown himself.
And one thing gnawed at him:
That knife could easily have gone for a kill or cripple shot.
But it only hit his leg.
A guy ruthless enough to sell out his partner in a heartbeat… had held back.
"So the 'merchandise' is more valuable than the risk of losing bait…"
The merchandise, of course, being the kids in the cages.
That told Moro the guard had orders to keep the cargo as intact as possible.
And it reminded him of the ambush that would hit this truck later—most of the kids dying in the crossfire.
Was there a connection?
Did it mean this batch was especially high-value?
Too bad last time he'd passed out right after surviving and woken up on a ship to Kakin, no memories, no language skills. He never dug into the details later.
Right now the only certainty was that the Nen user's priority—keeping the "livestock" undamaged—outweighed his partner's life.
Maybe he could use that.
Moro quickly checked the gash. Not deep, but it would bleed if he didn't stop it soon.
Time was running out.
"Hm?"
His pupils shrank as something clicked.
The guy outside held all the cards, yet he wasn't pressing the attack. Wasn't even showing his face.
Overly cautious? Or waiting for something?
Moro stared at the knife still embedded in the wall. No way he was pulling it out to use—too risky.
He couldn't stall any longer.
Gamble time.
Moro bolted for the door.
Outside his line of sight, Zazan heard the movement and raised his left hand on reflex. Aura surged—a new throwing knife materialized. He was half a heartbeat from hurling it toward the sound.
Pure combat instinct.
But cold logic stopped him.
Blind throw into the cargo hold? He could hit the merchandise.
That single moment of hesitation was all Moro needed.
He leaped clear of the truck, landed over ten meters away, and finally locked eyes with Zazan standing beside the vehicle.
Gamble won.
Seeing the man hadn't thrown, Moro steadied himself, subtly noting the knife's position back inside, then tensed every muscle—ready for anything.
Zazan gripped his conjured knife, staring at Moro with undisguised shock.
This kid… is way too weird.
"You always this brave?" Zazan asked flatly, spinning the blade between his fingers.
Moro stayed silent, using every second to readjust his aura flow.
Zazan's brow creased at the lack of response. "If I'd thrown just now, you'd be dead or half-dead."
"You could've done that from the start, couldn't you?"
Moro's voice was perfectly calm.
"…"
Zazan's expression shifted, just a little.