Chapter 91: The Challenge
Kurapika sat in the dim light, the silence amplifying the echoes of the past. He vividly remembered that day in Room 1801—the way Chrollo Lucilfer had looked at him with an expression that wasn't hateful, but utterly hollow. He remembered the questions he had thrown out and the chilling, clinical detachment of the answers he'd received in return.
His Scarlet Eyes flared, glowing with a more intense, crystalline brilliance that seemed to illuminate the shadows around him.
He had never imagined a human being could speak of a massacre with such casual indifference. It wasn't just cruelty; it was a total lack of recognition. In Chrollo's eyes, the Kurta Clan weren't people with dreams, families, or souls—they were merely a shipment of high-grade biological goods, a commodity that had happened to provide the Phantom Troupe with a moment of value.
"We accept nothing, so take nothing from us."
The message left in the bloody wake of his village burned in his mind. He had asked Chrollo about those words, but the leader of the Spiders had only met Kurapika's gaze with a silent, unreadable stare. Kurapika had since traced the origin of that creed to Meteor City—the lawless wasteland that had birthed the Spiders.
But the why still eluded him. Why leave such a defiant message at the site of a one-sided slaughter? He knew that even if he uncovered some tragic backstory, it would never justify the screams he heard every time he closed his eyes. Yet, a deeper mystery gnawed at him: How had they found the village?
The Kurta were ghosts. They lived deep within hidden valleys, interacting with the outside world only for essential supplies. When they did travel to nearby cities, they wore masks of normalcy, never letting their emotions stir the scarlet within. It should have been impossible for anyone to confirm that the legendary clan was hiding there.
Unless there had been a leak.
A cold, suffocating dread settled in Kurapika's chest. What if it was me? He had been the last one to leave the village before the tragedy. He remembered the youthful urge to explore, the recklessness, and the moment in a nearby city when he had allowed his eyes to flare in public.
His eyes turned a shade of red so deep they looked as if they might drip blood. If the Spiders found them because of my curiosity... if I am the reason they are all gone—
"What's on your mind? You're spacing out."
The weight of a warm hand on his shoulder broke the spiral. Kurapika blinked, the scarlet fading slightly as he looked up to see Ronin's steady, concerned smile.
"Go wash up and get some sleep. It's late," Ronin added, his voice an anchor in the storm of Kurapika's thoughts.
"Oh... right. Okay." Kurapika stood, his limbs feeling heavy. He turned toward the bathroom, but halfway there, he stopped, the words forcing their way out. "Big Brother Ronin, if the Phantom Troupe found the village because of me... if I brought them there..."
"Are you really trying to take the blame for the sun coming up, too?" Ronin stood, mimicking a playful finger-flick toward Kurapika's forehead from across the room. "The moment the world's predators set their sights on the Scarlet Eyes, that night was already written in stone. If you want to blame something, blame the fact that we weren't strong enough to protect what was ours."
As he spoke, a tiny, glowing marble of Nen drifted across the space and tapped lightly against Kurapika's forehead.
"Ouch." Kurapika reflexively covered the spot, but the self-loathing in his gaze was gone, replaced by a cold, sharpened resolve. He understood. Guilt was a luxury for the weak; only strength could settle the debt. "I see. Thank you."
—————
The Yorknew Auction had become a grueling war of nerves.
The Phantom Troupe's supposed death had been exposed as a grand theatrical sham. The Spiders were ghosts that refused to stay in their graves, striking again just days after their "execution."
Kurapika moved with calculated aggression. He poured vast amounts of Jenny into the Hunter Network, escalating the bounties on the Troupe to astronomical levels. He didn't just post names; he released a dossier of terror. Names, faces, confirmed abilities, and the psychological profiles of every member were packaged into tiered intelligence leaks.
He made their faces public—free for any bounty hunter or vengeful mercenary to see. The backgrounds of the photos told their own story: some from the Yadan Hotel, others from the chaos at Southern Piece. He was turning the entire underground against them, hoping to prune the Spiders' legs before the final confrontation.
But the results were frustratingly thin. These were A-class criminals for a reason; they thrived under the pressure, melting into the shadows of the city like ink in water.
Ronin had expected this. Chrollo was a strategist who played with lives like chess pieces. Based on the lack of sightings, the Troupe had likely pulled back, choosing to endure the scrutiny while they gathered their strength for a counter-offensive.
On September 7th, Ronin accompanied Neon Nostrade to the Southern Piece auction house.
It was a final, dangerous probe. If the Spiders had truly scattered, this public appearance would be safe. If they were still lurking, Neon was the perfect bait.
The auction hall was a cathedral of wealth and tension. Ronin sat beside Neon, his senses dialed to their limit, scanning every heartbeat in the room. He felt no immediate threat—until a man sat down in the empty seat directly to his right.
The newcomer wasn't wearing an eccentric jester's outfit. There was no teardrop or star painted on his face. Instead, the man wore a sharp, perfectly tailored suit that made him look like any other high-society predator.
"Ronin... or should I say, Kakashi Hatake," the man said, his magnetic voice carrying a jagged edge of excitement. "I finally found you."
"Yeah? You need something?" Ronin didn't turn his head, but his muscles coiled like a spring, ready to erupt.
He wasn't surprised Hisoka had made the connection. In a world of Nen users, masks only worked for so long against someone with the instincts of a shark.
"Don't be so tense." Hisoka leaned back, his eyes fixed on the auction stage. "I think you already know why I've tracked you down."
"Collaboration?" Ronin asked flatly.
"Exactly." Hisoka's expression turned into a mock pout. "Your little war has the entire Phantom Troupe on edge. They're sticking together like a frightened brood. I can't get Chrollo into a one-on-one dance while his 'followers' are constantly breathing down his neck."
"And you think I'm just going to hand him over?" Ronin countered. "Chrollo is a prime target. Why would I let you have all the fun?"
According to Kurapika, Chrollo had left specifically to find a way to neutralize Ronin's abilities. The prospect of facing a Chrollo who was prepared and dangerous made Ronin's own blood run hot. He wasn't about to swap out now.
The aura around Hisoka suddenly shifted, turning sharp and suffocatingly cold.
"If that's how it is, then perhaps we need a preliminary round," Hisoka suggested, his narrow eyes finally locking onto Ronin's. There was no humor in them now—only greed and a terrifying, manic anticipation. "The winner gets the privilege of fighting Chrollo. The loser... well, the loser won't be an issue anymore."
Chrollo was certainly a formidable target, but Hisoka was proving to be just as enticing a prize. Ronin was looking like quite the exquisite prospect as well.
Ronin turned his head, meeting Hisoka's gaze with a look that was just as predatory.
"Heaven's Arena?" Ronin challenged.
"Heaven's Arena," Hisoka agreed, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face.