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Chapter 94: News of Shizuku
"Will anyone actually believe a story like that?" Ronin asked, glancing sideways at Kurapika. The skepticism was plain in his voice; the idea that a fabricated legend about a divine wish-granting artifact could fool the sharpest minds in the underworld seemed far-fetched.
"They will," Kurapika replied, his voice flat and certain. He stared out the window at the passing scenery, his reflection in the glass showing eyes that remained a steady, haunting brown—for now. "Greed is a powerful filter. It makes people see what they want to see. Besides, if anyone truly begins to investigate, all roads will lead back to us. You were far too high-profile during your time at Heaven's Arena, and the Phantom Troupe hasn't been idle. They've already begun their counter-offensive by leaking your identity as a Kurta Clan survivor all over the Hunter website. By extension, I've been outed right along with you."
Ronin gripped the steering wheel a little tighter as the realization clicked. "So that's why you've been so adamant about the disguises lately! I thought you were just tired of the paparazzi following a Floor Master candidate."
"It's more than that," Kurapika said, finally turning to look at him. "The 'Destiny' rumor makes us more than just survivors—it makes us keys. But it's a double-edged sword. The smarter players will realize that if 'Destiny' exists, it's probably in our possession. They will move against us."
"But even without the legend of 'Destiny,'" Kurapika continued, his gaze narrowing, "the two of us are essentially walking targets worth billions anyway. Adding one more reason for people to hunt us doesn't really change the size of the bullseye on our backs. What it does change is the outcome. I needed a way to ensure the Scarlet Eyes aren't destroyed out of spite or caution. If the owners believe the eyes are a necessary sacrifice for a Divine Artifact, they will protect them like their own lives."
Ronin nodded slowly, appreciating the cold logic of the trap. "Fair point. The Spiders are the real problem. If they think I'm gaining power from the eyes, their natural instinct would be to destroy every pair they find just to spite me."
"Exactly. But if they think there's a 'ritual'—one only we know—they'll hesitate. And your growth, Ronin... that's the final piece. Every time you obtain a pair of Scarlet Eyes and your strength leaps forward, you provide the 'proof' the world needs. They'll see a young man becoming a monster and assume the legend is true. If they want that power for themselves, they'll have to come to us. They'll have to believe."
Ronin let out a short, dry laugh. "So the final part of your plan is for me to go back to the Arena and act as a living billboard? Fine, I'll leave the logistics to you then."
Neon sat in the back seat, seemingly oblivious to the talk of blood sacrifices and manipulated legends. She was busy polishing a small, jeweled music box she'd won at the auction, treating this entire journey like a prolonged shopping trip. Her detachment was eerie, but it made her the perfect neutral variable in Kurapika's calculations.
As the car sped toward the airship terminal, Kurapika rubbed his temples, the strain of constant strategizing showing in the slight tension of his shoulders. "There are a few more loose ends in Yorknew, but they won't take long. Once the Mafia connections are solidified via Milia, we can funnel money and intel directly to the Arena. We'll have the resources of the Ten Dons at our beck and call without ever leaving the building."
Suddenly, Ronin's phone chimed. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting from amusement to intrigue. It was a message from Hisoka.
『 I found her for you. Are you coming to Meteor City? She might be in a bit of trouble. 』
Ronin showed the screen to Kurapika, who frowned at the mention of the wasteland. Without a word, Ronin typed back: Deal.
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Meteor City. For over fifteen hundred years, it has been the world's blind spot—a sprawling, toxic graveyard where the rest of civilization discards its unwanted history. Officially, it doesn't exist. There are no maps that mark its borders, no registries for its eight million inhabitants. They are ghosts, discarded by a world that finds them inconvenient.
The trio arrived at the port on a massive garbage transport ship, the air thick with the metallic tang of rot and industrial waste. The workers on the ship looked forward to these runs; in Meteor City, the lack of law meant that anything could be bought if you had the currency—drugs, weapons, and lives were cheaper than the very trash they were hauling.
As the ship docked, the stench hit them like a physical wall. Piles of refuse towered like jagged mountain ranges as far as the eye could see. Below, a crowd of scavengers waited, their eyes hollow and desperate, ready to descend upon the fresh waste like vultures. Behind the front lines of the poor, heavy trucks roared, dumping tons of new debris, while figures in yellow hazmat suits moved through the smog like specters.
Ronin and his companions donned masks to filter the poisoned air and hide their features. It was September 13th. They had moved with blistering speed from Yorknew, driven by the chance to find Shizuku Murasaki before she could be swallowed by the Phantom Troupe's influence. According to Hisoka's cryptic intel, she had crossed paths with a member of the Council of Elders—the true, iron-fisted rulers of this wasteland.
A black car waited for them at the edge of the docks, parked on a narrow, packed-dirt road that wound through the trash heaps. Ronin pulled open the door to find a driver who looked entirely out of place—a middle-aged man in a sharp, expensive suit, his hair perfectly coiffed. He looked like he belonged in a corporate boardroom in Yorknew, not sitting in the middle of a literal dump.
"Welcome to the city that doesn't exist," the man said, his voice smooth and professional. "Mr. Morow is expecting you."
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