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Chapter 97: The Cleaning Squad
Inside the dim clinic, the air smelled of old antiseptic and stagnant dust. Shizuku stood amidst the wreckage, her large, dark eyes blinking behind her frames as she tilted her head with feline curiosity.
"Who?" she repeated, her voice a flat, melodic chime that seemed out of place in the grim surroundings.
"The Phantom Troupe," Ronin replied, his tone steady.
Shizuku paused, as if searching through a mental filing cabinet. "I know them. A group of thieves from the street... They've made quite a name for themselves recently." She adjusted her glasses, her gaze drifting to the bloodstain on the floor where an assassin had just died. "So, you want me to join you instead. But how do you plan to show your good faith? In Meteor City, words are just air. We deal in results."
"What kind of incentive are you looking for?"
"Give me Spence's head," Shizuku said, her demand as casual as asking for a cup of tea. "If the Phantom Troupe actually comes to invite me, I'll give them the exact same condition. No head, no deal."
Ronin shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing behind his mask. "I thought your father took care of Spence already. The word on the street was that the debt was settled in blood."
Shizuku shook her head slowly. "No. He's still alive. He's a cautious man, even by the standards of the Council. Everything that happened—the 'assassination,' the funeral—it was all just a trap he laid out to flush out the dissenters. My father was just a piece on the board."
"Fine," Ronin agreed without hesitation.
It was clear now. Damian's intelligence was a surface-level scan of a much deeper, darker pool. The politics of Meteor City were a labyrinth of mirrors and lies, and Spence was the master of the maze.
"Mm." Shizuku's expression remained unreadable. "Since you've agreed, tell me your name. If you succeed, we can meet here again. If I'm still alive, I'll go with you. I'll follow your lead, so long as you keep things interesting."
"Ronin. And for the record, I've already told you once," he said, a hint of annoyance surfacing. "Besides, there's no need for a dramatic reunion. We can just go and crush him right now. Why wait for tomorrow when the target is ripe today?"
"Alright. I'll remember you, Ronin," she said.
She didn't move to leave. Instead, she turned her gaze toward the window, watching the dust clouds rising from the street. Outside, the rhythmic, metallic grinding of tank treads grew louder, shaking the very foundations of the building.
"I'll handle the noise," Ronin said, standing up.
He didn't spare a glance for the half-eaten snacks on the table. He tucked his manga back into his bag, adjusted his mask, and stepped into the sunlight.
Shizuku watched his broad back as he walked out, a small, pensive frown touching her lips. "Ronin... Ronin. He seems like a nice person," she whispered to the empty room. "But his actions... not so much."
She followed him out, her footsteps silent. This clinic was a relic of a past she could barely grasp—a place of fleeting happiness and the scent of medicine that didn't smell like death. She didn't want to see it leveled. As she walked, she rubbed her temple, a familiar fog settling over her mind. She felt as though she had been forgetting a lot of things lately—names, faces, dates—but she dismissed it. If she had forgotten them, they probably weren't worth remembering.
Outside, the street had transformed into a war zone.
The Cleaning Squad had arrived in force. A weathered, olive-drab tank ground its way forward, its exhaust belching black smoke into the gray sky. Standing atop the hull was a man who looked like he had been carved from obsidian—tall, lean, and radiating a sharp, predatory aura. His hands were gnarled with calluses, and his hooked nose gave him the appearance of a vulture circling a fresh kill.
He looked down at Ronin with cold, clinical disdain. "Who are you to interfere with the Council's business?"
"What a stupid question," Ronin replied, his voice a low growl.
He didn't care for the hierarchy of the slums. He dropped into a low crouch, his Nen surging through his meridians like a tidal wave, concentrating in his fists until the air around them began to shimmer with heat.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Boom!
The tank gunner, a veteran of a dozen district skirmishes, didn't wait for a command. Seeing his target vanish, he fired on instinct. Smoke and fire erupted from the tank's muzzle as a high-velocity shell shrieked toward the clinic.
But Ronin was faster. He appeared mid-air, a dark silhouette against the sun. With a roar of effort, he slammed his foot down onto the shell mid-flight. The explosive force of his Nen met the kinetic energy of the projectile. With a deafening crunch, Ronin intercepted the shell, stomping it straight into the cracked pavement before it could reach the building.
Behind him, Shizuku didn't flinch at the explosion. She simply extended her hand. With a swirl of aura, she conjured Blinky—the monstrous vacuum cleaner with its wide, fanged mouth and bulging, vacant eyes.
"Blinky, clean up the debris," she commanded softly.
BOOM!
The shell detonated beneath Ronin's foot, cratering the street and sending a pillar of fire into the air. Ronin emerged from the smoke, completely unscathed. The shockwave that should have pulverized his bones only served as a springboard, propelling him toward the tank like a guided missile.
Enhancers were the ultimate contradiction of the Nen world—they were built to defy common sense with nothing but raw, stubborn will.
Thud!
Ronin's fist slammed into the tank's main barrel. The thick steel, designed to withstand anti-tank rounds, buckled like a tin can. The barrel bent upward at a sharp angle, effectively turning the tank's primary weapon into a useless piece of scrap.
The Eagle-Nosed Man atop the hull didn't panic. As Ronin leapt onto the tank to deliver the killing blow, the man's arm suddenly blurred, moving with a speed that defied human anatomy.
Ronin's Sharingan spun, tracing the movement. It wasn't teleportation, but a localized burst of extreme speed—a refined Hatsu that combined Transmutation to soften the joints and Enhancement to snap them forward with whip-like velocity.
The exchange was a flash of violence.
The man's fingers, stiffened into a piercing "snake-head" formation, pecked at Ronin's forearm. Ronin didn't pull back; he simply adjusted his aura, reinforcing the point of contact. Simultaneously, his own fist hammered into the man's blocking arm.
Ronin felt a sharp, concentrated sting, as if a needle had tried to drive through his muscle. Meanwhile, the man's arm bent at a grotesque, sickening angle under Ronin's heavy strike.
But there was no sound of breaking bone.
The Eagle-Nosed Man flowed with the impact, retreating across the tank's hull. His arm hung limp and boneless, swaying like a piece of wet rope. But as Ronin watched, a surge of Nen rippled through the limb, and it snapped back into a rigid, functional state. The man lashed out again, his arm behaving more like a leather whip than a human appendage.
A snake? No, he's changing his density, Ronin realized.
He opened his fist into a claw-like grip, reaching out to seize the swaying limb. If he couldn't break it with a strike, he would catch it and rip it from the shoulder.
The Eagle-Nosed Man saw the trap.
The aura on his whipping arm flared brilliantly. The soft, boneless limb suddenly went rigid as steel mid-swing. His fingers formed a piercing spear-point that bypassed Ronin's grabbing hand and lunged straight for his throat.
Ronin's eyes tracked every micro-vibration of the man's muscles. At the last possible second, he shifted his weight and brought his palm down in a horizontal chop, aiming to sever the limb.
Upon contact, the man's arm softened again, turning back into a harmless, fluid rope. The chop hit, but the energy was absorbed, leaving Ronin's strike feeling like it had landed on a bag of water.
It was a sophisticated hybrid technique—the man could oscillate between the flexibility of a whip and the hardness of a diamond in the span of a heartbeat.
"Clever," Ronin muttered, a dark thrill of excitement rising in his chest. "But let's see how much pressure that 'water' can actually take."
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