"My name is Uvogin, and she is Machi…"
"Machi Komacchi," Machi corrected, emphasizing her full name.
"Right, right," Uvogin said with a shrug. "Guess I'm the only one here without a surname." He spread his arms wide.
"Mog," the large man simply stated.
Uvogin's eyes lit up. "No surname either? Just like me!!"
"..."
Mog didn't bother explaining that "Mog" was his full name—and in this world, that counted as a surname under the Western naming convention.
Here, people followed the same system as Gon Freecss: first name first, family name last. Most went by their given names unless they wielded extraordinary influence—like Chairman Netero, whose full name was Isaac Netero, yet no one dared call him anything but "Chairman." His useless son, Byondo Netero, might've lost the name entirely if not for that legacy.
"This is the best sticky rice cake I've ever had…" Uvogin sighed, still lingering near the table. "Anyway—Mog, right? Thanks for the hospitality." He thumped his chest and pointed a thick thumb at himself. "From now on, you're under Uncle Uvogin's protection! Anyone messes with you in this area, they answer to me!"
He spoke with the swagger of a warlord—but Mog knew better. Uvogin was all brawn and zero brains. Even with Chrollo, Shalnark, and Franklin watching his back, he'd been played like a fiddle. And that wasn't even counting Feitan and Phinks—the delinquent biker duo who were just as easily manipulated by Kuroro. So much for "protection."
"If you ever get hungry again," Mog said evenly, "just come by."
"Really?!" Uvogin's eyes widened like saucers.
Mog shrugged. "Next time, just let me know what you want ahead of time. And if you don't trust me enough to return… well, that's your loss."
"Like hell we won't come back!" Uvogin bellowed, slinging a massive arm around Mog's shoulders. "Mog, you're incredible! I really like you!! How can I thank you properly?"
He had nothing to offer—no money, no gifts. Even after the Phantom Troupe formed, Uvogin remained penniless. Back in Yorknew City, when a knight helped him track down Kurapika's hotel, the man had only asked for payment—but Uvogin, shameless as ever, had kissed him full on the lips instead. Now, that same impulse flared again.
"I don't need thanks," Mog said flatly, reaching up and pressing a palm firmly onto Uvogin's forehead, pinning him in place. "Your hunger is thanks enough."
"Aw, don't be shy! I—wait…" Uvogin's grin faltered. "You're… strong."
He'd assumed it was just playful post-meal roughhousing—until he realized Mog's grip rivaled his own monstrous strength. A spark of rivalry flared in his chest, and he strained silently against the hold, channeling his Nen into his neck and shoulders.
Machi watched, arms crossed, then glanced at the strange device beside her—the "Sticky Rice Cake Maker." Her eyes narrowed with unmistakable curiosity.
"I'm done! Totally done!!" Uvogin yelped, suddenly sensing danger. He wrenched free and scrambled back. "Seriously, how'd you do that?!" He smacked his lips, blunt as ever. "And how'd you invent this thing? It's not like any gadget I've ever seen."
Mog studied Uvogin's eager face—and Machi's quiet, watchful gaze—and a slow smile crept across his lips.
"You really want to know?"
"Mmm!" Uvogin nodded vigorously. Machi leaned in slightly.
"This 'invention,'" Mog began, voice calm, "isn't machinery. It's born from a peculiar power within the human body. Depending on one's physique, that power manifests in different ways."
"But how do you unlock it?" Uvogin pressed.
Machi stayed silent, but her focus was absolute.
Mog let the tension build—then spread his hands with a shrug.
"…No comment."