"Does this thing need feeding? Or is it the kind where it bites you first?"
"No matter how I look at it, we got scammed. Can't believe we actually negotiated with a cat..."
At an abandoned stable somewhere out in the countryside, Johnny turned the intricate little object over in his hands, too afraid to force any of its parts. He'd confirmed one thing: this was definitely not a Stand.
He'd already braced himself for the consequences of being deceived — but Gyro's involvement made it sting even more. One moment of irrational impulse. He should have inspected the goods on the spot, even if two people who didn't trust each other would never have given each other that chance.
Right. Besides that line about nothing being perfectly fair, that infuriating four-legged creature had also said don't trust the devil. That was practically a confession.
Gyro watched Johnny grit his teeth and offered consolation. "Cheer up, pal. Look at the craftsmanship — the wings even move. Sell it to the right merchant later and you'll never worry about money again. All things considered, we didn't come out that badly."
"We noted the other Corpse Parts' locations too, right? One of them's the Legs. That might still help you."
"Gyro. I'm sorry."
Johnny's fist tightened.
He'd been scammed by a cat. As a member of a supposedly intelligent species—
If anyone found out — say, that bastard Diego — his reputation would be finished.
"Alright, alright, I told you I don't mind — want to hear a new joke I thought of?"
"Thanks — hm? Gyro, what's that behind you?"
"Behind me?" Gyro turned.
A balloon dog. The kind you'd see at a street fair.
He'd liked those as a kid, but that didn't mean he wanted to see one moving toward him on its own.
"Tch. Is it because of the beetle?"
Gyro launched a Steel Ball. Dead-on — and the explosion that followed turned the ball to shrapnel.
"GYRO!" Johnny shouted.
That's when Gyro saw them: dozens more balloon dogs, ducks, snakes — closing in from all sides, strange symbols faintly visible on their surfaces. Like... onomatopoeia?
"It's him!"
Out in open terrain there wasn't much cover. Johnny spotted someone crouched behind a distant tree, blowing through a long pin.
Mike O. A Black man working for the President. His Stand: Tubular Bells.
Ability: inflates metal into balloons, folds them into animal shapes, granting each the attributes of that animal. Upon contact with a target, the metal snaps back to its original form and drills into the body, destroying tissue from within.
Honestly, this ability was better suited for tracking the President's most-wanted traitor — balloon dogs that followed a scent, for instance. But range limitations meant Mike had only been able to keep them circling the presidential estate. If not for his usual partner being recruited by the President at short notice, Valentine would never have risked sending his best tracker to eliminate two men in the field.
Mike glanced toward the grass where Sandman crouched, apparently feeling none of the insect bites. This Native American runner — competing on foot — had agreed to help the President seize Holy Corpse Parts in exchange for his tribe's land.
The man's Stand, In a Silent Way, could store sounds — the crack of a burn, the slice of a blade, the blast of an explosion — inside objects, releasing them at will. Combined with Mike's mobile balloon animals, it created a world you couldn't escape.
(Note: Mike's signature phrase is "the world.")
"Damn it, we already handed over our Corpse Parts!" Johnny fired nail shots at the incoming balloons. The animal shapes weren't fast, but they didn't need to be — the danger was getting close enough to touch, and unlike living creatures, they required no host organism to create.
The Stand user was too far away. Too many balloons. He had ten nails, and regrowth took dozens of seconds at minimum. And he still couldn't move.
Call Slow Dancer? Too risky — if his horse got hurt in this mess, they were done with the race entirely.
Damn it.
Johnny gripped the beetle he'd been tricked into taking.
"Johnny, about the Spin — Johnny?"
Gyro had been working up to something, but he noticed his friend's attention had gone elsewhere.
A belt had appeared around Johnny's waist — grooved, like it was waiting for something.
"Hey. What is that?"
"I — I don't know. It looks like the beetle—" The groove at the bottom matched the beetle's underside exactly. Even an idiot could see what was meant to happen.
He had no idea what it would do. But instinct moved Johnny's hand before reason could stop him — he slid the beetle into the groove.
『HENSHIN』
Armor — what felt like leather and metal fused together — erupted from his waist and spread outward, encasing his entire body in seconds. Heavy. Unyielding. Armed to the teeth.
The moment the transformation locked, a shockwave blasted outward — knocking every balloon away and sending Gyro stumbling off his feet.
Gyro pulled himself up from the ground, jaw open. "What in the world is that..."
"Diego never mentioned this one... doesn't matter. It's just for show." Mike coordinated with Sandman and launched another wave of onomatopoeia-balloons straight at Johnny.
Johnny instinctively raised his left hand — then realized the armor had sealed him completely. No exposed nails. He couldn't use his nail shots like this.
The balloons swarmed him. Stored burns, lacerations, impact force — all detonated across his body at once. Fire crackled. The ground under him cratered.
"JOHNNY!!"
"Gyro — I'm fine. It doesn't even hurt—"
"What?" Mike stared.
Johnny looked down at his legs. Still paralyzed.
This wasn't working. He was still just a target.
"Gyro, I'll pass you the belt — put it on and take him out!" Johnny tried to unbuckle it and accidentally moved the beetle's horn.
『CAST OFF』
The heavy armor blew apart. Simultaneously, the beetle's great horn swept upward, splitting the cerulean visor clean down the center.
"Johnny, they're closing in again — calm down and listen to me—"
"Hold on, Gyro, I'm trying to figure out how to take this off." Johnny looked down. Three buttons on the horn.
Something — some wordless instinct — said: press them. As if pressing them would trigger some incredible move.
He didn't hesitate. He pressed all three in sequence, then gripped the beetle's horn and turned it.
『One, two, three』
『RIDER KICK』
"..."
Johnny looked down at his paralyzed legs.
Say that again — rider what?
"This. Is not. Funny."
As if reading his frustration, the armor moved on its own. His body rose — something outside his own will pulled him upright — and his right leg crackled with electricity as he launched from the ground, closed the distance in an instant, and drove his heel straight into Mike O.
"Did you see that, Gyro?! That flying kick — tell me it wasn't incredible!" Johnny spun toward his companion, barely containing himself.
Gyro: "..."
He'd been trying to teach Johnny the true Golden Spin. He hadn't expected his friend to launch from ten meters out and stomp the enemy into paste.
"I can feel it — this armor really can make me move. I just need practice. We were wrong about that cat."
"Pal, I completely understand how you feel, but walking around in that is going to draw some attention. Can we get back to what I was trying to say earlier? The Spin."
"Weren't you the one who told me not to get my hopes up about the Spin?" Johnny asked.
Gyro rubbed his chin. "I'd already talked myself into teaching you and then the beetle interrupted me. Now that we're here, I'm teaching you today whether you like it or not..."
Johnny gave a few distracted nods and turned the cat's words over in his mind.
Something about "third at the finish" — was she predicting one of them would place third in this race? He couldn't make sense of it. Who — or what — was that cat? Was she the "devil" she'd warned him against?
He thought again about the tracks in the wilderness. Hoofprints circling three separate maps.
————————
"Let me repeat what you just told me — in case I misheard something."
President Funny Valentine sat in the stationary train car, looking down from his elevated position at the battered Native American man who had limped back to him:
"Mike O. was kicked to death by the cripple. That's what you said, isn't it?"
Sandman pressed a hand over his wounds and gave a small nod.
"..." Valentine lifted his coffee with a pinky, then set it back on the saucer without a sound.
He didn't pursue the subject. Half to himself, he murmured: "How many Holy Corpse Parts have surfaced so far?"
The ones taken from Diego. Gyro Zeppeli's left and right eyes. Johnny Joestar's left hand. One that had vanished in the downpour, location unknown. His own heart. And the torso — he'd already sent someone to find it.
By that count, it was nearly complete.
"You may rest." Valentine rose.
Sandman lifted his head. "My people's land—"
Valentine glanced at him. "Our agreement was 'seize the Holy Corpse Parts,' wasn't it? Or do the Native people not have a firm grasp of what agreement means?"
"..."
That said — Johnny Joestar was impossible to defeat in direct combat, and the man's injuries made it impossible to continue the race on foot regardless.
"Come here." Valentine beckoned.
The moment Sandman was within reach, Valentine grabbed the tablecloth and threw it over him — even with some warning, the wounds slowed him just enough. It landed perfectly.
The tablecloth went flat immediately, as if the Sandman beneath it had simply ceased to exist in this world.
...
...
Days blurred into each other. She'd lost count of how many stretches she'd crossed.
The routine Yimi had kept alongside the big cat back home had long since dissolved — no school, no regular hours, and she had no reason to count the days deliberately. She just followed the next direction she could feel, and kept moving.
Food grew scarcer. Even the leaves on the trees disappeared, until a landscape of unbroken white finally explained why.
Winter had come.
Harsh weather for humans. Worse for a cat Yimi's size — snowdrifts high enough to swallow her whole, and soaked fur that lost all its warmth and left a chill that cut straight to the bone.
The trouble was—
"Tired."
Exhaustion was setting in. And with it, that familiar hollowness in her stomach — manageable for now, but the last time she'd eaten was two full days and nights ago.
She hadn't truly eaten her fill even once since arriving here. Even the farmer she'd met on the road two days ago — who'd given her more beef than she'd ever eaten in one sitting — had only gotten her to about seventy percent.
Yimi had gotten stronger. But a stronger body demanded more fuel to run.
She padded forward — then stopped.
Not because she'd run out of strength, or because her paw pads had gone numb. The creature ahead of her had suddenly stopped and was blocking her path.
"Awroooo—"
A wolf pup about the size of a stray dog howled at the sky. There was something oddly plaintive beneath the wild cry — something frustrated and grieving.
"Meow, meow, meow, meow—" Yimi raised a forepaw and smacked him twice.
"Urooo—"
The wolf pup looked back at her with wounded eyes, then reluctantly began pawing through the snow ahead, carving a path. The lump on top of his head was all the evidence needed of how that negotiation had gone.
Other than being a bit hungry and a bit cold, Yimi was in reasonably good spirits — because the main quest indicator on her system panel had gone from 1.5/10 to 5/10.
New acquisitions: the Corpse Parts for both legs. Practically handed to her. These fused fragments had been living inside what she identified as a medium-sized cat belonging to the local species known as "dog."
The wolf pup had started it — he'd come looking for a fight. Yimi had flattened him, collected the Corpse Parts in the process, and conscripted him into snow-clearing duty.
She didn't hunt medium-sized cats, though. Uncle Nuomi — the one who used to play with her back home — was a medium-sized cat (a dog). That connection was probably the only reason the wolf pup tailing a predator had even a shred of safety.
"Mrow-mreow-mrow-mrow~" No meaning. Just happiness.
She'd worked it out: the 10 in the quest was the total number of Corpse Parts she needed. She was already at half. Even a smart cat could appreciate that.
The paint in her spiritual reserves no longer looked like muddy dye-water — now a faint thread of gold shimmered through it. She had no idea what it meant.
"Raise the price when the other party is in need — but never abuse it. Those consumed by greed beyond all human feeling destroy themselves. That lesson has been written in blood more times than can be counted."
The phantom of the Saint — the one who had worn the Crown of Thorns — flickered past, murmuring words he'd been repeating to her for days.
"Meow," Yimi said, by way of acknowledgment.
Human knowledge told her this was a little rude. But when she tried to think of how humans actually talked to people, her mind went blank.
Humans seemed to use some specific name for the person they were addressing before they started talking. Like "Circles" — the name people had used for her. And there were relationship words like "Mom" and "Grandma" that she understood from that same human knowledge base. There was also Dad, Grandpa, Big Sister, Big Brother, and more general ones like Teacher, Uncle, Mister... though none of those fit the current situation or relationship.
"...Searching for applicable reference information..."
"Human address terms typically rely on a unique personal name, such as 'Circles' as used with the host, or relationship-based concepts such as 'Mom' and 'Grandma' derived from the host's existing knowledge — along with Dad, Grandpa, Big Sister, Big Brother, Teacher, Uncle, Mister... none of which apply to the current context and relationship. Cross-referencing available network data with the host's current situation..."
Wait. 'Circles' was my name? Not a mealtime signal?
Yimi caught only the beginning and the conclusion, filtering out the long incomprehensible middle.
Based on the System's suggested form of address, she stood up on her hind legs and delivered a greeting to the Saint's phantom — long since faded:
"Got it. Old geezer."
"..."
No response. Then again, the two of them had never truly spoken to begin with.