The Phantom Troupe.
An A-Class bounty criminal organization. Led by their boss, the twelve members each possessed first-rate Nen abilities, so formidable that even seasoned Blacklist Hunters would hesitate to engage them carelessly. Each member bore a tattoo of a twelve-legged spider somewhere on their body, along with their designated number. Those familiar with them simply called them "the Spiders."
They did not fear death. They fully understood that even their own deaths were part of the job. Not a single member would show panic or fear even when facing death. That was why they were strong. While they were undoubtedly elite Nen users, what truly made them powerful was their abnormal mentality.
Surprisingly, their internal bonds were strong. They would feel anger and grief if a comrade died—but they held little attachment to their own lives. Even less did they care about the lives of others. A group of madmen.
Strong—and insane. That was the Phantom Troupe.
Their activities consisted mainly of theft and murder. What society commonly deemed evil—thievery—was their profession. Outside of official Troupe operations, however, each member acted freely, and even during missions it was rare for all members to gather.
And yet, thirteen of them had assembled at one of their hideouts on the outskirts of Yorknew—one among many scattered across the world—for the first time in three years and two months.
For what purpose?
None of the members needed to ask. Though they occasionally performed rare acts of charity, there was no way the boss would summon everyone for something like that.
They were thieves.
Which meant what would happen next could only be one thing: theft.
The only question was—what were they targeting?
Arriving in Yorknew at this time of year meant the auction. But which auction? What treasure would they steal? One member speculated that, given the boss's well-known fondness for books, they were after rare volumes. Another guessed it was the world's most dangerous and expensive game, rumored to be auctioned in Southern Piece.
As anticipation and excitement filled the hideout, the words spoken by their leader, Chrollo Lucilfer, were—
"Everything. We'll take all the treasures from the Underground Auction."
All of it.
Anyone could say those words. But how many in the world would actually attempt to carry it out?
The Underground Auction was overseen by a coalition of mafias from around the world. To lay hands on it meant declaring war on the Mafia Community—on every mafia organization across the globe.
Who would think of such a thing?
Who would desire it?
It was the idea of a madman.
And those who would agree were madmen as well.
And here, gathered in that hideout, were only such madmen.
Not one of them flinched at their boss's declaration. Some trembled with excitement, even biting down so hard their gums bled. Though not all showed it so openly, every one of them was thinking about the coming day.
All except two.
One was the Grim Reaper Magician—Hisoka.
A Spider who was not truly a Spider. A man who had infiltrated the Troupe.
Hisoka had joined for one reason only: to fight Chrollo Lucilfer. To do so, he killed the previous No. 4 during the entrance test and used his Bungee Gum and Texture Surprise to disguise his spider tattoo, drawing close to Chrollo.
Yet his plan had not borne fruit so easily. Chrollo was cautious, vanishing without a trace whenever he was not engaged in Troupe activities. His stealth was so thorough that even Hisoka could not track him. Moreover, during missions Chrollo was always accompanied by at least two other members, making the one-on-one deathmatch Hisoka desired impossible.
So Hisoka pondered how to exploit this situation—to outmaneuver the Troupe and savor a true one-on-one battle with Chrollo.
He had already planted seeds.
There was a boy who harbored immense hatred toward the Phantom Troupe—Kurapika. Hisoka had lured him toward Yorknew, hinting at information about the Spiders, expecting that if Kurapika and the Troupe collided, something would happen.
Contrary to expectations, they had reunited at Heavens Arena instead.
Unexpected—but not a problem.
Hisoka wanted to fight Chrollo.
Kurapika wanted to capture the Troupe.
Their interests aligned. Securing cooperation for their mutual goals had been easy.
Was Kurapika already in Yorknew? Would he arrive tomorrow? Should Hisoka inform him that the Troupe was targeting the Underground Auction? Or wait until after events unfolded?
Hisoka smiled to himself as he thought.
All for the sake of enjoying his battle with Chrollo.
And for the battle with her that would follow.
The other member lost in thoughts different from the rest was Machi.
One of only three female members, and a founding Spider. Deeply trusted by Chrollo, she served as the Troupe's liaison.
If her current state of mind were summed up in one word, it would be: unease.
She had no evidence. No proof. Just a vague, ominous premonition. If they proceeded with the Underground Auction raid, something bad would happen to the Spiders.
Machi's intuition was so sharp it could be mistaken for a Nen ability. It had saved the Troupe from danger before. Though intangible, her instincts were respected by the others.
When Machi said she had a bad feeling, no one dismissed it outright. Even without proof, they would keep her words in mind.
But this time—
She couldn't say it.
Nothing had happened yet. There were no visible risk factors. To say, "I have a bad feeling, so let's cancel the theft," was impossible. At most, she could advise caution.
She believed in her strength—and in the Troupe's strength.
She could not imagine them losing to the mafia.
Even if the mafia armed themselves with modern weaponry, the Troupe would crush them. Against elite Nen users, non-users—whether a thousand or two thousand—would be meaningless. The mafia might have Nen users, but the Spiders had survived as the strong in a world crawling with monsters. The idea of defeat was laughable.
Some members might die.
But all of them had accepted that possibility.
The Spider's death was the Troupe's death. As long as one survived, the Troupe would continue. The survivor would recruit new members and resume activities as if nothing had happened—after properly repaying those who killed their comrades.
In that sense, destroying the Troupe was nearly impossible. Leave even one alive, and the Spider would return.
Even if they clashed with the mafia, total defeat seemed unimaginable.
That was why Machi could say nothing.
If only some uncertain variable would manifest in a tangible way…
But mercilessly, the boss gave the order.
"I permit it. Kill them. …Anyone who gets in the way."
"Oooh!!"
The powerful shout of the man said to possess the strongest body among the Spiders echoed through the hideout.
For a brief moment, Machi entrusted her unease to that strength—believing it would dispel the nameless anxiety gnawing at her.
◆
September 1st.
On this day, the Dream Auction began in Yorknew.
The largest annual auction in the world. Tens of thousands of auction houses opened their doors, and tens of millions of rare and valuable items were bought and sold. Stories of goods purchased yesterday being resold the next day for ten, a hundred, even a thousand times the price were everywhere. It was truly a marketplace of dreams—where anyone could strike it rich.
That was the world of light, where everyone dreamed of fortune.
But beneath that brilliance, hidden in its shadow, existed a dark auction.
A black market where stolen goods and illegal items—things that could never be handled through official channels—were put up for bidding. Such cursed items had always been in high demand, no matter the era, and no matter how hard authorities tried to suppress it, they could never fully regulate it.
At the pinnacle of this underworld market was the Underground Auction, overseen by the Mafia Community. In truth, however, the Community and the mayor of Yorknew were secretly connected, so there was no risk of the Underground Auction ever being shut down.
Each year it was held the same way. Minor disputes occurred, but nothing ever serious. The auction always concluded safely.
Every mafia member believed this year would be no different.
Some didn't even consider the possibility that anything might happen.
Weapons were prohibited inside the underground venue, and security was handled directly by the Mafia Community. There was no fool reckless enough to pick a fight with the mafia. There was simply no way for trouble to occur.
—or at least, there wasn't supposed to be.
"I-I don't know! I really don't know! So please, stop— GYAAAHHHHH!! S-Stop it!!"
"If you want me stop, you tell me what you know. Where auction goods?"
"I really don't knowww! Please, just stop— GAAAHHH!!"
Inside the Cemetery Building, where the Underground Auction was being held, a horrific scene unfolded.
Torture.
And not the ordinary kind. It was brutally vicious—clearly inflicted without any regard for the victim's future.
The man being tortured was the auctioneer for today's event. The small man speaking in broken, peculiar phrasing—Feitan—was a member of the Phantom Troupe.
Why was the Troupe torturing a mere auctioneer when they had come to steal the auction goods?
Because the vault they had broken into contained nothing.
The heavily guarded building meant nothing to the Troupe. The seven members assigned to the raid had infiltrated it with ease. Wearing suits identical to the Mafia Community's security guards, they strolled confidently through the Cemetery Building without the slightest hint of anxiety about being discovered.
Eventually they reached the massive vault where the auction items were supposed to be stored.
It was empty.
Every vault guard had already been killed. The only one left alive—because he knew the vault's combination—was the auctioneer.
An unfortunate fate for him, but given the situation, torture had been inevitable.
"Well? Did he talk?"
"No good. He really doesn't know."
"If Feitan says so, that's probably true. Tch. Where the hell did the goods go?"
"The Shadow Beasts took them. Probably someone with an ability like Shizuku's."
Despite watching a man be slowly destroyed before their eyes, their tone was casual.
As if they were observing an insect lose a leg, they felt no interest in human pain.
The auctioneer was barely clinging to life. It was almost incomprehensible how he was still breathing. Feitan had dismantled him carefully—slowly enough not to kill him outright, yet thoroughly enough to ensure there was nothing left of him as a person.
"Enough. You lucky now. Be grateful to me."
With those words—words that would have earned curses if the auctioneer could still protest—Feitan ended his life. Just like that.
Cruel as it was, it may have been mercy. The man was no longer something that could be called human. Even if he had survived, it would have only prolonged his suffering. A normal life was already impossible.
"So what now? The treasure's gone. No clues."
The massive man with countless scars across his face—Franklin—spoke.
Their target was gone. What was the next move?
"It's simple," said the man with sharp judgment and a brilliant strategic mind, wearing the gentle smile of a pleasant young man—Shalnark.
"If one of the Shadow Beasts took the goods, then we just create a situation where they have to show themselves."
He continued smoothly.
"We kill every customer attending the auction. Then Shizuku sucks up the bodies. When the Mafia realizes the guests are gone, they'll come after us. If we rampage against their pursuers, the Shadow Beasts will eventually show up."
The "Shadow Beasts."
That was the name given to the elite execution unit personally assembled by the Ten Dons—the leaders of the massive organization that controlled the Mafia Community. Each Don contributed their strongest combatant. In other words, they were the mafia's most powerful Nen users.
"Shadow Beasts, huh? Hope they're strong. This'll be fun."
The wild, beast-like man—Uvogin—grinned fiercely. Even when challenging the mafia and facing their strongest warriors, what he felt was not fear—but excitement.
"…I'm against it. We should pull back and ask the boss for instructions."
Machi spoke, her uneasy premonition still refusing to fade.
Calling the boss would only require a phone call. But to the others, asking for instructions because of trouble felt like something errand boys would do.
"Seriously, Machi?" Nobunaga—the samurai-like man—responded. "We're not kids running errands."
His words rejected her opinion—and echoed the unspoken thoughts of the others.
"What's gotten into you? You're not the type to get scared of the mafia."
"…I just have a bad feeling."
"Your intuition?"
"Yeah. I think our actions may have been anticipated. The mafia's sudden change in plans suggests that. Maybe information about our arrival leaked. And if they've set a trap…"
"That's not intuition—that's speculation. You're the one who cuts through speculation and follows your gut."
Her reasoning was logical—if one ignored the question of who leaked the information.
But for those who knew Machi, something felt off. She wasn't someone who stacked up rational predictions.
"…I know your intuition's reliable," Nobunaga admitted. "But this time, we can't just blindly follow it. You know that too."
"…I know. But if anything unexpected happens, everyone gathers on the rooftop immediately. No exceptions."
That was her compromise.
After all, intuition was still just intuition. No matter how sharp, it could be wrong. She told herself this time would be one of those times.
"Yeah. You heard her. I hate to admit it, but her instincts are solid. Act like something will happen."
"You sure changed your tune, Nobunaga."
"Shut up."
"So… can I suck them up now?"
Shizuku, who had remained quiet until now, produced a vacuum cleaner seemingly from nowhere.
If it were an ordinary vacuum, in an ordinary home, surrounded by dust and trash, her question would have been unremarkable.
But the vacuum's nozzle had sharp teeth and emitted strange sounds.
They were underground in the Cemetery Building.
And scattered around them were not garbage—
—but corpses.
"Not yet," Shalnark said. "If you do, you won't be able to retrieve the blimp you stored earlier."
"Oh. Right. Then I'll go to the roof and get it ready."
"Not this building's roof. The mafia's watching. After that, suck these up."
"Okay."
The vacuum Shizuku conjured—called Blinky—could suck up anything she did not recognize as a living being. Corpses counted. And she could retrieve the last thing it absorbed.
A rare and invaluable ability within the Troupe. In fact, her survival priority was considered higher than even some combat members.
"Alright, let's get started," Shalnark said.
"Franklin and Feitan, kill the customers. Shizuku, guard the main entrance. Machi, the back. Uvo and I will guide the guests while disguised as guards."
"Hey, let me kill some too," Uvogin protested.
"What's fun about killing small fry here? Save it for the ones who come chasing us."
"…Heh. Fair enough."
"Then—let's move."
At Shalnark's signal, they began.
Every action they took was to satisfy their own desires.
To fulfill those desires, they would sacrifice others without hesitation.
And even knowing what might await them at the end of that path—
None of them stopped.
But did they truly understand?
That there were beings in this world beyond even their imagination?
Only the Troupe's leader, Chrollo Lucilfer, truly grasped that possibility.
Yet even he had never imagined that they would encounter such a being here.
And thus—
The massacre known as the Auction began.
◆
Dominic Coza was on his way to Yorknew to attend the annual Underground Auction.
For over a decade—ever since he lost his wife—he had stopped attending in person and instead sent a proxy. However, this time he had received direct instructions from the boss of the main family to which the Coza Family answered. When a direct superior gave such an order, there was no refusing it. And so Dominic traveled to Yorknew aboard his own airship.
The head family had been considerate of him. After the death of his beloved wife, the word "dejected" hardly seemed sufficient to describe his state. But the Underground Auction was also a stage for mafia pride and power struggles. Being absent for more than ten years had reached its limit; even the head family had no choice but to compel his attendance.
Dominic had no particular item he wished to purchase. He had come merely to show his face.
Yet this trip, unexpectedly, served another purpose for him.
Recently, he had reunited with the daughter he had believed dead.
Past emotions and present emotions tangled together within him until he no longer knew what he should feel.
He could not forgive his daughter.
After all, it was because of her that his beloved wife had died.
Dominic did not believe a child born into the world without knowledge bore sin. Even if his wife had died in childbirth, he would never have abandoned the child she bore.
But that was not what happened.
The daughter who was born had emitted an overwhelming, ominous presence. According to his subordinates, an impossible amount of violent aura had overflowed from her tiny body. His wife had not died simply because she gave birth.
She had died because that child was born.
There had been more than enough evidence for him to reach that conclusion.
Furthermore, though she was a newborn, the child had clearly possessed self-awareness and seemed to understand conversation. Again, this was something he had heard from his men. While transporting her by car to the airship, the infant had apparently manipulated aura freely.
Even trained Nen users like his subordinates could not control aura with such refinement.
There was no way a newborn could do such a thing.
To judge her as the reincarnation of some devil and cast her away—it had been a natural decision.
And yet—
Raised by a Nen beast modeled after his late wife, the girl had grown up beautiful, just like her mother.
Though the aura he once witnessed—according to reports—remained unchanged, her face, her gestures, the sorrowful melancholy in her expression… seeing them made him question whether calling her a devil had been nothing more than delusion.
Even if it were some cunning trap of a demon—
Would living together with her bring back even a fragment of the happiness he once had?
Such temptation was only human.
Still, Dominic rejected it.
His wife had died because of his daughter. That fact would not change. Even if it had not been intentional, the possibility that she herself had somehow brought about the circumstances of her birth as his child prevented him from forgiving her completely.
The most he had done was indirectly tell her where her mother's grave was, at her request.
He could not forgive her.
Yet he could not simply hate the daughter who carried his wife's likeness.
Caught in that dilemma, he had no choice but to distract himself with other matters.
Accompanied by his most elite Nen-using retainers, Dominic arrived at the building hosting the Underground Auction.
Having been absent for over ten years, he could feel the strange looks from others. But that was easier to bear. Focusing on their gazes kept his thoughts from drifting back to his daughter.
The looks soon disappeared. No mafia member would foolishly cause trouble at the Underground Auction. Doing something reckless and earning the hostility of others would result in immeasurable losses for their family.
Freed from their stares, Dominic once again found his thoughts slipping.
He lightly shook his head, forcing himself to think of something else. There was no answer waiting for him no matter how long he dwelled on it.
Better to think about what he might purchase tonight.
That was at least productive.
It had been a long time since he attended an auction. Perhaps he would buy something he liked.
With that in mind, he passed security checks and entered the venue, along with the other guests.
Unaware that the door they passed through led to the furnace of hell.
Two men stepped onto the stage of the auction hall.
One was a massive man with a face covered in scars.
The other was small, almost delicate in contrast.
None of the assembled guests suspected them.
They were intimidating figures for auctioneers, but this was the Underground Auction hosted by the Mafia Community. Furthermore, the Community took full responsibility for security. All guards within the building belonged to the mafia. Weapons, recording devices, even communication tools were strictly prohibited inside.
Within a 500-meter radius of the building, no mafia members other than guests and security were allowed entry. Even so, numerous mafia groups monitored the area from beyond that boundary to protect their family representatives.
Nothing could possibly happen here.
It never had before.
It never would.
Everyone believed that.
And so they waited for the auctioneer to speak.
What he said was—
"Welcome, everyone. Let's skip the formal greetings— and just die."
It was an impartial death sentence for everyone except the two men on stage.
No sooner had the small man—Feitan of the Phantom Troupe—finished speaking than the giant behind him, Franklin, thrust both hands forward toward the audience.
His fingers were shorter than they should have been.
Every one of them was missing beyond the first joint.
With his mutilated hands extended like gun barrels—
countless, immeasurable Nen bullets erupted from his severed fingertips, spraying like machine-gun fire.
The mafia were men of the underworld. Even caught off guard in a place where attack seemed impossible, they reacted instantly, throwing themselves in front of their employers and bosses.
But their desperate actions—
only prolonged their masters' lives by mere seconds.
The thunderous roar of Nen bullets firing at inhuman speed mixed with the screams of mafia bodies being torn apart, creating a discordant symphony that filled the hall.
Each bullet possessed enough power to easily pierce a Nen user's defense.
And dozens were fired every second.
That storm of death showed no discrimination.
Man or woman.
Old or young.
Nen user or not.
All were equally shredded.
Dominic, too, was caught in that storm.
His bodyguards, Dall and Zaza, threw themselves in front of him, attempting to block the bullets.
But—
"B-Boss! Run—!"
"Zazaaa!! Damn it! Boss, get outside—! I can't— Gah!?"
"Dall! Zaza!"
Their sacrifice did protect Dominic.
For a few seconds.
Then they became lifeless flesh.
And Dominic was engulfed by death.
"Gah—?!"
A pain beyond anything he had ever felt tore through his abdomen.
It felt as though a red-hot iron rod had been plunged into him and twisted.
Ah. So this is where I die.
What Dominic felt was not fear—
but relief.
Release.
Now he could finally go to his beloved wife.
Now he would no longer need to hate his daughter.
As his consciousness faded, the last thing he saw—
was his daughter's sorrowful face, on the verge of tears.
The guests who had miraculously escaped the barrage of Franklin's Nen ability—"Double Machine Gun"—ran desperately toward the entrance.
One after another fell dead as they fled.
Each time someone beside them was killed, panic drove them faster.
And then—
They saw it.
The doors exploded apart, something having smashed through them at tremendous speed.
And beyond the shattered entrance stood a beautiful girl, her face twisted with fury.
"...Da… dad…? Ah… uah…"
Her rage-filled expression shifted in an instant to grief.
Her body trembled slightly—
and then her face hardened once more into blazing anger.
At some point, the Nen bullets from the stage had stopped.
Without understanding why, everyone found themselves staring at her.
Then—
her roar thundered through the hall.
"PHANTOM TROUPEEEEE—!!!"
The massacre of the auction did not end.
It merely changed its prey.
And continued.
◆
Nine minutes before the underground auction was set to begin, Aisha was racing at high speed toward the Cemetery Building where it would be held. She had checked the building's location on a map, but unfamiliar with the area, she kept [Angel's Veil] activated and expanded her En as she moved. What she sought within her En was the presence of mafia guards who would surely be stationed around the building.
Anyone within the range of En could be fully perceived, unless shielded by some kind of obstruction. As long as she didn't lose her sense of direction, she would be able to detect the mafia guards surrounding the Cemetery Building. Identifying them was simple—those who moved little and constantly scanned their surroundings were the guards.
Rather than travel along the traffic-filled streets below, she leapt at high speed from building to building. She did not use aerial propulsion through aura emission. Instead, she reinforced her entire body with aura and moved at full power—for two reasons.
The first was conservation of aura. That aerial method consumed an enormous amount of energy, even for Aisha, who possessed vast reserves. With [Angel's Veil] already active, she couldn't afford to waste stamina. After all, there was a possibility she would have to confront the Phantom Troupe. Preserving aura was essential.
The second reason… was simply that this way was faster.
Aura-propelled flight was certainly quick. With no obstacles in the sky, she could travel faster than running.
But when it came to absolute top speed, it was different. Aisha judged that vaulting from building to building would get her to the Cemetery Building more quickly.
By kicking off buildings with full force, she generated explosive acceleration. Using her ultra-high-speed flow, she reinforced both legs with aura when pushing off, strengthened her knees—acting as springs—at the moment of launch, and enhanced every muscle involved in landing and pushing off again. This was a movement method only possible for Aisha, who could control aura flow at extreme speed. In doing so, she moved at an almost impossible velocity. The mafia stationed on nearby rooftops only felt a sudden powerful gust of wind as she passed.
"…Hey! I just heard a loud noise! Gunfire!?"
"No! That wasn't a gunshot! It was concrete breaking! Something slammed hard onto this rooftop!"
They hadn't missed the sound of her using their roof as a foothold. But by the time suspicion arose, it was already meaningless. Aisha had reached the Cemetery Building.
Suppressing her presence with Zetsu, Aisha slipped into the building. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—there were no particularly skilled Nen users inside. No one noticed her as they continued their guard duties.
Judging by the atmosphere, nothing had happened yet. Aisha felt a small wave of relief. Perhaps it truly had been needless worry. Thinking that, she descended toward the underground level she had identified with En.
But she immediately realized that thought had been naïve, and her expression hardened.
They were well blended in—but she could clearly sense them. One near the front entrance. One at the back. Three on the upper floor. And… in what was likely the main auction hall—two powerful presences!
Clearly not mafia. She detected beings on a completely different level and moved toward the front doors, already suspecting they were members of the Phantom Troupe.
However—
Rather than open the door, she charged forward with the force to smash it apart—only to have her path blocked by Shizuku.
Shizuku swung Deme-chan in a surprise attack aimed at crushing Aisha's skull. But since Aisha had already sensed her presence, it was no surprise at all. She easily dodged. Still, it succeeded in halting her advance.
"—! Please don't get in my way!"
"Huh? Sorry, that's impossible. It's my job."
Despite her casual tone, Shizuku was far more wary than usual. It was rare for an ambush meant to be perfect to be avoided so effortlessly. …Though Shizuku wasn't the type to recall things once forgotten, so even that memory lacked certainty.
Regardless, even she could tell the girl before her was a formidable opponent. Still, she had a job to do. Just as Shizuku prepared to attack again—
The massacre began.
A thunderous roar echoed in Aisha's ears. The sickening sound of flesh being torn apart. And… screams.
The moment she heard it, Aisha moved. The optimal action to enter the hall—eliminate the obstacle before her.
"—!"
Though momentarily startled by Aisha's speed, Shizuku countered precisely. However fast her opponent moved, a straight-line charge could be countered. She timed her swing of Deme-chan perfectly against Aisha's high-speed rush.
Got her. The timing was flawless. At that speed, there was no way she could dodge.
Yet what Shizuku felt was not the impact of crushing a skull—but empty air.
—What? How did she dodge from that motion—
The movement she witnessed was unlike anything she had seen before.
Without using her muscles at all, Aisha rotated the aura gathered at the point of contact with the ground at high speed, allowing instantaneous movement and directional change. It was her secret technique—Shukuchi.
The more skilled the opponent, the more effective this technique became. Masters constructed battle strategies by analyzing all available information. Shizuku was among the world's strongest. From experience, she knew the limits of human motion.
And what she saw from Aisha had surpassed those limits.
An opponent charging at full speed, fist clenched, intent on striking—suddenly shifting direction mid-motion into an entirely different vector—was beyond prediction.
Before Shizuku could recover from her shock, Aisha attacked.
Using Shukuchi, she appeared behind Shizuku and drove her fist into her jaw just as she tried to turn. With her brain rattled and movements halted, Aisha seized her left arm, twisted the wrist, elbow, and shoulder in sequence, and without breaking the flow—
She threw her toward the door.
If Aisha were the gun, the door was the target. And the bullet… was Shizuku herself.
Turned into a living projectile, Shizuku forced herself conscious long enough to coat her body in as much aura as possible.
The result: the aura-clad bullet shattered the door with ease and continued spinning forward toward the stage where the Troupe stood.
Franklin and Feitan were stunned.
Franklin had been gleefully spraying countless Nen bullets in slaughter, while Feitan savored the hellish scene unfolding below. Neither expected a comrade to burst through the door mid-flight.
Recognizing the incoming object as Shizuku, Franklin immediately ceased firing Double Machine Gun. Even for them, there was no intention of killing a comrade. Using his massive frame, he caught her—though the force pushed him backward.
"Oy, Shizuku! Stay with me!"
"Shizuku, what happened? Who did this?"
"…A… gi… girl… at the entrance… be careful…"
"Enough. Don't talk. Your jaw's shattered."
Her faint whisper reached them clearly. They turned toward the shattered doorway.
And what they saw was—
A girl. An ordinary girl. No aura wrapped around her. A young girl pale-faced at the horrific scene.
At least, that's how they perceived her at that moment.
The next instant, that perception vanished.
That was no girl.
That was… a monster.
Aisha stood frozen in despair at the sight before her.
The hall was filled with bodies. Bodies. Bodies. Hundreds of auction participants lay piled together. The metallic stench of blood suffocated the air. The room was painted red and pink, flesh scattered so widely it seemed impossible it had once belonged to complete human beings.
In that hellscape, Aisha desperately searched for Dominic—her father.
He couldn't be dead. He had to be alive!
Some people were still breathing. Some were even unharmed. He had to be among them!
…No. Better yet—he shouldn't be here at all. If he wasn't present, then he would be safe at the mansion where her mother rested.
But—
Her prayer went unanswered.
She found him.
She found him.
A hole pierced through his abdomen. Dominic lay there, as if peacefully asleep.
"Da… dad…? Ah… ah…"
—Revenge creates nothing. It only breeds hatred—
Those pretty words she had heard over her long life vanished in that instant.
What remained… was rage.
"PHANTOM TROUPEEEEE!!!"
As if that cry were a signal, an immense torrent of aura burst from Aisha's body like a dam breaking.
It was the first time the world's strongest martial power had ever turned its strength—driven by anger—against another.
.
"…Hey, hey. What kind of joke is this supposed to be?"
"She the one who did Shizuku. I kill her."
"Yeah… figures."
The aura pouring out of Aisha was something even they—veterans of countless battlefields—had never witnessed before. Even Uvogin, who boasted the Troupe's strongest body and overwhelming aura reserves, would be laughable to compare in sheer volume. And its quality—so dark and dense it was rarely seen even in the underworld.
But none of that dulled their movements. If they were the type to falter in fear, the Spider would have perished long ago. They neither feared their enemy nor underestimated her. Facing an opponent with such immense and alien aura, the word "carelessness" vanished entirely from their minds.
Cold. Calm. Exploiting their numerical advantage to eliminate the threat.
"Take this! Double Machine Gun!"
Franklin made the first move.
He unleashed a barrage of Nen bullets—an excessive amount for a single opponent—pinning down Aisha's movement.
Each bullet carried enough force to shatter the defenses of an average Nen user like paper. Those bullets spread wide, saturating the space, leaving her no escape.
Left and right were filled with gunfire. Retreating would mean being pierced. The only apparent path left—
Upward.
But that was no escape. It was a death trap.
Without needing words, Feitan understood Franklin's intent. The instant the bullets were fired, he leapt above Aisha, a hidden sword already in hand.
—Which will you choose?—
—How do you want to die?—
Bullets to the sides and rear. Feitan waiting above to skewer her.
Yet Aisha chose none of them.
She ran forward—straight toward Franklin.
"What the hell!?"
Positioning herself so Dominic's body was behind her, she charged without hesitation. The incoming bullets meant nothing to her. She neither blocked nor dodged—they struck her body and were deflected aside.
Even the Phantom Troupe, who never flinched before powerful foes, were stunned.
Dodging would have made sense. Deflecting with reinforced body parts using Ko or Ken—that they could accept. Uvogin and others in the Spider could manage such feats.
But this girl—Aisha—was enduring Franklin's prized Nen bullets with nothing more than Ken, without losing speed, closing the distance relentlessly.
Franklin narrowed the spread of his fire. The scattered barrage became concentrated bombardment. Every bullet focused solely on Aisha.
Above, Feitan kicked off the ceiling and dove downward, blade hardened with Ko. Half-measures would be meaningless.
But sensing him through presence alone, Aisha did not even turn around. Instead, she casually knocked the incoming bullets upward—into Feitan's path—without sparing him a glance, continuing her charge toward Franklin.
Feitan hadn't anticipated his comrade's bullets flying toward him mid-attack. He deflected some with his blade, but committed to a full-power strike, he couldn't block them all. One tore through his hastily raised left arm and into his abdomen, blasting him from the air.
—Damn it!!—
Franklin burned with humiliation. His own bullets had downed a comrade.
Even so, he thought calmly. Continuing the barrage would accomplish little. Retreating to regroup with the others in the building would increase their odds—and might save his comrades. Otherwise, all three of them could die here.
But retreat would wound his pride. And pride mattered—confidence directly affected Nen's strength.
The option to flee vanished.
He stopped firing. No matter how many bullets he unleashed, Aisha showed no sign of damage. Better to concentrate everything into a single decisive strike.
Less than a second had passed since Aisha began her charge. Franklin's concentration lasted even less—a mere instant.
Yet in that fleeting moment, he gathered all his manifested aura into both hands with the greatest focus of his life.
And fired point-blank at Aisha's face.
A supreme blast of destructive power, surpassing Double Machine Gun, focused entirely into one devastating strike—carrying his resolve to defeat the enemy, save his comrades, and preserve his pride—
It was dispersed effortlessly by a single sideways strike from Aisha.
"You monster!!"
"Shut up, you butcher!!"
Franklin, his ultimate attack neutralized, didn't hesitate. He swung his fist fiercely.
But such an attack meant nothing now.
Aisha slipped low, dodged, and stepped into his guard.
She crossed both arms, seized the lapels of his suit, and transitioned into a standing choke.
Franklin tried to yank himself backward, nearly tearing his suit—not to break the hold, but to escape her proximity. Yet the suit didn't budge. He managed only a single step.
—Impossible!?
He hadn't realized that Aisha had coated his suit with Shu during the grab. Reinforced by aura, it wouldn't tear. And Aisha, reinforcing herself, would not lose in strength even against a body several times her size.
From there, the technique flowed seamlessly.
The standing choke compressed his carotid arteries. Shifting her center of gravity, she sank with him, kicking upward into his solar plexus before executing a tomoe-nage–style throw. Both lifted into the air, flipping. With Franklin beneath her, she accelerated their descent by emitting aura. Her right arm fixed against his neck. Her left twisted the lapels tighter.
Then—
She slammed the back of his head into the ground.
Releasing the lapels, she followed with a crushing elbow into his torso.
This was the secret technique once used by Shion against Wing in Heaven's Arena—Kazama Style's ultimate move: Yamakuzushi.
But this was its darker variant.
Not meant to defeat—
But to destroy.
Yamakudaki.
Franklin's sternum shattered from the kick. Ribs snapped. His fading consciousness flared from agony, only for him to be hurled through the air, blood flooding his mouth.
He guarded the back of his head with Gyo, minimizing damage—but his throat was crushed. Bones groaned. Whether his neck survived by luck or Aisha's restraint was unclear.
The elbow strike crushed more ribs. Internal organs ruptured. Blood gushed from his mouth.
"Gahhh—!?"
Aisha rose slowly, looking down at him.
He was gravely injured but alive, twitching faintly.
She could not deliver the finishing blow.
Though rage burned within her, though she had unleashed Yamakudaki without restraint—she could not strike down a defenseless opponent.
Her anger remained. So did her grief. But the warrior's memories and experience within her refused to allow further violence against a powerless foe.
And more than that—
If she killed in blind fury, she felt she would betray her best friend. The one she had once wished would never have to stain their hands with blood.
"…Lie there and taste even a fragment of the anguish of those you harmed."
Whether he could hear her or not, she muttered it.
Suddenly she leapt back.
A massive fist slammed down where she had stood—Uvogin.
"Damn it! I erased my presence with Zetsu and she still noticed!"
"She's strong! Everyone, be careful!"
"Yeah, I can see that, Shal. Machi—how are they?"
"Shizuku's not in danger. But Franklin's bad—we need treatment fast!"
"Feitan's critical too. Left arm's torn up and he's got a hole in his gut!"
While Aisha fought, the remaining four Troupe members had sensed the abnormal aura enveloping the building.
Machi was first to realize it. Being near the rear entrance helped. The overwhelming chill she felt came from that aura's owner. She contacted the others immediately. Going alone would mean death. Regroup—and rescue their comrades together.
Thus they arrived, launching a surprise attack on the girl defeating their allies.
"…Phantom Troupe."
"Hah! You know us? …So our plan leaked, huh."
"Don't tell me we've got a traitor."
Some suspected betrayal—most eyes, unfairly, turned toward a certain clown.
Though in truth, that suspicion wasn't entirely wrong. The mafia's foresight came from a girl's prophecy—but it was Hisoka who had set the chain of events leading Aisha here.
"Enough chatter! Focus! We kill her together!"
Shalnark shouted. All agreed.
Some disliked ganging up on a single foe—but now they acted as the Spider.
Eliminate the threat.
"Ku ku… good. First time in a while I can go all out! Don't disappoint me!"
Uvogin's aura surged. Machi extended threads of aura through the room to restrict movement. Shalnark readied his custom phone, waiting to stab her. Nobunaga took an iaido stance, expanding En. One step into his range would mean being cleaved in two.
Aisha adopted her stance without fear.
Tension thickened—
And the first to move was not among them.
It was Feitan.
"■◇… (Damn it…) ○※●×▼◇…●□ (Getting cocky)!!"
"!?"
He rose from unconsciousness, muttering in a language Aisha didn't recognize.
More alarming was the suit now covering him—some kind of protective armor. Conjured at some point. Though gravely injured, his aura surged even stronger.
"This is bad!"
"Fall back! Uvo! Machi!"
"Got it! I'll carry Franklin! Machi, Shizuku's yours!"
"Move it!"
Seeing Feitan's transformation, the Troupe hastily grabbed their wounded and retreated.
Aisha understood instantly.
What was coming would not distinguish friend from foe.
That day—
The Cemetery Building collapsed in a mysterious explosion.
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