[137]: Death

One by one, slips of paper with personal details were handed to Neon. Sitting beside Cyr in the guest seats, she held a pen and slipped into work mode.

As more mafia members filled the venue, the auction was about to begin.

Neon's fortune-telling started and ended quickly.

Dalzollene picked up the discarded slips, scanning each one before handing them back to their owners.

Then, his gaze landed on his own paper—and his face twisted in shock and fear.

Sleep. Bed.

In Neon's prophecies, these words had always symbolized death.

And just now… every single prediction had mentioned sleep or bed.

In other words…

They were all going to die.

And most likely—right here at this auction.

> "The hall, packed with people, is already covered in cobwebs. You will soon fall into an eternal sleep.

Stay away from the hammer that settles the dust—life's door is only one step away."

"…We need to leave," Dalzollene muttered. He moved to stand up.

But before they could go, two suited figures stepped onto the stage—one short and under 1.6 meters tall, the other massive in build.

Like auctioneers, they stood at the podium.

Cyr's gaze fell on them, instantly recognizing who they were.

The aura they gave off… their distinctive appearances…

No doubt—members of the Phantom Troupe.

The short one was Feitan, and the big guy… Franklin, maybe?

"If you run now, you might make it," Cyr drawled, resting his chin on one hand. "But they've got someone watching the door too. Not too strong, though."

The one at the entrance should be another Phantom Troupe member.

A woman, carrying a strange item. A Conjurer, most likely.

Hmm… must be Shizuku.

"Ladies and gentlemen—"

On stage, Feitan and Franklin both shifted their attention to the only guest wearing white.

Something about the kid's face felt… familiar.

But familiar or not, it didn't matter.

Their mission came first.

"Welcome to tonight's auction. No need for small talk—" Feitan smirked.

"Let's just send you all to hell instead."

"Watch my Double Machine Gun."

As he spoke, he extended his hands.

Behind him, Franklin did the same.

His fingers, adorned with rings and chains, suddenly split apart—ten gun barrels, now fully revealed.

And then—

Bullets rained down.

"ICE SHIELD—!"

Before the gunfire even started, Maro's face had twisted in alarm.

At the very moment Feitan said "send you to hell" and the crowd erupted in panic, he had already moved.

He raised a hand, activating his Nen ability—

Massive ice shields materialized, forming a barrier in front of the guests.

But the bullets weren't normal bullets.

They were Nen bullets.

If they had been regular bullets, the ice shields might have held up.

But these—

They pierced straight through.

Straight into the crowd.

By the time the ice walls formed, Dalzollene had already jumped to his feet, dragging Neon toward the exit.

"Cyr—!"

Even as she was being pulled along, Neon instinctively reached out, grabbing Cyr's wrist—

And dragging him with them.

Cyr followed them at an unhurried pace.

The Nen bullets tore through the ice shields too fast—so fast that before they could even reach the exit, the bullets had already caught up to them from behind.

Of course, Cyr didn't get hit.

Because Maro had shielded him.

"My lord, hurry and leave," the blond figure, riddled with bullet holes, stood firm behind him, his legs seemingly welded to the ground.

Blood poured from his mouth as he urged Cyr to escape.

"Miss… run…" Dalzollene used the last of his strength to pry open the door, only to collapse at the threshold.

And with Dalzollene down, Neon had no one left to protect her.

She, too, was struck by the incoming barrage of bullets.

At the same time, the others had just reached the door—only to be slammed by a sudden, vacuum-like force, knocking them all to the ground.

The prophecy—what had seemed like an inevitable massacre—was unfolding right before their eyes, too fast for anyone to react.

But…

Where was the so-called door to life, just one step away?

There was no chance of survival at all…

Dalzollene's consciousness faded as he stared at the open door, at the fallen figures beyond it, and sighed internally.

So that was it, huh…?

"…I never asked you to shield me," Cyr deadpanned, staring at Mallo's bullet-ridden body.

Was that really necessary?

All this dramatic, tragic farewell nonsense…

The Nen bullets struck his own body—but they sank in like pebbles dropped into the ocean, completely neutralized by his Nen and Cursed Energy, leaving not even a scratch.

The auction hall was now a massacre site.

Other than Cyr and the killers themselves, nearly everyone else was dead.

A handful still clung to life—but barely.

They wouldn't last much longer.

"…That brat came out of this completely unscathed, Franklin," Feitan muttered, eyes narrowing in intrigue at the only person left standing.

"…I think I remember who he is now, Feitan." Franklin glanced at his own fingers, as if wondering whether his strength had declined, then continued, "Pampas gave us a heads-up about him before, remember? That kid from District 12."

Feitan's eyes flickered as he dug through his memory.

Right—there was that one time.

When they were back in Meteor City, Pampas had sent out a message—not just to him, but to the whole original crew, including the Boss.

Something about a younger generation from Meteor City, telling them to be mindful if they ever ran into him outside.

Basically, don't kill their own.

"…So that's who this brat is." Feitan's expression shifted in realization.

Pampas was a valuable ally, and Meteor City folks tended to look out for their own.

No point in wasting energy taking down someone on the same side.

Besides—

"Pampas mentioned… this kid took out quite a few mafia guys himself," Franklin added, his tone carrying a hint of respect.

Why were they here at this mafia-organized auction?

To provoke and intimidate the underworld, of course.

Every so often, the Phantom Troupe would stir up chaos, making sure the world remembered their name.

A show of force—a warning.

And that white-haired brat had done something similar.

Franklin approved.

"…Then forget it," Feitan muttered darkly. "He's not dead, not even injured."

"Hey, these guys are mine," the white-haired boy casually waved at them, like he was greeting old friends.

Then, he pointed at the half-dead bodies on the ground.

A clear request.

Feitan and Franklin exchanged a look.

They didn't bother arguing.

Half-dead trash?

If he wanted them, he could have them.

Those hit by Franklin's Nen bullets weren't getting back up anytime soon.

At best, they would die sooner.

At worst, they would die later.

Either way, the outcome was the same.

If someone wanted to preserve their corpses, the Troupe could grant that small courtesy.

After all, they were all from Meteor City.

But more importantly—

Franklin's Nen bullets had no effect on the boy.

His strength was clearly nothing to scoff at.

There was no need to make an enemy out of someone who was not only tough, but also had some ties to them.

Better to leave it alone.

"Why is someone still alive?"

A girl carrying a vacuum-like device—Blinky—stepped into the auction hall, ready to clean up.

Shizuku turned to Feitan and Franklin, puzzled.

"Not like you'd remember even if we told you," Feitan quipped, poking fun at her horrible memory.

"Just finish up, and let's go," Franklin instructed.

"…Okay."

Shizuku hoisted Blinky, pointing its narrow, compact nozzle at the corpses littering the hall.

Though it was small, the device effortlessly sucked in every single body.

Then, she aimed it at Maro and the others.

Before she could activate it, Cyr stepped forward—placing his foot firmly atop Blinky.

"These ones stay."

His voice was light, his expression lazy, but there was no room for argument.

His sudden movement put Feitan and Franklin on edge.

"…Leave them," Franklin called out.

"Oh."

Shizuku obediently retracted Blinky.

"Let's go."

Feitan and Franklin headed for the exit, Shizuku following behind.

Even as they left, they kept their guard up, watching the white-haired boy out of the corner of their eyes—just in case.

Only when they were gone did Cyr finally crouch down, observing the barely-alive bodies at his feet.

Damn.

They dropped fast.

"Reversed Cursed Technique."

His Cursed Energy flared to life, surging into the dying figures.

Healing external wounds was easy—his technique could even regenerate severed limbs.

"…Cyr… I…"

Neon stirred, awakening mid-treatment.

Tears welled in her violet-blue eyes as she gripped his hand, seemingly ready to say her last words.

"…Next."

Cyr pulled his hand free and reached for the next person.

"…I… I'm not dead?"

Neon bolted upright, frantically patting herself down.

The bullet holes in her clothes—the bloodstains—all proved what had just happened wasn't a dream.

She had been dying.

But now she was fine.

"…So that's where the 'door to life' was."

Dalzollene whispered, staring at the white-haired boy in realization.

Just one step away.

The gap between life and death had only been the size of their young mistress.

I see.

Outside the hall—

A blond-haired boy rushed in, brushing past two men and a woman at the entrance.

Something about them nagged at him, but he didn't have time to think—he was focused on the auction hall.

Finally, after pushing open several doors, he found the one person he was searching for.

"…Miss Neon."

Kurapika let out a breath of relief the moment he saw her.

As her bodyguard, being separated from her had been a serious failure.

But instead of scolding him, Dalzollene looked at him with lingering fear.

"You came just in time," he said. "We need to leave. Now."

Then, he turned to the rest of their group.

"…Remember this. We were never at this auction."

"…What happened?"

Kurapika frowned.

That's when he finally noticed.

The auction hall was far too empty.

The seats were gone.

There were no strangers around.

The silence was unnerving.

"…Don't ask. Don't say anything. Just leave."

Dalzollene face was grim.

"…Miss Neon, let's go."

The purple-haired girl nodded.

She had felt death firsthand—there was no need to be reckless anymore.

Just as they were about to leave—

"Oh, right."

Cyr's leisurely voice rang out.

"Neon, Dalzollene, and your five other guards… Seven people total."

He tilted his head, smiling.

"One life—1 billion Jenny. Neon counts as 3 billion. Let's round it up."

"That'll be 10 billion Jenny from the Nostrade family."

His smile widened.

"…No installments."

What, you thought you could just walk away?

For free?

Dazoll's body stiffened.

His face darkened.

10 billion?!

The boss would rather let them all die than pay that much—there was no way he'd agree!

"…Let him know," Cyr hummed. "If he tries to back out… I'll come collect it myself."

Dalzollene felt a chill run down his spine.

The boss would be terrified.

"…You better say yes," Neon cut in, arms crossed. "Cyr saved me, Daddy will definitely agree."

"…Understood."

Dalzollene gritted his teeth.

The mafia would investigate this massacre soon enough.

Then, the Ten Dons would likely send the Shadow Beasts after them.

But for the boss, nothing was more important than ensuring Nion's safety.

Getting her out of Yorknew would be his top priority.

Which was fine.

This place was far too dangerous.

He never wanted to experience that helplessness again.

Revenge?

That would be suicide.

°°°

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