Predator and Prey

"So... am I an Emitter? Or a Specialist?"

Vega frowned, puzzled."Can something like that even happen?"

Earlier, when he channeled both experience points and Nen into his ability, the result had corroded the entire cup. That level of destructive power was absurd.

And that blood-curdling scream—had the energy from those experience points really come from something like a soul?

He rubbed his forehead and sighed."Forget it. The system's too cryptic. No point trying to figure it out right now."

Instead, he replayed the scene in his mind—focusing on the traits he'd observed during the Mizumi-style water divination.

In the Hunter x Hunter anime, only one character had ever shown signs of two Nen categories during Mizumi: Kurapika of the Kurta Clan.

Under normal conditions, Kurapika had tested as a Conjurer. But once his scarlet eyes activated, his Nen type shifted to Specialist. A terrifying one.

As a Specialist, Kurapika wielded abilities that defied category limits. With his strict vows and binding restrictions, he could channel the full strength of every Nen type—something virtually no one else could do. He'd become the Phantom Troupe's worst nightmare.

Vega thought aloud."So, when I channel only aura, I test as a Conjurer. But if I infuse it with experience points, the ability mutates into something else—something belonging to the Specialist class. And that corrosion effect? Lethal."

If he combined that soul-corrupting power with precise intent, even experienced Nen users might not survive the attack.

This could become his hidden ace.

Resolved, Vega shifted his gaze to a building in the distance.

It was the same one where he'd ambushed the Shelby family's gunmen. Instead of fleeing afterward, he had taken cover in a tall structure at the end of the street—lying in wait.

He had no intention of running like a coward.

From now on, he would be the predator.The Shelby family? His prey.

After eliminating the initial squad, Vega had baited a trap. Disguising himself as a bounty informant, he spread false intel: that Pengelle—a major threat to the Shelbys—had been sighted inside that very building.

Predictably, the Shelbys jumped at the opportunity. They promised a hefty reward and demanded continuous updates.

Vega waited.

Sure enough, about thirty minutes later, more than a dozen vehicles rolled up. Dozens of armed men fanned out, weapons ready, expressions grim and alert.

Then came a sleek, black luxury car. It pulled up behind the main group, stopping just beyond the danger zone. From it stepped a man in his forties, scar carved across his cheek—Griffin, a senior commander of the Shelby family, his expression twisted with rage.

One of his subordinates hurried over."Lord Griffin!"

Griffin waved him off impatiently."Report."

"The building's surrounded, sir. No one's getting out. We're standing by for the go."

Griffin sneered."Then what the hell are you waiting for? Break in and send that Pengelle bastard straight to hell!"

"Yes, sir!"

The lead squad charged into the building without hesitation.

Griffin lit a cigarette. The captain quickly stepped up to light it for him, trying to curry favor.

With a smug grin, he said,"You won't even finish that cigarette, Lord Griffin. They'll drag that rat's corpse out before you're done with it."

But before the words had even left his mouth—

BOOM!

A deafening blast ripped through the structure. Concrete and shrapnel flew in every direction. Several gunmen were hit instantly, their blood painting the pavement.

The building shuddered... then began to collapse.

Smoke and dust flooded the area.

Then, from above—Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Grenades rained down.

Bang! Bang!

Each explosion tore through the chaos, accompanied by howls of pain and confusion.

Griffin, dazed and bleeding from a gash on his forehead, bellowed,"It's a trap! Ambush! Everyone fall back!"

"Get out of the smoke!" another man screamed."We're sitting ducks!"

Griffin sprinted toward his car, barking orders as he ran. He jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the gear into reverse, fully intending to use his men as shields if it meant escaping.

Gunfire echoed behind him. Explosions in the distance. Dying screams.

He hit the gas.

But just as the car cleared the smoke and turned the corner—

Thunk.

A grenade bounced onto the road in front of him.

BOOM!

The blast flipped the vehicle like a toy.

Inside the wreckage, Griffin groaned. Blood ran down his face. His legs were crushed, bones shattered. He fumbled at the seatbelt with trembling hands.

Then—footsteps.

Slow. Methodical. Drawing closer.

Through the haze in his vision, he saw a silhouette—a boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen—stepping from the shadows. A pistol in hand. Expression unreadable.

One by one, the boy shot the wounded men crawling on the ground. Precise. Merciless.

Finally, the boy stood before Griffin and looked down.

"Griffin. Number three in the Shelby family," he said flatly.

Griffin whimpered. Tried to crawl. Couldn't.

The boy didn't speak again.

Bang.

Griffin's body slumped. Blood spread beneath him like a dark flower blooming in the street.