The Phantom Troupe.
They were a notorious Class-A bounty criminal syndicate. Headed by their leader, all twelve members were first-rate Nen practitioners of such terrifying caliber that even veteran Blacklist Hunters hesitated to cross their path. Each member bore a twelve-legged spider tattoo marked with their individual number, earning them the moniker by which they were known to allies and enemies alike: the "Spiders."
They did not fear death. Accepting their own demise as an occupational hazard, not a single member showed the slightest hesitation or dread when staring into the jaws of mortality. It was precisely this absolute fearlessness that made them formidable. While their technical mastery of Nen was undeniably top-tier, the true source of their overwhelming power lay in their abnormal, collective mentality.
Surprisingly, their internal solidarity was exceptionally tight. The death of a comrade would provoke genuine grief and burning fury, yet they held remarkably little attachment to their own individual survival. Above all, they were a gathering of sociopathic anomalies who regarded the lives of outsiders with total indifference.
Mighty yet unhinged—that was the Phantom Troupe.
Their primary trade was theft and murder. As thieves who operated in the dark underbelly of society, they were branded as absolute evil by the world. Outside of official syndicate operations, however, each member moved freely at their own whim, and it was exceedingly rare for the entire Troupe to assemble in one place.
Yet today, for the first time in three years and two months, all thirteen members had gathered at an abandoned hideout on the outskirts of Yorknew City—one of many safe houses scattered across the globe.
Not a single member wondered why. Though on exceedingly rare occasions they engaged in whimsical acts of charity, their leader would never summon the entire spider web for trivial pursuits.
They were thieves. Whatever was about to take place, it was theft—pure and simple. What, then, was their target? That was the only question burning in their minds.
Given the timing and location, Yorknew's grand auctions were the obvious mark. But which auction? Which treasures? Some members assumed the leader was after rare ancient tomes to indulge his well-known passion for books, while others guessed it was the world's most dangerous and exorbitant video game rumored to be up for bid at the Southernpiece auction house.
Amidst the rising curiosity and simmering excitement filling the hideout, the words spoken by their leader, Chrollo Lucilfer, were simple:
"Everything. We're seizing every single treasure in the Underground Auction."
Steal every piece of treasure in the Underground Auction. Anyone could speak those words. But how many people in the world possessed the audacity to conceptualize, let alone execute, such an impossible heist?
The Underground Auction was governed by a treaty uniting the world's most powerful Mafia syndicates. Striking the Underground Auction meant declaring war on the entire Mafia Community—making enemies of every mob organization on the face of the earth.
Who would dare contemplate such madness? Who would welcome such total war? It was the logic of lunatics, embraced only by fellow madmen.
And in this room, only madmen stood.
Not a single soul shrank from the leader's declaration. On the contrary, several trembled with uncontrollable exhilaration, clenching their jaws until blood trickled from their lips. Though not all showed such visceral excitement, every member looked toward tomorrow with dark anticipation.
All except two.
The first was the grim reaper magician, Hisoka.
A Spider who was no true Spider, he had forged his way into the Troupe through false pretenses. His singular motivation for joining was to cross blades with Chrollo Lucilfer. To that end, he had slaughtered the previous Number Four during his entry trial, utilizing [Texture Surprise] to forge his spider tattoo and infiltrate Chrollo's inner circle.
Yet his ambition had proved frustratingly difficult to realize. Chrollo was exceedingly guarded, vanishing without a trace whenever the Troupe was not actively operating. His stealth was so immaculate that even Hisoka could not track him. Furthermore, during syndicate operations, at least two members remained stationed at Chrollo's side at all times, making a private duel to the death impossible.
Thus, Hisoka pondered how to manipulate the unfolding chaos to isolate Chrollo for an unhindered one-on-one duel.
He had already sowed the seeds. Kurapika, the youth harboring an unquenchable vengeance against the Spiders, had been guided toward Yorknew. If Kurapika clashed with the Troupe, it would inevitably create fissures in their ranks. Though their unexpected reunion at Heavens Arena had altered the timetable, the fundamentals remained intact. Hisoka desired to fight Chrollo; Kurapika desired to capture the Troupe. Their interests aligned, making mutual cooperation effortless.
Whether Kurapika had already arrived in Yorknew or would arrive tomorrow, Hisoka deliberated on when to feed him intelligence about the heist—whether to warn him beforehand or contact him after the first domino fell.
Hisoka contemplated his moves, yearning for the thrill of fighting Chrollo... and the even greater ecstasy of his promised rematch with her.
The other person consumed by conflicting thoughts was Machi.
One of only three female members in the Troupe, she was a founding member who had stood beside Chrollo since the Spider's inception. Highly trusted by the leader, she served as the primary communications hub for the entire group.
If one had to summarize her current state of mind in a single word, it was anxiety. Lacking tangible evidence or logical proof, a suffocating, ominous premonition weighed upon her chest. If they raided the Underground Auction as planned, something catastrophic would befall the Spider. It was a vague, gnawing dread.
Machi's intuition was so razor-sharp that it bordered on a supernatural Nen ability. On multiple occasions, her uncanny premonitions had saved the Troupe from ruin, earning her the deep respect of her comrades despite the intangible nature of her hunches.
When Machi voiced a bad feeling, no Spider dismissed it outright; they adjusted their actions with her warnings in mind.
Yet even Machi found herself unable to speak up in this moment.
No matter how sharp her instincts were, with nothing having transpired and not a single flaw visible in their planning, she could hardly say, "I have a bad feeling, so let's call off the heist." The most she could do was urge vigilance, and Machi understood that reality all too well.
She believed implicitly in her own strength and the absolute might of the Troupe. The idea of falling to the Mafia was unthinkable.
Even if the Mafia deployed cutting-edge military hardware, the Troupe would tear through them effortlessly. Against an elite coalition of first-rate Nen masters, a thousand or two thousand ordinary men meant nothing. The Mafia undoubtedly employed their own Nen users, but the Spiders had survived the deadliest corners of the world as apex predators; defeat at the hands of hired bodyguards was beyond conception.
Members might fall. But casualties were an accepted reality for every Spider. The death of individual members did not mean the death of the Spider, so long as a single member survived. The survivor would recruit new legs, and the Spider would walk again as if nothing had happened—after paying back the perpetrator in full blood.
In that sense, destroying the Troupe was near impossible. Leave even one alive, and the Spider would be reborn.
Total defeat against the Mafia was inconceivable. It was precisely this logic that stayed Machi's tongue.
If only some concrete uncertainty would reveal itself... Machi could only sigh internally as the leader issued his final command.
"I give you permission. Kill them. ...Leave none alive who stand in your way."
"YEAH!!"
A thunderous roar from Uvogin, the physically strongest man in the Spider, shook the hideout. Machi leaned on that ferocious cry for a brief moment, hoping it would drown out the unnamable dread clawing at her heart.
The Auction Commences
September 1st.
The Dream Auction officially commenced across Yorknew City. It was the world's largest annual bazaar, featuring tens of thousands of auction houses trading billions in rare, exotic treasures. Tales of knick-knacks purchased yesterday and sold for thousand-fold profits tomorrow were commonplace—a genuine city of dreams for fortune seekers.
Yet beneath this glittering surface lay the dark underbelly: the shadow auctions.
Stolen goods, illicit artifacts, and contraband that could never appear in legitimate venues were auctioned away in secrecy. These tainted treasures generated bottomless demand across every era, impervious to law enforcement.
The pinnacle of these black markets was the Underground Auction, governed by the Mafia Community. Backed by clandestine ties between the mob and the Mayor of Yorknew, the Underground Auction operated with complete impunity.
Every year, the event unfolded with minor squabbles but concluded without major disruption. Every mobster believed this year would be no different. Some could not even conceive of trouble.
Weapons were strictly banned inside the subterranean venue, with security handled entirely by the Mafia Community. No fool on earth would dare challenge the unified syndicates.
...Or so they believed.
"I-I don't know! I swear I don't know! Please, sto—GYAAAAAAAGH!! S-Stop, please!!"
"If want me stop, speak what you know. Where auction goods?"
"I really don't know! Please, have me—AIIEEEEEGH!!"
Deep within the Cemetery Building where the Underground Auction was scheduled to take place, a horrific scene played out.
Torture. Not an ordinary interrogation, but a ruthless, agonizing dismantling carried out with zero regard for the victim's survival. The man screaming in torment was the official auctioneer for tonight's event. The small, strangely accented man inflicting the torment was Feitan, a member of the Phantom Troupe.
The reason the Spiders were brutalizing a mere auctioneer was simple: the vault where the auction treasures should have been stored was completely empty.
The Mafia's fortified building posed no obstacle to the seven Spiders assigned to the raid. Dressed in stolen Mafia Community suits, they had strode openly through the corridors with complete nonchalance, unbothered by the possibility of exposure.
Yet upon reaching the massive vault, they discovered that not a single piece of treasure remained.
The vault guards had already been eliminated on the spot, leaving the auctioneer—who held the vault combination—as the sole survivor. Unfortunately for him, brutal interrogation was the inevitable result.
"How is it? Did he spill?"
"No good. Guy really know nothing."
"If Feitan says so, it must be true. Tsk! Where the hell did the loot go?"
"The Shadow Beasts who took the goods... probably have a Nen ability similar to Shizuku's."
The Spiders chatted casually while watching a human being broken before their eyes. Just as one might look upon an insect losing a leg without the slightest pang of sympathy, they possessed zero interest in human suffering.
The auctioneer was barely breathing—a ruined shell of flesh. Feitan had broken him with precise cruelty, keeping him alive just long enough to extract information.
"Done now. Good for you, get peace. Should thank me."
With words that would make any victim curse in rage, Feitan cleanly snapped the auctioneer's neck. After taking great care to keep him alive for questioning, his execution was utterly casual.
Yet as Feitan noted, death was a mercy. The auctioneer was already beyond medical salvation, and surviving would have meant lingering agony in a mutilated body.
"So what now? The loot's gone, and we have zero leads."
Franklin, the towering man with facial scars, spoke with implicit intent. With their primary objective vanished, what was their next move?
"Simple," replied Shalnark, the sharp-witted strategist with a bright, affable smile. "If one of the Shadow Beasts took the loot, we just create a situation where the Shadow Beasts are forced to come to us."
He continued cheerfully, "Let's slaughter all the auction guests. Shizuku can vacuum up the corpses. When the Mafia realizes the entire audience vanished into thin air, they'll chase after us in droves. If we make enough noise crushing their pursuers, the Shadow Beasts will have to show up."
The 'Shadow Beasts' they spoke of were the elite enforcement unit of the Ten Dons who ruled the Mafia Community—the absolute pinnacle of Mafia Nen combatants.
"Shadow Beasts, huh? Hope they're tough. Looking forward to it," Uvogin grinned like a hungry carnivore. To him, provoking the entire Mafia and hunting their strongest warriors brought pure delight, not fear.
"...I'm against it," Machi interjected with a reserved tone. "We should pull back and ask the Boss for orders."
Calling the Boss required only a quick phone call, but to the combatants, crying for instructions over a minor hiccup was child's play.
"You serious, Machi? We ain't errand boys running back to mommy," Nobunaga, dressed like an Eastern samurai, scoffed. He spoke for the rest of the group. "What's wrong with you today? You ain't the type to get spooked by the Mafia."
"...I just have a bad feeling."
"Your intuition?"
"Yeah. ...There's a chance our movements were predicted. Look at the Mafia's sudden change in plans. What if our raid leaked, and this is a trap...?"
"That's a deduction, not your intuition. Really unlike you. You're the type to cut through logic and trust your gut."
Nobunaga's point was fair. While Machi's theory was plausible, laying out structured deductions was contrary to her usual intuitive nature.
"I know your gut's usually right. But this time, we can't just back down on a hunch. You get that, right?"
"...I get it. But if anything unexpected happens, everyone regroups on the roof immediately. That's non-negotiable."
Machi conceded. A hunch was only a hunch, and even her sharp instincts were not infallible.
"Fair enough. You heard her, everyone. Her hunches are usually spot on. Assume something might happen."
"Nobunaga really inconsistent. Denies it, then agrees," Feitan mocked.
"Shut up!"
"Hey, if you're done talking, can I vacuum them up now?"
Shizuku, holding an unusual vacuum cleaner, spoke up with an airy demeanor.
If this were an ordinary room and she held a regular appliance to clean dust, the scene would be unremarkable. But her vacuum cleaner bore sharp fangs, emitted bizarre groans, and the floor was littered with mangled human corpses.
"Not yet," Shalnark stopped her. "If you vacuum them now, you won't be able to retrieve the escape hot-air balloon you swallowed earlier."
"Oh, right. I'll go to the roof and deploy the balloon first."
"Not this building's roof—the Mafia's watching. Deploy it, then come vacuum the bodies."
"Got it."
Shizuku's conjured vacuum, Blinky (Deme-chan), possessed the rare ability to swallow an infinite quantity of non-living matter and regurgitate the very last item inhaled. Its utility made her survival a top priority within the Troupe.
"Alright, let's set the stage," Shalnark directed. "Franklin and Feitan will handle the massacre in the hall. Shizuku watches the front entrance, Machi takes the back. Uvo and I will dress as security guards and herd the guests."
"Hey, let me in on the slaughter too," Uvogin complained.
"Killing these weaklings won't be fun for you anyway. Save your energy for the pursuers."
"Fair point. Let's do it."
"Operation start!"
With Shalnark's call, the Spiders dispersed into action. Every move was driven by the pursuit of their desires, sacrificing others without hesitation.
Yet did they truly comprehend that beings existed in this world far beyond their imagination?
The only Spider who truly understood that reality was their absent leader, Chrollo Lucilfer. And even Chrollo never dreamed that she was already descending upon them.
And so... the bloody tragedy of the auction began.
A Father's Regret
Dominique Causa had traveled to Yorknew City to attend tonight's Underground Auction. For over a decade—ever since the death of his beloved wife—he had sent proxies in his stead. But this year, the head of the parent syndicate had personally requested his attendance, compelling him to arrive aboard his private blimp.
The parent Don had long sympathized with Dominique's profound grief, but his decade-long absence from the Mafia Community's paramount gathering was beginning to damage political prestige.
Though he had no desire for luxury goods, the trip had presented an unexpected development.
Recently, he had reunited with the daughter he believed had died long ago. Past guilt and present confusion swirled within his chest until he no longer knew what to feel.
He could not forgive her. She was the reason his beloved wife had died. Dominique knew an unborn child carried no inherent sin, and he would never have discarded a child simply because childbirth proved fatal.
But this child had been different. From the moment she was born, she had emitted an impossibly terrifying, sinister aura. His subordinates reported that the newborn possessed an aura so monstrous it defied human understanding. His wife had not died from mere childbirth—she had died because this thing had been born.
Furthermore, despite being a newborn, she possessed clear self-awareness and manipulated Nen effortlessly during transit. A newborn mastering advanced aura control was impossible for mortal humans; deeming her an incarnate demon and abandoning her had seemed the only rational choice.
Yet when he saw her grown—nurtured by the posthumous Nen of his late wife, possessing her mother's striking beauty and sorrowful eyes—the hatred had begun to fracture.
Though her aura remained monstrous, her delicate expressions and mournful gaze made him question whether the "demon" had been a horrific misunderstanding. If he brought his daughter home, could a fragment of his past happiness return?
Yet Dominique had pushed the temptation away. His wife's death remained an undeniable fact. Even if unintended, the reality that she had died because of this child prevented him from offering unconditional embrace. The most he could grant was subtly revealing the location of his wife's grave.
Trapped between resentment and parental yearning, throwing himself into the auction was his way of distracting his troubled mind.
Flanked by his elite Nen bodyguards, Dahl and Zaza, Dominique arrived at Cemetery Building. Ignored by the busy mobsters, he passed through security and entered the grand auction hall, completely unaware that the doors led straight into the furnace of hell.
The Massacre
Two men stepped onto the auction stage. One was a towering giant with a heavily scarred face; the other was a short, sharp-eyed man.
The audience suspected nothing. The men looked intimidating, but in a Mafia-run black market guarded by hundreds of armed syndicate sentries, appearances meant little. Weapons and communication devices were barred from the hall, and sentries cordoned off a 500-meter perimeter outside.
Under such impenetrable security, what could possibly go wrong?
The short man on stage, Feitan, opened his mouth:
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Let us dispense with pleasantries... and die."
Before the words fully registered, Franklin raised his hands toward the crowd.
The tips of his fingers were missing past the first knuckle. From those modified, hollow fingertips, a relentless, deafening storm of Nen bullets erupted like dual heavy machine guns.
The Mafia bodyguards reacted instantly, throwing themselves in front of their employers.
Yet their sacrifice bought mere seconds.
The catastrophic roar of rapid-fire Nen bullets and the screams of tearing flesh created a horrific cacophony. Every single bullet possessed enough kinetic force to shred Nen defenses like paper, fired at dozens of rounds per second. The indiscriminate hail of death slaughtered young and old, men and women, Nen users and civilians alike.
Dominique found himself directly in the line of fire. Dahl and Zaza shielded him with their bodies, pouring their aura into defense.
"B-Boss, run...!"
"ZAZA—!! Dammit! Boss, get out! I can't hold—GAAH?!"
"Dahl! Zaza!"
Their desperate shield saved Dominique for mere moments before both bodyguards were reduced to mangled meat.
Then the storm reached Dominique.
A searing agony ripped through his abdomen, as though a white-hot iron rod had pierced his guts and twisted.
Ah... I'm dying, Dominique realized. Yet what welled within him was not terror, but a profound, peaceful relief. He could finally join his beloved wife. He would no longer have to hate his daughter.
As darkness claimed his vision, the last image reflected in his fading eyes was the sorrowful, weeping face of his daughter.
Surviving guests scrambled toward the entrance, desperate to escape the meat grinder of Franklin's [Double Machine Gun].
Dozens fell with every step.
Then, the massive entrance doors shattered into splinters as a human projectile came flying through at blinding speed.
And behind the ruined threshold stood a beautiful young girl, her face contorted in incandescent rage.
"Fa... ther...? Ah... ugh..."
The fury on her face collapsed into sheer, shattering grief.
Her slender frame trembled. Then, the grief solidified into a terrifying, boundless wrath.
The gunfire on stage ceased, as even the executioners found their eyes locked onto the girl.
From her throat erupted a world-shaking roar of fury:
"PHANTOM TROUPE—!!!"
The Monster Awakens
Nine minutes before the Underground Auction commenced, Aisha was leaping across the rooftops of Yorknew City toward Cemetery Building at extreme speed. Maintaining [Angel's Veil], she expanded her En across the urban landscape to track the movements of Mafia sentries.
Rather than running through crowded streets or expending aura on mid-air propulsion, she used high-speed Ryu to reinforce her legs and joints, bounding from skyscraper to skyscraper like a phantom. To the mob guards stationed on neighboring rooftops, she passed by as nothing more than a sudden gust of wind that cracked the concrete beneath her feet.
Reaching Cemetery Building, Aisha slipped inside using Zetsu.
The building appeared calm, but as she descended toward the basement, her senses picked up powerful presences: one at the front doors, one at the rear, three on the upper floors, and two formidable monsters inside the auction hall.
Realizing the Spiders had already infiltrated, Aisha bolted toward the main doors.
Suddenly, Shizuku ambushed her from the side, swinging Blinky to crush her skull. Aisha effortlessly evaded the strike.
"Don't get in my way!"
"Sorry, can't do that. It's my job," Shizuku replied, thoroughly on guard after her surprise attack missed.
At that exact moment, the slaughter began inside the hall.
The deafening roar of Nen gunfire, the wet sound of tearing flesh, and the screams of dying guests echoed through the corridor.
Aisha's eyes ignited.
She charged straight at Shizuku. Shizuku timed a counter-swing with Blinky, certain of the kill, but her vacuum struck empty air.
Using Shukuchi, Aisha altered her trajectory without kinetic deceleration, slipped behind Shizuku, drove an uppercut into her jaw to rattle her brain, twisted her arm into a triple joint-lock, and hurled her like a cannonball straight through the reinforced steel doors!
Shizuku smashed through the entrance, flying across the auction hall toward the stage.
Franklin halted [Double Machine Gun] and caught Shizuku, sliding backward from the sheer kinetic momentum.
"Shizuku! What happened?!"
"A... girl... entrance... be careful..." Shizuku whispered before passing out from a shattered jaw.
Franklin and Feitan turned toward the shattered doorway, spotting what appeared to be an ordinary girl with no visible aura, pale with shock.
Then, they realized their fatal mistake.
That was no girl. That was a monster.
Aisha stared across the crimson sea of carnage. Hundreds of corpses lay strewn in pools of blood. She desperately searched the floor, praying Dominique had not attended.
Then, she found him—lying motionless with a gaping hole in his abdomen.
"Fa... ther...? Ah... ugh..."
Revenge solves nothing. It only breeds more hatred.
Those righteous platitudes vanished from Aisha's mind, incinerated by white-hot fury.
"PHANTOM TROUPE—!!!"
The dam burst.
Aisha dispelled [Angel's Veil], unleashing an ocean of pitch-black, ominous aura that swallowed the entire hall in suffocating pressure.
"What kind of joke is this...?"
"She did this to Shizuku. Kill her."
Franklin opened fire with [Double Machine Gun], raining an inescapable barrage of Nen bullets across the room. Overhead, Feitan leaped toward the ceiling, drawing his concealed blade to impale her from above.
Aisha did not retreat or leap away. She charged straight into the gunfire.
Relying on raw Ken, she deflected the lethal bullets with her body, advancing through the storm without breaking stride.
Detecting Feitan's dive from behind, Aisha didn't even turn around. With a backhanded swipe of her aura, she ricocheted Franklin's stray bullets upward into Feitan! Feitan blocked with his sword, but the concentrated barrage shattered his left arm and pierced his stomach, crashing him to the floor.
Franklin focused his entire output into a single, concentrated blast of Nen, firing point-blank at Aisha's face.
Aisha swiped her hand across, effortlessly dissipating the blast like smoke.
"MONSTER—!!"
"SILENCE, YOU SCUM!!"
Aisha ducked under Franklin's counter-punch, grabbed his collar with hands shrouded in Shu, and transitioned into a standing choke. Franklin tried to rip his suit away, but the Shu-reinforced fabric refused to tear.
Restricting his carotid artery, Aisha kicked his solar plexus, dropped to the floor in a Tomoe Nage throw, inverted her body mid-air, accelerated her descent with an aura burst, and slammed Franklin's head violently into the concrete, driving her elbow into his chest with catastrophic force!
Kazama-ryu Secret Art: Mountain Shatterer.
Franklin's sternum and ribs shattered, his throat crushed, coughing up torrents of blood as he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Aisha stood over him. She could have delivered the finishing blow, but her centuries of martial discipline held her back. Striking a defenseless, incapacitated enemy violated every fiber of her martial code—and slaughtering them in cold blood would betray the pure bonds she shared with her friends.
"...Lie there and feel the weight of the lives you stole," she whispered.
Suddenly, Uvogin smashed his fist into the ground where she stood, having arrived with Machi, Shalnark, and Nobunaga.
"Feitan's arm is torn off! Franklin's internal organs are crushed!" Machi yelled, assessing their fallen comrades.
"She took out three of us alone?!" Shalnark grimaced.
Nobunaga drew his katana into an Iai stance within his En, Uvogin raised his aura to the limit, Machi wove Nen threads across the room, and Shalnark prepared his antenna.
Yet before the clash could begin, a terrifying voice spoke in an ancient dialect from the rubble.
"■◇... ○※●×▼◇...!!"
Feitan, coated in conjured protective armor, stood upright despite his horrific wounds, his aura burning with apocalyptic fury.
"BAD NEWS! GET OUT!!"
"Uvo, grab Franklin! Machi, take Shizuku!"
"RUN!!"
Recognizing Feitan's indiscriminate scorched-earth ability [Pain Packer], the Spiders fled the hall with their wounded.
Aisha instantly recognized the danger of the incoming blast.
And moments later, Cemetery Building collapsed in a cataclysmic explosion.