When Han Mock first discovered this island, it was owned by a certain corporation. A resort development project had been planned several years prior, but by any logical standard, the location was not commercially viable. Naturally, the plan had been canceled, leaving the island in a state essentially described as abandoned.
While it was not a piece of land with a ready market of buyers, the owners likely wanted to wash their hands of it as quickly as possible. Mock expected the transfer to conclude immediately. However, despite offering a sum far exceeding its value, the other party showed reluctance. Far from being pleased, they went as far as to warn him not to set foot on the island without permission.
Professional Hunters are said to be the highest-earning profession in the world. He suspected they were trying to take advantage of his position to drive up the price. Perhaps his initial mistake had been offering an amount so large it could have bought the entire company, let alone one island, with change to spare.
Incredibly, the other party demanded four-fifths of Mock's personal assets. It was an irrational, nonsensical sum. Yet, Mock accepted it without hesitation. To him, this island was something that could not be replaced by money. Even if they had demanded his entire fortune, he would have nodded.
Furthermore, he used every authority at his disposal as a Hunter to ensure the fulfillment of the contract. He would not allow them to cancel. He threatened that if they tried to run, he would hunt them to the ends of the earth to collect. Thus, Mock legally but forcefully secured ownership of the island.
In the past, when he lacked power, he could do nothing, but now he had the strength of a Hunter. He believed that this time, he could truly protect the birds and the beautiful nature they inhabited. Ultimately, that determination would be dampened that very day by assassins sent by the Mafia.
He might have been able to repel average assassins. However, his opponents were enemies prepared for combat against Nen users—and there were several of them. For Mock, a fighter who relied on technique and terrain, they were not enemies he could defeat through direct combat ability alone.
Even if he had been lucky enough to escape, his fate would have remained unchanged. As he would later learn, the entity he had made an enemy of was a member of the Ten Old Men, the leaders who presided over the worldwide Mafia Community. They were not an existence a lone Professional Hunter could stand against.
Having surrendered quietly, Mock pathetically begged for his life. His research, lost for over a decade, was finally about to resume. One could say his life as a researcher truly began here. He could not afford to die in a place like this for nothing.
And so, he proposed a deal. He would do anything he could. No matter how wicked the opponent, he would swear loyalty. The only things that mattered to him were the birds living on this island. For their sake, he felt he wouldn't mind selling even his own soul.
The Mafia responded to his pitch and struck a bargain. Though he normally would have been killed without a word, he was spared. Perhaps even then, the Mafia had seen through to the true nature sleeping within Mock.
Thus, he became the Warehouse Keeper. His base of operations as a Hunter engaged in legitimate activities became the perfect camouflage to hide his connection to the dim underworld. A Hunter who adopted an excessively exclusionary attitude for the sake of nature conservation was not particularly rare.
There were poachers targeting the birds, but they weren't a significant problem. In fact, only three poachers had trespassed on the island in the last ten years. No matter how rare they were, they had no value beyond being 'nearly extinct birds,' and if they could only be brought back as carcasses, the demand dropped. Between the high difficulty of capture and the presence of a Hunter constantly keeping watch, most stayed away.
Human psychology dictates that when there is obvious bait in front of them, people don't suspect something else is hidden behind it. The existence of birds with mediocre value was used as a cover. Conversely, anyone who would go through the trouble of coming to this island despite those hardships might have sniffed out something other than birds. His concealment measures were thorough, but nothing was absolute.
Therefore, anyone who approached this island without permission was treated as a poacher. Hunting them was also part of his job. Even if someone were to vanish on this island, it would be handled as an expected outcome of trespassing on a Hunter's territory.
This system had functioned without a hitch until today. In running an organization, items that one cannot throw away despite wanting to dispose of them inevitably appear. A warehouse to store them was necessary. And no matter how strictly something is protected by security, as long as it exists, a way to break in will be born.
However, if its existence is not known to begin with, there is no security superior to that. This island's warehouse, which originally held only items that wouldn't matter if discovered, had now become one of the organization's most important hubs where numerous pieces of classified information were stored.
As an excellent Warehouse Keeper, he had no pride. He had abandoned his pride as a Hunter long ago. That did not mean he had sworn loyalty to the organization, nor did he hate them. If he had to put it into words, he felt that they simply didn't matter.
Living on this island, he suddenly realized something. He had thought he was chasing the White Swallows because he wanted to study bird language. But even that didn't matter anymore.
His research had progressed, and the deciphering of their language had advanced to a certain degree. If he presented those results at an academic conference, he would be hailed as the man of the hour. However, the paper he submitted this year contained a false research report designed to make it look like he had hit a dead end.
Observing the birds, never disturbing their lives, and quietly watching over them—that alone fulfilled him. He needed nothing else. It was a sensation ordinary people likely wouldn't understand, but what he found at the end of his journey was simply the happiness of living quietly on this island.
This was paradise. A paradise for only him and the birds.
That was why what he hated most was having that modest peace disturbed. No matter who it was, anyone who set foot on this island made his skin crawl. He didn't hunt intruders because the organization ordered it. Even if it was an innocent young girl, to him, she was equally a poacher.
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The person who acted kindly suddenly changed their attitude and attacked. No, they likely approached me with the intention of deceiving me from the start. It sounds very simple when put into words, but as the one being attacked, it wasn't something I could easily accept as reality.
I was confused. The sensation of being the victim of an attack was faint. It felt like someone else's problem. Naturally, I wasn't in a state to take any countermeasures.
On the other hand, my thoughts were sharper than ever before. Although I was confused, there was a part of me calmly judging the situation. It felt as if there were several of me, each dividing up the work to think about different things at once.
If not for that, I would probably still be dazed, sitting on the chair. I felt sick from the sensation of my cognitive abilities suddenly expanding, and I didn't know why it was happening, but I didn't have the luxury to worry about details now.
Mock fired the crossbow at me. No bolt had been loaded, but I felt a sensation as if something had been fired and pierced my leg. However, what I felt was just a sensation; I hadn't actually sustained an injury. It was an attack whose intent I couldn't grasp.
I felt that the 'something' fired instead of a bolt was similar to the energy I call life force. Usually, it's being drained by the girl, but I felt like that last strike had given it to me instead. However, there was an unpleasant presence to that energy. It felt like it was forcing its way into my body, making me think it was indeed some kind of attack after all.
By the time I finished my analysis, Mock was already prepared for the next attack. The disadvantage of a crossbow is its lack of rapid-fire capability. Because it can maintain a drawn state beforehand, it allows for precision shooting, but once a bolt is fired, that state must be reset, making it impossible to fire the next one immediately. That's how it should be, but Mock's shooting motions were terrifyingly fast. There wasn't a single opening.
Whether it was because my kinetic vision was good or not, I could track the movement of the bolt with my eyes, but dodging it was impossible. Even if I could react, my physical actions couldn't keep up. This time, a real bolt was set in the crossbow, and if the next attack hit, I wouldn't escape unscathed.
"Nice, Professor! Come on, keep the pressure on! I want something even more extreme!"
"Shut up."
"Yes, sir."
Furthermore, there wasn't just one enemy in this room. Dealing with Mock alone was too much, yet there was also a man with a camera. He was aiming the camera at me, peering through the viewfinder. I didn't know what he wanted, but given the situation, there was no doubt he was an enemy.
To top it all off, the place where I was standing was bad. The two men were blocking the vicinity of the front door, which appeared to be the only exit. To escape, I would have to break past them. It seemed impossible.
This was an ultimate predicament. My usual self might have given up early, but my current self was overflowing with the thinking power to find a lead to break the situation.
The first inexplicable point was that I hadn't been killed yet. If they wanted to, they could have killed me with the first strike. There were plenty of opportunities to kill me. In the first place, was it really necessary to tell such a long life story just to gain my trust?
As for the man trying to take photos, I didn't think it was just a hobby. There had to be a meaning. They had some kind of purpose, and I was being kept alive for it.
I picked up a ballpoint pen that was rolling on a nearby shelf. This was the only thing I could find that might serve as a weapon. Mock watched this action without saying a word. He probably thought a single pen couldn't possibly overturn this situation.
He was exactly right. Charging at Mock like this wouldn't accomplish anything. No matter how much the enemies were keeping me alive, that wasn't a guarantee I wouldn't be killed, and they likely had plenty of ways to suppress me without killing me.
That's why this pen wasn't meant to be pointed at the enemy. I held the tip of the pen against my own throat.
"...What do you intend to do?"
"Put your weapon down. Or I will kill myself."
First, I will measure the value of my life. How much of a loss do the enemies calculate my death to be? Using my own life as leverage, how much can I demand?
"I see. I thought you were just a child who couldn't even speak, but it seems you have some wits about you."
Mock did not release his stance. The tip of the crossbow bolt remained locked on me.
"Kill yourself? Try it, if you can."
Whether he thought I couldn't possibly go through with it or not, Mock's attitude didn't change. Then that's fine. Next, I'll show him I can really die. I might be able to grasp the enemy's objective this way.
I pressed the pen tip against my throat. A sharp pain ran through me. It was still just the tip pressing against the skin. How much pain would occur if this were to pierce deep enough to become a fatal wound? Just imagining it made me want to cry.
But I have to do it. If I hesitate and hold back my strength, the situation will only get worse. If I'm going to do it, I have to make it certain and make the enemy believe I've died, or it won't mean anything.
My hands are shaking. I grit my teeth. I pulled the pen away from my throat for a moment, then pulled it back with all my might.
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