Chapter 84: Amaterasu
The retreating members of the Phantom Troupe regrouped quickly.
In the center of their circle was Bonolenov, howling in agony, his body engulfed in pitch-black flames.
Initially, Bonolenov hadn't thought much of the dark fire. He assumed his conjured armor would withstand it. He was wrong. He paid for that arrogance in seconds.
The black flames of the Amaterasu consumed everything. They ignored the laws of nature. They couldn't be doused by water, and when he tried to push them away with a surge of Nen, the flames simply fed on his aura, growing larger and fiercer.
Bonolenov's mind raced through his pain. There was only one way out: he needed someone to physically strip every piece of his conjured equipment off his body in a single motion. Perhaps then the black fire would be separated from his flesh.
If he simply dispelled the armor, the flames already clinging to the surface would instantly drop onto his bare skin. At that point, death would be his only mercy.
Only one person could do it fast enough: Machi.
"Do it now!" he screamed.
Bonolenov felt the heat passing through his protective gear. It felt like being a potato wrapped in tin foil, tossed into the heart of a furnace. Every second was a lifetime of torture.
Machi tested the flames first. She realized that as long as she dispelled her Nen threads immediately after contact, the fire wouldn't travel up to her hands.
She moved.
Dozens of Nen threads shot out like spiderwebs, wrapping tightly around Bonolenov's conjured battle armor.
Machi braced herself and yanked with everything she had.
RRRRIP!
With a sickening sound of tearing, the armor was torn away.
But it wasn't just the metal. Because the heat had already caused the gear to fuse with his flesh, Machi tore away Bonolenov's entire outer layer of skin along with it.
Bonolenov stood there, a raw, flayed figure of blood and muscle. He looked like something out of a horror movie.
He let out one sharp gasp of shock, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed. But before he could even hit the ground, the sheer agony of the air hitting his raw nerves snapped him back to consciousness.
The Spiders were hardened criminals who had seen every form of depravity, but even they found it hard to look at him.
There was nothing they could do but wait for him to endure it. Even Chrollo didn't possess a healing ability in his book capable of dealing with this level of trauma.
"I'm going to kill him... I'll kill him if it's the last thing I do!" Bonolenov's voice was a shredded rasp. His hatred for Ronin had transcended the physical, etching itself into his very soul.
Chrollo turned his gaze to the discarded armor. Enveloped in the black flames, the conjured metal was being reduced to nothing. Even after the aura source—Bonolenov—was gone, the fire continued to burn until the equipment was ash. Only then did the Amaterasu finally dissipate.
"Let's move," Chrollo ordered. "Ronin set a trap using his own identity as a shield. We lost this round. I suspect the three pairs of Scarlet Eyes from the Underground Auction are already in his hands."
He signaled Machi to carry Bonolenov. She was the only one who could use her threads to suspend him without touching his raw flesh; anyone else's touch would likely send him into shock.
"Shalnark," Chrollo said as they walked. "That lead you found for Uvogin—the healing items in Greed Island—it looks like we'll need them for Bonolenov now."
As for Isley (#8)?
Chrollo had done what he could. Failing to kill the client before the contract was fulfilled meant Isley's death was a finalized transaction.
Damn those Zoldycks.
He made a mental note to prepare countermeasures for the assassin family.
Ronin's display of power had shifted Chrollo's perspective again. Something was fundamentally wrong. They were always one step behind.
There was only one logical explanation: Ronin had seized a massive advantage by killing a member of the Ten Dons and taking his place.
By masquerading as one of the leaders of the Mafia, Ronin had gained access to resources the Troupe couldn't dream of. He wasn't just a rogue survivor; he was a King in the shadows.
And the boy, Kurapika... Chrollo mused.
He knew the boy's name now. He was the Kurta who had been missing on the night of the massacre.
The boy had likely been used as bait to lure them into this confrontation. The "corpse" in front of the hotel was a fake, designed to distract and provoke.
While the "body" lay on the pavement, the real Kurapika had been safe in Room 1801, protected by the Rock Mercenaries.
The same group that had blocked them at Heavens Arena.
Chrollo couldn't quite grasp Kurapika's motivation. Was it a provocation? Did the boy want to look his clan's killers in the eye just to ask "Why?"
How naive, Chrollo thought, recalling the look on the boy's face in the distance.
Thieves don't deal in "why." They deal in value. The Kurta were slaughtered because their eyes were worth more than their lives. Simple math.
The only mistake the Troupe had made was not being thorough. They had let two rats escape, and those rats had found a way to turn into wolves.
Chrollo had to admit it: Ronin was no longer just a target. He was a genuine threat to the Spider's survival.
A threat that needed to be cut out immediately.
When Ronin found Neon, she was no longer alone. A woman he had never seen before stood beside her.
She had long, wine-red hair and sharp, almond-shaped eyes with fiery red lipstick. She wore a black camisole under a black jacket slung over her shoulders. She radiated an intense, mature charisma. Her black athletic pants hugged long, toned legs.
"Let's go," Neon said as Ronin approached. "Kurapika set up a new safehouse in the Cemetery Building. He said we should regroup there."
She gestured to her companion. "This is Dalila. She's the one who created the fake Kurapika body."
"Hello," Dalila said, her voice smooth. "Don't hold a grudge against me. I was just fulfilling a contract."
She had seen the massive flood Ronin unleashed at the hotel from a distance. A person capable of that level of destruction was someone she had zero intention of offending.
"Understood," Ronin nodded.
He had spotted Kurapika and the sniper, Muherr, on the rooftop earlier. With Muherr's protection, he knew Kurapika was safe. Seeing a new ally with Neon confirmed that Kurapika had planned for every contingency.
"Are you with the mercenaries?" Ronin asked.
"No," Dalila replied. "I'm a Toy Hunter (Doll Hunter). I'm a close friend of Miria. She asked me to help out as a personal favor."
Her personality was the polar opposite of Miria's icy professionalism.
"Move it," Neon said, grabbing Ronin's arm. "This isn't the place for a chat."
"My part of the job is done," Dalila waved a hand, staying behind. "I'll see you at Heavens Arena next time."
Ten minutes later, Ronin and Neon arrived at the Cemetery Building.
Kurapika was waiting for them in a penthouse suite. The mercenaries were nowhere to be found; likely having departed as soon as their contract for the extraction was complete. Efficient as always.
Ronin looked at Kurapika, his emotions a tangled mess of relief and annoyance. "I have to admit, your plan worked. But I hated every second of seeing you like that."
"I'm sorry," Kurapika said softly. His expression was sincere, but Ronin could see it in his eyes: if given the choice again, he would have made the same sacrifice.
Ronin sighed. The result was undeniable.
"Thank you."
"Hm?"
"Thank you for being alive, Kurapika," Ronin said. As he spoke, his eyes shifted into the blood-red, intricate patterns of the Mangekyō Sharingan.
Kurapika's lips curved into a small, triumphant smile. "And thank you, Brother Ronin!"
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