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Chapter 100: Spence Manor
"This is the end of the line for the sedan," Damian said, easing the car to a halt. The paved road had long since given way to a narrow, overgrown trail where the encroaching roots of ancient trees clawed at the undercarriage. "Any further and we'll be high-centered. You'll have to hoof it from here."
As if on cue, the heavy, rhythmic thrum of engines echoed through the canopy. Ahead, a cloud of dust heralded the arrival of several motorcycles. The riders were lean and sun-hardened, their eyes hidden behind goggles and their hands steady on the grips of submachine guns. Unlike the ragtag Cleaning Squad, these were Spence's personal hounds—loyal, well-fed, and lethal.
"Fine. This is far enough," Ronin said, pushing the car door open. The humidity of the forest hit him, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. He paused, casting a look back at Damian through the window. "These are Spence's men? The ones who guard his inner circle?"
"The very same," Damian replied, lighting a fresh cigarette. "The elite of the elite—or as close as you get in a city of trash."
Ronin felt the weight of the stones he had been palming. They were jagged, unremarkable pieces of gravel, yet in his hands, they felt like live ammunition.
"I know the layout of the estate," Shizuku added, stepping out beside him. She looked entirely out of place in the lush greenery, her dark sweater and clinical expression a sharp contrast to the vibrant forest.
"I'm staying with the car," Damian said, making no move to follow. "But keep my number handy. When the dust settles and you're ready to leave this dump, I'll arrange a boat. Just remember: passage out of Meteor City is a luxury service. When you're standing over Spence's corpse, make sure to check his pockets—and his vault. Don't leave the gold for the scavengers."
"We appreciate the tactical advice," Kurapika said from the backseat, his voice calm but his eyes sharp with intent.
Damian grinned, flicking a glowing ember into the dirt. "Good luck. Give those high-and-mighty bastards a reminder of where they came from."
With a spray of gravel, the sedan roared into a tight U-turn and disappeared back toward the city just as the first motorcycle screeched to a halt twenty yards away.
Ronin took a slow, deliberate step forward.
His mind hummed with tactical data, pulling a specific memory from the Zoldyck estate: Gotoh, the butler, and his lethal coin-flicking. The technique was a masterpiece of hybrid Nen—using Enhancement to harden the projectile and increase the kinetic energy of the release, while simultaneously utilizing Emission to ensure the aura didn't dissipate mid-flight.
I don't need coins, Ronin thought, his fingers dancing over the stones.
He didn't have the years of muscle memory Gotoh possessed, but he had something better: the analytical precision of the Sharingan and a body forged through multiple systems of power. He pulled his arms back toward his hips, the stones nestled perfectly between his index fingers and the pads of his thumbs. He funneled a precise stream of Nen into the gravel, reinforcing the structural integrity of the rock so it wouldn't disintegrate under the sheer pressure of his grip.
As the lead biker raised his weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger, Ronin's thumbs snapped.
Sough!
Two stones cut through the air, leaving visible white streaks in their wake.
Thud!
The sound was sickeningly final. The stones punched through the foreheads of both the driver and the passenger as if they were made of wet cardboard. The bike wobbled for a second before flipping violently into the brush.
Ronin didn't wait to watch it crash. He became a blur of motion, his hands moving with the mechanical speed of a high-velocity assembly line. Stones were shuffled from his palm to his fingertips, each one receiving a lethal charge of Nen before being launched with a sharp clack.
The motorcycles were fast, but Ronin's projectiles were instantaneous. Within ten seconds, the forest path was a graveyard of twisted metal and silent bodies. Not a single shot had been fired in return.
Shizuku stepped forward, the familiar shape of [Blinky] materializing in her hands. She moved with the efficient, detached grace of a professional cleaner.
"Blinky, clean up the motorcycles and the trash," she said.
The vacuum's mouth opened wide, and the forest echoed with a powerful, localized suction. One by one, the heavy bikes and the corpses were dragged into the dark void of the machine. She even ran the nozzle over the blood-spattered grass, leaving the path pristine. Within two minutes, the evidence of the massacre was gone. Aside from the lingering smell of ozone and iron, the forest looked as though no one had ever passed through.
Guided by Shizuku, the group moved deeper into the woods, the trees growing taller and the shadows longer until the massive, stone-walled manor loomed ahead.
Inside, the atmosphere was far from serene. In a chamber filled with mahogany furniture and stolen art, Spence sat nursing a bandaged arm, his face a mask of sweating paranoia. On the floor before him lay a man who had once been a respected doctor in the city: Hiroki Murasaki.
Hiroki was a broken man, his clothes soaked in his own blood.
"You pathetic, sniveling worm!" Spence roared, kicking the man in the ribs. "It was the perfect plan! A fake assassination, a clean getaway while the Phantom Troupe chased shadows. And you? You let your own daughter see through the facade! You let her run to Ryan!"
Hiroki had been Spence's most trusted asset—a man who lived in the shadows to keep his family safe. But the fear of the Spiders had turned Spence into a madman. He had tried to stage his own death to escape Chrollo's retribution, but Hiroki had seen an opportunity to truly end the Elder's tyranny. The betrayal had been caught, the daughter had intervened, and now everything was burning.
"I'll kill her, Hiroki," Spence hissed, leaning down until his eyes were inches from the dying man's. "I'll drag that airheaded girl here and make her watch while I peel the skin from your bones. Your whole family will be a footnote in the history of this city."
Spence feared the Troupe—he feared the absolute, chaotic power they represented—but he didn't fear Ronin. He had seen the reports: a man who fought with his fists, a man who broke tanks.
Brute force is for animals, Spence thought as he straightened his suit and prepared to leave the room. I am a Conjurer. I don't need to be stronger than him; I only need to be smarter. I'll trap him in a world where strength means nothing.
He marched out of the room, leaving Hiroki Murasaki to twitch feebly on the floor.
"Shizuku... run..." the man whispered, his vision fading into a hazy gray. In the darkness of his closing mind, he saw his wife—the woman he had failed to protect—and his daughter, whose face he could no longer clearly remember.
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BOOM!
Ronin didn't look for a bell or a handle. He simply kicked the massive, wrought-iron gates of the manor. The hinges screamed as they were torn from the stone pillars, the heavy gates flying backward like discarded toys.
A small army of private guards stood on the other side, a wall of black suits and gleaming rifle barrels.
Only Shizuku stood at Ronin's shoulder. Kurapika and Neon had already vanished into the treeline, moving to secure the perimeter and look for secondary exits. While Kurapika's chains were a force of nature, he was still human; a stray bullet from fifty rifles could still end him.
But I've moved past that limitation, Ronin thought.
He felt the hum of the [Lightning Release Chakra Mode] beneath his skin, the blue electricity crackling softly in his hair. Combined with the [Weighted Rock Technique] to increase his density and the raw auxiliary power of his Enhancement, he felt like a mountain in human form.
He looked at the rifles pointed at his chest. He thought of Uvogin, the man who could catch an RPG with his bare hand. He was close now—closer than ever to that level of absolute physical dominance. Within a month, he would surpass the Spider's vanguard. After that, he would look toward Netero. And after Netero... the King.
"Who's first?" Ronin asked, his voice cutting through the cocking of fifty rifles.
The guards didn't answer. They opened fire.
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