Hunter x Hunter: The Strongest Zoldyck

"Feed...Machi?"

In a double room on the 99th floor of a hotel, Hisoka, standing in a pool of blood, dialed a cell phone number.

He stood in the center of the room, holding the telephone receiver in his right hand, his eyes lowered, watching the slender fingers of his left hand stretch slightly under the light, then slowly clench. His bare feet were on the floor, and not a drop of blood stained his body.

As he closed his left hand, his knuckles made a cracking sound like popping beans.

It sounded like bones turning in their joint sockets—dry, crisp, with a mechanical, emotionless rhythm.

Throughout the conversation, Hisoka maintained a faint smile, his long, narrow golden eyes narrowed into slits, revealing an unusual excitement—no, more accurately, a state of euphoria.

"I'll pick you up at six tomorrow... my dear Machi."

"No need, just prepare the money..."

A clear, cold female voice came from the other end of the microphone. The voice was neither loud nor soft, and it had a faint, crisp sound, like ice being broken. It was clear, cold, and devoid of warmth.

That was Machi's voice.

The only healer in the Phantom Troupe, a manipulator of Nen threads, a woman who can sew up blood vessels, nerves, and bones with silk threads, and the process of her suturing is so delicate that it is like weaving an invisible painting.

Outside of her guild, she is also one of the top shell doctors in the underworld, a doctor who charges exorbitant fees.

Hisoka had met Machi a long time ago, and on their first meeting, he was captivated by her exquisite skills, especially her hands... and the Nen threads that glowed with a faint blue light.

Those fine, hair-like threads of thought extending from her fingertips... Under the light, they resembled spider webs and silkworm silk, weaving, entwining, and knotting between her fingers, creating a miraculous skill.

His hand was broken twice, and she reattached it both times.

"Ten billion jinni?" Hisoka's voice was very soft, so soft that it sounded like he was talking to himself.

"One hundred billion jini." The voice on the other end of the microphone coldly uttered five words, not a single word more, seemingly unwilling to communicate with Hisoka any further.

"Deal!" Hisoka's lips curled slightly... not in a smile, but in a knowing way.

beep!......

After a busy tone, the other end of the line hung up.

"Sigh, still so... indifferent."

He took the phone off his ear and held it up to his eyes. Through the gray velvet on the receiver, Hisoka seemed to see the figure on the other end of the line.

That figure, only 159 centimeters tall and petite, exuded a sharp and cold aura.

She has her signature medium-length purple hair, with the ends curling outwards, giving her a neat and capable look.

Her purple eyes were sharp and cold, and she was always expressionless. She wore a modified purple kimono with a short hem, long legs, and a wide belt decorated with skulls around her waist.

He gives off a dangerous and mysterious vibe.

Boom!

Hisoka stared at the phone for a few seconds, then casually tossed it onto the bed, turned his gaze back to the number on the screen, and chuckled to himself.

"How interesting... I never expected to get to taste the deliciousness of an 'apple' so early..."

"Don't worry... I'll be very gentle and patient. I'll just lick it once, just once."

With a sneer, he stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the night view of Tramia is like an unfolded scroll, with thousands of lights scattered like gold dust, and the outline of the sea can be faintly seen on the distant horizon.

The wind was strong, but the soundproof glass kept it out. The room was as quiet as a container that had been emptied of air; there was nothing there but himself and his shadow.

No, that's not right. There's also the headless corpse lying in a pool of blood.

Looking out the window, Hisoka reached out and touched the cool glass with his fingertips, leaving a faint fingerprint on its smooth surface.

The fingerprint gleamed faintly under the light, like a line just drawn, connecting his finger to the night sky outside the window... and also to the playing card between his fingers.

Crack!

A slightly muscular figure crashed into the glass.

Countless tiny shards of glass drifted down like petals, scattering and emitting diamond-shaped, silvery-white light in the deep night.

In the dappled light, the martial artist's headless corpse appeared and disappeared, before finally sinking into the black night without causing a ripple.

"Oh dear... I think I've spotted something..."

Standing before the shattered windowpane, Hisoka exclaimed in slight surprise:

"No...no...I have to make it up to you."

As he spoke, Hisoka turned around and stretched out his right hand toward a round object in the corner, saying:

"Love that can stretch and contract freely..."

His right hand was spread out with his palm facing the corner, his fingers slightly bent, like an eagle's claws closing in.

Instantly, an invisible stream of Nen extended from his palm, like a stretched piece of chewing gum, shooting out from his fingertips and tracing a curved, almost invisible path through the air. That path crossed the boundary between light and shadow, bypassed the dark red, slowly spreading puddle of water on the floor, and precisely wrapped itself around the round thing in the corner.

The head of a militant.

Guided by Nen, the head slowly rolled out from the corner, bounced once on the floor, and then bounced again, like a ball discarded by a child.

Snapped!

Hisoka flicked his wrist slightly.

It sprang up from the floor, tracing a short, not-so-graceful arc in the air, before landing steadily in his palm.

"I almost forgot about you." Hisoka reached out his left hand, grabbed the head's chin, turned its face to face, and looked it over as if admiring a piece of work that he was not entirely satisfied with.

Then... he turned around and held the severed head up to the window.

The broken glass reflected Hisoka's handsome, cold face and dilated pupils on the window frame, along with his gray head filled with panic.

The two objects exuded an eerie atmosphere under the cold white light.

"Good night."

Hisoka released his grip. The head slipped from his palm, tracing a short, heavy arc through the night sky, like a thrown stone, like a dropped lead weight, falling into the dark garden below.

The sound of branches breaking came up from downstairs, faint and muffled, like a muffled sigh.

Then Hisoka withdrew his right hand and took a step back.

He stood by the window, his red hair billowing in the wind blowing through the cracks in the broken glass, swaying in the lamplight like a burning fire.

He glanced down at his right hand... There was a small patch of dark red bloodstain in his palm, the blood from that head, which had begun to congeal, forming a thin, cracked film on his skin.

He brought his hand to his mouth, stuck out the tip of his tongue, and licked his palm.

Salty, with a metallic, metallic taste.

"Tomorrow..." His voice was very soft, so soft it was as if he were talking to the wind, or as if he were talking to himself:

"...Don't let me down."