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Chapter 2 – The White Executioner
The first whispers began in the rotting back alleys, carried in the hushed voices of scavengers and black market brokers. A faceless man, wrapped in shifting white armor, had started moving against the gangs. No one knew his name, and those who had seen his face weren't alive long enough to tell it. Some called him the White Executioner. Others simply said, don't cross the wax.
The Raging Tigers were the first to feel it. A small-time crew, loud with their motorcycles and even louder with their extortion. One night, they swaggered into a district market, weapons on display, looking for their weekly collection. They never came out. In the morning, merchants found them—frozen mid-motion inside gleaming white shells, faces twisted in horror, every detail preserved. No blood, no wounds, just wax. That same day, their headquarters was discovered sealed shut, the door covered in a smooth white wall that wouldn't break under crowbars or sledgehammers. By the time they cut through, the smell inside was enough to make men vomit.
Two weeks later, the Snake Machinery Group tried their luck. They brought rifles, machetes, even grenades. They thought numbers would drown the rumors. But in the dark streets, pale shapes began to move—walls, spikes, ropes, all white and gleaming under flickering street lamps. Their bullets vanished into the wax, swallowed whole. Men screamed as tendrils wrapped their throats, crushed their windpipes, and dragged them into the darkness. By morning, only their leader remained, suspended in midair by a single wax chain, his eyes wide and unblinking.
The killings didn't stop.
Over the next three months, the Iron Fang Brotherhood, the Black Wheel Crew, the Ash Serpents—names that had ruled neighborhoods for years—were erased one by one. Witnesses spoke of a ghostly figure, sometimes slim and human-shaped, sometimes towering and monstrous, always wreathed in shifting white armor. They said the wax moved like it had a mind of its own, sprouting spikes from the ground, sealing doors, strangling men before they could scream.
He didn't just kill. He erased.
And with every fight, his control grew sharper. At first the wax came only from his hands, then from his whole body. He could harden it to steel or make it flow like water. By the time his mastery reached thirty percent, he could send detached pieces crawling through alleys, silent scouts that reported back in tactile vibrations only he could sense. No one in the city understood what they were dealing with—until the underworld pooled their resources and hired killers who could use Nen.
They came at him one humid night, thirty-three in all, slipping through the abandoned districts like predators. Some were Enhancers with the strength to punch through walls. Others were Conjurers with weapons of their own making, or Manipulators with invisible strings ready to control his body the moment they touched him. They found him walking through a market square, his pace unhurried. The street lamps flickered, throwing his shadow long.
"You've made the city quiet," their leader said, a scarred man with aura swirling around his fists. "Too quiet. Let's make it loud again."
Majin didn't answer. He just looked at them, eyes calm, and lowered his hand to the cracked asphalt.
The ground beneath them rippled. Pale liquid spread outward, pooling around their feet. At first it was just slick underfoot, then it began to thicken, swallowing boots and sandals. One man cursed and tried to jump away—too slow. The wax surged upward, forming spikes that punched through his ankles. His scream broke the silence.
The rest moved to attack, but the pale ground betrayed them. Wax tendrils shot up, coiling around arms and necks, tightening until joints snapped and blood spilled. The leader leapt forward, his fist cocked, but a wall of wax rose in front of him, absorbing the blow with a dull thud.
Then Majin's voice came, low and cold. "Great Swamp of Wax."
The street turned into a killing field. Spikes erupted from every direction, skewering legs, torsos, throats. Ropes as hard as iron snaked around bodies, twisting until bones splintered. In less than a minute, thirty-three Nen users were nothing more than grotesque statues, locked in their final moments of agony. The smell of blood mixed with the faint, cloying scent of wax. Majin stepped through them like a man walking through a graveyard he'd made himself.
By the end of that night, every major gang still standing knew the White Executioner wasn't just a rumor. He was a purge, and Meteor City was his hunting ground.
The year that followed was nothing but fear. Gangs tried to hide, scattering into smaller crews. They spread lies about his death, sent decoys to draw him out, even put bounties on his head. Nothing worked. Whenever a new group tried to claim territory, the wax found them. It crawled through cracks in their hideouts, seeped under doors, and struck without mercy.
When Majin's mastery reached forty percent, his power took a new form—one that would end the last real opposition in the city.
The Bone Serpent Syndicate had been watching him for months, holding back, studying his fights. When they finally moved, they brought with them a man they believed was unstoppable: an Enhancer-type Nen user known only as Gragg, a killer so strong his fists could pulverize steel beams.
They chose the ruins of an old factory as their arena. Moonlight poured through shattered windows, pooling on the dusty floor. Gragg stepped forward, massive arms bare, aura flaring like red flames.
"I've heard you hide behind your tricks," he said, voice thick and guttural. "Let's see you hide from this."
Majin stood still. Then the wax began to pour from his body—first in streams, then in sheets, wrapping his limbs, his chest, his head. It didn't stop. Layer after layer built upon itself, rising higher, wider, until Gragg found himself staring up at something inhuman.
A giant of wax, twenty meters tall, stood where Majin had been, its surface gleaming under the moonlight. Its eyes glowed faintly white, its fists like boulders.
Gragg grinned and charged. His first punch landed square in the giant's chest with a sound like a hammer hitting metal. The wax dented but didn't break. The giant's arm swung down, its fist smashing into the floor where Gragg had been a second before, sending a shockwave through the factory.
Gragg leapt onto the giant's arm, racing upward, aura flaring. He drove a punch into its shoulder hard enough to crack the surface. The wax shuddered—then closed around his arm like a vice. Tendrils lashed out, wrapping his legs, his waist, his free arm.
"You think strength alone wins fights?" Majin's voice echoed from within the giant, deep and resonant. "Strength can be contained."
The tendrils pulled. There was a sound like green wood snapping. Gragg's roar turned into a scream, then a wet gurgle. When the wax released him, he crumpled to the floor, limbs twisted, chest unmoving.
The Bone Serpent Syndicate broke that night. Those who survived scattered into the city's shadows, leaving their weapons and territory behind.
By winter's first frost, the underworld of Meteor City had been gutted. No banners hung over the alleys. No crews patrolled the markets. The black markets were empty of weapons dealers. The old graffiti had been painted over in fresh white—the same white that coated the executioner's victims.
No one knew his name. No one dared to ask. They only knew that if you crossed him, the wax would come.
And somewhere beyond the city's poisoned borders, rumors were spreading. The Hunter Association was listening. So were the black markets of Yorknew, and the shadows of the Zoldyck estate.
It would not be long before the world outside decided to test the man they only called the White Executioner.
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