Chapter 15: The Echo of the Freeze
The four boys—three, really, and one unconscious burden—moved through the fog.
Killua led the way with a casual, unnerving confidence. He didn't seem to be following a scent or a sound; he just... knew. He moved with a light, silent-footed grace that made Yuta, who prided himself on his own agility, look like a stumbling child. Gon and Kurapika, grim-faced, hauled Leorio between them, his feet dragging in the mud.
Yuta followed, his new position: the rear guard.
But he wasn't guarding. He was haunting. He ran on autopilot, his body moving, his mind trapped in the moments before.
Hisoka.
The name was a cold stone in his stomach. The jester's image was burned into his memory. The slitted, golden eyes. The purring voice. The aura... that pressure.
Yuta had faced danger. He'd scaled cliffs, outrun storms, and even reflected an Ember-Tusk's fireball. But that had been instinct. That had been a reaction to a clear, physical threat.
This was different. This was malice. This was a predator playing with its food, and Yuta had been, in that moment, nothing but food.
He had frozen.
His hand, which had been so steady against the Ember-Tusk, had trembled. His mind, which he'd always trusted to be sharp and observant, had gone utterly, terrifyingly blank. He hadn't been paralyzed by a question, like at the shack; he had been paralyzed by a presence.
The Blade of Reflection, his father's legacy, had been useless. Not because the blade had failed, but because he had. It was a shield, but what good was a shield if the man holding it couldn't even raise his arm?
He watched the three boys in front of him. Gon, in his reckless, beautiful bravery, had attacked. Leorio, in his own suicidal loyalty, had attacked. Kurapika had been ready. Even Killua, this new, cold boy, had stood with a bored, lethal calm.
Only Yuta had failed. He was the weak link. The chain had held in the storm, but in the swamp, his link had shattered.
"Wow, Killua, you're amazing!" Gon's voice, though strained from carrying Leorio, was still bright. "How'd you know where to go? And you found us right in time! That was so cool!"
Killua, without looking back, shrugged. "I'm used to this kind of thing. I just followed the path with the least resistance and the strongest scent of fear. You guys," he added, glancing back at Yuta, "reeked of it."
The comment was a physical blow. Yuta flinched, the hot, bitter shame rising in his throat.
"Yuta?"
Gon's voice was a pinprick, far away. Yuta was seeing the fog, but he was remembering the golden eyes. The blade felt cold. His father's words—I leave your mother in your responsibility—felt like a cruel joke. He couldn't even protect himself, let alone his friends. How could he ever protect his mother?
"Yuta? Hey, Yuta, are you okay?"
Yuta stumbled, nearly falling over a thick, exposed root. He snapped back to the present. The squelch of his boots in the mud. The smell of rot. The heavy weight of Leorio's groans.
He looked up. They had stopped. All three of them were staring at him. Gon, his face a mask of pure, open concern. Kurapika, his gray-blue eyes analytical and sharp, as if trying to solve a puzzle. And Killua... Killua's dark blue eyes were indifferent, but curious. The look a cat gives a strange, twitching bug.
"What's wrong?" Gon asked, shifting his grip on Leorio's arm. "You're as white as the fog. Are you hurt? Did that Hisoka guy do something to you?"
"No," Yuta said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, forcing strength into it. "No. I... I'm fine. Just... tired."
He looked away, unable to meet their eyes. He gripped the purple-stoned hilt of his blade, the Twilight Iris, his mother's flower. It felt like a prop. A child's toy.
"Come on," Killua said, his voice flat with impatience. "If you're going to slow us down, just say so. The exit is close."
He turned and started running again, a silent, silver-haired ghost.
Kurapika and Gon exchanged a worried look but heaved Leorio's weight and followed.
Yuta stood for one more second, alone in the mist. He sheathed his blade, the shing sounding like a final, damning judgment. Never again, he swore to himself, his voice trembling in his own head. I will never... freeze... like that again.
He ran, the shame a hot, driving coal in his stomach, pushing him forward.