Chapter 14: The Scent of Blood
The fog in this part of the swamp was different. It was denser, wetter, and eerily silent. The chattering of the man-eating creatures had faded, replaced by a tense, heavy quiet that felt, to Yuta, a thousand times more dangerous.
"I... I think I'm getting my second wind," Leorio panted, though he still sounded terrible.
"Shh," Gon whispered, stopping so suddenly Yuta almost ran into him. Gon's head was cocked, his expression no longer bright and cheerful. It was the face of a hunter. "Someone's... here."
A figure emerged from the mist. He was tall, and his body was a bizarre collection of sharp, triangular points and soft, puffy curves. He wore the makeup of a jester, or a clown, a white face with a red star on one cheek and a blue teardrop on the other. His red hair was spiked, and his smile... his smile was a sharp, predatory crescent.
He was carrying a man over his shoulder, a man from the group they'd seen at the shack. The man was... missing an arm.
"My, my," the figure's voice purred, a sound that was both silken and deeply unsettling. "What have we here? A lovely little collection of fruit, all ripe for the picking."
Yuta froze.
Every instinct in his body screamed danger. It wasn't the physical threat of the Ember-Tusk or the animalistic hunger of the swamp creatures. This was something else. It was an aura, a pressure, that felt like the air itself was turning to ice. It was the scent of blood, of malice, of absolute, soul-deep wrongness.
His hand snapped to the hilt of his blade, his fingers gripping the purple stone so tightly his knuckles turned white. He drew it, the shing of the mirrored steel impossibly loud in the silence.
The jester—Hisoka—stopped. His golden, slitted eyes swiveled from Gon to Kurapika, and then they landed on Yuta. On the blade.
His smile widened. It was not a happy expression.
"Oh," Hisoka breathed, his voice a low, excited hiss. "How pretty. A mirror. Does it reflect, I wonder? Does it show your... intent?"
Yuta couldn't move. He was pinned by that gaze. It was like a snake staring at a mouse. He wanted to run, but his feet, encased in his mother's hiking boots, felt like they were cast in lead. This... this is a Hunter. This is what my father... no. This is a monster.
"We have to help that man," Gon said, his voice a low, determined growl.
"Gon, no!" Kurapika hissed, grabbing his arm. "Don't you feel it? This man... he's on a completely different level!"
"I don't care!" Gon said, and he did the unthinkable. He raised his fishing rod, a simple, absurd-looking weapon, and charged.
"FOOL!" Leorio screamed, and in an act of bravery that was either suicidal or profoundly loyal, he also charged, his switchblade pathetic in his hand.
Hisoka simply... vanished.
He reappeared behind Gon, who was still in mid-air. "So fast," the jester mused, and he brought his hand up, not to strike, but to... pat Gon on the head.
But he never made it. At the last second, Leorio, in a desperate, lunging tackle, managed to slam his body into Hisoka's side.
THWACK.
The sound of a simple, open-handed chop echoed in the clearing. Leorio was sent flying, crashing into a giant, purple mushroom and slumping to the ground, unconscious.
"Leorio!" Kurapika and Gon screamed.
Yuta was still frozen. He's... he's dead. He killed him. He couldn't breathe. The Blade of Reflection felt impossibly heavy. It won't work. It won't work on him. He's physical. He's... he's...
"Now, now," Hisoka said, turning his lethal attention back to Gon. "Your friend was very rude."
"He's not my friend," a new voice said.
The voice was light, casual, and cold.
A new figure stepped out of the fog, walking with an unnervingly silent, feline grace. He was a boy, Yuta's age, with a shock of stark, silver-white hair and deep, impossibly blue eyes—a blue far darker and colder than Yuta's own. He was carrying a skateboard.
He stopped, his hands in his pockets, and looked at the scene with a bored, analytical gaze.
"That's just some guy I met on the ship," the silver-haired boy said, nodding at Leorio.
Hisoka paused, his golden eyes flicking to the newcomer. Hisoka studied him, and the newcomer studied him back. There was no fear. There was... recognition.
"Hm," Hisoka purred. "Another unripe fruit."
He turned back to Gon. "You... you interest me. You, too," his gaze flicked to Kurapika. "You may pass. I find you... acceptable."
He hefted the one-armed man. "But do try to be more careful. This swamp is a dangerous place."
And with a fluid, terrifying grace, he simply... walked away, melting back into the mist, his low, humming whistle the only sound he left behind.
The moment he was gone, the crushing, icy pressure vanished. Yuta fell to his knees, gasping, the Blade of Reflection clattering against the muddy ground. He was shaking violently.
"Leorio! Leorio, wake up!" Gon was frantically shaking their fallen friend.
"He's alive," Kurapika said, his voice trembling as he checked Leorio's pulse. "A simple chop. He was... toying with us."
Yuta stared at his own reflection in the muddy, mirrored surface of his father's blade. He saw a terrified, pale-faced, canary-haired child.
He had frozen. He had done nothing.
The silver-haired boy was watching him. His dark blue eyes were sharp, calculating. "You just stood there, holding that sword," the boy stated, his voice flat. "He would have killed you in a second. You're lucky he was just playing."
He walked over to Leorio, grabbed his arm, and helped Kurapika and Gon lift him.
"You're all amateurs," the boy said, but not unkindly. It was just a fact. "Come on. The exam site is this way. I can smell it."
"Wh-who are you?" Gon asked.
The boy glanced back, his expression unreadable.
"Killua."
.
.
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