Nen is a power anyone can awaken, hidden inside every human body.
Yet most of the world has no idea it exists.
Even so, some who reach the absolute peak of their craft unknowingly use Nen—extreme focus, or emotions poured into flawless technique.
That's why handmade objects can carry lingering aura.
Moro called them Nen-charged items, or simply Nen relics.
Most of the aura on them is faint; you need Gyo to even see it clearly.
But the miraculous part:
That faint aura defies time. It survives centuries, even millennia.
Long after the creator is dust and the object itself is crumbling, the aura remains.
Like it's time's natural enemy. Awe-inspiring.
Moro ran his fingers along the scabbard.
Senra—that was the katana's name.
Among every Nen relic he'd ever touched, Senra ranked in the top three for aura density.
You could see the aura drifting off it like smoke even without Gyo.
If he hadn't learned its full backstory from a colleague in his previous life, he never could've bought it at such a steal.
If memory served, Senra's final recorded sale was 1.26 billion jenny.
And that was depressed because it was tied to a murder case. Clean provenance? It would've gone higher.
Moro didn't try absorbing the aura right away. He wrapped Senra back in the black cloth.
The masked seller quickly checked a few bills for counterfeits, snapped the briefcase shut without counting, and glanced at Moro.
"All good?"
He kept the case in one hand, the other behind his back, eyes scanning the alley.
Moro had seen the paranoia. Expected, considering Senra's blood-soaked history.
He nodded.
"Good."
The seller backed away several steps, then bolted around the corner.
Rapid footsteps faded fast—guy was terrified of a double-cross.
Totally normal for Yorknew.
Opportunities everywhere, malice included.
Moro took the other direction, Senra in hand.
Back at the cheap hotel, he unwrapped the blade again.
Red-and-white striped lacquer on the scabbard, ash-gray handle and tsuba. Age showed, but beautifully.
He pushed the guard up with his thumb.
Sching—
As the blade cleared the sheath, aura poured out like smoke, then settled evenly across the steel.
The edge caught the light, reflecting Moro's face perfectly.
An unsharpened, bloodless katana.
Yet the aura clinging to it was thick and unmistakable.
Hard to imagine what overwhelming emotion the smith had forged into it.
Moro stared at the sheathed Senra, then willed the Annual Rings to drink.
The aura surged visibly into his right hand.
In seconds it was gone.
He looked at the back of his hand.
The second ring now had a thin green segment—about 3–4% filled.
Normally that much aura would take five or six weaker relics.
Senra really was exceptional. Worth the hijack.
"The absorption function still works… but…"
Moro let go of the katana and raised his hand to his face, eyes narrowing in thought.
Filling the first ring had let him escape death and regress, plus loaded some basic info into his mind.
But only about the first ring. Nothing about the others.
He'd had to absorb Senra just to confirm the function hadn't vanished.
So he still had no idea…
Would filling the second ring grant another regression on death?
Moro lowered his hand and shook his head slightly.
Compared to the still-mysterious rings, other priorities came first.
But once he flipped Senra, he'd have cash flow to buy every Nen relic he could find.
Two birds, one stone.
With that in mind, he started planning how to sell it.
All he knew was the murder case and the final 1.26 billion price tag.
Everything in between was a blank.
Risk was guaranteed.
But Moro wasn't the type to play it safe.
Fortune favors the bold; the timid starve.
Half a year in the antique game had hammered that home.
"Hm?"
He suddenly looked toward the door.
At the same moment.
Outside in the hallway.
Two burly men crept forward, backs to the wall.
They took positions on either side of the door, exchanged a glance, then stared at the handle.
…
A brightly lit kitchen.
Under harsh lights, a naked boy lay on the steel counter.
Beside him stood a handsome man in a pristine white suit, scalpel in hand.
He sliced open the boy's chest with clinical focus.
Blood sprayed as skin and vessels parted, splattering the white suit crimson.
If Moro were here, he'd recognize the boy—one of the kids from the cage truck.
The man in white paused.
"How many still missing?"
"One."
A group watched from the side. One stepped forward.
The man in white looked up.
"Number 11?"
"Yes, sir."
A respectful bow.
The man narrowed his eyes.
"If you can't retrieve it, kill yourself."
"Understood."
The subordinate answered calmly, as if his life meant nothing.
…
Hotel room.
A corpse lay beside the door.
Across the room, on the floor near the sofa, the second thug was still breathing—barely.
Moro crouched, casually spinning a freshly confiscated pistol.
"Bloodhound dogs, huh… followed the scent right to me."
A cold glint passed through his eyes.
"Perfect. I've got a little job for you."
"!!!"
Realizing the ice in Moro's voice, the thug's face filled with terror.