HxH: Ryomen... Satoru?

"I..." The woman hesitated, clearly reluctant, but after glancing at Kleiber's miserable state, she finally handed over the card.

Although...

She averted her gaze, a fleeting guilt flashing in her eyes.

Most of the money had already been spent.

As for where it went...

She instinctively touched her earrings and necklace, keeping silent.

Cyr didn't reach for the card. Instead, he stared at the woman with an impassive expression.

So, the card's empty—she's already spent it all. Probably on jewelry and clothes.

Whatever. Kleiber Far himself is still worth 200 million. Better than nothing.

Even if I kill her, I wouldn't get any extra money anyway...

What a hassle. Maybe I should just kill her too.

"This handsome young man, what are you thinking about?" The woman's instincts made her speak up immediately.

Those instincts had saved her life countless times before.

She had a nagging feeling that if she didn't speak now, she might never get the chance again.

"...Forget it." Cyr shifted his gaze and, without turning back, raised his hand and made a slight motion with his fingers.

Behind him, Kleiber's life was instantly extinguished.

The man's head rolled to Cyr's feet with a dull thud.

"You can leave now," he said, casually kicking the head like a soccer ball, rolling it back and forth under his foot. At the same time, he pulled out his phone to submit the bounty task and notify the local police to clean up the scene.

The woman, now pale and trembling, didn't dare say a word. Hearing his final remark, she turned and fled without looking back.

Half an hour later, the police arrived and efficiently cleaned up the mess.

The bounty money was transferred to Cyr's account.

"Finally, all the tasks I took on are done..." Cyr muttered as he strolled down the street, putting away his phone after seeing the payment notification.

He had no intention of taking on any more tasks. Hunting criminals was too troublesome—and honestly, a bit boring.

Cyr freely admitted to himself that he was someone with only fleeting enthusiasm.

He had chosen to become a bounty hunter in the first place simply because it seemed cool. After all, in many novels, characters with bounty hunter identities were always mysterious, stylish, and badass.

For someone with a deep love for anime and a flair for dramatics, the appeal had been irresistible.

So he decided to give it a shot.

After trying it out, Cyr quickly found bounty hunting dull. He lost interest and decided to switch directions.

Yorknew's secondhand markets operated both day and night.

During the daytime, the goods at the market were fairly ordinary, with moderate value. Most vendors were regular people.

But at night…

Cyr's gaze swept over items still stained with blood or dirt, and he smirked.

These were either looted from murders, stolen from ruins, or dug up from someone's grave.

The vendors at night were clearly not amateurs. They set reasonable prices—not expensive, but not cheap enough to yield significant profit. At best, you might snag a small bargain, but nothing substantial.

After browsing the entire market, Cyr concluded it was all the same. No real treasures to be found, and no great deals.

Plus, without proper documentation or certificates, these goods were difficult to resell.

Buying anything might just leave him stuck with it.

So, Cyr didn't buy anything, casually wandering through the market instead.

"My current balance is 4.5 billion," he calculated, clicking his tongue in disbelief.

Half of that came from the casino, and the other half from exploiting criminals. Even so, it wasn't enough to reach 5 billion.

He still needed another 5.5 billion to buy his next target.

"Such a pain…" he muttered, kicking a small rock in irritation. He suddenly turned and snapped, "Come out."

The pebble, propelled by his kick, turned into a bullet-like projectile, striking someone behind him in the knee with pinpoint accuracy.

The man screamed as he fell to one knee, clutching his leg.

Being broke was frustrating enough—having rats tailing him made it worse.

The rest of the group hidden in the crowd took the hint and bolted.

Cyr glanced at the fleeing figures, saying nothing as he shifted his gaze. The next moment, the running silhouettes were sliced clean in half.

Screams erupted as bystanders scattered, clearing the area.

To the terrified onlookers, it seemed as if the runners had been sliced apart out of nowhere—a scene straight out of a horror movie.

The man with the injured knee staggered to his feet, trying to escape on his good leg. But when he saw what happened to his companions, he wisely gave up on the idea.

"Why were you following me?" Cyr asked, walking up to the man. Without waiting for a response, he kicked him squarely in the stomach.

After kicking the man to the ground, Cyr stood over him, gazing down with an air of disdain.

Useless trash like this should only look up to him from below.

"Hey, no need to be so violent, right? This road isn't yours," the man said awkwardly, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as he suppressed the pain.

"Ah, true..." Cyr nodded in agreement.

This wasn't his private road, after all.

It seemed as though the man's words had convinced him, as the white-haired boy gave a slight nod.

But before the man's face could light up in relief, his head was cleanly severed from his neck.

"However, you got one thing wrong. I don't need a reason to kill you."

The white-haired, blue-eyed boy crouched down calmly and retrieved a camera from the now-headless corpse.

Flipping through the pictures, he discovered they were all of him.

"Not bad... You actually captured me quite handsomely," Cyr muttered, stroking his chin with a tone full of admiration.

He had noticed these guys lurking in the crowd and secretly taking pictures of him ever since the secondhand market. They had been following him ever since.

If they hadn't trailed him, he wouldn't have cared about being photographed.

Being good-looking and snapped by strangers wasn't new to him—he was used to it. Back at cosplay events, hundreds, even thousands of people would line up for photos with him.

But stalking? That was crossing the line.

"Still, what were they planning to do with my photos?" Cyr mused, looking at the images of himself with slight confusion.

Were they planning to sell his pictures to some rich socialite or elderly admirer with unique tastes? Once someone showed interest, they'd kidnap him and deliver him to the buyer?

This was Yorknew, after all—a city controlled by the mafia. Such a scenario wasn't impossible.

"Should've left one alive," Cyr lamented.

Pretend to be weak, let them successfully kidnap him, wake up in some rich widow's or old man's bedroom, scare them half to death, kill a few of their henchmen as a warning, then sit down for a nice, polite discussion about mental damages.

As an innocent tourist, being kidnapped deserved compensation, didn't it? It was only fair.

If that worked, the remaining 5.5 billion wouldn't be a problem at all.

"Damn it, killed them too fast. Can't let that happen next time," Cyr muttered, clutching his chest in frustration. Missing out on billions truly left him heartbroken.

Still, he couldn't just keep the photos.

Who knew if someone in this world had an ability tied to photos for nefarious purposes?

With that in mind, he casually tossed the camera to the ground and crushed it underfoot.

Hopefully, even without the photos, someone would come looking for him.

"Good luck, guys. My next purchase depends on you. Don't keep me waiting too long."

With a spring in his step, Cyr hummed a lighthearted tune and walked away.

°°°

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