The next day, at dawn, the road was sealed off.
The once-forgotten alleyway now swarmed with police, cordoned off with yellow tape. Investigators moved in and out, collecting evidence under the pale morning light.
A burly man in a red windbreaker pushed through the gathering crowd. He crossed the police line without hesitation and stopped beside the body.
The victim was the middle-aged man Jackman had killed before chasing after Jon and Danai.
The man in the red windbreaker appeared to be in his thirties. He had a broad, square face that didn't show much age, just wear. He clearly didn't care for appearances—his hair was unkempt, and his stubble looked like it hadn't seen a razor in days.
He fished through his coat pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and lit one with a practiced flick.
"This is a crime scene. No smoking," one of the officers said sharply, attempting to stop him.
"Sorry," the man muttered, not sounding particularly sorry. "Just need a smoke when I'm thinking." He took one final drag and stubbed it out under his boot, then crouched beside the corpse.
The victim's body told a brutal story: comminuted fractures in the right arm and leg, a dislocated left shoulder, at least six broken ribs. Facial bones were completely shattered—likely the fatal blow. The rest of the injuries seemed more like post-mortem desecration than an actual fight.
The man studied the scene in silence, his eyes cold and analytical.
"The lab report is in," another officer said, handing him a folder. "The body found five kilometers away was confirmed to be Jackman. The material on his clothes matches what we found on Havill's face."
The man nodded slightly, flipping through the report.
Just then, another officer approached. "At a gas station two kilometers away, witnesses reported seeing Jackman chasing a child."
"Oh?" he said, glancing up. "Is there video?"
The officer handed him a tablet. The man began watching the footage, his brows tightening.
"Run a trace. I want to know who that kid is—now."
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Elsewhere, another ordinary day.
Jon leaned against the wall of the school playground, biting into a hot, cheesy slice of pizza. His eyes lazily tracked a soccer game in the distance, not really paying attention.
The classroom had become little more than a rest stop for him now. After all, he'd just graduated high school before transmigrating—Grade 6 math and grammar were mind-numbingly easy. Most days, he skipped school altogether.
Compared to yesterday, today felt almost... peaceful.
The battle with Jackman had been intense, but in hindsight, Jon had escaped with barely a scratch. He hadn't taken any serious direct hits—nothing that required Ripple healing. The worst of it was the damage to his clothes, but he was pleasantly surprised to discover that [Stone Free] could stitch fabric together with ease.
More importantly, the fight had been a huge gain.
Taking down an armored Nen user like Jackman wasn't just a win—it was a shortcut. Jon had skipped months of what would've been grueling training. The experience, the pressure, the survival instinct—it all sharpened his abilities rapidly. It had also earned him enough gold coins for another Stand card draw.
"Not a bad haul," Jon muttered to himself, finishing the last bite of pizza. "Maybe I should pick fights with Random Thugs more often."
Jon walked the last stretch of road alone as a light drizzle began to fall.
At the corner, under the dim glow of a lamppost, a young man in a red windbreaker leaned lazily against the post like a washed-up actor, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Then, slowly, his hand emerged from his coat pocket.
Palm facing Jon—coated in thick Nen.
Jon's instincts flared like a blaring siren. A fist-sized Nen bullet condensed in the air before the stranger's palm.
Jon's body tensed. His legs were already preparing to bolt.
The Nen bullet fired.
Jon ducked, narrowly evading it—only for the projectile to twist midair and come after him again like a homing missile.
"[Stone Free]!"
His Stand appeared in a flash, the tall blue figure materializing with a sharp ripple of energy. With a single punch, Stone Free shattered the weak Nen bullet.
The man in red smiled wickedly."Didn't think Jackmann would get killed by a little brat like you."
Jon narrowed his eyes, sizing the man up.
What is this? The classic trope? Beat the mini-boss, now the mid-boss shows up?
Was he about to get dragged into another mess?
Jon was ready to flip over his second Stand card if it came to that.
The stranger approached with an easy smile.
"Jon Berosevich. So it really is you. Didn't expect you to be the one who killed Jackmann."
Jon didn't lower his guard. Smiles meant nothing—especially after transmigrating into a world like this.
In other stories, the protagonist could instantly tell whether someone had murderous intent.
Jon? In his past life, he hadn't even killed a chicken. Yesterday was his first. He'd drowned Jackmann with his own hands. There was no way he could read a killer's intent just by looking.
"Relax," the man said. "I'm Robson Pont. Hunter Association specialist."
He pulled out a card and held it up—a genuine Hunter License.
"Jackmann was a notorious international criminal. A few rookies tried to hunt him with fake intel and got themselves killed. You, on the other hand…"
He flipped open a wanted poster. Jackmann's mugshot glared back.
Jon slowly dismissed Stone Free.
"That your Nen beast?" Robson asked with a smirk.
"I guess," Jon said.
Robson gestured to a coffee shop nearby. "Let's talk."
Inside, over warm drinks, Robson explained the truth behind Jackmann. He was a skilled treasure thief—though unlike most, he never crept in. He always went head-to-head, brute force over stealth.
His record? Long. His list of escapes? Longer.
Jon listened quietly, mentally noting everything.
If I had an ability like that, he mused, I'd be flying high too.
But in the end, Jackmann lost because of arrogance. He thought two kids were easy pickings and didn't bother activating his Nen properly. That gave Jon the opening to break his arm at the very start.
"I'm the one assigned to his case," Robson continued. "But you don't have to worry. I'll make sure your name doesn't end up in any reports or news. As far as the world's concerned, Jackmann vanished."
He paused, then added with interest, "Your ability's pretty unique. You could see my Nen bullet without using Gyo… That's rare. You've got talent—but no formal training. Mind showing me your strength?"
Jon's eyes lit up.
He had no idea how strong he'd become. Fighting Jackmann had been confusing and chaotic. He wanted a proper battle—one with clarity.
"Sure," Jon agreed.
— — —
They arrived at a small overgrown lot—an abandoned courtyard from a long-moved farmer's house. Tall weeds grew unchecked, and the only entrance was a narrow alley. Isolated. Quiet. Perfect.
Jon exhaled slowly, raising his hands in front of his chest.
Robson stood a few paces away, completely relaxed. Almost careless.
Then, without warning, he shot forward.
It was a trick—an expert maneuver using Nen. Robson's legs didn't seem to move, but his toes pressed lightly against the ground, channeling Nen into a sudden burst of movement.
It was the kind of feint that only worked against someone with no real combat experience—like Jon.
Robson's drooping hands suddenly rose like a salute, aimed straight at Jon's chin.
Jon's body couldn't react in time.
"Stone Free!"
The Stand appeared just in time to guard—but Robson's left hand bent mid-air, snaking around Stone Free's arms and striking Jon's chin directly.
Jon's head snapped back. The force lifted him off his feet.
Dammit—too fast!
He hadn't even had time to unravel into thread.
Jon flew four or five meters before crashing into the dirt. Robson had clearly held back. If he'd used his fingers instead of his palm, Jon might've been dead.
Jon groaned, wiping blood from his lip, and grinned faintly as he sat up.
"Okay," he muttered. "So this… is what a proper Nen user feels like."