"Hmm?"
Jon's eyes narrowed as he gazed at the distant sky. High above the dense forest canopy, a second airship had begun to emerge, its silhouette slowly forming against the afternoon light.
"...That's odd."
There was something immediately unsettling about it—not just its sudden appearance, but its behavior. The craft wasn't maintaining altitude like a standard transit model. Instead, it was... descending.
Not abruptly, but subtly. Gradually. Purposefully.
Airships weren't supposed to descend in a place like this. There were no landing zones here. No clearings, no signal flares, no towers to communicate with. It was deep wilderness—hostile, uncharted, and empty.
And yet this airship was lowering itself almost exactly above the site where Jon's own had just exploded barely an hour ago.
Too precise. Too clean.
Too coincidental.
Jon felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.
"No way," he muttered, his instincts flaring. "This isn't random."
This—this was a setup.
Someone was orchestrating something here. Whether it was reconnaissance, retrieval, or a second attack, Jon didn't know—but he didn't believe in coincidences that showed up right after a mass murder attempt.
He was trained better than that.
Without hesitation, Jon activated 'In', masking his aura completely. His presence vanished like a phantom swallowed by the wind. Every movement became controlled, his steps ghostly silent. His heartbeat slowed to match the ambient noise of the woods.
He crouched low, eyes locked onto the descending airship.
"Whatever this is," he whispered, "it's connected. Either salvation or another storm. But I'm not walking away from this empty-handed."
Whether it carried enemies, survivors, supplies, or secrets—it didn't matter.
That airship held answers.
And Jon needed them.
As Jon silently stalked the descending airship through the brush, something sharp pierced the silence—a blinding flash in the sky.
A high-speed Nen Bullet.
It cut across the sky like a railgun blast, glowing with thick, high-density Nen. Even from hundreds of meters away, Jon could feel the power radiating off it. It was a shot meant for destruction, not warning.
It struck the airship's balloon with pinpoint precision.
BOOOOOM.
A wave of heat washed over the treetops as the explosion lit up the sky. Shrapnel and flame tore through the hull, and a dozen shadowed figures were flung from the sides of the ruptured ship, spinning through the air like broken dolls.
They landed—hard—about five kilometers away.
Jon didn't wait.
With [Stone Free] boosting his speed, he dashed through the underbrush like a shadow, body unwinding into threads to slip between obstacles.
Yet halfway there, a shiver ran down his spine.
His heart skipped.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
His instincts, honed from battle after battle, screamed danger. It was the same feeling he'd had on the airship, right before the explosion. That sixth sense wasn't just paranoia—it was premonition.
Jon froze, crouching low behind a moss-covered log.
He bit his lip. Should he continue?
He hesitated... but only briefly.
"I have [King Crimson] and [Man in the Mirror]. If it's bad, I run. If it's worse, I erase time. If it's hell… I rewrite the script."
He advanced.
As he approached the crash site, the battle came into view.
He peered through the thick foliage.
There they were—a dozen elite fighters, all surrounding one girl.
The same little girl who had shot him down midair earlier. She looked even more formidable now—calm, composed, and merciless, firing Nen projectiles with surgical precision. Her aura shimmered like heatwaves in the air.
Behind her, the middle-aged man was being dragged backward, constantly shielded by her counterfire.
Jon stayed hidden, body pressed against a wide tree trunk, eyes tracking every movement.
She's protecting him like he's important, Jon thought. So who is he?
Just then—
PCHH.
Jon froze.
A sharp foreign object was injected in the back of his neck.
His eyes widened. "Wh—"
Before he could react—
SHUNK.
A second object embedded itself into his forehead, just above his right eyebrow.
Everything stopped. For one horrifying moment, Jon thought his skull had split. Sweat trickled down his temple.
Thankfully it didn't hurt his forehead at all due to his string-like body.
"What the fuck!?"
He reached up, hands trembling.
Had it gone deeper, five millimeters more, and his brain would've been pulp.
Cold dread rushed through him. That attack had come out of nowhere. His 'In' had failed. His stealth was meaningless.
Who could detect him through perfect concealment…?
Jon's eyes darted toward the trees, scanning for movement.
That's when he saw him.
A tall figure emerged, thin as a blade and dressed in black.
Pale, expressionless face filled with needles.
His gaze—cold, detached, clinical.
And his aura... was suffocating.
"...Danger," Jon whispered. "That's danger incarnate."
The attacker's presence was unmistakable.
Illumi Zoldyck.
Jon's throat went dry.
He wasn't facing some nameless assassin. He was face-to-face with a professional killer—one of the Zoldyck family's deadliest weapons.
Jon's heart pounded. He felt like prey under a predator's gaze.
The time to act was now.
In the heart of the dense, emerald forest, towering trees loomed like ancient guardians, their thick canopies blotting out much of the sunlight. The usual chorus of insects and birds had vanished—replaced by something far more violent.
The echo of distant explosions still reverberated through the trees, accompanied by the scattered sounds of rustling brush, panicked birds, and sharp footsteps. It was no longer a forest of peace. It was a battleground.
Jon stumbled back, breath caught in his throat. His eyes locked onto the figure in front of him—thin, doll-like, and absolutely still.
The man's body was mechanically lean, and dozens of needle-like protrusions jutted out from his skin, some twitching as if alive. His face was eerily blank, like a wax figure carved without a soul. But Jon knew exactly who this was.
"Illumi Zoldyck."
The infamous assassin. Killua's older brother. A cold-blooded, emotionless executioner known for manipulating corpses and emotions alike with frightening precision.
Jon gritted his teeth, his muscles tensed. That close brush with death—the needles that had almost pierced his brain—was still too fresh.
Illumi tilted his head slightly, emotionless as ever.
"You're not Orlando's bodyguard, are you?"
The question was flat, devoid of tone. A passing curiosity, as if asking the weather.
Jon blinked. "...No. I don't know who that is."
Even as he responded, he reached up and yanked out one of the Nen-infused needles lodged in his skin. The aura it radiated was corrosive, sinister. It had been meant to dominate his nervous system.
Illumi simply nodded.
"I see."
Then, with casual disinterest, he turned around—as if nothing had happened.
"Sorry about that."
The apology wasn't sincere. It wasn't even human. Just a hollow sound, like someone reading off a script without knowing the meaning of the words.
And that's when Jon snapped.
Whether it was the pent-up stress from the crash, the brush with death, or the sheer disrespect of being attacked and dismissed like a bug—rage surged through him.
A molten, irrational kind of fury. One that crackled in his chest like static electricity.
Maybe it was the arrogance of having mastered multiple Nen types. Maybe it was the confidence of having powerful stands like [Stone Free], [Man in the Mirror], and [King Crimson]. Maybe it was the absurdity of nearly dying while Illumi casually walked away like it meant nothing.
But one thing was clear.
Jon had had enough.
"...You son of a bitch."
Jon's mouth moved—but not under his control.
"Where the hell do you think you're going!?"
The voice that came from his lips was cold. Metallic. Not his own.
Jon froze, startled.
He hadn't said that.
His eyes widened. His limbs were tense—but he hadn't willed them to be. Something else was moving his body. Something angry. Something unchained.
It wasn't like Illumi's manipulation. It wasn't external.
It was from within.
"What the hell...?"
Even as Jon panicked, his body shifted on its own—advancing toward Illumi with an aura so murderous, so pure in its hatred, that even Illumi felt a spike of alarm crawl down his spine.
The assassin, who had weathered countless life-and-death battles without blinking, felt it immediately.
This kid… isn't the same.
Illumi slowly turned around.
The harmless lamb he'd dismissed seconds ago now radiated a presence so violent it distorted the Nen in the air. It wasn't a tantrum. It was predator-level killing intent. And it was aimed squarely at him.
Illumi's eyes narrowed.
That wasn't supposed to happen. He had pegged Jon as cautious and reactive—maybe even submissive in the face of danger. He'd even considered recruiting him. After all, the kid hadn't flinched when he was stabbed by a control needle. He just stood there and… took it.
Now that very same kid was staring at him like he was already dead.
"...Oh?" Illumi said quietly.
To test the waters, he spoke again, this time with a bit more caution. "I'll give you 200 million Jenny as compensation. How about that?"
He was trying to gauge Jon's response, determine whether this murderous impulse was calculated… or erratic.
But Jon's mouth twisted into a cruel, sardonic grin.
"Two hundred million, huh? Sounds generous…"
He took a step forward. The forest around him seemed to wither under the sheer malice emanating from his skin.
"But I'll have to refuse."
Jon's lips curled further, almost involuntarily.
"My favorite thing is saying 'no'... to arrogant pricks who are full of themselves..."
The words came unfiltered—too dramatic, almost cringe-worthy. The kind of line a manga villain would spout in a showdown. And Jon, somewhere inside his own body, groaned.
"God, did I really just say that...?"
No. He hadn't. Not really.
He hadn't been the one talking.
That was when realization dawned on him—chilling and surreal.
"This isn't just a power... It's a personality."
Just like Diavolo had Doppio—Jon now realized that the Stand [King Crimson] didn't just grant power. It bred it.
And that pink face on King Crimson's forehead, that twisted, silent grin—that was him. A fragment of Jon's psyche that had split off, hardened by battle, hatred, and near-death experiences.
What Jon didn't know was that Diavolo awakened King Crimson because he had a dual personality, while Jon was the opposite - he developed a dual personality because of King Crimson.
The forest had gone utterly still.