Joey drove faster than when he came in—but his senses screamed at him: This won't be simple.
That "Foreigner Mark" had been too ominous. Too perfect.
He didn't have a way to trace those marks back, but that didn't matter. If someone was tailing him—he'd welcome it.
A fight meant intel. A fight meant advantage. A fight meant leverage.
As the SUV cut through the dunes, coins slipped from Joey's fingers, each one shifting midair into a tiny golden hummingbird, flying off behind him.
No ability was better for scouting than Gold Experience. If there was, Joey hadn't unlocked it yet.
He could now field fourteen hummingbirds. The number had grown—not from training, but from using the ability.
A passive evolution, perhaps. He wondered if it drained memory capacity, but didn't feel any burden so far.
Maybe creating the Weather Forecast Beast had also expanded his Manipulator-based control.
Either way, better control, more constructs—a net win.
Even his En (Aura Field) continued to expand without direct training—a passive benefit of constant combat and application.
Back when Kite told Killua his aura would grow simply by living—Joey had doubted it.
Now? Now he felt it.
He wasn't Killua's age, but he was still young, and he trained every day.
His wallet Nen also accelerated everything—mentally, physically, metaphysically.
Since leaving East Gorteau, it had been three months.
And even without Biscuit's training, his Nen had surged forward.
Now, at full output, his En could stretch to 2.7 meters radius.
That meant his total aura reserves had increased by over 10,000 since Gorteau.
For someone without a special mentor, that was insane.
Only freaks of nature with massive boosts could match that.
But now, with just over a month until the Hunter Exam, he had more to work on.
From Nob, he learned that the exam would be restructured this year—focused on recruiting specialists, particularly those willing to go to the Dark Continent.
Bad news for Joey—he had no intention of joining the Association's official convoy.
His feud with Kakin aside, the Association's tight leash under V5 made things politically sticky.
Even when Mizaistom personally reached out a few days ago, Joey remained reluctant.
That meant he might have to postpone getting his Hunter License.
Still, it wasn't vital.
The license only mattered in the Mobius Lake region.
Outside of that? Who cared.
Even boarding the B.W. No.1, it wasn't necessary.
But he still planned to attend—out of curiosity, if nothing else.
Whatever the outcome, after the exam he would infiltrate Kakin—secure boarding, gather intel, prepare for the worst.
The hummingbirds started dropping offline.
One made it back. The rest—gone.
Joey immediately understood: They'd been spotted. Eliminated.
Well, in a wide-open sand sea, flying golden birds were not subtle.
But even if their mission failed, they'd served their purpose: confirmed presence, confirmed pursuers.
He suspected the enemy had no Emitter on their team—otherwise the birds wouldn't escape.
Unless…
Unless they'd intentionally spared one, to let it fly back. A breadcrumb.
So they were tracking his route via tire tracks, most likely.
The mark was gone, but they might still have something else…
Time to test that.
Joey tossed out another handful of coins, which transformed into tiny sand vipers.
They slithered back, dragging loose sand to erase the tire tracks behind him.
Then burrowed underground, leaving no trace.
He checked his watch, adjusted his grip, eyes never leaving the road.
He stopped sending out birds—until one returned, following a predictable arc.
Bingo. They let it live.
That confirmed his theory—they were baiting him.
He switched tactics.
Every few kilometers, he dropped serpents into the sand.
Ten minutes later, he felt his constructs getting destroyed.
Contact.
Another five minutes—more losses.
Now he had a profile:
– One Tracker,
– One Ranged specialist,
– One or two Unknowns.
He summoned Killer Queen, reached out the window.
Alongside more snakes, he dropped a single lizard—tagged for detonation.
A few hundred meters ahead, he parked, ducked behind a dune.
Then let his En flare.
Within seconds, desert winds kicked up, burying his SUV in fine sand.
The trap was set.
More birds flew from his palm.
The plan was to split the enemy up—then strike hard.
Even Uvogin nearly died against the Insect Squad. Joey wasn't arrogant.
He intended to capture someone. That meant going all out.
Now, buried in sand, he waited…
The Saherta strike team entered the desert shortly after.
They immediately spotted golden birds circling overhead.
A skinny youth in the passenger seat squinted upward.
"Targets confirmed. Eliminate?"
The guy behind him pulled out a sniper rifle from under the seat.
"Whoa, whoa, Orlando, really?" the skinny guy sighed.
"Just birds. You could've used Nen bullets."
Orlando just shook his head.
"Who knows what kind of tricks they carry? Better safe than sorry."
"Leave one," said the driver, the muscular guy with the toothpick in his mouth.
No one argued.
Orlando opened the roof hatch, mounted his rifle.
In his palm, a bullet materialized—conjured from Nen.
He slid it into the chamber.
He pulled the trigger.
The man beside him, Dick, had a fang-faced insect resting on his shoulder.
As the bullet screamed through the air, the bug chuckled.
"You're just a trigger monkey, man," Dick grinned. "Why bother aiming?"
"That's the seventh time you've said that," Orlando muttered.
But he cast a greedy glance at Dick's parasite anyway.
"Don't even think about it."
Dick stroked the bug lovingly, like a pet or a lover.
The hummingbirds burst into coins as they were shot.
Only one remained. That one flew onward.
Orlando whistled, and the bullet reversed course, spinning in the air, landing back in his hand.
He licked the blood off the casing. The bullet giggled.
The driver chuckled. "Seems the controller's not very refined."
"Maybe it's just a side ability," Dick offered.
"After all, he's a revived Weapon."
"Still. That kind of transformation—item to life—costs a ton of control. Total waste."
"Can we kill him yet?" Skinny boy pouted, rubbing his chapped lips.
"My balm's almost out."
"Shut it. You think I want to be in this sandpit?" the driver snorted.
"Then hit the gas!"
"Orlando, birds again," Dick pointed upward.
"Damn it," Orlando growled.
As he raised the rifle again, a new swarm approached.
Boom!
Four birds down. All reverted to coins.
Still no tricks.
Just as he relaxed—
"Hmm?"
Skinny boy vanished.
Orlando froze.
A swiftlet perched on the missing man's shoulder, flapped once—and was gone.
No blood. No sound. Just… gone.
Fear prickled down Orlando's spine. He fired again.
Boom!
The swiftlet exploded into coins.
But he wasn't reassured.
A voice whispered in his ear:
"Long-range type, huh? Lucky."
He turned.
His arm was missing.
Before he could scream, darkness swallowed his vision.
His last thought:
That En… that sandstorm… this isn't just a Weapon. This is… something else.