The curtains were tightly drawn, and the dim office relied solely on incandescent lighting.
A middle-aged man sat within, his tightly furrowed brows seemingly capable of crushing a fly. Around him, the bodyguards stood silently, saying nothing.
Dorinck had been in a foul mood these past few days.
For some reason, the incident at his casino—where someone had caused a massive scene—had spread like wildfire. Now, whenever he went out to meet people, they would greet him with cheerful smiles and say, "I heard someone trashed one of your casinos? What bad luck!"
His accumulated anger was becoming more and more intense, like a bomb on the verge of exploding.
Yet, over the past few days, he had forcibly suppressed his rage and taken no action.
To avoid hearing other people's gossip, he had also stopped going out as much.
Since the incident, he had been holding onto this burning fury until the start of the new month.
"Boss, someone from the Nostrade family is here," one of his bodyguards, dressed in a black suit, said after answering a phone call. He looked to Dorinck for instructions.
"Let them in," Dorink said, taking a deep breath and signaling for him to proceed.
The Nostrade family had once been an unremarkable, small organization until they produced someone with the ability to perform prophecies.
Many mafia bosses had since become clients of this fortune-teller.
The monthly prophecies brought them significant benefits.
And today was the day the new month's prophecy results had been delivered.
The Nostrade family had sent someone to deliver it in person.
Soon, the bodyguard returned with a piece of paper bearing black handwriting and handed it to Dorink.
There were only a few lines written on it:
"The room you trust most in your heart,
That shall become the bed on which you sleep.
If there is no path to leave,
Then do not step into it.
And do not pluck the unripe fruit."
A chilling, ominous air practically emanated from the words.
In the prophecies given by this fortune-teller, "peaceful sleep" often equated to death.
In other words... this prophecy was foretelling his death?
Why? Was it referring to unripe fruit?
But he didn't even like eating unripe fruit...
"..." Dorinck stared at the prophecy for a long time before giving a direct order. "From now on, make sure no green fruit ever appears in front of me."
He issued the command to his bodyguards with a serious expression.
"Yes, sir." The head bodyguard found the order somewhat strange but dutifully acknowledged it.
Feeling that he had resolved the matter, Dorink leaned back in his chair and let out a long exhale.
"Now, contact the Zoldycks.
Five billion. I want that boy dead."
"Oh, and make sure to bring his head back to me."
"That boy's eyes... they're truly beautiful," Dorink said, his expression dark and tinged with a twisted fascination.
Even in the blurry surveillance footage, those eyes were captivating enough to stand out.
The real thing would undoubtedly be even more striking.
He was growing tired of his collection of scarlet eyes.
Standing up, Dorinck pulled away the black cloth draped over a nearby cabinet. Through the glass doors, he admired the items within.
Rows upon rows of despair-laden scarlet eyeballs, pale, delicate hands with long, slender fingers, a faintly pink brain...
The cabinet was densely packed with human organs, trophies he had acquired over the years. Yet, in comparison to those blue eyes, they all seemed lackluster.
His interest in his collection had diminished significantly.
If those blue eyes could join his collection... he would clear out an entire row just for them.
Dorinck imagined himself personally gouging out those eyes, preserving them in formalin, and placing them on the topmost shelf of the cabinet.
They would become the centerpiece of his collection, a unique treasure that would make him the envy of others in the collector's circles who shared his peculiar tastes.
---
In a dimly lit tavern, a young man with long black hair sat silently, speaking into a phone with a calm and steady voice.
His pitch-black, unreflective eyes, coupled with his jet-black hair, pale complexion, and indifferent tone, gave him an eerie presence, almost like that of a ghostly apparition.
"...Five billion. I'll take the job."
Across from him, a red-haired man, clearly annoyed at being ignored, scrunched his face like a displeased child.
"Il, are you even listening to me? That little apple I encountered was absolutely divine…"
"I can't even begin to imagine how delicious he'll taste in the future." His pout only lasted for a moment before his expression turned complicated—part frustration, part excitement. His crimson tongue flicked against the rim of his glass as he savored his drink.
"I got a job from the mafia. I'll be heading to the Northwest Continent and stopping by home," the black-haired man said as he rose from his seat and headed toward the tavern's exit.
The Northwest Continent—the home of the Zoldyck family and the location of Heaven's Arena.
He had come to the Yorbian Continent for a mission, and after completing it, he happened to run into Hisoka, who invited him for a drink—mostly because Hisoka was paying.
Illumi couldn't refuse.
"Another mission, huh…" Hisoka's sharp, upturned eyes gleamed with a hint of danger.
Once Illumi left, there probably wouldn't be anyone else willing to have a proper conversation with him.
Even if most of their "conversations" consisted of Illumi listening without much response.
"What's the target this time? How strong are they?" Hisoka asked suddenly, a curious edge to his voice.
Illumi didn't find it strange at all. Hisoka often roamed the world looking for strong or promising individuals, occasionally taking on tasks simply out of boredom.
For example, if he happened to encounter a target with decent strength while bored, he might propose accompanying Illumi.
The battles? Hisoka handled them.
The kills? Hisoka did them.
The commissions? Not a single cent went to Hisoka.
Fortunately, Hisoka had no interest in money—only in fighting.
So, from Illumi's perspective, Hisoka was a great partner.
The kind that worked for free.
"It's a kid. Their strength should be decent. Apparently, they trashed the client's place," Illumi said, showing Hisoka the phone.
When someone hired a Zoldyck family member, they usually provided detailed information about the target. This time, however, the client couldn't find much, so all they gave was a short surveillance video.
Still, since the target's appearance was distinct enough, there was no concern about identifying the wrong person.
Hisoka glanced at Illumi's phone, a meaningful smile curling on his lips. "I see..."
"Well, off you go, Il." He waved dismissively, as if bidding farewell.
"..." Illumi left without a word, his expression as blank as ever.
This time, Hisoka wasn't interested? What a pity. If he had been, Illumi wouldn't have needed to get involved.
Then again, considering the target's age, if Hisoka had taken an interest, he would've likely deemed them a "promising prey" and wouldn't have allowed Illumi to take action anyway.
Perhaps it was better that Hisoka wasn't intrigued.
After all, Illumi wasn't too keen on facing Hisoka in a fight; his strength was quite troublesome to deal with.
After Illumi left, the smile on Hisoka's face grew wider and wider.
"Hehehe... Hahaha..."
"Patience... I'm really looking forward to our next meeting."
°°°
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