Six months.
That's how long Moro had been using Nen.
In technique, manifested aura volume, or even potential aura…
He was worlds behind the seasoned monsters across from him. Worse, he had almost zero real combat experience with his ability.
He never had big ambitions.
If anything, his only goal was to stay alive, eat well, sleep well.
So he never picked fights. He just quietly earned money to repay Morena while grinding his Nen in secret.
The few "fights" he'd had were sparring sessions with Saixin, pretending to be an Enhancer.
Child's play.
Now, in a life-or-death crisis, did he regret not training harder?
No.
Or rather, he had no spare thoughts for regret.
He only knew one thing: he had to rely on his own Nen right now and claw a sliver of survival from this near-certain death.
But before he could unleash his ability, he needed an opening.
In the brief silence, a thousand calculations flashed through his mind.
Chrollo had stopped Bonolenov out of curiosity, but Moro didn't expect him to wait patiently for an answer.
Pakunoda's memory-reading would rip every secret out of him the moment they took him alive.
Even if he blurted out the name "Skill Hunter" and all its Vows and Limitations, it probably wouldn't shake Chrollo's focus.
So how could he use this tiny window of "being allowed to speak"?
What words could strike straight into the hearts of these three?
Facing death, his brain cells burned white-hot.
Then a name rose naturally to the surface.
Sarasa.
The girl whose death had birthed the Phantom Troupe.
The wound buried deepest in Chrollo, Pakunoda, and Shalnark's hearts.
"Sarasa."
No hesitation. Moro shouted the name that should never appear here.
Street. Pouring rain.
A name that should have stayed dead and buried detonated like a bomb inside the minds of Chrollo, Pakunoda, and Shalnark.
Why does this kid know about Sarasa?
The instant confusion bloomed, Moro moved.
[Deceitful Shooting Star]
Both hands thrust forward. In each palm condensed an egg-sized fluorescent green aura bullet.
The bullets shot off his hands, streaking straight toward the momentarily stunned Pakunoda and Shalnark.
Direct strike on the opening!
The green bullets reached them in a flash.
But Bonolenov, unaffected by the name Sarasa, reacted at the last possible instant. He shoved Shalnark—the closest to him—clear of the shot.
At almost the same moment, Chrollo—whose mental fortitude was inhuman—snapped back and yanked Pakunoda out of the line of fire.
Both bullets missed.
Meanwhile.
Moro was already sprinting full-tilt toward the sidewalk.
Whoever was guarding the back door radiated pure murderous fury—definitely one of the Troupe's attackers.
No way he was running toward that.
His only escape routes were the two open sides of the street!
He risked a quick glance back at Chrollo's group.
Deceitful Shooting Star missed…
Ultimately because his "Emission" wasn't refined enough to fire faster.
But he couldn't deny that in just one minute of contact, he had truly felt Chrollo's terrifying caliber.
The named characters from the original story were no joke.
Moro looked forward again. Even though the first stage missed, he felt no disappointment.
Because Deceitful Shooting Star had a second stage…
"Sorry."
On the empty street, Shalnark recovered, brow furrowed.
Bonolenov shot him a strange look, then took off after the fleeing Moro.
Chrollo's eyes turned frigid. In a blur he overtook Bonolenov, slicing through sheets of rain like a ghost.
Shalnark and Pakunoda steadied themselves right behind.
Questions could wait. Capture him alive, and everything would be answered.
They gave chase.
Ahead.
Moro glanced back at the four closing in.
"Almost time…"
Counting seconds in his head, he raised his right hand, ready to receive the returning stars.
Deceitful Shooting Star was an Emission + Manipulation hybrid ability with a 100-meter range limit.
When a bullet hit max distance, it will freeze mid-air for a set duration—1 to 5 seconds (chosen before firing).
Once the pause ended, power, speed, and size will all double, and the bullet will home back toward Moro like a heat-seeking missile.
That double-strength return was the ability's Vow benefit.
The Limitation in exchange:
The returning bullets could hurt Moro too.
If nothing blocked them, he either dodged or tanked them himself.
And the reason he dared accept that Limitation?
The Annual Rings tattoo on the back of his right hand.
Under its coverage, his hand was as hard as turtle shell.
He could block the returning shots with his hand.
Perfect timing.
Without warning, Moro shifted his stance.
Amid the endless roar of rain, two faint sounds rang out.
Then two deeper, vicious green streaks tore through the night, screaming straight at Pakunoda and Shalnark.
Sudden. No warning.
And with Chrollo and Bonolenov ahead of them, no one could interfere this time.
When the doubled-power bullets arrived:
Shalnark barely reacted, twisting just enough. The shot ripped a fist-sized chunk of flesh from his waist, leaving a bloody crater like something had taken a bite out of him.
Pakunoda was half a beat slower.
Blood sprayed. The bullet punched straight through her upper body, carving out a gaping hole. Her strength vanished instantly; she collapsed face-first into the flooded street.
The sudden reversal staggered even Chrollo and Bonolenov's pursuit.
Moro saw it hit. He poured over half his remaining aura into his legs and sprinted harder.
Do everything humanly possible, then leave the rest to fate.
He'd done all he could.
If he still couldn't escape, he'd accept death.
Just as the thought crossed his mind, a phantom image flashed in the corner of his eye—a pale, vicious face, eyes boiling with rage.
Feitan?!
The thought barely formed when something icy kissed the bridge of his nose.
Then consciousness snapped like an over-tightened string—slow in sensation, lightning-fast in reality.
In his final moment, a question floated up.
Am I… dead?
Cold. Shaking.
Moro's eyes snapped open.
Rusted iron bars filled his vision, vertical and close.
A cage?
"Where…?"
He took in his surroundings and froze.
The feeling of life draining away still lingered, but it was quickly overwritten by memories flooding back.
He was…
One year ago.
The exact moment he had first transmigrated into this world!
He had regressed.