Chapter 108: The Blood Tumor Control
Ryan never intended to let anyone leave alive.
He needed Nen users. His ability demanded a constant supply of capable bodies to fuel his own growth and security.
Hatsu: Blood Tumor Control.
As long as Ryan could inject his own blood into a target, that blood would coagulate into a "second brain" within the victim's body. This parasitic mass would suppress the host's primary consciousness, turning them into a biological puppet.
The Hematic Tumor acted as a direct uplink to Ryan's will.
More importantly, it acted as a forced biological stimulant, overriding the body's natural safety limiters and unleashing the host's full physical potential.
The only drawback was the maintenance cost. Each "Blood Warrior" required regular infusions of Ryan's blood to remain functional.
But here in the heart of the Trash Mountains, human lives were the cheapest resource available.
To the rest of the world, this was a hell to be avoided. To Ryan, it was a garden of infinite harvest.
People ended up here and simply disappeared. No one cared. If a scavenger died in their tent, the only thought the person who found the body had—as they swiped away clouds of flies and ignored the writhing maggots—was whether the melting corpse had any teeth or organs left that could be traded for a meal.
Ryan adjusted his gas mask, watching through the reinforced glass as the last of the "recruits" in the meeting room succumbed to the sedative gas.
He produced a specialized syringe. Inside was a swirling, dark-red liquid—his own Nen-infused blood.
Now, he only needed to perform the "baptism" to finalize his control.
Ryan remained cautious. Even as the targets collapsed, the exits remained barred by his existing Blood Warriors.
These puppets were horrific to behold. Each possessed two heads: their original, twisted in a mask of eternal agony, and a second, bulbous, featureless "tumor head" that erupted from a shoulder, chest, or spine. The red masses pulsed with a rhythmic, sickening light.
A few targets who had resisted the gas tried to charge the exits or lunge at Ryan. They were cut down by the puppets' gunfire or shredded by their enhanced strength.
When the smoke cleared, Ryan stood in the center of the room, surrounded by eleven newly minted Blood Warriors.
Led by Shizuku, Ronin's group navigated the streets of Meteor City without further resistance.
Elder Ryan's villa was an eyesore of luxury amidst the rot. It was built at the absolute summit of the highest trash mountain in the district. One could see it from kilometers away—a white marble beacon rising out of the grey filth.
The path leading upward was a gauntlet of refuse.
The people living on the slopes watched the group pass. Ronin saw mockery in some eyes, but mostly, he saw a hollowed-out numbness.
The tents lining the path were surprisingly clean of corpses, though workers in hazmat suits were a common sight. It wasn't clear what they were collecting, but they moved with practiced, industrial efficiency.
Sea birds circled overhead. When one dipped low, Ronin caught a glimpse of what it carried in its beak: a human eyeball.
Death was a constant here. But the sheer volume of "input" vs. the lack of "output" in this specific district was statistically anomalous.
"Don't ask me. I don't understand social structures," Shizuku said, sensing Ronin's gaze.
"They stay here because they can eat," Kurapika noted, pointing to a mobile food truck in the distance.
A crowd had gathered. Every person walking away from the truck held a steaming bowl of white porridge.
Kurapika then pointed in the opposite direction. "And because they get the first pick of the trash."
Dozens of heavy trucks were dumping fresh loads at the base of the mountain. The fed scavengers were already sprinting toward the falling debris, fighting over scraps like hungry wolves.
"Danger and opportunity, perfectly balanced," Ronin mused. "Ryan has mastered the art of managing desperation."
"How long has this 'charity' been running?" Kurapika asked Shizuku.
Shizuku tapped her chin, thinking hard. "Maybe three or four years?"
Information that wasn't immediately useful rarely stayed in her mind for long.
But for Kurapika, the answer was enough. It confirmed his theory.
"The population of this district hasn't grown in years," Kurapika sighed. "Despite the constant influx of new people drawn by the free food and fresh trash, the headcount remains static."
Ronin understood the implication instantly.
The people entering this "paradise" were being consumed.
Organ harvesting? Human experimentation? Or just a tyrant's sport?
Looking at the food trucks, Ronin doubted it was just for fun. It was too organized. It was an industrial process.
There are no free lunches. Especially not in Meteor City.
As they reached the upper tiers of the mountain, the crowds thinned. The grand gates of the villa stood open.
Waiting outside was a butler in a crisp tuxedo, standing perfectly still.
The group didn't hesitate; they accelerated their pace.
As they walked, Ronin casually flicked a kunai into a heap of rusted metal.
The butler offered a practiced, polite smile as they approached, bowing deeply. "Honored guests. Elder Ryan is awaiting you in the banquet hall. A feast has been prepared. Please, follow me."
Ronin, Kurapika, and Shizuku exchanged a glance. At Kurapika's nod, they stepped into the lion's den.
The moment he crossed the threshold, Ronin expanded his En.
The radius was small—only twenty meters—but it acted as a proximity alert.
The butler's expression flickered almost imperceptibly as the aura washed over him.
Ronin and Kurapika both caught it.
The butler wasn't just a servant. He was a Nen user.
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