Liam didn't lose himself in the technicalities of the oaths he had just voiced. He knew better than to fret over linguistic loopholes or the specific phrasing of his restrictions.
The efficacy of a Nen oath didn't rely on the ambiguity of grammar. In the world of Nen, one could make a binding vow without ever speaking their true intent aloud. To put it bluntly, an oath was a transaction—the payment of a specific price to obtain a specific power.
This is the power you crave.
This is the price you are determined to pay without regret.
There was no room for bargaining, no legal fine print to exploit. It was a raw pact with one's own soul. In the original timeline, Kurapika had sought a weapon capable of burying the Phantom Troupe. That desire manifested as the Chain Jail—the unsolvable middle finger chain. The price he paid was absolute: that specific power could only be used against the Spiders. To sharpen the blade of that resolve, he raised the stakes even further, placing a blade against his own heart. If he broke the vow, he died.
Back in his previous life, Liam had seen endless debates regarding the "logic" of Kurapika's restrictions.
The theorists loved to hunt for "loopholes." For instance: what if Kurapika attacked someone he thought was a Spider, but wasn't? Or what if he attacked a member he didn't recognize? Would the Judgement Chain pierce his heart then?
Looking back at those assumptions now, Liam found them almost humorous.
The target of an oath isn't the enemy; it is the user. The only thing that determines the success or failure of a restriction is the user's own heart—their subconscious conviction. If Kurapika threw the chain at a man he genuinely believed was a Spider, the oath would hold because his heart was sincere. If he tried to "self-brainwash" into believing a stranger was a member just to use the power, the very act of deception would crack the foundation of the Nen itself. A mind that fragile couldn't forge a solid vow to begin with.
If the restriction has no weight, the oath has no power.
Liam had no desire to become a vessel for runaway death energy, transforming into a monster beyond his control. He needed to master the darkness coiled in his heart. That was his bottom line.
The price he offered was simple: he would never kill a human being for the sole purpose of plundering their death energy.
This was his restraint—a leash on the power of his vow. Just as Kurapika's chains were tethered to the Troupe, Liam's growth was tethered to his morality. He wasn't just playing with words; he was defining the essence of his "plunder." You can kill an animal, or a man, and tell yourself you're just hunting—but the soul knows the difference. You cannot deceive your own Nen.
Liam understood this deeply. The moment the words left his lips, something shifted.
A gray whirlpool stirred in the center of his chest.
A flash of monochrome light crossed Liam's vision. Through his mind's eye, he saw a chaotic mist begin to condense. It outlined a gray, translucent figure that looked exactly like him, sitting cross-legged in the void of his consciousness. A spark of white light appeared in the figure's hand, stretching out into a sharp blade of shifting shadows that rested across its lap.
Liam watched, mesmerized. He reached out with his mind, brushing against the gray silhouette.
On the figure's chest, a number flickered into existence: 24,444.
The digits weren't static. The last number danced fluctuating in perfect synchronization with his heartbeat. Liam realized instantly what he was looking at. This was his total aura capacity.
Suddenly, six points of light erupted around the small gray figure. Lines of energy shot out, connecting the points into a perfect hexagon.
As Liam focused on the top vertex, words began to materialize in the air: Manipulation - 100%.
He shifted his gaze clockwise. At the next point, Emission - 80% appeared.
Then Enhancement - 60%.
At the very bottom, the words flickered: Transmutation - 40%.
The remaining points filled themselves in: Conjuration - 60% and Specialization - 0%.
The gray figure sat silently at the center of this geometric map, its face a featureless mask.
Is this the power of the vow? Liam wondered. Is this the true form of the death energy?
It looked exactly like a character status screen. Liam wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but he understood the logic. His oath was to "control" and "visualize" the energy. Because his mind interpreted data best through the lens of a system, the death energy had reshaped itself into something he could intuitively navigate.
He noticed a thin ribbon of gray mist—a leftover current of death energy—spiraling around the central figure.
Since his ability now had a face, it needed a name. He thought of the Nen users he'd known—people whose abilities sounded like fragments of poetry or grim warnings. He wanted something that carried weight.
After a moment, a faint smile played on his lips.
Let's go with "Memento Mori."
The moment the thought solidified, the 0% next to Specialization began to climb at a violent speed.
9%... 37%... 66%... 100%.
The prompt for Specialization locked in at a full 100%.
Liam's eyebrows shot up. The ability born of his vow was classified as Specialization. But as that category capped out, the numbers adjacent to it began to bleed over and recalibrate.
Conjuration jumped from 60% to 80%.
Even his "Muggle" stat, Transmutation, didn't stay behind. It crawled up from a pitiful 40% to a respectable 60%.
Liam felt a wave of relief. At 40%, training Transmutation felt like a waste of a lifetime. At 60%, it was actually viable. He looked at the final spread. Because he was a natural Manipulator, those stats remained high, but the Specialization influence had pulled the rest of his chart upward.
He looked at the lingering ribbon of gray mist. With a thought, he nudged the airflow toward the Transmutation vertex.
Transmutation 60% → 61%.
The change rippled through the hexagon. Conjuration ticked up to 81%, Enhancement to 61%, and Emission to 84%.
It was a point-buy system fueled by death. Liam realized the gray mist was the last of the energy he had absorbed on the island.
"Liam? Liam!"
Shizuku's voice pulled him back to reality. The sound of the crashing tide and the whistling wind rushed back into his senses. Shizuku was waving a hand in front of his face, her expression uncharacteristically tight with worry.
"Did something go wrong with the oath?" she asked.
The island felt different now—hollower, as if the departure of the giant arrow had sucked the soul out of the place. Liam had stood frozen for minutes after finishing his vow, his eyes glazed over.
"Nothing went wrong," Liam said, reaching out to take her hand. He couldn't help the wide, genuine grin that broke across his face. He squeezed her hand tightly and gestured to his own chest. "In fact, I think the nineteen-year-old Liam is here to stay."
Shizuku blinked, tilting her head. "But won't you be twenty next year?"
"Uh..." Liam coughed, slightly stumped by her literalism. He reached out and playfully pinched her cheeks, tugging them gently. "Well, yes. I still have to grow up naturally, Shizuku."
"So," she mumbled, her voice muffled by his pinching, "you won't turn into a giant again because of the death energy?"
Liam let go, looking out at the horizon. "Now? I think I can handle whatever comes my way."
He was a "panelist" now. A man who could add points to his own soul. He wouldn't hunt humans for power, but in a world like this, death was an evergreen harvest. He didn't have to be a murderer to be a collector.
Shizuku rubbed her reddened cheeks, looking thoughtful.
"What is it?" Liam asked, suddenly wary. He didn't want her getting the wrong idea and starting a killing spree on his behalf.
"Nothing," she said, meeting his eyes blankly.
"Good." Liam patted her shoulder. "Just stay exactly as you are."
"Okay."
Liam smiled. "Now, could you help me with some clothes? This set is a bit... trashed."
The forced growth had shredded his previous outfit. Shizuku immediately summoned Blinky, and with a soft thwip, a set of clean, spare clothes tumbled out of the vacuum's mouth.
Liam stripped off the rags of his shirt. As he went to pull on the fresh T-shirt, Shizuku pointed at his chest.
"What's that?"
Liam paused, looking down. On the left side of his chest, right over his heart, were several faint, gray cracks in the skin. They moved slowly, rotating in a counterclockwise circle like a slow-motion hurricane.
He ran his fingers over them. "I don't feel a thing. No pain, no itch."
Shizuku nodded, satisfied with the answer, and helped him pull the shirt down to cover the mark.
"We'll worry about that later," Liam said, breathing in the salty air. He took her hand and turned back toward the interior of the island. "Let's find the others. We need to figure out a way off this rock."
The black waves slammed into the jagged coastline, sending plumes of cold spray over the two men standing on the rocks.
Green blood coated Beyond's knuckles, dripping onto the stones.
At his feet lay a creature—a massive insectoid beast with shattered limbs. It had been beaten into submission, its chitinous armor cracked, yet it still hissed with primordial rage. Pariston leaned over it, poking at the carcass with a clinical interest.
"It's an ant," Pariston mused, rubbing his chin. "Though that's not quite right. The head is formicid, but the musculature is mammalian... like a tiger, perhaps? And those scales..."
"Chimera Ant," Beyond said, wiping the green ichor from his hand.
"Yes," Pariston agreed smoothly. "But the scale is all wrong. Normal Chimera Ants are barely an inch long."
Beyond let out a low, rough chuckle. "Everything in the Dark Continent is a little bigger than what we're used to."
Pariston's eyes gleamed with realization. He gave the creature a sharp kick, sending it sliding further into a pool of its own blood. "This one is a soldier. If the rules of the Dark Continent apply here, an ant this size doesn't wander alone. There should be others nearby..."
"Guards," Beyond finished.
As he spoke, three black silhouettes crested the waves behind them, moving through the water at a terrifying speed toward the shore.