To express his gratitude, Jon treated both Robson and Rin to a modest meal. It wasn't much—just a quiet restaurant tucked behind the main street—but it was the best he could do with what he had.
Afterward, Jon and Rin parted ways.
Rin had to return to her master to give a full report on the failed mission, her expression unreadable as she disappeared into the city crowd. Jon, on the other hand, set off with Robson—destination: Yorknew City.
Their journey was long but smooth, traveling by bullet train that wound across several national borders. Though an airship would have been faster in a straight line, the train—despite taking a detour—managed to make the time about the same. Plus, trains didn't get blown out of the sky as easily.
For once, nothing unexpected happened.
Robson wasn't just a solo bounty hunter—he had a studio, a team of professionals who worked together to track and capture high-value targets. According to their pre-arranged agreement, Robson had covered up Jon's connection to the terrorist incident at his school and ensured the safety of the old butler and his wife. In return, Jon agreed to work for Robson's studio for three months—a kind of apprenticeship now that he had passed the Hunter Exam and awakened his Nen.
In truth, bounty hunting paid well, and Robson hoped that once Jon got a taste of the lifestyle, he'd stick around. He wasn't even subtle about it—his grin practically oozed confidence in his "recruitment strategy."
They arrived in Yorknew City by early evening.
It was Jon's first time seeing it in person—and it was breathtaking.
Located in York County, Yorknew City was a metropolis far grander than anything Jon had seen before. While the city that housed Heavens Arena was split sharply between luxury and destitution—skyscrapers surrounded by wooden shacks—Yorknew was different.
Even its underdeveloped areas had infrastructure. There were no sprawling slums, no sea of poverty. The reason? The city was largely controlled by the mafia. Entire blocks were "owned" through protection rackets, and anything unprofitable—like wooden shanty towns—was bulldozed.
Here, money was the only law that mattered.
Yorknew was also infamous for hosting the world's largest underground auction, where anything could be sold: art, antiques, beasts, organs—even people, if the price was right. No matter what you wanted, you could probably find it here.
The city gleamed brighter than New York in 2025, but behind that light... was a lot of rot.
After a few turns through the chaotic downtown traffic, Robson parked next to a relatively humble eight-story office building nestled between towering skyscrapers. Compared to its surroundings, it looked almost modest.
"Behold," Robson said with a theatrical wave, "Robson's Funhouse."
Jon blinked.
There were a dozen things he could say about that name, but he didn't know where to start.
Still, in a city where real estate prices rivaled San Francisco and Tokyo, owning even a small office building was no small feat. Robson's pride wasn't entirely misplaced.
"Our studio has twenty-three people. You'll make twenty-four," Robson continued as they entered. "Five handle logistics and data gathering. The rest are all Hunters or ex-military."
He pressed the elevator button and led Jon up to the fourth floor.
"This is where we work. The other floors have rooms you can live in—fully furnished."
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened.
Jon stepped into what looked like a gym.
Treadmills, weights, punching bags, resistance machines—it had everything a fighter could need. A young man with chestnut hair was jumping rope in the center of the room, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Yo, Team Leader's back!" the man called, waving.
"Yo, Proa! Still grinding, huh? That's what I like to see," Robson replied.
Proa gave Jon a curious glance. "This him?"
"Yeah. New guy. Name's Jon."
Proa smiled and extended a hand. "Nice to meet ya."
Jon gave a polite nod, then followed Robson deeper inside.
Beyond the gym was a door leading to the actual workspace.
Here, Jon finally breathed a sigh of relief. It looked like a real office—modest but functional. There were desks, computers, piles of paper, and even a well-worn couch that looked like it had survived more wars than any Hunter ever had.
The walls were decorated with pennants, some old worn plaques, and what might have been ancient pottery… or just really well-crafted fakes. Jon wasn't sure, but it gave the space character.
There were also photos—team photos, group meals, snapshots of celebration after completed missions. The place had a soul.
Sure, it was a little chaotic. Documents were scattered, chairs were mismatched, and the fridge buzzed like it was possessed, but…
It felt alive.
Not just a workplace. A team. A weird, dysfunctional, bounty-hunting family.
Jon let out a soft chuckle.
"This might not be so bad after all."
Jon narrowed his eyes at Robson with open suspicion.
"Hey, hey—what's with that look? You think I'm the kind of guy who'd sit at that mess of a desk?"
Jon didn't reply, but the silence was damning. His gaze shifted slowly to the desk in question: cluttered with junk, energy drink cans stacked like a mini fortress, and suspiciously sticky-looking magazines half-hidden under papers.
Then Robson walked confidently over… and dropped into the seat.
Jon rubbed his forehead, deadpan.
I knew it. I knew it.
For a second, I actually believed in you. Robson, give me back my trust. Refund it. Now.
Around the room, other team members, previously buried in their workstations, looked up and offered brief greetings to Robson. The chestnut-haired youth from the gym—Proa—entered as well, now changed into a loose T-shirt and jeans.
"Oi, oi, oi," a flat-toned female voice piped up from a nearby desk, "Did you even shower, or did you just marinate in your own sweat and slap on deodorant?"
Jon turned toward the source: a young woman slouched in her chair, hoodie up, dark circles under her eyes, and a keyboard practically fused to her fingers. She had the eternal dead-fish stare of someone who hadn't seen sunlight in three days. Early twenties, at best.
"I did!" Proa replied with a grin. "Kinda rushed, though."
The salty-looking girl gave him a side-eye that could cut steel, then spotted Jon standing beside Robson.
"Who's this kid?"
Robson beamed like a proud dad. "New guy I invited. Fresh blood. His name's Jon."
She looked Jon up and down like she was scanning a barcode on a questionable product.
Then turned to Robson.
Then back to Jon.
Back to Robson.
She squinted. "He doesn't look like your type."
Robson ignored her, still grinning. The girl let out a heavy sigh and, deciding Jon wasn't worth the mental energy, went back to slamming keys on her mechanical keyboard like it owed her money.
Jon stood awkwardly, catching glances from others around the room. A few people took off their headphones to give him the once-over. No one said anything, but their silence spoke volumes.
Now that he had the chance, Jon subtly looked around to see what kind of "work" everyone was doing.
Big mistake.
Because it made him way too happy.
The "salty girl" wasn't poring through critical documents—she was shopping for clothes on what looked like the world's equivalent of Amazon.
Three other guys were huddled together gaming, losing in an online team shooter and yelling profanities in sync.
One guy, clearly too relaxed, was watching a "mature" film. He quickly alt-tabbed when Jon looked his way.
But Jon had the eyes of a Stand user.
Thanks to his enhanced vision, he caught the thumbnail of the video anyway.
He mentally gave the man a "bro, really?" side-glance, even though he said nothing.
He slowly turned back to look at Robson's desk again.
This is a joke, right?
A literal clown show.
No one here was working.
And yet somehow… this studio was still afloat?
Jon squinted.
How??
How is this place still standing?
Who's paying these people?
But then again… this was perfect.
He didn't come here to climb a corporate ladder or revolutionize the bounty hunter industry. He came here to fulfill his three-month agreement and get Robson off his back.
Company profits? Not his business.
Team performance? Not his problem.
If anything, this was the dream job he never had in his old life. No pressure, no responsibilities, high-tech gaming PCs, and literally no one caring what you did.
Inwardly, Jon nodded.
If this place existed back home, I'd have applied with my soul.
Just then, Robson casually looked up from his phone. "Proa, take Jon out to pick up some essentials. He's probably still living like a forest gremlin."
"Got it!" Proa said cheerfully.
The chestnut-haired youth clapped Jon on the back and guided him toward the elevator. "Come on, I'll show you the best mall in the area. It's got everything—snacks, weapons, fake IDs… kidding. Sort of."
As the two left the building, Jon glanced back once more at the chaos-filled "office."
He grinned.
Three months in this circus? Easy money.