Chapter XXXI

With Hisoka gone, Valtiel has no worries leaving the tower.

The morning is alive with an early fireworks display. Small wonder, for it is New Year's Eve and the townspeople are already up and about at barely eight in the morning, already celebrating by tossing hats and waving flags. The shops are busy serving cakes and beers, the children are racing across the frost-covered ground. Men are hanging buntings from one frozen pole to another.

Valtiel walks unseen as she smiles at the ongoing celebrations. The Heaven's Arena management dedicates a special match for tonight, hours before midnight, and she is given front-row seats as presents. It is a shame the other ticket would go to waste, intended for the so-called Grim Reaper, who is no more than just Hisoka-san to her, out there on a mission with the Phantom Troupe.

She wounds her way through the celebrations and finds a small bookshop where she always goes. She misses exploring for ancient texts and treasures, Hisoka being no great enthusiast for anything literary, but at least he is a good listener, always indulging her as she rants about this and that.

The cashier smiles up at her as she enters. "Morning, Miss Val."

"Good morning, Clark." She returns the smile and heads straight to a familiar bookshelf. The middle-aged man is already accustomed to her visits, short they might be. "Happy New Year, by the way."

"Ah, likewise, Miss." He chuckles, leaning back on the counter. "You're alone for this holiday?"

"It's nice to do things alone," she quips, earning a soft laugh from him. "And yourself? Spending the holiday with your wife and children, I presume?" She pulls out a hardbound book from one shelf, and then a smaller dictionary from another. She cradles them in her arms and puts them on the counter.

Clark nods as he inputs the items. "Oh, yes. My eldest son is coming home and he will be bringing his own wife and daughter with him. This will be my first time meeting them."

"You must be excited."

"I am." He grins and collects the books with a ribbon. "That will be 800 Jenny, Val."

"Are you sure?" She blinks and checks at the price tags. "It should be 1,000, Mister Clark."

"It's 800 for you." He pushes the books toward her as she pays the fee. Wrinkles tug at his face when he smiles again, with all the fatherly warmth. "Happy New Year."

She thanks him again and heads out on her way to the park.

The park is not too crowded when she enters through the modest entrance. She counts no more then twenty people as she traverses the flagstone pathway. She finds an abandoned bench by the frozen lake, with low-hanging tree branches all around her. The stillness and ambiance of the park makes her relax, as opposed to the noise and frenzy with the Spiders.

After a while of basking in the peace, she pulls the ribbon and fusses over her new books. It is an ancient volume, hardbound with stiff, yellow pages. The black ink is almost unrecognizable, as well as the language, yet Valtiel could recognize Thracean anywhere.

She is minding her own business when a child approaches her. Her eyebrow rises. "Yes?"

"Was wondering if young miss can want an apple?" The little girl burbles in her soft voice. She could be no more than seven or eight. While Valtiel has been out playing tag with future thieves at the same age, this child is offering apples to passersby.

"How much?" Valtiel asks, surprising herself when she starts reaching for her money.

"Just a penny," chirps the little girl, almost bouncing in excitement.

"Here." She gives her everything she has brought with her and only takes one apple from the basket.

The girl glances down at the excessive amount of money, looking confused. "But you're supposed to have more than that, right, miss?" Then she holds out her thin arms and offers the whole basket of small apples, some of them half-withered by time. "Here, have some more!"

Valtiel shakes her head, finding a smile. "No, thank you. I am quite all right with just one."

"Are you sure?" Still confused, the girl stares at the money and tries to make sense of the images and letters. Then her curious brown eyes goes down to the open books. She stares hard on the book covers, her lips moving wordlessly, but her eyes are bright with confusion and frustration.

"Would you like to read with me?" Valtiel offers.

"Oh, um…" The girl flinches and tears her gaze away, a light blush dusting her cheeks.

"Can you not read?" Valtiel observes, puzzled.

"Um, no, miss." The girl flushes in embarrassment, now lowering her gaze to the grassy floor.

"How is it that you cannot read? You must be at least seven years old! I was already reading books and other texts when I was in your age!" Curious as ever, the young woman scoots closer, hungry for answers. "Why is it so? Does your mother never teach you?"

Then again, Valtiel had no parents to teach her as well. She only had her Grandfather Ryence and the other elders to teach her how to read and write and count her numbers.

The girl shakes her head. "My parents can't read, miss."

"Oh," Valtiel mutters helplessly, for once not understanding something so simple. She stares as if trying to discern what to do or how to process the information. Her eyes follow the retreating figure of the child as she thanks her again and bids her farewell.

The skies gradually darken, and the people in the park start leaving. Valtiel gets up as well, somewhat drained and still mulling over the exchange. She takes her books with her and heads back to the tower, where perhaps she could get her bearings and start her reading.

The Arena employees greet her as she steps into the threshold. All of them are wearing more colorful versions of their usual pink uniforms. Valtiel smiles throughout the tedious process of sidestepping everyone, including some so-called fans who are asking for her next schedule. Others are just in the crowd to ask for dates, flinging bouquets at her face or asking for her number. She keeps her mouth shut as one of the security guards escorts her to the elevator.

Fighting in Heaven's Arena for money and battle experience is one thing.

Fighting for fame and glory is quite another.

As she steps onto her floor, she pauses at the lobby and looks around. The hallway is quiet and dim, without traces of anyone else's presence. Strange, especially for this time of the year. She walks back to the new room she shares with Hisoka, after the last one is left in shambles.

Someone trails after her, thinking himself unseen, undetected. But after months of enduring Chrollo's restless critical gazes and even Feitan's leering, she knows when someone has their eyes on her.

This one certainly has−whoever they could be.

With quick steps, Valtiel enters the new room and locks herself inside. She has no other means of escape, not up here, more than two hundred floors above ground. She fumbles for the bedside drawer, reaching out for the pair of black gauntlets she never uses.

It gives a sharp, painful tug in her heart to remember some memories, but she still puts them on, strapping them over her wrist one after the other. Once finished, her eyes catch the gleam of something else, a golden trinket, the mourning locket. Sighing, she puts the trinket in her pocket and braces herself for her pursuer.

Ten surrounds her body. Claws outstretched. Hidden blade at the ready.

She thinks she is prepared, but when something in the room clicks, followed by a hissing and a fragrant smell, she thinks twice. Her vision swims, faces of unnamed people dancing before her eyes. She falls to her knees, then to her face, as a pair of black boots step into her line of sight.

Someone crouches over her head, their fingertips tracing the curve of her jaw. Yet as unconsciousness threatens to kick in, she lunges with her teeth bared, an animal starved.

Her attempts are futile when a second figure emerges from behind the curtains and presses a handkerchief over her mouth and nose.

It is well after sunset when she wakes up.

Her body seizes with numb pain. An inexorable wince spills from her lips as she tries to move, to get her composure in this dark place. A long rectangular window is before her, revealing beyond the wide stretch of indigo skies and silver stars. There are no trees or buildings, no other sound of vehicles. From that alone, she could tell the train moves alone in its tracks, the electrical hum and grating of metal against metal unmistakable. It is warm in here at least, despite the occasional swirls of snow sticking onto the window.

Again, she tries to move. Another painful shock through her senses. Another wince.

When she tries for her arms, her claws, she could not move. Only then does she fully comprehend her situation: a white straitjacket, wound so tight around her body she could feel the numbness building in her limbs; a pair of iron cuffs around her ankles, connected to a chain and locked behind her back; and an iron muzzle over her mouth, with bars so tight over her jaws that blood drips from the little gaps, staining her straitjacket.

They are not the worst parts.

Worse still is the iron mechanism around her neck. A collar, with needlepoint tips at both ends, the bottom digging painfully at the skin of her collarbone, while the top hovers a few inches beneath the soft skin of her throat. She hears the electricity sizzle from within its confinement, small blue bulbs threatening her of the voltage hidden underneath.

She does her best not to move. One wrong movement could send the electroshock collar into a frenzy; perhaps it might even trigger a chain of deadly reaction between muzzle, jacket, and cuffs. Besides, her entire body is already aching, jaw and collarbone bleeding freely to the white cloth.

Tears prickle at her eyes. Out of pain and desperation. A tear slips from her cheek and drops from her jaw to one lightbulb. It sizzles and hisses, and she hears the electrical sensation dancing across her skin.

"Awake now, aren't you?" A voice from the other side of the train comes.

Valtiel tightens her jaw. She could not turn to him. She could not speak. She only hisses in answer, snarling like a beast in a muzzle they made her to be. She tries to summon what little aura she can muster, but her body feels weak, weightless. Empty.

A man in his late twenties, with stark white hair except for a black streak on the right, steps out of the shadows. A handsome man, clean-shaven, is wearing a dark purple robe to match the purple in his eyes. He takes small, careful steps as he sinks onto the couch across from her.

Purple eyes rake through her appearance, softening. "You're bleeding," he murmurs, pointing his chin to where blood drips underneath the muzzle. "I told them to take care handling you."

Despite the muzzle and her constraints, she dares to lean forward and snarl. The collar hisses back, further daring her to put one toe out of line. She slumps back on her seat, eyes dark with unmasked anger.

He shakes his head, solemn as can be. "You would have to excuse us," he says in a gentle tone. "But we have our orders from the prince." He notices how her brows furrow behind the muzzle. He leans his elbows on his knees, leaning closer as if to whisper. "I must commend you. It was not very easy searching for you. It took several families across continents just for a clue of your whereabouts."

She tips her head to the side, lips curled into a sneer.

"You're amused," he observes, chuckling. "The last time we made progress, you were still in Meteor City with your friends. So many families dead by then. Six groups, if I remember correctly."

I remember. Valtiel sees Meteor City and its barren surroundings, the Kiyobu Family and their massive trucks. After that attack, more followed. More Nen users. The Phantom Troupe decimated them all.

She struggles against the bonds, finger flexing beneath the tight straps.

The man's gaze falls on the straitjacket and the chain around her feet. His lips show disgust. "The prince was beside himself when the families failed," he continues, pulling up his collar against the chill inside the train. "He doubled the rewards, promised us estates and promotions. Even a place for next year's Southernpiece Auction in Yorknew City."

I remember that, too. Valtiel sees Luca, chattering to her like a drunk, while someone else is with his friend Nicola, trapped in their own world. She growls deeply in her throat.

"Nothing else was harder than digging up information about you," the man says. "So imagine our surprise when we finally found you, at Heaven's Arena, in all places!" He smiles wider, teeth yellowed by drink and cigar showed to her. "Your name and face are everywhere. It was only a matter of time before we moved to get you. You see, it is a hard competition when it comes to pleasing the Fourth Prince. Really."

Oh, I don't doubt it. She tips her head to the other side and blinks.

"We have to move fast," he continues. "When we confirmed that your friends are gone, we moved."

"D-Damn…" The jagged ends of the muzzle dig deeper into her skin. Valtiel fights back tears and pain, baring her teeth at the man again. "Damn… you…"

"Very spirited." He nods just as her eyes trail down to the opening of his robe, to the tattoo on his chest. He pries the robe looser and shows the tattoo of a purple star and sword. "We are the Awase Family, from the Kakin's underground. We are but a low family, with many higher competitions. You can imagine how hard it is for us to deliver to the prince."

"Where…?" Her breath whistles through her clenched teeth. More blood oozes from the gash, deepening every time she opens her mouth to speak. Beneath the jacket, she wiggles her fingers, feeling the metal loop of the gauntlet around her middle finger. So the fools did not remove the blade.

"Are we taking you?" he suggests and peers out of the window. "Back to Kakin, of course. However, there is a snowstorm in this part of the country and it will be dangerous to take you by air. By land, it might be more than ten days to reach port, where we can take a ship across the world."

"… Damn…" The electroshock collar whirs, its light blue bulbs twinkling like stars. "You…"

"Eloquent, aren't you?" He takes a napkin from his pocket and kneels at her feet.

Despite the close proximity, he knows the victim could do more than hiss and snarl at him, while he reaches out to wipe the blood pooling and caking at the iron muzzle and on the padding of the jacket. He glances at her face, her eyes glowering at him.

"My name is Gerald. You can wipe that look off your face like you're going to bite me. I am not alone. My colleagues are watching guard on the other side."

She follows where his thumb points, to another door with a small window. Another man with deep-set eyes and wide forehead watches them.

Gerald finishes with his task and moves to stand. Valtiel, not letting him go without a fight, leaps from her seat and smashes her forehead on his chin. Gerald sways from the impact, while her constraints keep her from fully standing up. The cuffs around her feet clink as she falls back to her seat, and the collar buzzes into life. She could feel the electrical pulse on her skin, warm but deadly.

The second man rushes to Gerald. "You alright, man?"

"I'm−I'm fine…" Gerald forces himself to stand, one hand on his reddening chin. He looks down on her and finds her smirking behind the bars of her muzzle. "The prince will enjoy tearing you apart, Kurta."

"Let him try," she rasps.

"You watch your mouth," the second man interrupts. His dark eyes rake over the muzzle, collar, and jacket, but linger on the jacket more. His eyebrow twitches. "You must be wondering why you cannot use Nen."

That quite stops her little rebellion. She opts to glare up at the man.

He takes pleasure in her sudden quietness. He takes Gerald's position at her feet, kneeling, his face mere inches from hers. He could see the glimmer of light in her eyes, the wave of red anger in them.

"That jacket is a conjured item that nullifies one's aura, forcing them to Zetsu. You understand now?" He nods to everything that restrains her. "You're no more than just a caged little bitch."

Valtiel tackles him on the neck. The needlepoint tips on her collar both dig into their skins. The bottom ones push deeper into her collarbone, while the ones on top pierce through the man's flabby skin. Blood spurts from his wound, while hers pour down from neck to chest, staining her jacket further.

The man gurgles as he clutches his neck, the blood gushing between pudgy fingers. His eyes roll back to his skull and he wheezes, and Valtiel reminds herself of a pathetic fish out of water. It is Gerald's turn to rush to his friend, putting pressure onto the wound, but the soft flesh in the neck gives way, oozing more blood. The man coughs, winces, and dies.

"Happy… New… Year…" Valtiel croaks, allowing herself this small, insignificant victory.

Heartless it may seem, but they are more heartless: kidnapping her and subjecting her to these horrors. She watches as Gerald and another young man take the dead one out of the compartment, sliding his bloody corpse across the floor like a pig for the butcher.

Gerald looks at her over his shoulder. His expression is one of mourning for his friend. Valtiel half-expects him to turn on the shock collar as a punishment, but he merely sighs and exits the compartment.

She bangs her head against the metal wall and closes her eyes. Without anyone's eyes on her, she lets the tears fall, born of anger, exhaustion, and desperation. The heartfelt reunion she had with the entire Phantom Troupe was only one year ago, just this exact time last year, when she was laughing with the Spiders. Now here she is: shipped to a prince as if she is no more than just another parcel, another plaything for another man. She bangs her head again, more forceful, thinking herself stupid for all this.

Perhaps she is really stupid, filled with childish dreams. That morning she imagined herself celebrating New Year alone−no hard feelings in that. Last year, she watched a fireworks display from a hotel's 70th floor. That morning she imagined watching the fireworks display from the 200th floor of Heaven's Arena.

And when Hisoka comes back… Well, who knows what fun could have ensued? The man is a sunshine personified himself, always very cheerful, rarely annoyed. He likes games of any kinds, and Valtiel, basking in his good nature, plays along. Once, when the Arena management came by to serve their dinner, they opened the door to find the pillows ripped, the feathers thrown about. Someone had a quick word with Valtiel and she had to agree. Since then, pillow fights are not allowed anymore.

Her mind wanders far back. What if she did not leave the Troupe? What if, instead of coming with Hisoka, she came along with Shalnark and the others? Would she have been in this same situation−chained, strapped, muzzled? And Chrollo… Her breath hitches in her throat. Would he come to rescue her?

Oh, but Danchou is not here, she berates herself. No one will come for you. And if that is not the saddest thing for a New Year's Eve, she does not know what else could be worse.

The train screeches into a stop. Valtiel opens her eyes and looks around for any signs that the trip might have been ambushed. Unfortunately, she hears voices outside, the gruff, authoritative command of soldiers ordered to guard a checkpoint. Wherever they are, they are miles away from Heaven's Arena. They might have passed country borders by now, judging by the dark skies and continuous snowfall.

She tugs at her hands again, feeling for the loop on her middle finger. If she could flick her wrist, surely the blade would follow. But every movement sends her body into another painful episode. The door of the next compartment clangs open and she freezes as heavy footsteps head towards her. Desperate, she forcefully struggles against her bonds and ignores the sharp pain at her jaw and neck. She manages to get her claws out in her left hand. One of the jacket's straps tears away, enabling her more space to move.

The door to her right hisses open. A general, judging from the ribbons and medals on his chest, approaches her with his hands behind his back. He stares down at her compromising position, noting the jacket and muzzle with amusement. He nods at Gerald and the other young man, another youth with big bones and broad shoulders. The three of them review her from head to toe, incensing her further.

The general falls to his knees in front of her, and Gerald and his friend glance at each other. "Pretty eyes for a pretty girl," he tells Valtiel, nodding to her face. "Good enough for appearance's sake, a concubine for the prince. She'll not make a good queen."

Bitch. Concubine. Queen. One more word and I'll beat them right out of you, General.

When he reaches a hand out to touch her hair, Gerald and his friend freeze in place. "Maybe you shouldn't, sir. She's a menace, a real savage, Corporal Addam."

Valtiel rolls her eyes. Oh, sorry. Corporal.

Addam appears uncomprehending. Like a very confident fool, he takes Gerald's warning in stride and reaches out for her hair again. He ignores the deep rumbling in her throat and rolls a blonde lock between index finger and thumb, from her head down to the very tips. He finds her eyes again and smiles, taunting.

Her hands dart from behind her, freed of the straps. One hand shoves into the corporal's neck, her fingers going through the soft flesh and spine. Gerald and his friend are quick to react, pulling out guns from their hips. Valtiel tosses the corporal's body to the youth while she charges at Gerald, pouncing awkwardly from the cuffs around her ankles. Still, her claws find his wrist and squeezes, hard.

The other youth punches her in the gut. She hisses and reaches out for his neck. He catches her hand, the claws inches beneath his chin. She laughs throatily as she flicks her wrist; the blade slashes upwards in a glint of silver steel, piercing through the young man's chin to his forehead. She pushes his body to join the corporal and flings herself to the window.

Gerald screams an incoherent word. He fumbles for his pocket, the collar's remote control in his shaky hands. With one little push, the collar comes alive with powerful mechanical whirs.

Valtiel's body jerks as the electricity dances throughout her entire body. A thousand, perhaps even ten thousand voltages are strong enough to burn her flesh from within. Her body spasms violently as she soars through the cold evening air, spiraling down to the field of frozen river underneath the train tracks.

The ice gives way from the momentum and her weight. The water burns, searing through her flesh in a pain she has never endured before. Her body goes numb, the blood from her jaw freezing. The coldness seeps through her many open wounds, forcing herself to cry out in pain under the dark waters. She digs her claws into the ice ceiling, pulling her weight against the river's powerful current. Like a rock climber, heaving herself up on the mountainside. One hand emerges from the punctured hole, and she forces herself up on weak arms, then body, then legs.

Stars blink like diamonds in the night sky. They are beautiful, an unreachable wonder.

Valtiel notices the train tracks above her head, with the black train still stuck at the middle. She rolls on her arms and knees, crawling at first, and then to a run. She breaks the chains around her ankles and removes the straitjacket despite the chilly winds. The rush of aura is a blessing, almost like a steam against this accursed wintry night.

Her use of Zetsu has become second nature to her, both for fatigues and for losing potential enemies. Tonight, Zetsu is certainly useful as she crosses the frozen river, taking light steps as she can. The Awase Family members are shouting at each other, and it guns her senses into overdrive, aiming for the pine forest on the river's other side.

Upon reaching the riverbed, she keeps running. No time to catch her breath. No time for second guesses. She needs to put as much distance as she could, aware that more than twenty Nen users are hot on her heels, like bulls chasing after a red flag.

And what a red flag she is!

Without the straitjacket, she is only wearing a white silk dress, something anyone would wear on a summer evening. Worse still, her blood has caked and frozen over the flimsy straps and over her chest. She is an obvious red flag framed against a stretch of white fields and green forest.

She runs like a woman possessed, leaping over outrooted trees and imposing boulders. Every time she leaps, her dress is caught in a tangle of thorny bushes and gnarling roots, tearing at the hem, cutting it shorter and shorter. She is more worried of the white trail she leaves for her predators, but not even that thought is enough to make her slow down.

At length, she comes across a small village. No more than thirty cottages with thatched roofs and smoking chimneys. She stalks around the place and finds a medium-sized barn near the village's edge. It is no hard work to open the door and slip inside. The only trouble is the animals inside, voicing their protest against an outsider. Horses, cows, goats. She stares at the animals with no great enthusiasm.

Instead, she collapses face first onto the nearest pile of hay, arms outstretched, and limbs aching like hell.

She lapses into a dreamy state in an instant. Images of sunrise, towers, and hills swim before her vision. Her grandfather, the church, Meteor City's wasteland. And the Spiders, always the Spiders. Her childhood with them flashes in her mind, the winter nights spent huddled under an awning, the bonfires, and the story telling. Feitan and his art book collection. Uvogin with his ridiculous afro.

Still in her dream, she feels someone approaching her. Her claws appear, the hidden blade poised to strike. Then she steels herself and jumps from the hay, wearing an angry expression already.

A little boy with an oil lamp stares back at her. Instead of fear, he is curious. "Are you alright, miss?"

"What…" Her voice croaks again, painfully. "What are you doing here?"

"This is our barn," he chirps and pats a horse's head. "This is Clover, because she has a clover shape pattern on her forehead. See?" He points a chubby finger at the horse's so-called clover pattern.

"Yes, I see…" Valtiel settles back on the hay and clutches her aching head.

"Are you okay?"

"I am very tired. And cold. And hungry."

"I'll get you some food if you want." He crouches on the hay next to her and leaves the oil lamp on the ground. In this light, it illuminates his curly blond hair and sea-green eyes. He is already in his woolen pajamas, printed with stars and crescent moons. "Stay here, 'kay?"

She nods and he wobbles out of the barn.

Five minutes later, he comes back with a bowl of stew and some boiled potatoes and radish. He watches with a childlike wonder as the young woman wolfs down everything given to her, with much fervor. Cross-legged on the hay, he blinks and asks, "What's your name?"

She wipes her mouth to show a little decorum. "I'm Valtiel. What about you?"

"I'm Wart!" he chirps.

"Wart?" She giggles. "Why so?"

"Well, my name is really Arthur but Papa calls me Wart."

She softens and taps his little nose. "Thank you for this, Wart. You're a very good boy."

He grins and points at the dried crimson spots on her skin. "Are you hurt?"

"Yes." She shakes her head, tired. "Many people are trying to hurt me. If I stay any longer, you might get hurt, too. Let me finish my meal, and then I would go−"

"Don't go!" Wart pleads, small hands on her skirt. "I'll ask Papa to help you!"

"No, Wart, don't!" But the little boy is out of the farmhouse again, already calling for his father. Valtiel sighs and relaxes on the hay. It is not much, and the barn smells of animals, but she has nowhere to go. The Awase members are out there somewhere, intent on taking her back to their precious prince. Her face darkens at the memory of that prince, seeing himself as some sort of divine being.

When the boy returns, the father immediately raises an axe to threaten her. Not until Wart explains what is happening does the father nod in solemn understanding and lower his axe. Ector joins them on the hay and listens to whatever else the young woman has to say in her defense.

Ector tugs at his pointed beard, a dark auburn streaked with grey. "If you need a place to stay for the night, you can certainly stay here," he says after a while of pondering. "The news tells of a snowstorm tonight and tomorrow. If you try to leave now, you'd die of cold. Your pursuers will think the same. They won't risk themselves under a storm."

"I wouldn't be sure of that," Valtiel mumbles.

"If you must, then stay. Here, inside the barn." Ector gets up and returns to the house. He comes back shortly afterwards with a fresh change of clothes, a hooded robe, gloves, and boots. "They belonged to my wife, before we lost her in a snowstorm. They might fit you."

"Thank you very much, sir."

"Get some rest. If you want to leave, no need to say goodbye."

"Yes."

"Say your good night, Wart," the father prompts.

"Good night, Valtiel," Wart says, beaming.

"Oh, how sweet. Good night, little Wart." She ruffles his curls and nods to the father. "Thank you, Sir Ector."

The father and son leave her in the dimness of the farmhouse. She changes into the new clothes, discarding the bloodied nightdress. Along the process, something falls out of her pocket. It rolls across the floor and clinks against the oil lamp. She picks it up, confused at first, and then realizing that she has brought the mourning locket with the gauntlet all along.

There is a second floor inside the barn. She sits on the window ledge, overlooking the stretch of frozen surroundings, alert for the first signs of danger. She wears her gauntlets and wears the locket next.

Begrudgingly, she opens it. Chrollo's face welcomes her, his eyes closed as he kisses her hair in the photo. How she misses that−his gentleness and soft voice, the occasional banter, pretending to be husband and wife to curious, gossiping neighbors. How time flies when you are enjoying yourself.

The first set of fireworks breaks through the midnight skies. Bright lights taking various shapes, blazing with various colors. They come from a distant city, too far away, but the fireworks are high enough for everyone to see, to enjoy. Purple serpentine fireworks, green palm trees, magenta rings. Majestic.

Valtiel smiles throughout the display. Last year, she was almost on top of the world with the Phantom Troupe, warmed and loved by their attention. Tonight, she is alone, in a part of the world she does not know, sharing a barn with horses and goats. She is away from home, hunted down by mercenaries. She really has to wonder:

Where will I be next New Year?

Author's Notes: Surprise, surprise! I'm back so soon, huh? LOL. I wanted to make one final update before New Year and before I go to my short trip to New York for the week. Now that the year is almost ending, I would want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has been with me from the start through now, who has been patiently waiting for updates and who has been kindly leaving reviews each chapters. There are too many to mention, but I want you to know that I'm grateful for you and I find motivation in writing and updating because of my passion for writing and for everyone's support!

So, here's to the final update in the awesome year of 2019−and cheers to the new year of 2020! More opportunities to come to everyone of us! May we find peace in our minds and hearts and may we keep doing what we love and enjoy! ❤️

Personally, this is one of my favorite chapters. I've always wanted to see Valtiel in such a great, big trouble−and on her own. No Chrollo, Feitan, Phinks, or even Hisoka to help her. No Uvogin to babysit her. It's just her against the world and now she has to survive on her own, something she has unconsciously done since Day One against the massacre. This young woman is a survivor, one way or another, and to see her save herself is pleasing to me. LOL.

Once again, thank you all SO MUCH for all the endless love and support! I hope everyone has a happy New Year! I'll see you all next update! 😇