Feitan’s weapon wasn’t within reach, and Meruem hadn’t drawn hers either, so this battle was purely hand-to-hand combat.
Despite Feitan’s overwhelming fury, it didn’t mean he’d completely lost his rationality. Since Meruem wasn’t using *Nen*, neither would he.
Out of genuine respect for the Phantom Troupe, he willingly adhered to the "Spider’s rules": **No infighting among members.**
As long as Meruem didn’t go for the kill, neither would he. Besides, Meruem’s ability to store loot was incredibly useful to the Troupe—Feitan hated dealing with troublesome, fragile items that forced him to hold back.
Unless it resulted in death or permanent injury, minor skirmishes between members were commonplace.
After all, the Troupe was made up of ruthless killers—how could they possibly get along peacefully at all times?
There had to be an outlet for personal grievances to keep the organization running smoothly.
Right. Any fight that didn’t level a building counted as a *minor* skirmish.
After the initial warm-up, their fighting spirit gradually boiled over. Restricted by the Spider’s rules, Feitan couldn’t unleash 100% of his killing intent. Instead, the suppressed portion transformed into a desire to restrain, capture, and ultimately overpower his opponent.
*Seize her. Tear her apart. Devour her completely.*
Unlike romantic love, this was the inexplicable thrill of the hunt.
Feitan had disliked Hisoka from the first glance—they reeked of the same aura, and like repelled like.
Fingers pressed together like a blade, he thrust forward, abruptly shifting his motion mid-attempt to grab her arm when she dodged.
Missed?
Not entirely.
Feitan’s gaze dropped to the small, stiff square now pinched between his fingers. The absurdity of the scene struck him as darkly comical. He crumpled it in his palm and scoffed through his nose. **"I’ve never used this shit."**
"*Do you want to have a baby with me, Feitan?*" Meruem tilted her head, her voice emanating from the *vocal device*.
Feitan’s lips curled into a sneer, making it clear he had zero interest in offspring—at least, not with the current timing or partner.
"*Hisoka and the Boss were both fine with it,*" Meruem continued.
"...The Boss." Feitan’s eyes darkened as if he wanted to skin her alive. Studying her carefully, he realized she didn’t seem to be lying.
*Damn it. When? How?*
Across from him, Meruem watched his increasingly grim expression with an amused half-smile.
After a moment’s thought, Feitan’s face hardened. He voiced the most plausible answer he could conjure. **"...The Scarlet Eyes."**
Meruem’s smirk settled into a faint, knowing smile.
"You’ve exceeded my expectations." Feitan tossed the crumpled item aside. **"I’ll give you that. What’s the plan? Cycling through us one by one? Or… do you have some other goal?"**
*What goal? What could I possibly want? Even Chrollo didn’t overthink it this much!* Meruem internally rolled her eyes.
*Whatever. I’m done. I tried. If it’s not working, it’s not working.* Her track record with interpersonal relationships had always been abysmal anyway.
*Also, is fighting a mandatory prelude to every first-time deep conversation with a Manipulator?*
*Exhausting, painful, and unskippable. So damn annoying.*
*Then again, what else could she do? She couldn’t just force Feitan like she had with Hisoka. Feitan was a founding member—his roots ran deep. If she strong-armed him, could she even stay in the Troupe? Probably not.*
Like flipping a switch, Meruem wiped all expression from her face. **"Then let’s stop playing."**
She righted an overturned couch in the corner, dusted it off, and sat on the least damaged section, crossing her arms. **"I’ll wait here for Hisoka. It won’t take long."**
*Won’t take long?* The phrase triggered Feitan’s instincts.
If she knew Hisoka would return soon, her earlier actions made no sense—unless she *wanted* to be caught.
And then there was her odd tone when mentioning Hisoka.
"..." Feitan stepped forward, bracing a hand on the armrest, looming over her from a higher angle this time. **"I see… what you’re after."**
His shoulders shook with silent laughter, though his expression remained unreadably dark.
Meruem wasn’t entirely sure what he’d "figured out," but…
**"Wanna play? Then let’s play."** Feitan’s palm slid behind her neck, tilting her toward him. **"But I don’t share. Meruem, break up with Hisoka. Be mine."**
"..." Meruem lowered her lashes, feigning contemplation.
In truth, it didn’t matter. Hisoka or Feitan—they were all just fictional characters to her. Titles like "girlfriend" or "lover" were meaningless. But agreeing too quickly would seem insincere.
Yet hesitating too long would piss Feitan off. The longer she "thought," the more it implied Hisoka’s significance.
Beyond microexpressions, a Nen user’s *Ten* could reveal their emotional state. Experienced users knew how to suppress its fluctuations—and how to exploit others’ lack of control.
In this world, power wasn’t absolute. Everyone had weaknesses, and the underdog could triumph—*information* was the key. Concealing intel and deciphering others’ were equally vital.
And Meruem was hypersensitive to negative emotions, to the point of paranoia. She might misread them, but she never missed them.
The moment Feitan’s mood dipped, Meruem blinked and nodded.
Feitan’s emotions stalled but didn’t rebound. After repeated disappointments, he wasn’t the type to instantly forgive and forget—unlike some thickheaded Enhancer.
**"There’s no pause button with me."** His fingers tightened in her hair, her scalp’s warmth seeping into his skin. **"Don’t even think about regretting it."**
Silver strands slipped through his grip as he released her neck, leaning in for a kiss—only for her to push against his chest, their lips barely grazing.
"..." This time, Feitan genuinely wanted to murder someone.
Meruem raised a finger, then pointed behind him.
**"Shower first."** She mouthed.
"..." Feitan could read lips.
*Germaphobia.* Not unexpected. He’d noticed her quirks.
*Tch. The "Young Mistress" and her fucking pretensions.*
If some weakling pulled this kind of spoiled, mood-killing stunt at a critical moment, Feitan would’ve "cured" their "delusions of grandeur" on the spot. But with Meruem… *fine.*
Arguing over this was pointless.
His fighting spirit had mostly burned out during their brawl. Energy wasn’t infinite—he refused to waste it on trivialities.
Yanking her off the couch, he took her seat. **"Hurry up. Don’t keep me waiting."**
Meruem took a few steps, then glanced back hesitantly.
*No way no way no way no way! Was Feitan seriously not planning to shower?! After a fight covered in blood, sweat, and dust?!* With all due respect, given her current好感度 toward Feitan (**Meruem’s Feitan好感度: 0**) and his looks, the combined appeal wasn’t nearly high enough to overlook hygiene.
Outwardly calm, inwardly screaming, Meruem was deeply disappointed. She was already considering bolting post-shower.
Thanks to his interrogation experience, Feitan read her (initial) intentions.
His tone was almost playful, his lowered voice bordering on teasing. **"What? Want to join me?"**
The phrasing… implied he *was* planning to shower? Otherwise, he’d have said, *Want me to join you?* Meruem wasn’t entirely sure. Studying his expression, she tied up her hair to avoid wetting it—drying and styling it afterward would take forever.
**"Two people showering is the least efficient."** His voice roughened like gravel. **"Meruem, you should know—I’m done waiting."**
"..." Meruem’s face went blank.
Suspecting she might flee, Feitan’s eyes turned glacial as he blocked her path.
So she… handed him a toothbrush from her *game backpack*.
"..." Feitan’s frown could’ve crushed a mosquito. **"...Did you pull this shit with Hisoka… and the Boss too?"**
Meruem nodded.
"..."
"..."
*Well, at this point, one more absurd "Young Mistress" demand wouldn’t hurt.*
*The Boss aside—how the hell did Hisoka not go soft from this?*
That was Feitan’s thought as he took the toothbrush.
But mind games were a core interrogation tactic. Mastering your own emotions was the only way to avoid being manipulated.
A seasoned expert, Feitan now seemed like a different person from the bloodthirsty fighter earlier, brushing his teeth with near-indifferent calm.
**[Meruem’s Feitan好感度 increased.]**
**[Current Feitan好感度: 1]**
Nearby, the shower’s spray echoed behind a drawn curtain.
*How many times today had he felt utterly ridiculous?*
*What the hell?* Despite zero actual progress, this felt like the morning-after awkwardness.
Feitan pressed a damp hand to the fogged mirror, obscuring his reflection, then strode toward the shower and yanked the curtain aside.
Meruem was still there—no NSFW scenes, as she’d already wrapped herself in a large towel.
Feitan wasn’t disappointed. He’d see everything soon enough. Anticipation was part of the fun.
But one thing wasn’t negotiable.
Freed from its tie, her hair tumbled down in a silvery cascade, framing her face like mist. The unguarded, contented expression—as if she’d forgotten his presence—felt like a stolen, intimate glimpse. It prickled Feitan’s skin like a cat’s light scratch.
His breath hitched.
**"Did I say you could leave?"** The moment she brushed past him, he regained his voice. **"Tch. Young Mistress, do you think I’d half-ass it if you weren’t here? Are you naïve, or… fucking with me?"**
She’d slipped away mid-act more than once.
At this stage, letting her out of his sight was unacceptable.
"..." Meruem’s eyes widened slightly. She wasn’t used to watching men shower. But refusing would confirm his second theory.
Compromising, she pressed her lips together, staying put while turning her head away.
Her conflicted reaction amused Feitan. Smirking, he shoved his T-shirt into her arms, then his pants.
"..." Meruem stared at him, baffled.
**"Put them away."** Feitan said. **"Did you think I’d shower clothed?"**
As he spoke, Meruem’s gaze swept over him.
**"What?"** His tone edged toward interrogation—her stare felt detached, as if she weren’t looking at a man.
**"Tattoo."** Meeting his eyes, she mouthed the word—post-shower, she hadn’t re-equipped her *vocal device*.
**"That so."** Feitan snorted. **"Curious about that?"**
"..." Meruem nodded.
The original manga never revealed Feitan’s spider tattoo’s location. During the Ant arc, even after his shirt was destroyed in battle, leaving him in just pants, no tattoo was visible—meaning it had to be below the waist.
Now, with Feitan down to his boxers, Meruem still couldn’t spot it.
*No way no way no way no way! Was the online rumor true? Was Feitan’s tattoo on his—?!*
*That’s too avant-garde!*
"..." Meruem’s pupils trembled.
*Suddenly not so keen on "deep communication." Anyone who tattooed their—was a certified madman.*
**"...The hell’s that look."** Well-versed in *certain* interpretations, Feitan guessed her train of thought and nearly facepalmed. **"Your imagination’s *too* damn vivid."**
**"Fine. See for yourself."** His hand hovered at his waistband but didn’t move further.
Meruem’s gaze burned with anticipation, as if—
**"You’re only here for the tattoo?"**
*Not entirely. There’s also the collection log and Hisoka.* Meruem wasn’t tactless enough to say that, but her hesitation spoke volumes.
**"Always thought you were batshit."** Feitan tapped his temple, half-laughing. **"Seems I was right."**
**"Since you’re so curious, I’ll tell you where *everyone’s* tattoos are. No need to… *personally* inspect them."** He yanked her wrist, forcing her to bend down as his voice hissed in her ear. **"I’ve been a Spider since the beginning."**
In one breath, Feitan disclosed all members’ tattoo locations—except his own.
It was like skipping to the series finale in episode one. Meruem’s conflicted expression delighted him.
**"Satisfied?"** Feitan asked.
"..." She nodded out of politeness. She couldn’t care less about low-popularity members like Nobunaga, Franklin, Uvogin, or Kortopi. The ones she *was* interested in, she already knew—except Feitan’s.
*He was toying with her.*
*Wait!* Meruem realized—*Hisoka, Machi, or Phinks might know where Feitan’s tattoo is! She didn’t need to ask him directly!*
*So why was she still here?!*
Her gaze snapped to Feitan, who’d clearly reached the same conclusion. The air thickened with tension.
*At this rate, a* Rising Sun *(Feitan’s ultimate move in the manga) might be imminent.*
*More importantly, Feitan still gripped her wrist—tightening by the second, as if to crush bone.*
*Oh, right.* She remembered her *original* purpose wasn’t the tattoo. *Feitan had derailed her.*
And now this instigator glared at her like he wanted to dismember her on the spot.
Luckily, their close proximity made closing the gap effortless. Before Feitan could react, she acted.
Though his grip didn’t loosen, he didn’t resist her kiss either. Instead, he cupped the back of her head, seizing control, deepening it until their teeth clashed and blood filled their mouths.
He seemed especially fixated on her tongue—where her spider tattoo lay.
Biting it was like biting the symbol of her membership.
**"Meruem."** Between kisses, he growled against her lips. **"I *really* want to fuck you dead."**
*...In every sense of the phrase.*
**"The tattoo… doesn’t matter…"** She mouthed, referring to her earlier curiosity.
**"Don’t care."** His lips trailed to her throat, hovering over the vulnerable yet powerful carotid artery.
*Damn it.* He was losing patience. No more games.
Feitan knew "feminine wiles" when he saw them—Meruem’s sudden kiss was textbook. Surrendering now would mean defeat. His pride forbade it.
So he forced himself to pull away and step into the shower.
Meruem later saw his tattoo—the spider perched on his hip bone, where thigh met pelvis, easily concealed by boxers.
**"See it clearly?"** But Feitan wasn’t referring to the tattoo. He recalled their long-ago bet in Meteor City (Ch. 59) and smirked. **"We’ll become one."**
Meruem tilted her head blankly, as if she’d forgotten.
**"Right. That was years ago."** Given subsequent events, Feitan assumed she’d been brainwashed. The past was irrelevant—he cared only about the present. **"Everything’s back on track now, yeah?"**
What he wanted, he *took*.
Meruem silently studied the steam-covered tiles, still clutching Feitan’s discarded clothes, seemingly unsure where to put them.
**"Why still holding those?"** Feitan snatched a towel, draping it over his head before tossing the clothes toward a hamper. **"Or do you prefer me dressed?"**
"..." Meruem tilted her head slightly, expressionless.
**"Tch."** After disposing of the clothes, he hauled her over his shoulder. **"Want Hisoka to see the moment he opens the door? Or… leave him guessing?"**
He didn’t actually want her input—the questions were to vent his excitement.
The living room was already wrecked from their fight, littered with debris. The "see immediately" option was nonexistent.
Uvogin might not have minded, but Feitan wasn’t *that* thick-skinned.
*No. Why waste brain cells on this?*
He dumped her onto the bedroom bed.
The frame creaked under their combined weight.