“So, the monster who butchered your sister is indeed one of Dio’s vile henchmen—a scum named J.
Geil, wielding the Stand representing the twelfth Tarot card, [Hanged Man].
“If you seek righteous vengeance, ride with us.
You won’t even need to hunt down that freak with two right hands—he’ll deliver himself straight to your blade.”
Horne laid out the facts plainly before Polnareff.
“I…
I don’t even know how to begin thanking you…”
Polnareff was deeply moved; to have a complete stranger extend such profound solidarity left him breathless.
“Save your thanks; we’re brothers in arms now.
Besides, Dio’s ranks are crawling with unrepentant vermin just like J.
Geil.
“The laws and courts of modern society cannot perceive their Stands, nor can they bring them to justice.
The only executioners capable of purging these irredeemable scumbags are Stand users like us.”
Hearing Horne’s declaration, Polnareff’s expression hardened into granite.
“I, Jean Pierre Polnareff, swear upon my very life that I will march alongside you to butcher Dio!!”
He rose to his full height, Silver Chariot manifesting behind him to hoist its rapier skyward in solemn vow.
Jean Pierre Polnareff had officially joined the crusade.
At the Hong Kong harbor, Horne and the group boarded a freighter secured by the Speedwagon Foundation, plotting a course to Singapore before cutting across the Eurasian continent by land to reach Egypt via the Red Sea.
It wasn’t that Horne hated flying; he simply had no faith that Joseph’s vehicle-destroying curse wouldn’t strike again.
Commercial flights were strictly banned, ships were risky enough, and traveling by land was the safest bet—at least with solid dirt under their boots, losing a vehicle didn’t mean plummeting from 30,000 feet or drowning in open water.
Taking this freighter to Singapore served a dual purpose: casually executing two of Dio’s assassins along the voyage.
The moment they stepped aboard, Horne directed Kakyoin to deploy Hierophant Green throughout the hull to sweep for hidden explosives.
Horne pulled an instant Polaroid camera straight from his dimensional inventory.
“Joseph, track down the user of [Dark Blue Moon].”
Joseph raised his hand to karate-chop the camera to pieces, only for Horne to grab his wrist mid-swing.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“Spirit photography, obviously!”
“You can take spirit photos without smashing the damn equipment to bits!!”
“Because it looks badass!”
“Are you a bratty child?!
If you smash the camera, how do we use it again?
Are you throwing away Hermit Purple’s greatest utility just for a pose?!
“Blinding your own intel gathering for style points—I swear, Joseph, your senility is kicking in early.”
Chewed out by Horne, Joseph barked back defensively:
“Impossible!
Absolutely impossible!!”
Following the verbal beatdown, Joseph finally took the photograph without breaking the gadget.
Exposed by Hermit Purple’s psychic tracking, the identity of Dio’s next hitman was laid bare.
The second the ship cleared territorial waters into the open sea, Horne summoned the assassin masquerading as the ship’s captain onto the deck.
“Is something the matter, gentlemen?”
Horne and the crusaders formed a tight, suffocating ring around the imposter.
“Captain, it seems an assassin dispatched by Dio has sneaked aboard our vessel.”
Horne was visibly toying with the bastard for his own amusement.
“What?!
An assassin?!
Who could it be?!”
The fake captain sensed his cover might be blown, but vastly outnumbered, he played dumb with sheer audacity.
“That’s precisely why we called you out here, Captain.
“As master of this vessel, we must clear your name first.
“As long as you pass our little screening test, you’ll be proven innocent.”
A flicker of desperate hope sparked in the hitman’s chest.
(Wait…
am I not exposed yet?
Of course!
My disguise is flawless!)
“Certainly!
No problem at all!
What is this test?”
“You don’t need to know.
Just stand at attention and don’t move a muscle.”
Horne fed him pure bullshit.
“Y-Yes, understood.”
The fake captain snapped straight as a board, bracing himself for whatever was coming.
“Jotaro, you’re on.”
Summoned forward, Jotaro tugged his cap, barely keeping a smirk off his lips.
“Yare yare daze.
[Star Platinum]!!”
Star Platinum manifested directly in front of the captain’s face, the suffocating aura of the violet titan causing sweat to pour down the man’s neck.
(Ignore it!
I have to pretend I can’t see it!!
The second they realize I can see Stands, I’m a dead man!!)
“Oh my?
Captain, why are you drenched in sweat all of a sudden?”
Kakyoin teased smoothly.
“Ah?!
W-Well…
you see…”
The assassin panicked instantly.
“It must be the scorching sun beating down on him, Kakyoin.”
Polnareff chimed in, choking back snickers.
“Yes!
Exactly!
The sun is truly brutal out here today~~”
Riding an emotional rollercoaster, the imposter felt as if he had dodged the executioner’s axe.
“Captain, make sure you hold your stance and don’t flinch.”
Joseph offered a mock warning.
“Ah!
Understood!”
He locked his posture rigid once more.
“Captain, clenching your teeth right about now would be wise.”
Avdol advised deadpan.
“Huh?”
By the time his brain connected the dots, Star Platinum was already cocking its fist.
The punch wasn’t thrown at full speed; anyone intending to dodge could easily evade it.
But for the assassin, dodging or taking the hit was a fatal dilemma.
Dodging proved he was a Stand user; staying still meant eating a bone-shattering blow.
(For Lord Dio, I must endure it!!)
He stood firm and took Star Platinum’s fist flush on the jaw.
Yet just as he assumed the trial concluded with that single strike, he met the sadistic grins plastered across Horne and the others’ faces.
Only then did it dawn on him: his identity was known from the beginning—he had been clowned like a fool.
What followed was an apocalyptic beatdown delivered by Star Platinum.
“ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA!”
He was beaten into a mangled pulp before he could even summon his Stand, the one representing the Moon.
With the fake captain retired, the competent Speedwagon Foundation crew took the helm without missing a beat.
Along their charted waters, Horne’s group encountered their second maritime assassin.
It was a massive derelict freighter, its rusty hull emblazoned with the word STRENGTH.
Indeed, this was the Stand representing the Tarot card Strength—because it was bound to an actual physical ship, even ordinary mortals could see it.
“Avdoodoo, time for you to shine.
Send this floating bullseye straight to the bottom of the ocean.”
Horne gestured toward the colossal freighter.
“Leave it to me!!”
Having had zero opportunities to unleash his Stand during the journey, Avdol was itching for an all-out showcase.
“[Magician’s Red]!!”
A humanoid avian Stand wreathed in raging infernos materialized behind Avdol.
Magician’s Red, the embodiment of the Magician card.
Destructive Power: B, Speed: B, Range: C, Durability: B, Precision: C, Growth Potential: D.
Its power: generating and manipulating intense flames at will.
Don’t assume a Range C rating meant Magician’s Red was helpless at a distance—that parameter only dictated how far the Stand itself could travel from the user.
It had nothing to do with the projectile reach of its flames.
Likewise, never underestimate its destructive rating—Rank B Power merely reflected the raw physical kinetic force of its fists.
The Stand’s true apocalyptic terror lay within its heat and thermal destruction.
Magician’s Red shaped the dancing flames effortlessly into swirling thermal constructs.
From its talons poured a roaring deluge of fire, washing over the freighter’s massive steel hull.
While Magician’s Red packed enough heat to vaporize solid steel bars in a prison cell…
The sheer displacement of an entire freighter was colossal; even melting through portions of its frame would take hours to completely scuttle the ship.
Right on cue, Horne, the tactical mastermind, tapped Avdol’s shoulder.
“Avdoodoo, can you compress your flames?”
“Compress fire?
In theory, yes, but what are you planning?”
“Condense as much thermal energy as humanly possible into an ultra-dense core, lob it deep into the freighter’s engine room, and let it detonate.
Can you pull that off?”
Avdol turned the concept over in his head and realized it was entirely plausible.
“I can, but I’ve never tested it before—I can’t guarantee how catastrophic the yield will be.”
“Only one way to find out: let’s test it.”
“Understood!”
Magician’s Red conjured a burning orb between its talons, continuously drawing in thermal energy while crushing it inward with violent magnetic pressure.
The result was a sphere no larger than a basketball, yet packed with superheated, hyper-dense plasma.
The plasma orb radiated like a miniature star; had Magician’s Red not held its thermal radiation in an iron grip, their own ship would have ignited and melted on the spot.
“This…
exceeds even my wildest expectations.”
Avdol stared at the orb of apocalyptic destruction hovering in his hands, unable to fathom the devastation it would unleash.
Horne, seeing the volatile sphere, issued an immediate order:
“Full throttle on the engines, ready to reverse!
The second this bomb leaves his hands, we get the fuck out of dodge!!”
Even Horne wasn’t crazy enough to gamble with that kind of yield—getting caught in their own friendly fire would be the dumbest way to die.