Traveling from Singapore by train and ferry, the crusaders arrived in India—a land that was as mystical as it was utterly bizarre.
Horne sternly cautioned everyone:
“If you don’t want to spend the next week violently puking your guts out from food poisoning, don’t touch the street vendor food, and under no circumstances do you drink the tap water.”
Having lived in twenty-first-century China in his previous life, Horne held zero romantic illusions about India.
The infamous ‘clean and hygienic’ Indian street delicacies were biological weapons whose devastating gastrointestinal fallout he had seen countless times online.
“Aren’t you being a bit prejudiced, Horne?
When in Rome, one must sample the local street snacks.”
Polnareff scoffed playfully, strolling toward a crowded roadside stall to see what smelled so fragrant—and immediately froze in horror.
Countless hardworking Indian street flies were being blended straight into the batter, acting as complimentary protein to enhance the authentic flavor.
Then he watched the vendor use unwashed, filthy hands in a display of hygiene that made his stomach violently churn.
“My apologies.
You were right.”
Polnareff scurried back clutching his mouth, swearing off eating anywhere outside five-star luxury hotels.
The air hung heavy with a suffocating haze of dust and diverse stenches, completely devoid of anything resembling modern sanitation.
“Let’s wrap up our business and get the hell out of this place.”
“Agreed!!”
Eager to escape this dump, the group relied on Old Joseph’s Hermit Purple to psychically locate the coordinates of [The Emperor] and [The Hanged Man].
The Stand representing the Emperor card was also named [Emperor], wielded by Hol Horse, a mercenary hired by Dio.
A scoundrel cowboy sporting a weathered hat, his Stand manifested as a revolver firing phantom bullets capable of curving through the air at his conscious command.
Representing the Hanged Man, [Hanged Man] belonged to J.
Geil, a sadist born with a bizarre deformity: two right hands.
Relying on his invisible Stand, he had committed unspeakable atrocities, evading the law for years without leaving a trace.
His Stand resided strictly within the reflective surfaces of mirrors, capable of darting between reflective planes at the speed of light.
[Hanged Man] attacked an enemy’s reflection inside the mirror, mirroring the fatal lacerations onto the victim’s physical flesh in reality.
The duo was exceptionally lethal in tandem: Hol Horse’s bullets provided high-speed reflective surfaces for [Hanged Man] to hitch a ride on, ensuring that even if the gunshots missed, J.
Geil’s blade would still slice the target open.
Unfortunately for them, before they could even lay an ambush for Horne’s crew, their intended targets hunted them down first.
Horne and Polnareff blocked both ends of a narrow, dingy alleyway, boxing Hol Horse and J.
Geil in.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!
Are we cursed or something?
How did they corner us before we even drew our guns?!”
Hol Horse cursed under his breath.
In this claustrophobic alley, Hol Horse and J.
Geil had nowhere to run.
An impromptu close-quarters ambush was a scenario they had never prepared for; to unleash [Hanged Man]’s lethality, the environment required abundant, stable reflective surfaces.
Right now, this grimy alley lacked mirrors, and the ambient light was hopelessly dim.
Reflection demanded light—without illumination, what the hell was there to reflect?!
(This is bad!
In this pitch-black alley, Hanged Man is totally useless!!
I can’t take Polnareff and this unknown freak all on my own!!)
Hol Horse lived by the creed: ‘Better to be number two than number one.’ He understood his role as pure support; [Emperor] wasn’t built for brawling.
It left his physical body completely exposed; while unrivaled for covert assassinations, Hol Horse was remarkably fragile in an open slugfest.
Sweat poured down Hol Horse’s neck as he eyed Horne, having zero data on this mysterious warrior.
Unlike the world-renowned Silver Chariot and Magician’s Red, Horne was an absolute black hole of intelligence.
While Hol Horse panicked, Polnareff manifested [Silver Chariot], pointing his rapier and index finger straight at J.
Geil’s face.
“The man with two right hands!
J.
Geil, master of [Hanged Man]!
After all these agonizing years, I have finally cornered you!!
“The murder of my sister Sherry, and the endless list of unpardonable atrocities you have committed!
Since the courts of this world cannot punish you, my Stand will execute divine judgment upon your head!!
“[Silver Chariot]!!”
Hol Horse reacted instantly, firing a Stand bullet straight at Polnareff while flicking his lighter open to create an artificial light source, allowing [Hanged Man] to latch onto the bullet’s metallic sheen.
Simultaneously, he aimed [Emperor]’s barrel at Horne, hesitant to shoot until he probed the man’s power.
“Don’t you fucking move!
Move an inch and Emperor’s bullets will sprout eyes and bore a bloody hole right through your skull!!”
He tried bluffing Horne with threats, but Horne wasn’t buying a single word.
“[One-Man Army]!!”
[One-Man Army] lunged straight for Hol Horse’s throat, forcing the cowboy to pull the trigger in sheer panic.
The phantom bullet moved fast, banking sharply around obstacles, nearly impossible to block cleanly.
Yet Horne never intended to block it; the bullet swerved around [One-Man Army] and slammed dead-center into Horne’s forehead.
Horne collapsed lifelessly onto the dirt as [One-Man Army] dissolved into thin air, leaving Hol Horse dumbfounded.
(Wait…
that’s it?
He went down in one hit?!
What a pathetic scrub!
Damn, what a waste of my fucking time!!)
“Boss J.
Geil, one of them is down!
Let’s get the fuck out of here!!”
Hol Horse didn’t dream of turning this into a two-on-one; his immediate instinct was to bolt.
At this range, Silver Chariot’s blinding speed was more than enough to butcher both of them in a counterattack.
Besides, the other crusaders were nearby; dawdling here meant dying.
Yet when he glanced back at J.
Geil, all thoughts of an orderly retreat vanished.
Hol Horse abandoned his partner, sprinting out of the lethal alley at top speed—a total, shameless betrayal.
Because right behind him, J.
Geil was already getting butchered alive by Polnareff.
While the initial bullet had allowed [Hanged Man] to nick Polnareff’s shoulder, the Stand relied entirely on surprise assassinations.
Ordinary Stand users were usually executed before deciphering how the mirror mechanism functioned.
Throughout that process, J.
Geil could use [Hanged Man]’s Rank A Range to hide safely miles away.
The enemy could neither hit the phantom in the glass nor reach J.
Geil’s frail mortal flesh.
That was the true foundation of [Hanged Man]’s terror; yet right now, J.
Geil had been dragged into a brutal close-quarters brawl in an environment that crippled his power.
Could he fight back?
Not a fucking chance; [Hanged Man] had zero direct hand-to-hand capabilities.
It couldn’t even manifest to shield its user from physical trauma; bound strictly to reflective surfaces, it couldn’t block incoming fists like normal humanoid Stands.
Polnareff powered straight through [Hanged Man]’s glancing scratch, [Silver Chariot] flashing like silver lightning directly toward J.
Geil.
Fueled by Polnareff’s roaring fury, [Silver Chariot]’s peak Rank A Speed exploded to its absolute extreme.
Like a raging category-five typhoon, Silver Chariot’s rapier became a torrential storm of needle-sharp rain.
Countless high-speed thrusts hammered into J.
Geil’s flesh, soaking him from head to toe.
Yet what drenched his clothes was no gentle rainwater—it was a fountain of his own boiling, crimson blood.
“This is the punishment of ten thousand blades!
“J.
Geil, this is the divine execution decreed by Jean Pierre Polnareff!!
“Now rot in hell, you piece of shit!!!”
[Silver Chariot]’s rapier never ceased its blinding thrusts until the last drop of blood drained from J.
Geil’s mangled body.
Geil collapsed onto the dirt as a shredded mound of unrecognizable minced meat, drowning in his own gore.
“Sherry…
your brother has avenged you!”
Polnareff looked up toward the sliver of sky above the narrow alley, his heart churning with overwhelming grief and vindication.