"Whoosh—"
Spring had slipped into early summer. The days were longer now, and even the wind felt warmer…
The Testing Gate stood wide open, revealing that pale fish-belly glow on the horizon—blackness splitting apart as dawn bled across half the sky. And inside the gate, right at the center… the boy who no longer looked quite so boyish—now carrying the faint outline of a young man—was draped in a robe of sunrise.
He did it… He really opened it before me…
A gust lifted Illumi's smooth black hair, swaying it gently.
He stood behind Roy, watching him bathed in morning glow, holding the gate up with a single palm like he was propping up the sky—effortless, even a little relaxed. Strangely, the disappointment Illumi had imagined never came.
Was the gap so vast he couldn't even produce the desire to compete?
Or… had he always felt genuinely happy—deep down—whenever Nii-san made even the smallest bit of progress?
Illumi lowered his lashes. Everything inside him was hazy, indistinct. He only knew that the old him wasn't like this.
As the night finally thinned, the sun revealed a rounded edge of itself. Illumi, still half-dazed, heard Roy say:
"Illumi, come stand with me."
Illumi looked up. Roy had turned his head and was smiling, beckoning him over.
He walked there without a word—into the open gate, beside his brother—watching the sunrise with him. Then, at some point, his forehead went warm: Roy's large hand clasped his head and gently ruffled it.
"Little brother. Let's take a picture."
"…Mm."
Illumi's voice was barely audible.
Roy smiled and glanced at Zebro. "Zebro."
"H-here, Young Master!" The bald man rolled upright like a gymnast, yanked out his phone, and aimed it at Roy and Illumi. Click click click—a rapid burst of photos. He handed it over. "Young Master, take a look?"
"No need," Roy said calmly. "I already know… the moment itself is the best."
Then he let go—
The seven doors—256 tons—slammed down with a thunderous crash. The ground seemed to jump. All the noise outside was cut off in an instant.
Dust flared up—
Roy flicked one arm and used Wind Breathing, conjuring a clean breeze that swept the dust away…
Along with the last three feet of darkness in front of them.
He winked at Illumi. "I'm hungry. I'm heading back first."
As he spoke, he turned into drifting light—melting into the dawn in a blink—and floated back toward the mountain peak like he was walking on sunlight.
He vanished.
Only Illumi and Zebro remained, staring after him in stunned silence.
"Give it to me."
After a moment—after Roy's last trace was gone—Illumi drew a breath, his face returning to that familiar dead-eyed blankness. He extended his right hand to Zebro, cold and absolute. "Give it to me."
"…What?"
"The phone."
"The phone?" Zebro finally understood. "Ah—Young Master means the photo, right? Don't worry, I'll have it developed. I'll deliver it—"
"I want the photo. I also want the phone," Illumi said flatly, eyes fixed on Zebro. "It held me… and him."
Zebro: "..."
His mouth twitched. He forced a servile smile. "Young Master… give me one minute, at least—let me delete my browsing history…"
Illumi didn't even give him one second.
He moved like a ghost—brushing past Zebro's shoulder—
And Zebro felt his palm go cold. When he looked down, the phone was already gone, sitting in Illumi's hand as he headed uphill toward the Zoldyck castle.
"…Young Master…" Zebro's face crumpled. He spread his hands helplessly, watching Illumi go, and finally let out a defeated sigh.
Maybe age had dulled him. Or maybe watching the gate all day—tourists, cameras, casual curiosity—had made him forget one fundamental truth:
To the Zoldycks, their butlers have no secrets from their masters.
That dawn "farce" landed in the eyes of a certain dried-up old man… and oddly, it amused him.
In the dim yellow room on the first floor, Maha rocked in his chair, listening to cartoons. He only half-opened his eyes when Roy passed, then sank back down as Roy's footsteps faded away.
Nen stirred. A misty aura rose—
And from it formed a woman: older, with clear crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes, yet still sharp and dignified.
Betty Zoldyck. Roy's great-grandmother—the one he'd once seen in Maha's unconscious domain.
"Don't you think Roy is starting to look more and more like Zigg?" she murmured.
Her long golden ponytail fell to her waist. As soon as she appeared, she leaned into Maha, arms around his neck, sitting right in his lap. Her emerald eyes shimmered as she looked through walls toward Roy walking back to his room.
"Like him? Where?" Maha snorted, one arm around her waist. His hand tried to wander—
Smack.
Betty slapped it away and glared. "Where doesn't he?"
She started counting on her fingers, listing them off like treasured stories: "Both Conjurers. Both rebellious. Both always causing trouble. Both jumpy as hell. Both impossible to relax around. And—"
One thing after another, she matched Roy's behavior to Zigg's. Maha shut his eyes and listened without arguing.
When she finally finished, Maha added one word, irritated:
"Don't forget—"
"Bold."
He clicked his tongue. "One dared to bargain with a god. The other… hasn't even done anything yet, and he's already bragging about raising a blade to question a god."
"Betty," Maha huffed, "our kids… not one of them knows how to behave."
Betty laughed softly and hugged his head like she used to when she was alive. "We can suffer a little. We can worry a little. As long as the kids are okay, everything's okay."
Then her smile faded. "You tried to stop Zigg from walking that road—he walked it anyway. Now Roy's walking it too. If you don't keep an eye on them, I'm scared they'll…"
"Yeah, yeah," Maha grumbled. "Just treat me like a workhorse."
Betty giggled. "What are you saying?"
But then she went quiet.
Maha's tone sharpened. "He gets strong alone—so what? So he can drag you, Brook, Randall, and everyone else to die with him like I did?"
Those endless graves still drifted in their memories. A nation's sacrifice wasn't a dream. It wasn't exaggeration.
Betty had witnessed it. Lived it. Died in it.
She survived now only as a lingering remnant, held together by Maha's nen and the last scraps of what he once had.
She couldn't answer.
Maha softened, rubbing her back. "That's why I warned him not to neglect his believers. Only by bringing them up with him does he have any hope of toppling a god's kingdom—of truly doing what he says."
Betty swallowed, voice low. "But how long would that take? Giving is always harder than taking. A god has holy water—divine 'blessings.' Roy doesn't even have divinity. Even if he wants to help his believers… what can he do?"
Maha fell silent.
He understood. She understood. Even that skeleton visitor—Leon Zeppelin—understood.
But turning "understanding" into a real method—one that looked clean, one that truly lifted followers so they could "ascend" with him—was the hardest part.
After a long pause, Maha sighed. "Sometimes… the gap between people is bigger than the gap between a dog and a person. Talent's like that. You can't force it…"
He muttered, almost like conceding defeat: "Changing someone's talent with 'blessing'… that's something only a god can do."
Right then—
From outside came the faint rrrrr of a cart's wheels on stone.
Betty glanced toward the sound. In the next instant she melted back into Maha's nen and vanished into him.
A knock at the door.
"Ancestor, I've brought your meal."
Gotoh's voice.
Maha eyed the door, expression unreadable. He'd already decided: Roy's chosen follower—Gotoh—was a "low-talent" specimen. A dead end.
Even if Roy didn't like hearing it, Maha would advise him: drop Gotoh early, find better seeds, nurture the ones with real potential—
So he answered flatly, "Come in."
Gotoh entered, set the tray, bowed, and withdrew.
"Please enjoy."
The lid lifted: sweet-and-sour pork—Maha's order.
Gotoh left, delivered Zeno's tomato-and-egg stir-fry, then rolled the cart on—rrrrr—to Roy's room.
"Young Master, I'm back."
Gotoh, for once, genuinely relaxed—only in front of Roy. He smiled like he could breathe.
He served Roy with ten times the attentiveness he'd shown Maha and Zeno.
Roy sat at the table under the dawn, eating while reading Silva's "game guide" map—an altered "real game" built on a true Dark Continent blueprint. His eyes lingered on words like Bandel City, Security Corps, Entry Permit, Shantytown…
His chest grew heavy again.
He remembered the elderly couple he'd met outside Bandel's walls—Mark and Nora—who fed themselves to beasts just to buy their granddaughter "Little Maddy" a chance at the city.
This time, he would go back in.
He would go deeper into the Dark Continent. Into Samir. Into Bandel.
He'd tear it apart, upside down—while hunting for Zigg, and the truth behind the curse.
"People don't die from holding their piss," Roy muttered. "And people don't sit around waiting to be slaughtered."
He tore off a bite of baguette and washed it down with cream mushroom soup, then remembered the True Faith again and frowned at Gotoh.
"Any new intel?"
"Last night," Gotoh said, pushing up his glasses, "he called. You were asleep. I planned to report this morning."
"Talk."
"Guzman isn't dead."
"Tell me something I don't know."
Roy had already learned the hard way: without killing the owner of the Substitute Doll, you can't truly kill Guzman. Roy had proven it. Zigg had proven it.
"Yes." Gotoh nodded and continued. "And about the one you asked about—Hisoka Morow. He killed an archbishop, and not only was he not treated as a traitor… Hol's internal source says he's been meeting Guzman repeatedly. Looks like he's being promoted."
Roy raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.
Killing believers and still being "rewarded"—so much for Truth. Hypocrisy that blatant was… impressive.
"What else?"
"Hol's source spotted Hisoka in the Yorbian continent. Then he appeared in Yorknew at an auction. Hol says…"
"What?"
"He says… be careful," Gotoh said grimly. "Hisoka may be heading for Meteor City."
Roy didn't blink. "He's from Meteor City. Going home isn't strange."
Then his tone turned lazy, almost amused.
"Of course—if he has other plans… I don't mind playing with him."
Gotoh reminded carefully, "Young Master… you put him in a wall last time."
Roy flicked his used napkin into the trash. "Then I'll put him in a wall again."
Preferably with a Substitute Doll on him too.
Roy glanced at Targeted Tracking in his skill list.
If those "god-playing" idiots thought a handful of dolls made them untouchable… Roy would happily clean them up too.
It would also help Taiyi tighten his footing in Meteor City—set an example for the Spiders.
Gotoh began clearing plates—
Roy lifted a hand. "Don't. I've got a task for you."
Gotoh straightened at once. "Yes, Young Master. Please command me."
Roy's eyes lifted, and Gotoh's pupils tightened as he watched Roy—
Slowly—
Slice open his own palm.
~~~
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