Gotoh is the professional sort—unlike Kuraging, he rarely smiles.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, studied the gold-plumed crow, and quietly filed the name "Gold-chan" away. The world had turned into a purgatory entirely thanks to this ball of feathers; a seasoned butler doesn't underestimate something just because it looks cute—least of all when it's his master's Nen beast.
"Whoosh—" Without Nen fanning the blaze, the fire began to die.
Leaning on Gotoh's shoulder, Roy left the dry lakebed and climbed. He slipped into Zetsu to recover his Nen and reached up to send Gold-chan back—no good. The bird made a nest of his hair and refused to budge. Kuraging, smiling, pinched up a bug and offered it; the bird flicked a tiny tongue of flame and turned the thing to ash. She jumped.
"Overstepping," was Gotoh's verdict on that little liberty.
She pouted at him; Roy let them squabble and kept walking. Halfway up the mountain he stopped. Figures stepped out of the trees.
Gotoh clocked one of them instantly and eased coins into his palm.
Her—the fox daughter.
"The young master let you go, and you still came back."
Kuraging frowned too, picking out the same burn-mark sigils on the arms of the three with her. Family—no doubt.
The daughter's eyes skittered; she looked to her bald father for help. He forced a smile and bowed from a distance. "My daughter was rash," he said. "Please accept our apology. The surveillance wasn't our choice. As exam proctors—guides—the Association assigned us this duty. We simply follow orders."
"Young master," Kuraging said softly, "she's not lying." Women know women; the girl's panic—and her guilt at dragging her family into this—didn't look staged.
"That doesn't erase peeping, getting caught, and running," Gotoh said flatly. Wrong is wrong. If apologies fixed the world, you wouldn't have so many tragedies—exam or not.
Roy listened without comment, eyes on the fox family. He stirred a thought—
On his head, Gold-chan opened both eyes. Golden pupils flashed twin lances that washed over the four foxes.
Something rose up from the marrow of their bloodline.
A river plain, endless and bright. Foxes—giants, a hundred times larger than they—kneeled to the sky. A sun-chariot rolled out from the horizon, drawn by a three-legged golden crow with heaven-spanning wings. A man sat upon the car, wearing a gilt diadem with bead-curtain; his face lay indistinct.
They heard a single word on their ancestor's lips: "God."
The man lifted his gaze from the scroll in his hand and glanced their way. "Boom."
The vision shattered. The world lurched. The foxes' knees buckled.
"Dong—"
Like a hammer striking a bell inside the bones. A crow's cry exploded in their souls.
The father, the mother, the son, the daughter—all flattened themselves to the dirt, faces to the earth, as their forebears had to the sun.
What…? Why're they kneeling?
Kuraging, bewildered, stared at the prostrate family and then at Roy. On his head the Gold-chan crow preened a pinfeather and made a bored caw, like none of it had anything to do with him.
Is that sincerity enough? Gotoh blinked once. There's not much left to scold when someone throws away even their dignity.
Roy smoothed the crow's golden tuft and thought a single phrase: rank suppression.
Like soldiers and kings among Chimera Ants; like Muzan's whim over every demon's life. To monsters like these, a Golden Crow sits on a higher rung. You do not look up. You bow.
His stomach growled. "Food?"
"I've curry," the fox mother blurted. "If you don't mind…"
"Let's go," Roy said, and took the trail toward the sun-topping cedar.
They stared after him, then came back to themselves like people dragged from a river—soaked in sweat, hearts pounding. "I thought I was going to die," the son muttered. He'd heard of deathbed lanterns; that glance from the man on the sun car had him seeing things he'd never forget.
"Was that real… Father?" the daughter whispered. He didn't answer. "Back to the house," he said instead. "Don't burn the curry."
She shot back into fox form and sprinted upslope.
A wind came down the mountain, full of scorched leaves. The father looked at his two children. "You say nothing of that vision. To anyone."
"What about the Association?" the son said, looking at the half-charred forest. "They'll ask."
He glared. "Say I lit a fire. Cold morning. Wanted a blaze." The son shut his mouth.
"Father…" the daughter began, "doesn't that man look a little like—"
"Keep it to yourself," he said. "Things you know, you keep."
They kicked off the dirt and followed.
…
Evening. Under the cedar, in a cabin, they set a table. Roy ate curry with Gold-chan. The bird clattered its beak on the plate, hooted, and demanded more. One plate. Two. A pot. Two pots. The fox mother, hollow-eyed, slumped with a ladle in hand. The daughter reached to stroke the bird's belly; her father shot her a look. Don't forget what it is.
"Sit," Roy said. "All of you." He pointed at Gotoh and Kuraging. "You too." The butler and the girl took chairs. The foxes did the serving.
When they'd cleared the last pot, Roy scratched the crow. "Can you fly?"
The ball of gold hopped to the table's edge, pumped its wings—and fell off.
"…"
They all stared. Kuraging muffled a laugh. Roy scooped the bird up and set it back on his head. "Never mind. Escort us to the venue."
"Of course," the father said quickly. He mouthed orders to his son; the mother and daughter would keep house. He spread his wing-arms and led the way.
…
After midnight. The Association airship docked to a platform; Bean took a box of film down an elevator hidden in a steakhouse. A basement opened. Two figures were already there.
A woman—hairblack, curves like a serpent, reading a pharmacology text under a lamp. A man—tall, opera mask, massive, working through a crisp set of fists.
"You came?" she asked.
"Came," Bean said, nodding to the woman. "Good evening, Gale." He turned to the man. "Portor White-san. The Chairman says: test their measure."
The man popped a straight punch; the air cracked past supersonic. "Got it." He glanced once at the reel in Bean's hands. "These are the boar-men the Chairman says can match elite Hunters?"
"C-class Pig-Headed," Gale murmured, ear pricking. "Shame it's only memory. If it were live I'd harvest a toxin sample."
She pressed the canister to the glowing Phantasm sigil on her book. The room vanished.
An endless forest of pillar-trees. The grunting roar of pig-heads. A riot of axes and chain-flails. Ten seconds of violence—
The world snapped back.
Gale's breath rasped. The masked man's face could not be read. "With you sitting the gate and those things in the maze," she said at last, "I suppose the Chairman truly doesn't want anyone to pass."
"Anything else?" Portor White asked.
"The Chairman says," Bean swallowed, "if you meet a boy named Roy Zoldyck, do not hold back."