Zoldyck?
Under the opera mask, Portor White's thick brows tightened a shade. He snorted; two white plumes of breath streamed from his nose. "A pity it isn't Silva Zoldyck," he rumbled.
He'd heard the name, even glimpsed the man at a distance a few times. Never got to cross fists—regrettable.
Even so—Bean, seeing the big man's straight-arrow look and remembering who was sipping tea in the Chairman's office, tip-toed a warning: "The Chairman said 'don't hold back,' but he didn't mean 'kill him.' It's still an exam—assessment rules first."
"I know," Portor White said, clearly with his own plan. Bean had done his duty; whatever happened, the Chairman would cover it. He waved, left the passage, and the elevator doors slid shut.
Gale flicked a vial to Portor White. "Do me a favor and get me some Zoldyck blood."
They said that family was poison-proof; she wanted to see how true that was.
"Snap—" The vial exploded under a supersonic jab. "Do it yourself," Portor White said.
"…" Gale swallowed her temper. Shouldn't have partnered with this block of hardwood.
She turned away and buried herself back in pharmacology.
…
Night thickened. After two hours in the air, Papa Fox finally delivered Roy's party before eleven to the official venue—Zaban City—where a stately palace loomed under a skein of white doves.
Kuraging, raised far from cities in the Kurta hills, drank in the sight, star-eyed. "No wonder it's the Hunter Association—this much theater for a test."
Papa Fox pointed past the palace—toward a humble yakiniku joint tucked under its eaves. He dug out three number tags and offered them, head bowed. "The entrance is the barbecue next door. Inside, left to the elevator, down to the basement—that's the exam hall. These are your numbers."
He almost added I'd be honored to guide you again next year, then thought better—the boy and the bird would hardly fail this year—and swallowed it.
Kuraging stared, dazed, taking her tag from Gotoh. She'd assumed the city hall was the venue; embroidery-fine red ears twitched as she flipped her badge. 407. She slid it against her chest, under her shirt. The exam wouldn't formally start until 2 p.m. tomorrow—plenty of time to find a bed and pin it on in the morning.
"Enjoy your midnight snack," Roy said, clapping Papa Fox on the shoulder and nodding at the son. He had Gotoh pocket the tags, then led Kuraging to the inn next door under the father-and-son's stunned escort.
The revolving door spun shut behind them.
"Father," the son murmured, "how did he know we always go for steak at the barbecue when we're in Zaban?"
Papa Fox was quiet. "That's why he's god," he said at last.
What god loves, he knows what men love.
He pushed into the barbecue and bellowed, "Boss! One steak set—pan fry, medium!"
"What about mine, Father?"
"Not my problem!"
"Don't—! I've got no money—!"
Their bickering chased the night in Zaban City.
…
Gotoh finished the check-in, swept the room, and Kuraging poked her head in. "If you need anything…"
"Bang." The door shut in her face.
Self-important, was Gotoh's verdict.
Roy came out of the bath, dunked Gold-chan in the tub until it pecked his hair in protest, then told Gotoh, "You go rest too."
He tapped the bird's head and let it nip his finger. "We're linked," he said, smiling. "If anything happens, he'll wake me. You haven't slept in days at sea—go."
"I'm not sleepy," Gotoh lied, yawning.
"Out."
"…Yes."
The door opened and shut. In the empty corridor, Gotoh found Kuraging leaning against the wall, arms folded. He glared. "What."
She only smiled. After a moment she turned away. "Just reminding you," she said, "the young master isn't yours alone."
Bang, the door clicked. Gotoh stood a while, pushed his glasses up, and snorted. "He isn't yours either."
He took the room next door.
By eleven the city had gone dim; only a scatter of night markets still buzzed. Roy turned on the desk lamp, lay back, let Gold-chan tumble in the duvet, and flipped to Zigg's notes on En/Shroud. After fighting Giyū, he knew it was time to go. Mount Fujikasane, the Hand Demon, a reckoning for his senior souls—that would be his first step as a full disciple.
He'd noticed, too, that Makomo's moods had been off—staring at him, then at the old man's back for whole days. She understood, surely, that when the Hand Demon died, their grudges would end; and with grudges gone, souls disperse. Even if swaggerers like Shinsuke and Fukuda didn't care, gentle ones like Makomo and Yakiko would. Afraid to leave the mountain. Afraid to leave father and brothers—and perhaps a little brother, too.
So: a surprise. A maybe.
Learn Shroud, coat jars in Ten, and become a vessel the souls could roost in after the Hand Demon—another anchor to linger by their teacher's side.
"The Will-Scissors Method." Imagine a pair of scissors that snip the "qi-thread" linking body and object. Cut, and your En can persist in the object without your body.
Will-scissors—pure Enhancer/Conjurer craft. Roy thought of Zigg's Re: Game of the Dead—Conjuration again.
He read on until the words blurred, then nodded off. Gold-chan hopped up, heaved itself onto his head, and tucked in. A moment later, soft snores.
He drifted down the rainbow tunnel, sprawled in the sand of his Cognition Sea, emptied his mind, then pushed open the Demon Slayer door.
…
The hour of the hare; sparrows chattered under the eaves. Cool spring air slipped through a torn bit of shōji.
Roy opened his eyes to find a ring of black eyeballs staring at him.
"Finally awake!" someone howled. "Your knife grew legs and flew off last night—did you know that?"
~~~
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