Illumi was stubborn.
He came back limping.
It was the same corridor, the same window, and that same dried-up old man—hands clasped behind his back—watching the "him" in the garden outside.
Illumi walked up to Maha and insisted, "I know I'm not as good as him."
"Not as good?" You're missing the point. Your heart is full of him, so there's no room left for you.
Maha looked at Roy's crooked shadow slanting across the sunlit garden and didn't even glance at Illumi. "You are not as good as him. He has valleys and mountains in his chest. What do you have?"
"Don't talk to me about love," the old man snapped. "The Zoldycks don't lack love—never did, don't now, and never will."
"Illumi." He reached out and grabbed the boy by the head. The creepy part was: Maha was small enough that he had to stand on tiptoe just to reach Illumi's shoulder—yet he still held Illumi's head firmly in his hand and scrubbed it hard. "Stop being so obsessive."
"If you don't want your nii-san to leave you in the dust, you need to start thinking more about yourself."
Illumi was yanked around like a wooden puppet, face blank, and suddenly blurted out, "Is that what the Buddha meant—save yourself before you save others?"
Maha froze, then stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Who taught you that?"
Illumi calmly pried Maha's hand off and pointed at Roy. "I peeked at his notes. Shingen-ryu… Bisky."
"He didn't know?"
"He knew." Illumi said it like it was obvious. "I sneak into his room every night. He knows. His bird knows too."
"Then he really does spoil you."
"And you knew too, Great-grandpa." Illumi looked Maha in the eye. "You did it on purpose."
Maha didn't answer.
After a long pause, he sighed. "I didn't have brothers. Neither did your Grandpa Zigg, your grandpa, or your father…"
"I was just reminding you."
"And… I'm jealous of you."
"Jealous that I have a good brother?" Illumi leaned against the window, staring at Roy's not-particularly-tall back. After forcing the words out through his teeth, he said, "Great-grandpa's right. I'll think more for myself. But…"
"He first. Me second."
"That order—"
"Can't change."
Maha shot him a look. "Then why not think about Milluki? Or your unborn little brother—what if he's silver-haired and becomes the next head of the family?"
"Milluki?" Illumi said flatly. "He's a pig, not a person."
"As for the unborn one…" Illumi looked at Maha without emotion. "You said it yourself: who becomes head of the family might have nothing to do with hair color."
"I can't argue with you." Maha neither agreed nor denied it. He turned away. "Fine. Since you're talking so much for once—what do you want?"
Illumi took one step back, stiff as a corpse, and bowed ninety degrees. "I want you to train me. I want to be your student, Great-grandpa!"
A gust of wind rolled through the corridor, lifting a green leaf—and taking the noise with it.
Maha froze.
This was not a development he'd ever predicted. When things were this abnormal, something was always wrong.
And this "wrong" was… way beyond normal.
"…You really are something." Maha looked his grandson (great-grandson) up and down like he'd never met him before. "What made you decide that?"
Illumi lowered his head and touched his chest, where the God-Spear wooden nail lay against his skin.
Word by word, he said, "Me."
"I'm too weak."
"That's why he gave me a 'nen tool.' Why he gave me 'breathing.' Why he protects me."
Maha: "You don't like it?"
"I like it—and I don't." Illumi met his eyes. "He thinks I'm weak…"
So you can't stand it.
Maha saw straight through him. After sizing him up, he waved a hand. "Get lost."
Illumi turned and started walking.
Sunlight streamed through the window, stretching his shadow long and thin—until it reached Maha's feet.
Maha spoke without looking up. "Every day. One hour before lunch."
"Any longer… you know what happens."
"The old man gets annoyed."
Illumi stopped. "Fine."
"Can't you say thank you?" Maha barked, voice rising.
Illumi turned his head and stared. "Great-grandpa, you're supposed to."
"You little—" A visible vein popped on Maha's bald head in the shape of a cross. He bent down to take off his shoe—
Illumi backed away, half his face melting into shadow. He slipped around the corner and vanished.
Fast runner… or just motivated by the fact that one hour a day was now waiting for him.
Maha let him go this time, then lifted his eyes toward the garden: Roy sat beneath the sun, silent and still, meditating with his sword.
Because of that boy, the whole Zoldyck household—top to bottom—was changing. Sometimes, even Maha himself wondered if he'd gotten too sentimental lately.
He'd actually agreed to Illumi's ridiculous request.
Clouds drifted, briefly dimming the sunlight. Shadows spilled across the garden.
Maha came back to himself, hands behind his back, watching Roy quietly.
With Maha's single word—"gratitude"—as the spark, Roy had dropped into deep meditation, searching for the truest way to repay the swordsmanship that had raised him.
Should it be like Netero—praying before every "true punch," answering martial arts with martial arts?
Or like Yoriichi—born a blade, born with the Transparent World and the Mark, letting raw talent make swordsmanship kneel?
Roy listened to his own heart.
His instinct said: neither.
Netero was a man first, then a fist.
Yoriichi was a man first, then a sword.
They had their own invincible roads—their own overwhelming personal styles.
Not Roy's.
So—
"What's my style?"
"What should I do?"
"Why did I learn the sword in the first place? Why did I go to Sagiri Mountain and take Urokodaki Sakonji as my teacher?"
…
"To get stronger."
"To stand above heaven and earth—arrogant to the extreme."
"And also… to become that sliver of light that brings warmth to the world."
"For the sun in my heart."
Roy suddenly opened his eyes and whispered, "Let there be light."
A sharp shiiing—!
Eclipse slid free, straight as a line—its tip raised—then, the instant its cold gleam appeared…
The clouds parted overhead.
Ten thousand rays poured down, gathering along the blade until it glowed, heated, shone—
A sword of light.
It pierced "Nen" and the world beyond it, stepping past mere "cognition" itself.
The sea of cognition roared.
And within it, the wooden door marked with the horned corpse-demon shook violently, as if it had sensed something—then cracked open again.
Through the gap: that familiar courtyard, that corridor, an old man and a middle-aged man, and the orange and calico cats, safe and ordinary—
Until the elder seated cross-legged on the corridor, with his long white beard and wooden cane, slowly opened his eyes.
Everything had changed.
~~~
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