Roy's low mood rippled like water, raising a small ring of waves.
He walked over the worn stone slabs beneath moonlight, following the soft lantern glow along the castle corridor toward Maha.
When he got close, he dipped his head slightly so Maha wouldn't have to rise onto his toes to reach him.
"Did you kill someone?" the old man asked, lightly stroking Roy's forehead. The kid was growing too fast—give it a few more years and even standing on tiptoe, Maha probably wouldn't be able to reach.
"…Yeah." The Life Energy sitting on the panel was cold, glaring.
Roy took a muffled breath and looked up—straight into Maha's heavy, knowing, yellowed eyes.
"This isn't your first time killing. So why aren't you happy?"
The Zoldycks were famous worldwide. "World's number one assassin family" wasn't a title you got from politeness—it was earned with blood.
In other words, if you were a Zoldyck—master or servant, even the family dog, like Mike—you were supposed to treat killing like drinking water or eating: routine.
So—
To be "unhappy" meant "unqualified." Not a proper Zoldyck.
Roy didn't answer.
He straightened up and stared out into the night. The sunset had faded, the bright moon had risen, and darkness fell—like the darkness that pressed down on "discarded people" like little Maddy, old Mark, and Nora.
Softly, he said, "Sorry, great-grandpa. My dad was right. I probably… won't ever be a qualified assassin."
A wind rose, carrying a fallen leaf. Roy pinched it, rolled it under the moonlight, and murmured, "I can't be as cold-blooded as my father and grandfather."
He let go. The leaf drifted away, floating toward Kukuroo Mountain—black and coiling like a giant dragon over the Zoldyck estate.
"That's because you still haven't killed enough people," Maha said.
"And you still haven't seen enough darkness."
"See more, kill more—you'll get used to it… the way I did. You'll slowly get used to it."
Maha stood beside the boy with his hands behind his back, looking out into the heavy night. Then he fell silent.
Just like the old man said…
Roy blinked, refocused, and bowed respectfully. "It's me being melodramatic."
Maha waved a hand. "Wrong again. That's not melodrama."
"It's… kindness."
He turned his head and looked at Roy with something like relief. "That's why your dad and your grandpa are both useless. Kindness only for your own people, never for anyone else—that kind of heart can't walk the road of Faith."
"You don't need to comfort me, great-grandpa."
"Wrong. I'm not comforting you. I'm telling you the truth."
Maha poked Roy lightly in the chest with one finger.
"Those two—your father and your grandfather—plus your two little brothers… their hearts only hold this house."
"Illumi even… only recognizes you."
"But you—"
"You're holding the world."
"And you have to hold… the whole world!"
Countless graves. Endless, silent gravestones.
Roy froze. Looking down at Maha—this thin, shriveled old man—his mind automatically replayed what he'd seen in Maha's unconscious realm:
A nation buried with its dead—men and women, old and young—who had once followed Maha in resisting divine rule.
Their faces overlapped with little Maddy, old Mark, and Nora—
forming the "silent majority" of the Dark Continent.
Silent so loudly it hurt.
They're dead, but they won't vanish. There will always be those who follow—who shoulder the burden, inherit the dream… and among them, there has to be me.
His thoughts widened. Everything clicked into place.
Roy exhaled, then smiled at Maha. "So yeah… that's why I'm the sun."
"I was born to shine on the whole world."
"Heh heh heh… piss off." Maha grinned, mouth half empty of teeth.
He lifted a foot, pretending to kick.
Roy dodged with a flash, and when he looked again—
the boy had turned away, black hair spilling down his back, walking off. The gloom in his posture was gone, replaced by something freer, lighter.
Footsteps faded as he rounded the corner and vanished.
And in his place—
silver hair, long and gleaming under the moonlight.
"Grandpa," Silva said. He wore neat, practical clothes and black cloth shoes, stepping into the spot Roy had just been standing in beside Maha. (Note: Silva is Maha's great-grandson; for simplicity he calls him "grandpa.")
Silva watched Roy's retreating figure and said quietly, "I never thought it'd be Roy."
The road of Faith—what it really looked like—Silva didn't know. But he did know this: anyone who could walk it wasn't weak.
Which meant Roy… had inherited the dream Maha never finished.
Maha didn't answer.
Silva continued, "You always said the ones with no prospects become the head."
"I was."
"My father was."
"You were, too…"
"At first I didn't understand. I didn't accept it."
"But now I get it."
"That kid… his heart is huge."
"That's why," Maha said softly, "he's different."
"…Yeah." Silva repeated, arms folded, eyes flickering. "He's different."
"I'm looking forward to his growth."
"One year?" Maha asked.
"One year." Silva answered firmly.
"…It won't take that long." Maha patted Silva's arm, then turned and walked back inside.
Silva: "..."
Frowning, he emphasized, "A year isn't long!"
"I think it's long." Maha slammed the door shut. "If you don't like it—watch and see."
Silva's silver hair fluttered in the night wind. He laughed low in his throat.
"Heh heh heh… fine. Then we'll watch and see."
He turned and left.
Along the castle's worn stone corridor, father and son, grandparent and grandchild—each closed their own door.
Maha flopped into his rocking chair, back to his cartoons.
Silva didn't return to the bedroom. To watch over Kikyo, he locked himself into the training room.
Bam bam bam—!
The sound of punching bags exploding one after another echoed through the night—
so loud that passing butlers didn't dare even look up.
Except Gotoh.
"Grrr…." The young butler pushed a cart, glanced at the training room from afar, then turned into Roy's room like always and set down a full dinner—plus the special TB medication he'd just picked up from the hospital.
"According to Dr. Logan's plan: isoniazid + rifampin + pyrazinamide + ethambutol for two months works well. Then continue isoniazid + rifampin for four more months, and it should basically be cured…"
Tuberculosis was nothing in modern medicine—yet in Demon Slayer's Taishō era, it was almost a death sentence.
Roy took a bite of pizza, accepted the pills Gotoh handed him, and carefully read the instructions. In his mind, Tanjiro's father—Tanjurō—appeared again, always gentle beside the brazier, always looking at him with warmth.
It was finally time to honor that promise.
Three days… probably three days. That was how long he estimated he'd need to roughly grasp the treatment logic, then use anti-materialization to try bringing it into the Demon Slayer world.
He swallowed the pizza with a spoonful of cream mushroom soup and smiled at Gotoh. "You did well."
"It's what I should do." Gotoh pushed his glasses up, then tested the waters. "Young Master—Ging sent a photo. He wants you to see his son. Do you want to?"
Gon… Roy hadn't seen what baby Gon looked like.
"Bring it."
"Yes."
Gotoh pulled out his phone and opened the picture. In it, the family of three stood together—especially Ging, holding a chubby baby and grinning like an idiot. It looked nothing like the usual Ging: sharp, adventurous, always testing people.
Just another dad whose brain had been scrambled by newborn joy.
Roy's gaze slid past father and son, landing on the woman—Ging's wife.
Even through the screen, her cold, detached eyes met his, indifferent to everything.
Roy's brows tightened instantly.
She reminded him of Andrew Cooper.
"This woman… isn't ordinary…"
"Vivian… was it?"
He stored her face away, then said aloud, "Reply to him. Congratulate him on having a son. As for gift money—skip it. Whale Island doesn't do that."
Gotoh's beard twitched. Technically, nobody really did "gift money" here, but he nodded anyway. "Understood."
Then he pulled out another dossier.
"Holl called. That cult—this 'evil religion'—is spreading like crazy. It's crossed multiple continents, showed up in several countries. Even Kakin seems to have sightings…"
Spiritual Morphine—Guzman.
Roy took the report. The very first thing that jumped out was the name of the cult:
Truth.
His brow furrowed. His mind immediately jumped to the substitute death dolls.
The doctrine was practically naked on the page:
What is truth? Believe and it is true; doubt and it becomes false… Worship Truth… worship the True Creator… uncover your inner true self… my friends, partners, loved ones… each of you will discover a different you… a different world…
Roy scanned downward. At the end were listed the cult's key believers—its "archbishops."
Several familiar names.
Guzman.
Those two men and one woman from outside his mansion.
Ōtsuka Yū.
Mark Wayne.
And—
Someone Roy had once met in "the city of performance," Glam Gas Land:
Hisoka Morow.
"…How the hell did he become an archbishop?"
A wave of absurdity rose in Roy's chest as he stared at the photo—a red-haired clown with stars and teardrops painted on his face, wearing a red hood like a parody.
Gotoh saw it too and couldn't help but mutter, "Young Master should've killed him back then."
"We don't need to care." Roy said flatly. "He's a fake."
"A fake?" Gotoh frowned.
"A fake believer."
"A fake believer who worships 'Truth.'"
Gotoh found it ridiculous—yet that contradiction was exactly what Shallow Falsehood revealed as its true core.
Roy finished reading, took a napkin, and wiped his mouth slowly.
"True or false—who can really tell?" He said lightly. "Gotoh, just remember one thing."
"In front of absolute strength…"
"Truth can be a lie, and a lie can become truth."
Point at a deer and call it a horse. That's all it is.
"Yes." Gotoh nodded solemnly.
After Roy finished dinner and Gotoh cleared everything, he said good night and went downstairs.
Roy stayed at the table and opened his follower panels.
Gotoh's panel popped first:
[Notice: Your follower has grown stronger. Faith Power +7]
[Follower: Gotoh (Note: Loyalty Overflowing)]
[Physique: 224 → 280]
[Visible Aura: C-(420/100000) → C-(3420/100000)]
[Potential Aura: C-(2812/100000) → C(812/100000)]
[Rating: C-]
[Note: Using chimera ants as reference, your follower Gotoh now has the potential to become a standard Squadron Leader]
So… he really hadn't slackened at all.
"Next time, Young Master… I absolutely won't lose again." The vow Gotoh made after fighting Razor echoed in Roy's ears.
Roy said nothing. He opened the Demon Slayer panels—Gyōmei, Rengoku, Obanai, Giyu, and the rest, plus Ubuyashiki.
The strongest was C-, the weakest—even Ubuyashiki—was D-.
After awakening Nen, their growth was frighteningly fast, and it fed Roy a steady stream of Faith Power.
[Notice: Faith Power +3 +5 +8 +9 +5 +4…]
[Demon Slayer total: 47 points]
Roy then opened the Naruto panels—Uchiha Setsuna, Uchiha Yashiro, and the others he'd forcibly "opened" with negative emotions.
The prompt spammed:
[Faith Power +7 +8 +10 +11…]
Even higher than the Demon Slayer pillars.
Roy understood why: bloodline-group bonds.
The deeper the bond, the more Faith Power it produced.
Which meant… when Itachi and Sasuke awakened, those numbers would spike into something absurd.
With that thought swirling, Roy pushed his chair back and stood.
Before he headed to the ninja warfront, he stepped into the bathroom to start another round of point allocation.
The shower turned on.
Water poured down.
He stripped, barefoot under the spray, palms pressed to the wall, bracing for pain.
He drew a breath.
"Come on."
A prompt slammed into his head:
[Notice: Faith Power cleared.]
[Notice: Life Energy cleared.]
[Physique: 946.5 → 1246.5 (Note: average human = 1)]
For the first time, he'd broken a thousand.
~~~
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