When Kisho opened his eyes, he was still inside the box.
Pitch-black. Silent. The only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat—driven to an extreme by terror, yet having unexpectedly settled into calm.
It felt as though body and soul had separated, time stretched both unbearably short and endlessly long.
Thump… thump…
In the darkness, Kisho opened his eyes wide, then, as if giving up, closed them again.
He didn't know how long had passed, nor how much longer it would take.
Only the memory—blood that had dyed the entire hall, vivid like a red carpet—remained in his mind. As it was traced over again and again, the red seemed ready to seep through his eyes, to flow out from his thoughts.
The structures in the hall, the people running…
All of it had become part of that blood-red scene.
Kisho let out a muffled sob. He felt nauseous, but there was long since nothing left to vomit.
They… the Troupe…
How could they kill so lightly, so casually?
No hatred. No old grudges. Just for some so-called treasure that meant nothing, they—
"We're thieves. Of course thieves take what they want by stealing."
"If they're unrelated people, then killing them is just killing them. What's the big deal?"
...
Kisho clenched his clothes tightly, as if doing so could also clutch his ice-cold heart.
"If you dare to run, we'll take your ability, break your arms and legs, and lock you in a box."
From the very beginning, he had already been told what kind of place the "Troupe" was.
He had eaten and lived with a group of bandits for two months. He had followed a group of bandits to learn about this world. And in the end… he had become one of them, become their accomplice…
That blood that had filled the entire hall—part of it was because of him. His hands had taken lives. He… had killed people…
Living lives, because of him, could never live again; forever frozen at that moment, becoming lingering spirits clinging to his back.
"Bang—"
Kisho heard a sound and opened his eyes blankly. For a brief moment, everything in his vision was blurred. He lowered his head and rubbed his face against his knees, feeling something warm, only then realizing—he was crying.
It was Chrollo who opened the box.
Ah… it was him…
Chrollo looked at him, his face reflected in Kisho's eyes, mixing together with the blood in his mind.
He didn't understand. He would never be able to understand.
Why could they take the lives of completely unrelated people without the slightest hesitation?
"Have you decided?"
Chrollo's voice reached his ears. Only after several minutes did Kisho react sluggishly.
Before being locked into the box, this man had asked him and told him to think it through: whether to choose to enter the Troupe as Number Eight, or choose death.
Death… huh?
It wouldn't be a loss. At least he had personally played his Song of the Four Seasons; at least he had personally taken steps forward; at least he had seen with his own eyes things that even in his previous world, people with healthy bodies and intact limbs would struggle to see.
Though unwilling, if he had to choose between being killed and killing others…
He was sorry. He was too weak. He was just a useless person who had once been bedridden for ten years. His heart had been trapped in a tiny space for too long—so long that it had become just as small, unable to bear the weight of another person's life.
Rather than hunching forward under the burden of innocent souls who died by his hand, he would rather die—at least then, his heart could leave lightly.
"Kill… me… please…"
Chrollo heard the hoarse, low voice of the boy inside the box—unexpectedly calm, carrying a sense of release.
"Oh?"
Chrollo raised a hand to cover his mouth, his eyes showing contemplation.
Did I misjudge…?
The human heart had always been the most unfathomable thing. That was precisely why Chrollo believed humans were the most interesting creatures.
This little brat had clearly been struggling desperately to live. Even a ten-day stretch of pitch-black confinement—something difficult to endure even for Nen users—he had managed to survive.
And he had already killed someone. According to Chrollo's expectations, the boy should either have collapsed or compromised.
But neither happened.
Unfathomable. Why?
Just because he simply didn't want to kill, he would rather choose to die himself.
Why was he like this? He was clearly just an insignificant person. Even if he killed others, how would it affect him at all?
Yet for this boy, the lives of insignificant strangers on the scales weighed more than his own life.
Ridiculous to the extreme.
A flash of blade light passed, and a thin line of blood appeared at Kisho's neck—the blood slowly seeping out.
But the boy lay there as if asleep, completely still, offering no resistance—calmly and gracefully waiting for death.
Absurd. On a crippled child covered in wounds, Chrollo actually saw elegance and composure.
He truly did not fear death. He wasn't pretending.
Suddenly, Chrollo had another idea.
...
Machi followed behind Chrollo into the room. In truth, everyone had simply not wanted to hear screams, so they had placed the box in another room. But the person inside had been locked in there for nearly ten days and had not made a single sound.
This boy embodied every contradictory trait—physically frail yet mentally resilient, yearning to live yet unafraid of death.
So should he be defined as weak, or as strong?
Kisho was dragged out of the box by Machi gripping his collar, and his severed limbs were stitched back together for him.
It hurt a great deal, but the boy didn't make a sound. He simply stared at the two of them with a gaze filled with scrutiny and anger—as if his former caution and helpless fear had all been an illusion.
Chrollo's sudden new thought was that he wanted to know: if this boy, who would rather die himself than kill others, lived in Meteor City for a while without dying, what would he become?
Once stained by darkness, could white still remain white forever?
Could he become an exception?
"I'll give you a choice. Hand your Nen ability over to me, and I'll give you an opportunity."
Chrollo spoke softly. After speaking, he covered his mouth again, seeming to sink back into thought.
Kisho slowly raised his head to look at him.
"If you can survive in Meteor City for half a year, I'll let you go."
Chrollo said calmly, "During that time, if you change your mind, you can also come back."
Of course, if he came back, it would mean he no longer had any value as an experimental subject. His only destination would still be that box.
Kisho stared at him. After struggling for a long time, he finally stood up slowly.
...
Chrollo withdrew the Bandit's Secret and looked at the boy, who hadn't eaten for ten days and had only been given a little water occasionally, now staggering and barely able to stand.
After his Nen was taken away, the boy became even weaker. He took a light step forward, his body swaying. After steadying himself, he took another step.
Seeing that the two behind him made no move, he stopped and turned around.
Looking back, he said slowly, "What I owe you, I'll find a way to repay bit by bit."
His final sentence was spoken in the Huaxia language:
"I would rather die outside than come back."
He turned and ran out of the room, ran down the stairs, and under the stunned and astonished gazes of the Spiders, left the building, his figure disappearing into the night.
"Boss—what is he—"
"You're really just letting him go? That's not like you, Boss…"
Watching Chrollo walk down slowly, everyone spoke at once.
"It's just an experiment." Chrollo smiled faintly, his calm voice seemingly unaffected by anything.
"There has never been prey that could escape the spider's web alive."
"Whether alive or dead, the destination of prey will never change."
An interesting performance was about to begin, and he would watch it with great anticipation.
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Pls Drop some Power Stones
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