"But when did he become so strong?"
Monk Killua Zoldyck stood at the kitchen door, puzzled and still rubbing the sore spot on his head where Roy's palm had landed like a hammer made of vengeance. His mind reeled.
In his memory, Roy—the second son of the Zoldyck family—was always quiet and withdrawn. Taciturn to a fault, Roy rarely spoke unless necessary and kept his distance from his siblings. Among them, only Alluka ever seemed close to him.
Ever since Roy had chosen to move out and live alone on the other side of Kukulu Mountain—just across a crystal-clear spring that divided their residences—Killua had assumed his brother preferred isolation due to low self-esteem. After all, Roy had been born blind, and in a family of assassins where power was everything, Killua had always believed Roy to be… well, a bit of a lost cause.
A disabled, unremarkable second son—at least, that's what he thought.
But now? That idea was shattered like glass.
What "mediocre disabled"? What low self-esteem?
His second brother, Roy Zoldyck, had been hiding his clumsiness this entire time—no, hiding his strength!
Killua hissed, still nursing his bruise. "Damn it, what kind of move was that? Why did it hurt so much?!"
He studied Roy's hand carefully. The fingers were long and slender, with a firm, wide palm—nothing visually impressive. No signs of calluses or scars. Yet that simple strike felt like he'd been hit by a small meteor.
"Want to know?" Roy asked calmly, not even bothering to look at Killua.
Killua blinked and nodded.
Roy smiled. "…Well, I won't tell you."
He smirked, turned around, and casually walked back toward the house with a soft "crunch" of gravel under his sandals. He licked the edge of a chocolate ice cream bar and sighed in contentment. "Delicious."
Killua stood stunned for a moment. Then rage sparked in his eyes.
"That bastard! He knew what he was doing!" he growled, charging after his brother.
He raised his hand, intent on unleashing a classic Zoldyck head-smash move, but Roy's eyebrow twitched.
Thanks to Observation Haki, Roy caught his brother's irritation without even turning around.
Still smiling, he reached into his plastic bag, pulled out another ice cream, and flung it backward without looking.
Thud!
The bar landed in Killua's arms like a small treasure from the heavens.
Killua blinked. "…!"
He quickly tore open the wrapper and took a big bite. His anger melted like sugar as a look of pure bliss took over his face. Holding the ice cream like a squirrel clutching a chestnut, he chomped with satisfied squeaks.
For all the darkness of their family, Killua was still a boy. A child who should've been playing, laughing, enjoying peace—not bathing in blood and fulfilling contracts before adolescence.
But then again… wasn't that true of Roy too?
The difference was… Roy had become something else.
Inside the house, Roy flicked his fingers, pulling open his system panel.
[Character: Killua Zoldyck]
[Age: 12]
[Physique: 30] (Average person: 10)
[Speed: 40]
[Strength: 60]
[Aura Capacity: 50] (Note: Nen nodes unopened)
Roy clicked his tongue.
Without even having awakened Nen yet, Killua's physical stats were monstrous—far beyond ordinary children, even seasoned fighters.
It was no surprise, really. After all, Killua was the heir-apparent of the Zoldycks, raised with every advantage and trained from birth to be the perfect killer. The family's pride.
And yet… Roy, the blind son who was written off from the beginning, was already stronger in every attribute.
And he still wasn't satisfied.
"Too weak."
"This world… is not a place humans can easily dominate," Roy thought. "To stand atop the sky, you must surpass the limits of the human body."
Even Isaac Netero, the strongest human Roy had read about, had died—killed by something beyond humanity. And Roy? He was blind.
His disadvantage could become a weakness—or a sword. And Roy had already decided.
He clenched his fist quietly. "30% synchronization with the Fujitora template. That's the next target."
But for now… he was hungry.
In the kitchen, Roy pulled out the ingredients from his plastic bag. No extravagant meals—just fried noodles with sauce.
Simple. Satisfying.
On hot days, eating fried noodles with a bottle of cold Coke was perfection in itself.
Killua stood leaning at the door, still eating his ice cream, watching his brother prepare the ingredients with effortless grace. His blue eyes sparkled with childlike curiosity—rare for someone who could tear out a man's heart without hesitation.
He'd never seen Roy cook before.
"The knife skills are good," Killua muttered, impressed despite himself.
Roy didn't respond. He was too focused.
To the untrained eye, he was just dicing vegetables.
But in truth—he was training.
Each flick of the blade, each motion of the wrist, was a silent kata of Teng Huliu Swordsmanship, a fluid art Roy had adapted from his simulation panel. Even a kitchen knife could become a sword. Every slice carried weight. Every chop—experience.
"Use what you have, make it count," Roy muttered to himself.
Killua watched, mesmerized.
His brother's thin frame hadn't changed, but something else had. The aura, the atmosphere—Roy radiated a quiet pressure that reminded Killua of a lone swordsman standing against the storm, slicing through sheets of rain with his blade.
The image overwhelmed him: a figure in a straw hat, draped in a raincloak, standing on a mountaintop, cutting rain itself as it fell.
Then, all at once—Roy turned to look at him.
Those pale, unseeing eyes glinted with hidden insight. Killua froze. The image in his mind vanished like fog, replaced by a chill running down his spine.
He nearly dropped his ice cream.
Roy smirked. "What are you doing, staring off like that?"
He pointed the knife at the cutting board.
"Come over here and chop the garlic."