In the secluded mountains of Kukuroo, beneath a thick veil of mist and morning dew, a storm was brewing—not from outside, but from inside the Zoldyck household itself.
Jeno Zoldyck—third-generation head, stubborn and strict, the kind of man who'd rather wrestle a chimera ant than admit he was wrong—was about to internally combust.
"Grandpa, people's hearts are insatiable!"
"You gave him money this time, what about next time? And the next? Are we just going to bribe that brat every time?!"
He was practically spitting blood. Money? Bribes? Since when did the Zoldyck family need allowance strategies to control its own kin?
He glared at Maha, who sat cross-legged in an old creaking chair, plucking his nose like this entire conversation bored him to death.
"What, you think he won't respect me as his great-grandfather if I don't pay him?" Maha grunted lazily.
"YES!" Jeno nearly shrieked. "That's exactly what I'm saying!"
Maha waved him off with the flick of a liver-spotted hand.
"If money doesn't work, use your fists."
"…And if that doesn't work?" Jeno asked, teeth grinding.
Maha's eyes narrowed. "Then you're too weak."
Silence.
Then the bomb dropped.
"You don't seriously think everyone's as soft as you, do you?"
CRACK.
It wasn't a chair leg, nor the creaking of the house.
It was Jeno's ego.
His Dao heart. His very identity.
He clutched his chest, momentarily convinced he was having a spiritual infarction. His mouth opened, but no words came out. His brain short-circuited.
The man who had once hunted warlords stood like a ghost struck by a heavenly tribulation.
"By the way," Maha casually added, as if commenting on the weather, "Roy's gotten stronger recently. Might catch up to you soon."
BOOM.
Another internal detonation. Jeno saw his entire career flash before his eyes—kill contracts, assassinations, lectures to Killua—and now this?
"Can't even beat your grandson, eh?" Maha snorted. "Shameful. If the outside world hears of this, they'll laugh their heads off. And I—Maha Zoldyck—will have to carry that embarrassment on my grave."
And he kept going.
And going.
And going.
Jeno? He didn't hear a single word after "Roy's gotten stronger."
The world had faded into static.
His knees trembled.
His breathing hitched.
"I swear… if I stay in this house any longer, I'll become a dog!"
Jeno turned stiffly, mechanically, toward the door. But before he could leave:
"If Roy surpasses you, so what?" Jeno asked suddenly, voice low and sharp.
Maha raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"I'm just saying…" Jeno grinned like he'd seen something terrifying. "There are no absolutes in this world. You said it yourself: fists solve everything. What if he surpasses you, Grandpa?"
"…Impossible."
"Mm. That's what I thought. But let's not be too sure."
He turned, bowed slightly. "Goodnight, old man."
And he vanished into the mist like a ninja with an existential crisis.
That Night…
The rocking chair creaked… then stopped.
The scent of the evening cartoon he watched faded from his senses.
Maha stared into the ceiling. His old heart? Still strong.
But his mind?
Restless.
"…No way," he muttered to himself.
He didn't sleep that night.
Not because he couldn't… but because he dared not.
The Next Morning
Sunlight spilled gently across the courtyard. The air was cool and crisp.
Roy stood in the center, shirtless, gripping a long training blade—crafted from dense wood but wrapped in spirit.
His footwork was calm.
His breathing steady.
His blind golden eyes focused inward, dancing with a storm that no one else could see.
"One—two—three—four—"
Each swing was fluid, graceful, almost poetic.
Every slash sliced through the morning haze like scripture etched into the air.
If not for the grumpy old man squatting behind the rocks, the entire scene might've been inspirational.
Roy stopped.
"…I can feel you breathing behind me."
Maha didn't reply.
"I swear, if you're planning to squat behind me while I take a crap, we're gonna fight."
Still no reply.
"Fine, stalk me all you want. I've got questionnaires to answer today."
Roy tossed the stick into the rack and stomped toward his study.
Inside the Study
Dozens of fan-submitted questions—compiled by Nanako—waited to be reviewed. Roy sat cross-legged, skimming.
"Dear Roy-sensei, if you had to fight Whitebeard from One Piece, who would win?"
He smirked.
"Whitebeard, huh?"
Suddenly, Maha's dusty voice creaked from the doorway:
"…What do you think of him?"
Roy didn't even flinch. "He was strong. The man could split the sea with a swing of his fist. Beloved by thousands, feared by more. His power wasn't just physical—it was the weight of loyalty and family behind every quake."
Maha grunted. "So?"
Roy smiled faintly. "So what? He still died."
"…Hmph."
Maha turned and left.
But that night?
He didn't sleep either.