When people speak of the Zoldycks, the first thought is… the world's premier family of assassins, anchored by two top-tier masters: Zeno Zoldyck and Silva Zoldyck. Powerful, cold, and taciturn, they see only targets and money. Their record made the world believe there is no one the Zoldycks can't kill—if a mark survives, the fee simply wasn't enough.
But veterans who have actually crossed paths with them—old hands like Isaac Netero—know the one pillar that truly elevates the Zoldycks above all others is a single man:
Maha Zoldyck—the ancestor who forged the family.
He is the Zoldycks' true sky-propping jade pillar, sea-spanning golden beam—the most inscrutable presence in the clan. No one knows when he appears; his withered face hangs loose like parchment. At a glance he looks ready to keel over, a desiccated corpse about to return to dust.
Yet when Roy rose to bow, there wasn't a trace of disrespect. He understood perfectly: what Maha shows outwardly is as untrustworthy as his age—a riddle. If the old man's mood sours, even Silva—let alone humanity's strongest, Netero—might not come away unscathed. Roy's own grandfather once said it outright: across the entire continent, "Chairman Netero is the only one who fought Maha and lived."
That is the weight of the man.
Maha drifted in like a ghost, sat, and looked at no one and nothing. His chopsticks flew. Bite after bite, he seemed leisurely, yet the tips blurred into afterimages. Roy, seeing this, abandoned north, south, east, and west, slid into the seat opposite—and in the time it took him to sit, half the two dishes were gone.
'That speed…'
The youth stiffened. He snatched up his chopsticks, grabbed a slice of eggplant, tossed it into his mouth—looked back—three-quarters gone. By the time he swallowed a mouthful of rice, clatter—two empty plates dropped onto the table. Only a few lone tomato slices remained, not from mercy but because the old man couldn't chew them.
"Great-Grandfather…" Roy's chopsticks froze midair.
Maha belched, pretended not to notice the boy's wounded look, and vanished in a gust. Faintly, he could be heard lamenting old age and bad teeth, saying he'd left those tomato slices to his good grandson for the vitamins…
Roy & Gotoh: "…"
Speechless. They traded looks.
Gotoh cleared his throat, chose his words carefully. "Young master, shall we… have cream of mushroom soup again tonight?"
Roy's stomach turned. He waved it off at once, took Yubashiri back from Gotoh, and headed for his room.
Tonight's moon was a thin, tattered scythe—much like Roy's mood: neither good nor bad. Missing his own cooking was a pity, but Maha's performance undeniably proved one thing—Roy's culinary edge hadn't dulled much. With a little practice, he could bring it right back. Feeding Takeo, Shigeru, and the other little ones? No problem.
At ease again, Roy entered his room. He turned toward the window, ready to set Yubashiri onto the stand Gotoh had prepared—then paused.
A book he'd never seen lay quietly on the desk, its corner lifting and falling in the night breeze.
Whff, whff.
Roy frowned. This was definitely not his.
He stepped closer, squinted in the moonlight. The pages were yellowed with age. The title page was so faded it was barely legible—only a thin line remained:
On the Morphological Variations of "Nen".
"Nen." "Form."
'Is this… a primer?'
He left the room at once, stride quickening, and in three long steps reached the little chamber he passed almost every day. A dim lamp always burned there; anime played around the clock. Peering through the window, he saw a gaunt old man snoring softly in a rocking chair.
Flat on his back. Dead asleep.
Roy stood at the window a while, then tightened his grip on the book and bowed.
Perhaps stiff, perhaps sore from sleeping in one position too long, the old man rolled to his side, presenting a small, slightly hunched back. Only when Roy had gone did he half-open his eyes, sigh, and murmur into a shadowed corner:
"Come out."
The darkness writhed. A figure resolved.
Silver hair, silver beard. A metal collar at his throat. A fitted robe emblazoned with eight bold characters:
"One Kill a Day, Active for Life."
"Good evening, Grandfather." Zeno bowed to Maha.
The rocker creaked. Maha didn't bother to answer.
Zeno took no offense. Like a daily check-in, he came here every day—kneading Maha's shoulders as he did. A killer's hands can hold a blade—or knead out knots. In knowledge of anatomy and acupoints, no one surpasses the Zoldycks.
Zeno's technique was second to none. He traced from neck to spine to limbs, speaking idly. "Grandfather, how could you bear to bring out Father's notes?"
"If I'd known a single meal would please you, I'd have learned to cook long ago."
"You?" Maha snorted. "You dare cook, I don't dare eat."
"A lot of cutthroats who only know killing—you're the same as your dead father. Noses in the air, fools to the last."
Zeno fell silent. His father, Zigg, was the Zoldyck taboo across five generations: the one who'd gone to the Dark Continent with Netero; the one who'd brought back a dragon; the one who, before dying, warned them again and again—beware the "curse."
The dragon was penned behind the mountain; the curse had yet to show its face. This, too, was why Zeno came to Maha daily—lest the old man catch something ill and drop dead.
At least Maha's vitality, though waning, held steady over the years. Today he'd even eaten a few extra bowls—a good sign.
"Didn't expect it," Zeno said at last. "Useless as the boy's talent is, his cooking's something. I'll have to try it another day."
"He's my grandson!" Maha's eyes flashed open; he glared at Zeno. "From now on, only I get to try it!"
Zeno: "…"