The boy's thoughts settled, and he drifted off to sleep.
This time, he dreamed of his past self—of "whip shadows," "stun batons," "poison insects"…
His hands and feet curled on their own.
If you've never been whipped, you don't know how much it burns when the lash is dipped in water.
If you've never been shocked, you can't grasp what five hundred thousand volts means.
If you've never been bitten by venomous bugs, you can't imagine the convulsions and gut-wrenching spasms of poisoning.
From the time Roy was three—his first memories—that was his daily training.
It was Silva who took the little boy by the hand and threw him into that unending hell, calling it "building a foundation so he can be a qualified assassin."
Later, after judging Roy's talent limited, he shifted his focus to Illumi, Milluki, and even children yet to be born.
Roy had nothing to say about it and no wish to judge. That's the Zoldyck fate—every child born into the family must endure it. There's nothing to debate.
But as a human being, Roy has always believed he has the right to choose his life…
First step: break free of control.
"Roar!" At dawn Mike's call came on schedule.
Roy opened his eyes again—back in his familiar bedroom.
Today he lay there one minute longer, savoring last night: that bowl of wild boar Kie had carefully cooked really wasn't bad.
So for lunch, he told Gotoh to fry an extra portion of bacon.
Fed and watered, he took Yubashiri with him.
Morning electroshock training was done; the afternoon was his alone.
He changed into comfortable training clothes and strolled the castle's quiet corridor. Through the window he could just make out, in the garden, a woman with half her face covered by a cybernetic eye, enjoying afternoon tea with a very small child.
The child was very pale and very chubby, limbs like bamboo joints stacked together.
He wore a little floral cap, a frilly lolita-style dress, white knee socks, and round-toed shoes—easy to mistake for a girl.
In truth, it was just an outfit chosen to satisfy the woman's peculiar tastes.
Roy had nearly been made to endure that as a child too, until he tore the getup to shreds by force.
Ever since, the woman never looked at him without a curl of the lip—fine by Roy; it kept his life quieter.
"Young Master Milluki, you mustn't eat that!" The butler trailing the fat baby yelped as the boy tried to cram a butterfly into his mouth.
Too late. Half the butterfly went in. Getting it back out would mean digging through his stool.
Crunch, crunch… Milluki chewed with relish, a ring of powder circling his mouth.
At some point he sensed a gaze from the gallery by the garden and laboriously lifted his round head to look, thinking—
Who's that?
"That is your elder brother, Young Master Roy," the butler supplied. Milluki noticed Roy by the window and placed a hand to his chest in a little bow.
Roy said nothing and didn't disturb what little joy Milluki had left. His eyes lingered for a moment, then he turned and headed for the training hall.
As for the woman—if she pretended not to see him, why should he walk up to her?
After all, to her he was just a "failed product."
Roy smiled at himself, patted Yubashiri, and pushed open the training hall door.
The snow-white katana seemed to hate any speck of grime.
Held in his palm and drawn with a ringing shing, it flashed a chill blue light and swept dust from the sunbeams.
The heavy door thumped shut.
Roy steadied his breath, stroked Yubashiri, and began to "dance"…
"Sun Breathing — Dance."
"Sun Breathing — Clear Blue Sky."
"Sun Breathing — Raging Sun."
"Sun Breathing — Fake Rainbow."
[Physique +0.05… +0.05… +0.05… +0.05…]
At one point, steel flashed—
Yubashiri slipped from Roy's right hand and shot like lightning. The "electronic eye" in the corner gave a dying whine and expired on the spot.
Upstairs, the master bedroom's TV bloomed with static.
Bzzzt…
Bars of snow rolled down the screen.
A man swirling a glass of red wine—half-reclined on a tiger-skin sofa—let one corner of his mouth lift.
He didn't move, didn't get angry, didn't have the still-injured Tsubone turn off the TV. Instead he motioned for her to fetch a blade from the storeroom.
When he stood, a slightly curved katana was already firm in his grip.
His aura shifted—domineering, brutish—like a beast about to burst forth and tear everything apart.
It set the heart quaking.
Tsubone wisely stepped back two paces to give him room.
Her face was placid, but her feelings were mixed. She'd keenly noticed—the head of house had been paying someone too much attention lately.
When did that start?
Probably when the figure on the TV began that strange "dance"…
A blade-wind hissed past her lashes, dragging her back to the present.
Silva moved.
Two hands on the hilt, he mimicked Roy's dance. In his grasp the sword came alive—cutting, lifting, thrusting, hewing—his feet padding Shadow Step. In an instant—
The room turned uncanny, all floating blade-light and sword-shadows.
At last, the final stroke—
"Sun Breathing — Sun Halo Dragon Head Dance," ringing a keen, razor note.
Silva stopped dead, sheathed, and stood, exhaling long.
A low, suppressed chuckle rolled from his chest.
Eyes narrowed, he confirmed one thing:
"This isn't a dance. It's a martial way."
Tsubone's pupils tightened. His words made her think of a man—hair tied in a high ponytail, fond of volleyball.
The strongest human, a grand master of the martial path, who explained what dō means with ten thousand grateful straight punches a day: the true intent human beings condense in the pursuit of surpassing themselves; the breadth that folds heaven, earth, and all nature into one; the reverence for life that makes birth and death light.
And now, in this little bedroom of a thousand-year-old castle, a trace of it had appeared.
Unbelievable.
"Take it. Keep it well." The dance ended. Silva tossed the sword.
Tsubone caught it mechanically, still not fully back from the storm of steel and light…
She glanced at the TV—nothing of the boy's dashing figure remained in the snowfall of static.
Only one line kept echoing in her mind:
"Aren't you a dog, too?"
~~~
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