When people bring up the Zoldycks, the first thing that comes to mind is this: they're the world's premier assassin clan, home to two top-tier masters—Zeno Zoldyck and Silva Zoldyck.
They're immensely powerful, cold and emotionless, disinclined to socialize, with eyes only for the job and the money. Thanks to their long ledger of kills, the world learned a simple rule—there's no one the Zoldycks can't kill; if someone survives, the pay wasn't enough.
But veterans who've dealt with the family—and old hunters like Netero—know the truth: the reason the Zoldycks stand so high above the rest really comes down to a single person—
Maha Zoldyck, the ancestor who built the family with his own hands.
He's the true pillar that props up the sky, the hidden beam that spans the sea—the most mysterious existence in the Zoldycks.
No one knows where the old man appears from. His dried skin droops from his face; at a glance he looks ready for the coffin, like a desiccated corpse that could topple over at any time.
Roy stood and saluted him with not a shred of disrespect. He knew full well that whatever this great-grandfather showed on the surface was meaningless—his age, like everything else about him, was a riddle. If he took offense, not even Silva—let alone humanity's strongest, Netero—would necessarily come away intact.
After all, Roy's grandfather—who felt itchy if he didn't kill at least one person a day—once said that across the whole continent, "Chairman Netero is the only one who's fought Maha and lived."
That tells you just how weighty the old man is.
Maha drifted in like a ghost and sat the same way, eyes on no one and nothing. His chopsticks flew as he shoveled food; he looked slow, but the sticks blurred. Roy, seeing that, stopped worrying about north or south and pulled out a chair opposite him. In the time it took to sit, half of both dishes was gone.
That speed… Roy stiffened, snatched up his chopsticks, grabbed a slice of eggplant, and tossed it into his mouth—glanced again, and three-quarters of the food was gone. He scooped one bite of rice and—clank—two empty plates hit the table, only a few tomato slices left.
Those, apparently, were too chewy.
"Great-Grandfather…" Roy's chopsticks froze mid-air.
The old man burped, pretended not to notice the aggrieved stare, and vanished in a gust, muttering that he was old and his teeth weren't what they used to be—he'd graciously left a few tomato slices for his dutiful great-grandson to top up his vitamins.
Roy & Gotoh: "…"
Speechless. They traded a look.
The young butler coughed and chose his words. "Young master… shall we do cream of mushroom soup again tonight?"
Roy's stomach flipped. He waved it off, took Yubashiri back from Gotoh, and headed for his room.
A waning moon—exactly his mood: neither good nor bad. It was a pity he hadn't eaten his own cooking, but Maha's performance proved one thing—his skills hadn't slipped much. With a little practice, he could get them back. Feeding Takeo and Shigeru wouldn't be a problem.
With that settled, he left the gallery, opened the door, and stepped into his room. He went to set Yubashiri on the rack Gotoh had prepared—then his gaze swept the room by habit and stopped cold.
A book he'd never seen lay quietly on the desk, its page corners fluttering in the night breeze from the window, whispering whss, whss.
Roy frowned, certain it wasn't his. He stepped closer and, by moonlight, saw that the yellowed pages were old; the title page was too blurred to make out, but a faint line of small characters was just legible:
On the Morphological Variations of Nen Abilities.
"Nen"… "morphology"…
"A… primer?" the boy thought.
He hurried out and in three strides reached the tiny room he passed almost every day. A dim lamp burned there around the clock, cartoons playing without pause. Peering in, he saw a gaunt old man asleep in a rocking chair, face to the ceiling, sleeping soundly.
Roy stood at the window a moment, tightened his grip on the book, and bowed.
The old man seemed tired—or maybe the same posture had numbed half his body. He rolled to one side, showing a small, slightly hunched back.
Only when Roy left the window did the old man half open his eyes, sigh softly, and murmur into a dark corner, "Come out."
The shadows writhed—and a figure took shape.
Silver hair and beard, a metal collar at his neck, a close-fitting robe emblazoned with eight bold characters:
"一日一殺; 生涯現役" — "A Kill A Day; Never Retire."
"Good evening, Grandfather," Zeno said, bowing to Maha.
The rocker creaked. The old man couldn't be bothered to answer.
Zeno didn't mind; like checking in, he came by every day—massaging Maha's shoulders while he was at it. An assassin's hands can wield a blade—or knead muscle. In knowledge of anatomy and meridians, the Zoldycks claim second to none.
Naturally, Zeno's technique was unmatched. His hands traveled from neck to spine to limbs as he said casually, "What made you willing to take out Father's notes, Grandfather?
"If I'd known one meal would cheer you up, I'd have learned to cook."
"You?" Maha snorted. "I wouldn't dare eat it.
"A bunch of good-for-nothings who only know how to kill—just like your dead father, heads stuck in the clouds. A pack of fools."
Zeno fell silent. His father, Zigg, had become a taboo of five generations. He was the one who went to the Dark Continent with Netero, brought back the dragon—and on his deathbed, warned them again and again: beware the curse.
The dragon was still kept behind the mountain; the "curse" had yet to show. That's why, all these years since Zigg died, Zeno came to Maha every day—afraid the old man might catch something bad and pass.
Fortunately, though Maha's vitality had ebbed, overall he was steady—and today he'd even had the appetite for a few extra bowls. A good sign.
"Didn't expect it," Zeno said. "Roy's talent may be lacking, but he's got a hand for cooking. I'll try it one of these days."
"He's my grandson!" Maha's eyes snapped open as he glared at Zeno. "From now on, only I get to taste it!"
Zeno: "..."
~~~
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