"Have you passed the word?"
"It's been passed."
After Luke phoned Gotoh with the message that Young Master Roy should keep an eye on Young Master Illumi, he went straight to the second floor to report to Silva.
Kikyo was lounging on the sofa leafing through a magazine, a junior butler at her side feeding her fruit. Her belly was rounder by the day; if you pressed your ear to it you could hear a strong little heartbeat.
When she had nothing to do she would cradle her belly and coo to Silva, certain as a prayer: "This one will definitely be silver-haired."
Silva listened quietly each time—and couldn't help thinking of the stubborn boy who looked him in the eye and vowed to take him down.
The old man always said: a child with fire is a good thing; cage him at home and you'll raise a cripple.
Silva understood and agreed—but… in the days since Roy and Illumi left, hours alone in the training room left him empty and bored.
He'd never felt this before.
It had led to overtraining Milluki for several days; the boy was still face-down in his room, unable to get out of bed, playing dead whenever "training" was mentioned—foam and all.
At nine in the morning sunlight fell through the windows across Silva's chest. Today he skipped the training room, rested with Kikyo, sipped his wine, and listened to Luke's report.
"What did he say?" He blocked the window like a wall.
Luke bowed. "Young master said nothing."
"He's displeased?"
Luke lowered his head and dared not answer.
Silva drained his glass, thought a moment. "Ready the car. Book tickets."
He shoved the cup into Luke's hands and walked out.
Downstairs, around the corner, across the corridor—then he paused. Outside the dim little room, the rocking chair had been moved to the hall; a gaunt old man basked in the sun.
Cold days, short sun—you cherish what you get.
"Great-grandfather…" Silva squinted and bowed.
Maha lay feigning sleep under a blanket. "Where you off to?" he asked lazily.
"Saherta."
"What for?"
"To check on the children."
"Which child?"
"Both."
"Too late…" The old man opened his eyes. "Your father left first thing."
Speaking of Zeno stoked his temper. Ever since that kick, the dog had run to the Association; Maha shot Silva a glare too. "Always running around. With him there, you stay home with your wife. If a girl shows up, bring her for the old man to hold."
"Yes." Silva straightened, wasted no words, and turned to go. With his back to the light he heard a sigh: "I've been watching. Roy's headstrong, but he knows the score…"
"Even if you didn't tell him, he'd watch Illumi. After all…
"This is a boy we can beat behind closed doors. Outsiders… must not lay a hand."
A cold gust lifted his silver hair. Silva listened in silence and looked out—the sun was perfect, wheeling toward noon. After a moment: "Understood."
He walked back the way he came—back to the bedroom—and let his heart settle.
…
Jan 4 — Fishing. Nen beaded, failed to draw to a line. [Nen Morphology +10 → 21/100]
Jan 5 — Fishing. Nen beaded into a line—not long enough. [Nen Morphology +20 → 51/100]
Jan 6 — Fishing. Nen line reached the surface, snapped a few times—still not strong enough. [Nen Morphology +25 → 76/100]
Jan 7 — The Hunter Exam opens. A brassy ship horn blared…
A shuttle ship for Dolle Harbor arrived to ferry candidates to the exam site, Doli Island. The gangway dropped; candidates filed aboard.
The bald ninja, mummy man, snake tamer, bow boy, Kurta girl stepped onto the deck and, by unspoken agreement, kept their distance from those behind:
one "weirdo" and the blond Pariston—who had pulped Donovan at the airport. The two drifts, distinct as oil and water, walked the gangway one to a side…
Cre-eak, cre-eak… The weirdo's face full of spikes squeaked with each step. His stiff expression, almost not human, caught Pariston's eye.
With Clark and Gaal in tow, the blond boy stopped to let him board first—eyes following with interest. "Friend—what's your name?"
No reply. Purple mohawk, eyes rolled white—creepy.
He ignored Pariston, stepped aboard—and, dead-fish eyes scanning, froze when he didn't find the one he sought. Disappointment darkened his face; after a long beat he went to the mast and sat cross-legged.
"Playing spooky."
"Hill-chan, want me to twist his head off?"
Clark couldn't bear seeing Pariston snubbed. Roy Zoldyck was one thing—but this guy?
"Heh-heh… no need." Pariston narrowed his eyes at Illumi, mouth quirking; he inhaled, savoring. His instincts said things were getting interesting. Besides the weirdo, there was the boy in the blue cap leaning on the rail—plenty of toys here.
None as fun as Roy Zoldyck.
He smoothed his mood, boarded, and, like the weirdo, scanned the deck. Slowly, his smile thinned.
"He didn't come?" Gaal touched his cross, scanned the faces, and, strangely, felt relief.
It was true.
Pariston searched again, unwilling—and scowled.
"There's time. We'll wait." He consoled himself, took a corner by the deep-blue sea, and stared at the horizon to bleed off the gloom.
Far away the forest was lush; flocks of seabirds wheeled. At a lake deep within…
Roy fished—time forgotten.
Plain to see: the branch-rod's tip trailed a Nen line into the water, running free—tracking a shadow below.
A giant—five meters by eye.
Gotoh watched, tense. He wanted to remind the young master they were cutting it close, but feared to break his flow. He wrung his hands and paced.
Thankfully, the wait was short—
Jan 7 — Nen line in water, under full control… Roy's eyes flashed. "Get up!"
The line plunged, punched through the shadow; he hauled—and water exploded. A massive catfish broke the surface—dragged to shore.
[Notice: Nen Morphology +30]
[Current progress: Lv1 76/100 → Lv2 6/1000]
~~~
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