On the open deck under the blue sky, Kite—long blade at his hip—had already scaled the mast and leaned against the sail to watch.
Both Roy and Pariston radiated a fierce sense of danger.
Especially Roy… Kite tugged his brim lower. The fire at that blade tip was literal—flame from friction, not an aura veneer faking a blaze.
Which meant… beyond fearsome swordcraft, Roy Zoldyck's body far outstripped his own.
Add that strange pressure and pull… "A man you can't see through."
Hiii— Hooves crashed down, weight like thunder.
The lances Roy had cleaved earlier had re-grown under Pariston's Nen outlay. He took the opening and drove lance and hoof together.
Roy didn't blink. His left hand lifted and patted the air as if idly.
[Magnetism · Pressure]
Pop— The air congealed into a wall; lances and hooves froze, then flipped back head over heels with a sweep of Roy's arm—sent tumbling, nowhere near his body.
"There it is again—'pressure.'" Kite narrowed his eyes, tracking Roy's tell: a right hand swaddled in milky Ten like a strapped-on magnet, flipping polarity at will—repel or attract—to administer fields, knock and snatch as needed.
"Heh-heh-heh… wonderful, Roy Zoldyck." Horses toppled, riders fell—some even into the sea—but Pariston didn't bat an eye. He snapped his fingers. "Elephants—to me!"
Braaaw— A cavernous bellow blew eardrums raw—
Panic, confusion, hands clapped to ears—and then—
A vortex tore open in the black-and-white board; great tusks showed, then trunk, head, tail—and finally the whole—
An armored war elephant, iron cap on its tusks and scales plating its hide.
Boom! Trunk raised, four feet pounded—the Poseidon shuddered; the deck groaned and began to crack.
In the wheelhouse mouths hung open. No one had words for the sight.
Plenty forgot they were in "Points Scramble"—that they should be stealing number tags to climb the ranks.
They forgot. All of them—even the captain. He stared slack at his beloved ship being mauled and couldn't form a syllable.
He remembered swearing to his superiors: even if the candidates knocked each other's brains out this year, the Poseidon was stout—if they managed so much as a scratch, credit to them.
Now… Captain gave up thinking and started praying—if they could reach Dolle Harbor before she sank, he'd burn high incense.
"Hee-hee—Hill-chan, stomp him!" Clark, fending off a rain of pins, wrapped his fists in Ten and traded several blows with Illumi. Both slid back two steps to draw air.
Illumi flicked his hand and, with a sliver of Gyo, looked to Roy—uneasy. The war elephant seemed to understand speech. Pariston pointed. "Go!"
Four legs hammered divots in the planks, sawdust flying as it thundered forward. Nearer—those iron-tipped tusks drove to run Roy through.
"Young master!" Gotoh snapped a coin at the beast—pointless. The hide was thick; even as the coin buried, the elephant didn't flinch and charged on. One second and it was on Roy—
"No one told you—don't get distracted in a fight?" Gaal sent a puff of gray mist off his cross toward Gotoh—a hallucinogen; a whiff and mood sinks, interest dies, the urge to self-harm rises.
Gotoh was ready; even as Gaal's Ten-laden punch sent him tumbling, he cut wide of the fog—
Whump. As Gotoh sailed back, Roy finally moved. He planted the cane blade, stepped into the tusks, rolled his sleeves—and caught both in his hands. Under the shocked stares of Pariston, Kite, Illumi, Clark, Gaal, Captain, Kurta girl—
He said simply: "Up."
And—
The behemoth that filled half the deck rose in his arms—legs to the sky, trumpeting—and sailed into the sea.
Splash— A mountain of water leapt.
Roy dusted his hands and looked up. "That it?"
Pariston blanched; his aura slipped out of rhythm.
Conjuration isn't wishful thinking; it's a burn rate—Nen in, matter out.
[Yorbian Black & White Chess] was Pariston's Hatsu. As the name says, it's a chess set popular on the Yorbian continent. He'd loved chess since childhood—had even placed at internationals. So the instant his Water Divination showed Conjuration…
He resolved to crush that love into Hatsu.
It worked. "Eight pawns," "eight horses," "four elephants," "two rooks," "a king," "a queen"—his arsenal in the world.
But "elephant" had failed. He drew a long breath, dropped the piece, and, fingers hooked across his face, peered through his hand at Roy drawing the cane again. Never had he been driven so ragged.
As expected—Zoldyck's eldest.
His shoulders trembled; his voice came thin with a laugh.
"Heh-heh… honestly—I never thought I'd see this day."
Pariston rasped, meeting Roy's eyes. "Thank you for the lesson. Next time I meet someone like you, I'll prepare far better—"
Roy said nothing and kept walking.
Dusk slid in; sunset gilded the sky and threw him a scarlet cloak. He stopped and leveled the blade. "Done?"
Pariston: "…"
His face reddened—anger showing for the first time.
He slammed his hands together,
and hissed, "Silver Dragon—descend!"
"ROAAAR!"