"It's over."
Pariston's body lay still on the deck, breath gone.
His two bodyguards, Clark and Gaal, were pushed back to the surface by the swell. You could faintly see several sharks circling, drawn by the blood.
Kite stood on the mast and had watched it all. His gaze fixed on the boy's not-particularly-tall back. Roy felt it, turned, gave him a light glance, then sheathed his blade.
"Young master, how should we deal with him?" Gotoh glanced at Pariston, caught his breath, and returned.
In his view, anyone who offended the young master deserved to be tossed to the sharks with the other two.
Roy said nothing. A panel prompt arrived… Clark and Gaal's deaths each granted him eight or nine points of "Life Energy." Only—Pariston—
no soul appeared.
What was certain was that the blade had indeed pierced the man's heart.
And Pariston was indeed as seen—lying quietly at his feet, no longer breathing…
Everything seemed perfectly reasonable.
But when Roy sensed something off, he crouched to examine the body. His fingertips had only just touched the carotid—
the living, breathing man visibly collapsed, turning into a heap of red clay and sand, and a sea breeze whisked it away into the world…
[Oath & Limitation]
[Die in place of the "King": consume one piece permanently to trade death for life]
Spanto, the capital of the Kakin Empire.
At the south end of Tulip Avenue, not far from the throne hall controlled by the Hui Guo Rou Clan, stood a lavish manor.
So grand—steepled roofs… vintage window lattices, a garden manicured by dozens of gardeners; every detail dripped an aristocratic elegance and opulence…
At a vast second-floor window, an "old" man and a youth took tea over a chessboard.
The "old" one was about fifty, long hair cinched with a pin, rugged features, a thick black beard under his chin—at a distance not unlike Netero—though his build was far burlier.
"I warned you ages ago—if you want to conjure a true dragon, you can't be bound to this little world. You should come see the real continent with me…"
Clack! He took a black knight without mercy.
Across the board, the youth's face flushed sickly red. He opened his mouth and coughed blood—spattering the black-and-white squares.
Pariston pulled a pocket square from his breast, dabbed his mouth, then pressed a hand to his chest. The piercing pain was real; for a split second he was back at sea, living it again.
"Roy Zoldyck… is truly frightening…"
"Who?"
"Roy Zoldyck…"
"…"
The man blinked, tossed his piece aside, and laughed harshly. "I said from the start it's only an exam. At your level, even on a bad day, you shouldn't fail."
But,
"If the opponent's a Zoldyck—then it adds up…"
Beyond stood at the window, hands clasped, letting his gaze drift across the garden and past the throne hall toward the docks, where a colossal ship's hull was under furious construction. Two days ago he'd named it the Black Whale.
His thoughts wandered to a recent "meeting" with a silver-haired man—
the fellow barely acknowledged him and flatly refused his request to have the old man persuade his father to lift the restriction…
Even a hundred billion jenny hadn't swayed him. That's how hard the old man turned when crossed. (Note: Netero once swore that as long as he lived, Beyond would not set foot on the Dark Continent. That's one reason Beyond and Pariston arranged his death.)
Pariston wiped the last blood from his lips and smiled, eyes slitted.
"A man must show the real chapter—that's what you told me."
Just as Beyond had said: to conjure a real dragon, you must see one. The youth pinched the blood-stained "dragon" piece from the board, weighed it in his fingers, and said darkly, "This isn't finished. When I find a true dragon, I'll settle with him properly."
If you want to savor the joy of being hated, first learn to hate others… Beyond slanted him a glance. The boy had finally crossed the threshold.
"Slowly… slowly. No need to rush…" he said.
As he had told himself, daily, for years. He turned back toward the throne hall. The board, in truth, had long been set…
…
On the Kaijinmaru—
Gotoh watched Pariston's corpse slump into sludge and felt the wrongness as well.
He mimicked Roy and crouched, pinched some of the muck, sniffed it. "Red clay for molding," he said.
The young butler wasn't born into the Zoldycks; he'd played with dirt plenty as a kid. Frowning, he analyzed: "A corpse turning to clay means that blond wasn't here in the flesh. He was a puppet baked from red clay."
Add the chessboard, the pieces—the truth rose from the water…
"That Pariston probably isn't dead…"
Gotoh offered it cautiously.
Roy stood, hooked the branch Gotoh had wedged into a deck crack, and, without a word, walked back to the bow to fish—to hone his Nen.
He knew in his heart—
Dead or not mattered less. There's nothing new under the sun—if your strength is real, all scheming dissolves into nothing.
"At worst, I'll kill him again."
"Yes." Gotoh steadied himself, took his place at the bow with his back to the boy—guarding his back once more.
Night fell. The last sunlight sank, and a quiet moon climbed the sea's edge, laying a silver veil over the Kaijinmaru.
One by one, people roused from fainting—and, without exception, looked first to the battlefield.
The cracked deck was a wreck; Pariston, Clark, and Gaal were nowhere to be seen. Only the captain, slapping Gus and a few hands awake and miserably fetching tools to patch the ship—and… the boy, rock-still at the bow, line in the water, as if the terrifying swordsman from before wasn't this green youth…
"Aaah—!"
A scream tore the air…
Moments later, the killing started again.
Only then did they remember: the points battle wasn't done. The next round began. But they kept well clear of the bow—an unspoken pact—giving Kurta girl a chance to breathe.
She sat cross-legged beside Gotoh, tore off her sleeve for bandages, wrapped her wounds, stanched the bleeding. From an inner pocket she pulled a bank card and pressed it to Gotoh's hand, sneaking a glance at Roy. "This is my savings over years. Please—take it."
Kurta girl had good instincts.
Unfortunately…
"Your clan isn't worth a thing—except for those eyes…"
?!
Kurta girl: "…"
Her head snapped up. Her ink-black pupils heaved with emotion—flickering toward a fiery red.