The red robe trailed along the ground, embroidered with rusted thundercloud patterns.
Using the divine power seed planted inside Frank Becky as a coordinate, Benjamin's hazy form slowly took shape. In that instant, Roy's whole body tightened—as if some primordial predator had locked onto him.
His guard shot to its highest level. He gripped the short sword in his hand, and Frank Becky's little speech echoed through his mind—
In the eyes of those big shots who wield "divine authority" under the banner of the "true gods," exiles like them—whether it was little Mary or Frank Becky—were nothing but collared dogs with brands on their necks. Die and you're dead, that's all. And even in death—
They'd still be used.
Take Frank Becky: even in his wildest dreams, he probably never imagined that the "Lord Benjamin" whose filthy feet he fawned over, whose shoes he licked like a cur…
Would "borrow his corpse"—whether it was possession, or a divine descent, who could say?
Crackling thunder gathered as Benjamin stretched his limbs. He reached out, and lightning burst forth, coiling and condensing into a long spear of living electricity.
He thrust it down toward Roy.
Danger screamed like an alarm.
The thunder spear carried the force of pure nature. In just the instant it took to aim, Roy felt it lock onto him, and he suddenly thought of that scene a few days ago—his father, Silva, molding nen into spheres between his palms and launching that sky-piercing beam to blast apart a meteor.
Roy narrowed his eyes—
And summoned the Demon Eye.
Cut the connection!
The spear closed in. At ten meters away, Roy could already feel the harsh sting and numbing burn through the air—just like the shock he'd taken from Silva that morning.
He flicked out two nen threads charged with magnetism, snagged Frank Becky's body and the divine "Infinity" handgun limp in his hand—
And then everything went dark.
Roy vanished right out from under Benjamin's projection.
Boom.
The thunder spear, robbed of its target, plunged into the forest, blowing apart trees in its path, gouging out a gully nearly a kilometer long—sheer devastation.
"An illusory reality… Transmuted conjuration…"
As his consciousness faded, Roy saw Benjamin's brows knit. Then the "priest" closed his eyes.
Through re: Game of the Dead, Roy's mind leapt back to the Cognition Realm, slipped through the Gate to the Dark Continent—
And when he opened his eyes again, he was back on the familiar sand of his mental seashore, lying on his back, staring up at the unreal-blue sky.
A strong reek of blood reached his nose.
At his feet lay Frank Becky's corpse, motionless, sprawled like a dead dog.
He'd done it.
Roy rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. With a casual wave, the handgun flew into his palm. He traced the engraved divine character with his thumb, expression thoughtful.
He hadn't expected that a spur-of-the-moment experiment would actually work—that he could drag Frank Becky's corpse back with him. Combined with Benjamin's parting words…
Roy felt like he'd brushed up against the true nature of Conjuration.
Illusion that becomes real… or reality that's treated like illusion?
In the end, what road does a Conjurer walk?
He racked the slide and pulled the trigger.
Bullets stitched the sea, roaring out in a continuous tongue of flame, detonating the waves and throwing up walls of spray.
It was a fine gun.
Too bad he wasn't an Emission-type; he couldn't draw out its full potential. But for Gotoh…
With Infinity in hand, Gotoh's combat power would jump up significantly. Next time they ran into Hisoka, even if Gotoh couldn't beat him outright, he wouldn't be toyed with and killed. At minimum, sheer firepower and range would let him hold his ground until his nen ran dry.
Roy made a quiet note of it.
After he'd memorized the structure and workings of the Infinity pistol, ready to recreate it when he returned to the real world, he looked down again at Frank Becky.
Because the man was dead, he now counted as a "dead object," and could be brought into the Cognition Realm via Grandpa Zigg's ability. In that sense, he was a decent…
Body.
Roy thought of the Blood Demon Art he'd taken from the Swamp Demon—Clone.
He squatted, pried Frank's mouth open, squeezed a drop of his own heart's blood inside, then wrapped the body in a cocoon of imagined nen.
On cue, the system chimed:
[Current Clone: incubating…]
[Incubation progress: 1/7 (days)]
Somewhere in the bond between them, Roy could feel what lay inside that glowing cocoon—his "clone."
The original Swamp Demon's "three bodies" weren't really "clones" so much as sibling demons—each with an independent consciousness and will, yet all ultimately subject to the original. They were simultaneously "independent" and "united," in a strict hierarchy.
Just like Roy and Gotoh. Absolute loyalty. Called, and they would come.
That was worlds beyond what a brute-force split like Washi Tōrō's had achieved—forcing a Conjuration-type clone out of a Enhancement-type body, only for it to last mere seconds—and beyond what Chrollo's "God's Left Hand, Devil's Right Hand" could do—copying dead things for a mere twenty-four hours at best.
This would be the real thing.
A flesh-and-blood body, with its own personality, thoughts, and senses—and obeying only Roy.
"Sleep well," Roy said.
He patted the glowing cocoon lightly, then straightened and turned his gaze toward the dark, sealed Gate to the Dark Continent standing over the Cognition Sea.
The black doors, dense with ancient sigils, were once more closed and locked, as if nothing had happened.
He took a deep breath, stood there for a long while, then shut his eyes and let himself dissolve out of the Cognition Realm.
He woke with the feeling of being lifted.
The Demon Eye's tentacles were wrapped around him like soft cables, depositing him gently in front of the pressure door.
The real world rushed back.
March, early spring—just when chrysanthemums bloom.
The pressure door boomed shut behind him.
Roy stood there for a while, then bent down, plucked a petal from the yellow chrysanthemum set beside the door, and put it on his tongue.
The bitter taste jolted his senses awake, chasing off the fogginess that came from slipping too often between reality and his inner world.
Then he walked.
Unhurried, down the corridor.
At the security door, Scar and One-Eye were waiting.
"How long was I gone?" Roy asked.
The metal groaned open. One-Eye checked his pocket watch.
"Two hours and fourteen minutes, young master."
Another record broken.
To them, it was impressive. To Roy, it felt like both forever—and a single instant.
He glanced out a window. The sun had sunk low; the last of the red glow clung to the clouds. Night had already swallowed most of the sky.
He said nothing, just turned away and headed upstairs.
His footsteps echoed softly along the old stone hallway. The lamps had just been lit, pushing back the lengthening shadows. As he passed the dim little room by the window, he saw another figure coming toward him from the other direction—
Illumi.
Hands in his pockets, black hair hanging straight, bland-eyed as ever, heading down toward the basement to pay respect to Zigg.
The two brothers walked toward each other. At the moment their shoulders brushed, Roy stopped.
"Illumi."
The boy with the empty stare stopped and slowly turned.
His body stiffened when Roy's hand came down, gently ruffling his hair. Fingers slid down and pinched his cheek.
"You don't need my approval," Roy said quietly. "And you don't need to live for anyone else."
He'd already grown taller than Illumi. From where he stood, he could practically wrap his younger brother in his shadow.
"I don't care who becomes head of the family," Roy went on. "That's all the same to me. But…"
He let go of Illumi and turned away, walking into the light.
"…just remember you're my little brother. That's enough."
A breeze slipped in through the glass.
The hallway lights flickered faintly, stretching his shadow long across the floor, making it sway and ripple.
Illumi stood frozen.
He touched his own face, feeling the lingering warmth where Roy's fingers had pressed. He tilted his head, pressing his palm against his cheek as if trying to keep that warmth from fading—just for one second more.
He stayed there a long time, in the middle of the corridor, unable or unwilling to move.
Roy's footsteps faded.
He walked away from Illumi, disappeared from his sight—then reappeared near the little yellow-lit room.
Inside, the TV was playing some old cartoon called "Those Days I Fought and Flirted with My Childhood Friend."
Roy paused, gave a small bow toward the doorway, as he always did.
Inside, under his blanket, Maha rocked gently in his old chair, pretending to sleep as the cartoon blared.
After Roy had gone, the old man muttered, half in dream:
"Roy… the old man's craving stir-fry."
"I'll cook it tomorrow," Roy's voice answered from the hallway.
"Good. I'll be waiting…"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Maha's mouth. He turned over, letting out a quiet snore.
When you're old, even one full night of sleep becomes a luxury. You doze here, doze there, in snatches, never sure which one you'll simply not wake up from.
Being able to eat food cooked by his grandson—
That was already more than he'd dared ask for.
The snoring grew a little louder.
Roy glanced down at the back of his own hand.
The curse mark's numbers ticked down, second by second, counting away his life. It was trying to erase everything—every little piece of goodness he still had.
He drew a long breath, then walked back into his room, stripped off his shirt, and stepped into the bathroom.
Time to spend the Life Energy.
[Body Stat +94…]
Frank Becky's, Nelson's, Katie's, Muto's, and all the rest of the 4K gang that had hunted his fellow exiles—all of them were emptied out in one go.
The pain this time was much worse than any before. Roy had to brace himself on the wall, a muffled groan forcing its way out of his throat as his fingertips gouged ten deep furrows into the tile.
At last, the system chimed:
[Body stat increase complete.]
[Roy Zoldyck]
[Body: 343.4 → 437.4 (note: average human = 1)]
[Nen Ability: Door of Cognition]
[Manifest Nen: C– (2,750 → 3,841 / 100,000)]
[Potential Nen: C (34,590 → 47,510 / 100,000)]
Compared to yesterday, he'd shot up another two centimeters. His physique, all sharp lines and fluid muscle, had gone from merely defined to something almost sculptural—beautiful, but undeniably powerful.
By this point, he'd surpassed what Silva had been like at that age.
Maha twitched in his sleep.
His five-minute nap was over; he shifted, muttered something under his breath, then slipped back into another doze.
Roy exhaled slowly.
The curse mark kept ticking.
The sun would rise again tomorrow.
~~~
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