Chapter 96: Do Not Do Unto Others × Roy vs The Rat
There is nothing new under the sun. All schemes amount to nothing before absolute power.
If Isaac Netero had been younger, or just a bit stronger, then even without using the Poor Man's Rose, he still would have killed the Ant King—and he would not have paid with his life.
Roy watched Pariston with a pleasant smile. Their gazes collided, and the air crackled as if charged.
Behind them, Gotoh stood with both hands in his pockets, pinching a few coins at the ready. The thin bodyguard silently recited scripture, fingers tight around the cross hanging on his chest.
"Di-woo… di-woo…" An old cleaning lady drove a floor scrubber across the tiles.
Pariston glanced her way, then clapped once, breaking the stalemate. "What a pity. Congratulations, Roy Zoldyck, you win."
"This game is called 'YES' or 'NO.' The side that chooses 'NO' wins."
"Since you rejected my proposal," the blonde youth said, bowing before gesturing toward the gate, "please."
Roy regarded him with amused interest. The boy who plotted one step ahead, then another and another, whose quick wits already bore the outline of a future vice chairman—stood, took one step, then two, and walked toward the boarding gate. The old lady trundled past him again on the scrubber, and he even had the leisure to tease her: "Auntie, it's a bit early to scrub the floors, isn't it?"
"No can do. We're on fixed pay. If the boss sees me slacking, I'll get docked."
"Putt, putt, putt…" The scrubber chugged onward.
Roy nodded and waved. "Take it easy."
He took a few more steps, brushing past Pariston's shoulder, and stopped at the checkpoint. True to his word, Pariston held his bowing posture. Behind him, the fat and the thin bodyguards tightened up, eyes glued to Roy without a hint of relaxation.
Gotoh came up with a small bag. "Young Master, you forgot your cane."
"Oh, right," Roy said, as if remembering just then.
He reached back—and the cane-sword tore from Gotoh's hand with a ringing "clang," slicing the air with a keen shriek. A flash of cold light brushed Pariston's handsome cheek, carving a thin line of blood, before the weapon slapped cleanly into Roy's palm.
"Little Hill—Pariston! You—"
"Do not move," Pariston barked, freezing his men. He straightened, pulled a folded handkerchief from his suit pocket, and wiped the blood from his face. Calmly, he looked at Roy. "Why?"
You were clearly judged the winner. Why do this?
"Roy Zoldyck," the blonde youth said quietly, "you broke the rules."
"Because my young master never had you in his eyes," Gotoh replied, taking the scabbard as he stepped up. His right hand pinched several coins, ready to throw. He stopped in front of Roy and bowed. "Young Master, forgive my presumption."
"You did well." Roy twirled the blade once with one hand, then drove the tip into the floor. Folding his hands atop the grip, he looked quietly at the three. "No need for introductions. You already know. In that case…"
"Do me a favor."
Pariston's brow furrowed.
Roy smiled. "Please withdraw from this Hunter Exam and make sure I advance."
A chill wind swept in, carrying off the remnants of noise. The boomerang that had just been thrown circled back.
The waiting hall fell silent.
The thin bodyguard's face sagged on the spot, while the fat one let out a weird "yoh-ho-ho-ho." Flanked left and right by the pair, Pariston stared intently at Roy, dug his fingers into his cheek, and chuckled.
At first, the laugh was soft. It grew louder, and louder—then stopped cold.
Face darkened, he glared at Roy and forced out a few icy words. "What if… I say no?"
No?
Roy smiled.
"Phu-hu." Two suns seemed to leap from his pupils. His black hair stirred without wind. He swept his gaze casually across the fat and thin bodyguards. Both stepped back at once, alarms screaming in their hearts—as if they had been stripped naked and thrown onto the street, everything laid bare in a single glance.
[Hatsu]: "Piercing Delusion Eye," to see through falsehood.
"I'm not unreasonable," Roy said.
He drew a thin, straight line with the toe of his shoe.
"The next flight is mine alone. Anyone who crosses this line…"
"Reach, lose a hand. Step, lose a foot." At the end of the line, he flicked the cane-sword up and rested it on Pariston's shoulder.
Roy asked with a sunny smile, "What do you think?"
Pariston could feel the blade's edge as clearly as breath. Instinct told him that if he dared to say a single "no," the next second the sword would open his throat.
He took a few deep breaths. For the first time in his life, he tasted defeat. Emotions flickered across his face. Finally, he raised both hands. "Now, now… misunderstandings. All misunderstandings. Clark, Goh, what are you standing around for? We're leaving."
He edged backward carefully. Only when he could see the blade tip with his own eyes did he exhale. He gave Roy a long, deep look, then turned and left. The fat and thin bodyguards followed—tails tucked, all former arrogance gone.
"Young Master, they've withdrawn their Aura," Gotoh said, handing over the scabbard. Roy slid the blade home in one smooth motion, grunted noncommittally, and turned to check in for boarding.
The young butler adjusted his glasses, threw the three a final glance, and followed with the bag.
The thin, straight line lay three paces from the gate. No one dared cross it for a long time.
"Vrrrm."
The engines spun, propellers biting the air.
Ten minutes later, the airship climbed into the night. Outside the terminal, Pariston leaned on the rail and raised his eyes. The airship rose higher and higher, dwindled to a red dot in the dark, and vanished. He spread his arms, letting the cold wind toss his bangs. His lips curled into a crooked smile. His eyes slid shut.
"Ah… so this is what failure feels like. Roy Zoldyck, you are simply magnificent. I really… really…"
"Want to play you to death."
"Heh-heh-heh… hahahaha."
His laughter speared into the sky. Pariston's shoulders shook, scattering a flight of birds.
A passerby stole a glance and muttered, "Psycho."
He fled the next instant under the four-eyed glare of the two bodyguards.
Moments later, the blonde youth calmed. The fat bodyguard asked with a grin, "Little Hill, are we still taking the exam?"
"Of course," Pariston said, firm as steel. "From now on, wherever Roy Zoldyck is, so am I."
"What about the others?" The thin bodyguard glanced at the candidates who had re-gathered in the hall after changing flights—the bandaged man, the snake handler, the bow-backed boy, the bald ninja—and said with a blank face, "If you want to play, we can do it again."
"After all, that guy's already gone…"
"No," Pariston said, bored now. He was over it.
"They're all trash, not even fit to carry Roy Zoldyck's shoes. No point wasting time."
So spoke the boy.