Chapter 7: Blind Loyalty × Snow-Walker
Illumi's hand flashed like a serpent—his knife-hand lunged straight for Roy's neck.
The carotid artery. One of the body's most fragile points. Aside from ripping out hearts, this was Illumi's favorite strike.
Roy caught the whisper of the air behind him. Without turning, his own hand lashed back—a mirrored knife-hand. But his was different.
He had layered it with Nen.
Beyond the basic four principles—Ten, Zetsu, Ren, Hatsu—there were advanced applications:
En, expanding aura to heighten perception.
Shu, infusing objects with aura.
In, erasing one's presence.
Ken, fortifying the body.
Roy hadn't formally trained in these yet. But he didn't need to. Simply pooling aura into his knife-hand sharpened its edge to terrifying effect.
The result was clear.
Their strikes met with a hiss like steel on steel. Two flashes crossed in the dim corridor—Roy's aura-laced blade against Illumi's bare one.
Illumi's attack was stopped cold. He retreated instantly, fading into the shadows at the corner of the wall, his left arm raised defensively. But his right hand… trembled.
Too hard. Too sharp.
Assassin's instinct had made him react instantly, but what rattled him was the indifference that followed.
Roy hadn't even looked at him. Hadn't cared.
Because Roy thought of himself as human. And humans didn't stoop to spar with dogs—especially skulking, back-biting dogs hiding in darkness.
Tap… tap…
The soles of Roy's sneakers whispered against the worn stone floor.
He shook out his hand and kept walking, back still turned to Illumi. It was as if he'd brushed away a fly. In moments, he was gone from Illumi's sight—already entering the training hall.
Afternoon sunlight spilled through the wide windows, hot and heavy. Perfect for practicing the Breath of the Sun.
Roy's mood wasn't rattled by one mutt snapping at his heels. His training mattered more.
He stepped, turned, and began to dance.
And so, the training hall of Kukuroo Mountain witnessed a strange spectacle:
Day after day, a boy in fitted training clothes danced tirelessly, a rhythm of fire and breath, nerves across the estate pulled taut by his persistence.
"Still at it?"
"Yes. Still."
"He hasn't skipped daily drills?"
"Not a one."
On the tiger-hide sofa, Silva Zoldyck propped his chin on his hand as he listened to Tsubone's report. His pale eyes narrowed in thought.
Then, to the steward's shock, Silva rose.
In silence, the Zoldyck patriarch imitated his son's motions.
First, Dance.
Then, Clear Blue Sky.
Fake Rainbow.
Fire Wheel.
Burning Bones, Summer Sun.
At last, the final flourish—Sunflower Thrust.
He stood still, breathing slow, savoring the echoes of the form.
Tsubone said nothing. As an old dog of the Zoldyck house, she knew better than to bark while her master thought. But inwardly, she was reeling.
This was the first time she had ever seen the family head mimic another's training.
And the person being imitated—was the very son Silva had once dismissed as limited.
"...Hhh."
At last Silva exhaled. After five long minutes, he sat back down, face impassive. A flick of his hand dismissed her.
Creaaak— The heavy door closed.
But just as she turned to leave, Silva's voice carried through, low and absolute:
"Tell Roy to write down his insights on those forms. Deliver them to me."
The order brooked no refusal.
Tsubone froze, then bowed deeply to the closed door.
That evening, she sought out Roy, still lost in his firelit practice within the training hall.
Roy wasn't surprised when he heard Silva's demand.
He simply stopped mid-motion, glanced up toward the master bedroom on the second floor… and refused.
The Breath of the Sun was his trump card—something he had drawn out of the Cognition World by fusing it with Nen. Out of respect for Tanjuro, and to guard his own secrets, he would never pass it on.
Besides, the deeper he studied it, the more he realized how shallow his understanding still was.
That afternoon, he'd spent four hours—twenty full repetitions. And yet, only once or twice had he felt that fleeting moment of true immersion. The rest of the time had slipped uselessly away.
So where would he find the strength—or the audacity—to teach someone else?
Especially when the request carried no trace of humility. Not even from his own father.
"I believe I have the right to refuse," Roy said flatly, wiping the sweat from his neck.
Tsubone froze, caught off guard. She hadn't expected such an answer. This wasn't just anyone—it was Silva Zoldyck, the family head. His word was law.
Her lips moved before she could stop herself:
"May I ask… your reason?"
Roy smirked, tilting his head, studying the woman for the first time with true interest. Her Nen ability, Rider's High, allowed her to conjure various mounts and vehicles—a skill that reeked of obedience and servitude. Clearly, decades of being conditioned as a tool had left their mark.
"Reason?" Roy tossed the towel across his shoulder, eyes narrowing in mockery. "You call yourself a dog. Then have the sense to act like one."
He leaned closer, voice cutting.
"A dog doesn't question its master's business."
Tsubone went silent.
She stood there, frozen, as though cursed. To stay was wrong; to leave was shameful. In the end, she slunk away in silence.
As in the original tale, her loyalty was reserved only for Killua. She had no warmth for the other Zoldyck children.
Roy felt no need to be polite. Inwardly, he braced himself, ready for Silva to come to him directly.
But the days passed—and nothing happened. No summons, no punishment. Tsubone disappeared into convalescence. Silva never mentioned it again. Father and son even crossed paths during this time, and nothing was said.
Only when Gotoh returned, eyes healed, did Roy hear the truth in passing.
"She cut herself three times," the steward reported matter-of-factly, adjusting the golden glasses on his nose as he poured tea. "Now she's recovering."
He sniffed. "Too lenient, if you ask me. If it were me—if I ever contradicted you—I'd kill myself on the spot."
"…You're even more extreme," Roy muttered, at a loss.
It was absurd. And yet, it was very Zoldyck.
In this family, stewards were property, tools, dogs. Even when Roy insisted otherwise, they embraced that role. Wore it like honor.
He only had to look at the endless line of servants-in-waiting who groveled for the chance to enter the household to understand it.
So Roy changed the subject.
"The task I gave you—any progress?"
When he realized his "dancing" alone was losing efficiency, he had analyzed the problem and found three causes:
1. The Breath of the Sun was, at its core, a sword dance. It required a blade.
2. He lacked the discipline of Total Concentration Breathing.
3. He had no master to guide him.
The last two he could only seek in the Cognition World.
But the first…
With a sharp clang, Gotoh drew a katana from his hip and held it reverently in both hands.
"The Nen weapon you asked for isn't ready yet, but—there was a fine blade in the vault. A katana."
Roy raised an eyebrow. "Its name?"
"Yukizō. Snow-Walker."