"What's today's date?"
Republic of Padokea—Kukuroo Mountain, Zoldyck estate.
In the dim little room by the garden on the first floor of the old castle, Maha rocked in his chair, enjoying a massage. Zeno was away; today's "technician" was Tsubone. A few days earlier, Silva had said he'd come do it himself—Maha shut that down with a single "Go take care of your wife properly."
Kikyo's belly was getting bigger by the day; if anything happened, she'd go mad. So Tsubone took over.
"The 23rd." The old butler's hands weren't as exact as Zeno's, but they were tireless; with the young master and the second son both away, she had more idle time than usual.
"Almost a month, huh…" Maha grunted. The blanket slid off his knees; Tsubone caught it and tucked it back in one smooth motion.
"Yes, nearly a month. The master called—he'll be back in a few days, probably about the same time as the young master."
She knew what Maha meant. While kneading his shoulders, she chattered to pass the time: "I've heard this year's Hunter Exam will end quickly. The Association intends to tighten standards and never planned to admit anyone from the start."
"Too much water? Add flour; too much flour? Add water. Same old song…" The old man snorted, a little scornful. "People get old and muddle-headed. Only after the license gets watered down do they suddenly decide to 'tighten up.' Too late."
It did go too far.
Relaxing standards makes the license look easy, devaluing it. Then when they try to restore that value by admitting no one at all, they crush public enthusiasm for the license.
The Association has Netero, "humanity's strongest," as a signboard, and plenty of staff at the bottom—but it lacks a real coordinating "middle layer" to align top and bottom. At least, that's how Tsubone—who's managed the Zoldyck household for over forty years—sees it.
Perhaps that's exactly why Netero would later set up the "Zodiac" twelve.
Which, in turn, felt like a pity—for Young Master Roy and Young Master Illumi.
Tsubone knit her brows. "The master says this year's proctor lineup includes not only that Botobai Gigante whom Netero favors, but also the 'Orcish Brutes' he copied out of Zigg-sama's memory as the first engagement."
"That C-class creature?"
"Yes."
Palms pressed together, she drummed lightly along Maha's shoulders. Her pink twin braids hung down her back. "Ordinary Nen users will struggle to break those things' defense. The Association's demanding every candidate last ten seconds to pass. I fear Botobai won't even need to lift a hand—the brutes alone will give everyone more than they can swallow."
Hmmm… Maha kept his eyes shut and tapped the armrest with two fingers. After a long moment he murmured, "Nothing's absolute. You, and Silva and Zeno—you all like to weigh the young by your own experience. More hidebound than this old fossil."
Tok… tok… tok… His fingers set a small rhythm on the chair. A cold gust flicked the curtain up and laid a sunbeam across the floor. He gazed out:
Silva was walking Kikyo through the garden after breakfast. The old man's mind slid back to a face that kept popping into view lately: a boy's—stubborn and burning to be strong.
He snorted. "If ten seconds can stop a Zoldyck, then I'm the Budd—"
"Netero says nobody gets through, so nobody gets through? Go ring Zeno and ask him a question: is he a Zoldyck or an Isaac? And who said Netero could copy those memories?"
"If you can't answer…"
Maha paused.
"…then don't bother coming home."
If you're so fond of "turning up the difficulty" for my grandson—fine. The old man's hands are itchy too. Let's see how you like a little more "difficulty."
The little room wouldn't stay quiet today.
Tsubone bowed her head. "Yes, sir." She took out her phone and dialed. On the other end—Zaban City.
Official venue.
With the help of "memory reels," the "Bewitching Cedar" resin, and the character of "Illusion," Botobai had gone in and out of the simulated battlefield seven times.
He hadn't enjoyed a fight like this in ages.
The orc-men, born "Enhancer" types, not only applied the Four Major Principles and higher applications with human-like fluency—they also came in roles. There were Barbarians with hand-axes to break a path; Scouts with thrown weapons to gauge the enemy; Skulkers in the middle to harry the flanks; and a Warlord behind them, visibly ahead of the other four…
Botobai felt wonderfully clear. He stepped out of the "Illusion" one last time and flexed his right shoulder—thank goodness it was only a memory; that Warlord's axe blow would have taken the arm clean off.
Not just C-class, he thought, rolling the joint. Two snorts streamed from under the mask.
Beside him, Gel closed her Pharmaceutics, palm covering the glowing "Illusion" sigil. She spared him a glance—rare to see this lump have such a good time. Only the Dark Continent could fascinate a blockhead like this.
As Netero's favored junior, Botobai knew more than most. He'd heard the chairman say the Dark Continent teemed with uncivilized beasts.
Yet these brutes were drilled, with a Warlord directing—nothing "uncivilized" about it. They looked like soldiers—tribal militia or regulars from some unknown state.
Botobai aimed to be a three-star Terrorist-Hunter, and later a prosecutor and military analyst both. His eye was sharp. He didn't understand why the chairman would lie about the Dark Continent; he guessed it had to do with those "calamities" Netero brought back—fear that they might end humanity, thus the silence and the vow to bar Beyond from going. (Not that Botobai knew that detail now.)
Behind the operatic mask, a square jaw set. He crossed his arms and stood in the entry like a temple guardian, waiting.
At some point, he and Gel turned together—
Clang…
Elevator doors slid open. Candidates trooped out of the basement lift, exam numbers pinned to their chests.
A lot of familiar faces: the bald ninja Yūsuke; a bandaged youth who looked Johtun'du; a snake-keeper; a bow-boy; and—Kate and Illumi.
The latter two scanned the room for someone at once, realized they were the first group to arrive, and melted into separate corners.
Later, the elevator opened again—another wave came through. A spiky blond youth groused that the venue was too remote. Every time he used a four-character idiom, he flipped it inside-out—drawing snickers.
"What's so funny? I'll pound you!" he'd bluster, but never swing. Finally, he yanked his hair and slammed the wall, leaving a fist-sized crater—enough to shut everyone up.
"Kanzai…"
Someone recognized him—said they'd seen the kid back when he worked personal security.
And not only Kanzai. As more filed in, the same vignette replayed: shoulders bumped; tempers pricked; vigilance never slackened. Companions now could be enemies next second. Better to keep a knife in the boot.
"One hundred… two hundred… three… four hundred…" Near 2 p.m., the place was packed.
Gel had the tally. Per the entry quotas, 408 had cleared the front-end screens. Now 405 were here—so, three short.
1:56. 1:57. 1:58. Two minutes to go.
Ding—
The last lift eased open. Three people and a bird stepped out and into everyone's sightline.
Heads turned. Throats tightened. Kurara instinctively edged closer to Roy.
Gotoh fell half a step behind to Roy's left and pushed up his glasses. No time to glare at her. Four hundred pairs of eyes—some openly hostile—anchored them. Weighty, that kind of pressure.
"Caw—!" Gold-chan felt it more keenly than Gotoh. Wings on hips, it glared back: What're you staring at? Keep it up and I'll kill you all, one by one!
Harsher than Gotoh.
"Easy." Roy patted its head, planted his cane-blade, and chose a sparse corner. The butler and the girl tucked in behind.
His gaze skimmed—and paused at several points—before settling dead ahead on the towering man in a Beijing opera mask. Roy's eyes narrowed. Recognition.
The three-star Terrorist-Hunter; the man rumored closest to Netero's level—Botobai Gigante.
Hn?
Botobai felt it too. He looked up. The boy tipped him a slight nod, and his face—oddly—echoed a man he'd met in passing at certain gatherings: Silva Zoldyck.
A heavy brow lifted under the mask. He recognized the boy.
The Zoldyck heir—the one the chairman had singled out: use no restraint.
What was his name again?
Roy Zoldyck.
~~~
Gale → Gel the Snake Zodiac (probably fix right?)
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