The multicolored tunnel of dreams opened into a single path, hazy dream-mist rolling and churning.
Roy stepped in with one foot, then with the other. In an instant it felt like the world flipped over, and he landed in a bleak, gray space.
According to Enmu's understanding of dreams, the usual person's unconscious domain couldn't manifest anything tangible at all. Only people with a strong sense of self could, maybe, add something of their own into their dream world—like Rengoku Kyojuro's blazing "core of Flame Breathing," Silva's little book room, or Kastro's scene of Kastro pinning him down and beating him bloody, born from his overwhelming desire.
Compared to them—
Roy lifted his head, looking into the gray fog that stretched as far as he could see. Clearly…
Next to Maha's dream, where the old man had used sheer will to manifest an entire self-contained world, people like Rengoku, Kastro, even his father, were miles behind.
A strong Nen user wasn't necessarily a person of unshakable will.
But people with unshakable will—even if they never learned Nen—were always strong.
Roy trod atop a gust of wind deeper in. The ground was carpeted with dead leaves, crunching softly underfoot.
Maha's withered, skinny figure stood beneath a dead willow tree not far ahead. The tree looked like it had weathered a lightning strike years ago, sections of the trunk charred into blackened lightning wood.
Roy's nose twitched; he could actually smell the faint scent of scorched wood. As he drew closer, he saw a tiny tongue of flame still quietly burning on the trunk, reflecting off the endless cemetery that stretched out below—desolate, silent.
One headstone. Two. Ten. A hundred. A thousand. Ten thousand. A hundred thousand. A million. Tens of millions.
More graves than he could possibly count marched in neat rows all the way to the horizon, more than his field of view could hold. And Maha… stood with his hands behind his back in front of the very first headstone.
"This," Maha said, still facing away, "is the price you pay when you walk the path of faith."
The words drifted out lightly, but they landed in Roy's chest like a ten-ton hammer. He couldn't speak for a moment.
Silently, he walked up beside Maha. The old man reached out with one dry, bony hand and stroked the tall headstone in front of him. The inscription read:
[Brook Saer, my closest friend and comrade. Born 1874, Continent Calendar, Westbrus.
Died 1957, Frostridge Valley.
A great warrior… a pioneer of rebellion… Loyalty was his other name… fearlessness, his life's portrait.
—1957, Maha Zoldyck]
Roy slowly understood.
His gaze followed Maha as the old man's hand rose and fell, and he listened as Maha spoke of Brook Saer's life.
"You guessed right," Maha said. "He was my first general."
"And him… her… that one…"
Maha's brittle fingers brushed one headstone after another as he walked through the stone forest, his words drifting as if he were walking through time instead—telling Roy about a Randall, a Maikiano, a Leon, a Belucci, and others. Men and women who'd gathered around him in the old days: first as a band, then an organization, then a political faction.
They'd chosen Frostridge Valley as their stronghold, gathered the abandoned and the outcast, fought off monsters, and sought a path between Gods and Disasters for the discarded to live on.
It was a story Roy had never heard before.
And it was the origin story of all Zoldycks, him included.
"The world only remembers the ones who ascend," Maha said. "Once someone becomes a 'god,' even chickens and dogs around them get dragged up—cast off the brand of exile, finally plant their feet on the Dark Continent."
"But what most people don't know is…"
He stopped at the last headstone in the front row, far right. Unlike the others, this one had an old, yellowed photograph pasted onto it. The picture was creased and faded with age, but still couldn't hide the gentle, beautiful smile of the woman in it.
"Failure," Maha said quietly, "is the silent majority. And it follows you for the rest of your life."
He turned his head slightly toward Roy.
"Come," he said. "Come meet your great-grandmother."
Roy followed, and beneath the pale photograph he saw:
[My beloved wife, Betty Zoldyck. Born 1895, Continent Calendar, Westbrus.
Died 1957, Frostridge Valley.]
His expression turned solemn. He stepped forward, bowed deeply in respect, then straightened.
He thought of that dream under the willow tree in the courtyard back at home—Zigg whining about going to the Dark Continent and getting dragged under the tree to be beaten half to death by Maha.
Then he asked softly,
"Great-grandfather… Zigg's been here too, hasn't he?"
"Did he… ever get to see Great-grandmother?"
Maha didn't answer that. He hunched a little lower and crouched to tug at the weeds around the grave.
"I didn't invite him," the old man said. "He barged in himself."
"'Game of the Dead' lets you power up with items you collect."
"Back then, he slipped in here using a 'Slumber' card he'd picked up."
It sounded exactly like something Zigg would do.
Roy crouched down as well, helping pluck away the wild grass around the stone.
"Do Grandpa and Dad know?" he asked.
"They don't."
Roy fell silent.
Maha pushed himself up with a hand on his lower back and looked out over the foggy sky, which seemed to echo with loneliness and grief.
"I wanted you to see this," he said.
"Because I chose the same road you did, didn't I?" Roy asked quietly.
Maha didn't reply.
Roy stared out at the ocean of graves, pinched a falling dead leaf between his fingers, and murmured, "So… all of these people died because they followed you?"
"No."
"They died as martyrs."
"…What?"
Tens of millions of martyrs?
Roy's head snapped toward him.
"In victory," Maha said, "the winners take everything the defeated ever were."
He paused, his old eyes deep as he looked at Roy.
"But the path of faith doesn't allow for turning back. Even if your followers—or you yourself—decide halfway through to change sides…"
He snorted softly.
"Do you think whoever's on the other side will believe you?"
"That's why…"
"The simplest solution is—to kill you."
He thumped the headstone softly.
"These people… him… her… that one… On the day Frostridge Valley fell, they chose to blow themselves up, offering their lives to keep…"
"Me. This spark."
One person makes a bid for godhood; tens of thousands rise with him.
One person fails; the nation dies with him.
A powerful, suffocating pain poured off Maha in a deep gray-black stream of Nen that rose from his skull and coiled into the sky.
Roy opened his mouth and realized he couldn't find any words at all.
He couldn't begin to picture what a mass martyrdom of millions looked like.
He just stared at Maha in shock—and suddenly understood why the old man still watched cartoons at his age. Maybe those scraps of childish joy were the only things that could buffer the guilt and agony buried in his heart.
Those feelings gnawed at him constantly, reminding him that millions had died because of him.
Roy felt that if it had been him, he'd have gone insane long ago.
That was the price.
A wind swept over the graves, stirring the gray mist.
Roy stood in silence for a long time, his throat dry. Eventually he managed to claw back some focus.
"Great-grandfather," he said softly. "I might be able to help you."
The sun's light could burn away darkness. If he used that trait properly, maybe he could dull some of the pain in Maha's heart.
But the old man cut him off immediately.
"This is mine to bear," Maha said flatly.
"I brought you here to ask you one thing."
He turned fully and locked eyes with Roy.
"Are you sure you still want to walk this road?"
"You said it yourself—once you're on the road, there's no turning back," Roy replied.
"No."
"You still have a choice."
Maha chopped across his words again.
"You're still at the beginning. If you're willing to set a 'Vow and Limitation' and swear off faith altogether…"
"And the price?" Roy asked quietly. "What's the price?"
Maha fell silent.
Roy looked back out at the endless graveyard and understood perfectly without an answer.
"If the cost is my believers' lives," he said, "if the only choices are a long pain or a short one…"
"Then I'll take the long one. At least that way, the pain comes later, not now."
"You're really going to copy me and go headfirst into the dark?" Maha frowned.
Roy's lips curved in a wry smile.
"Won't happen, Great-grandfather. I'm the Sun."
Twin suns flared to life in his eyes.
"And where the sun shines," he said, "there is no 'dark road.'"
"If I fail in the end—if failure is inevitable…"
His expression hardened.
"Then I'll blow myself up. And drag everyone down with me."
The words were clean, decisive, without the slightest hesitation.
Maha froze.
The boy's black hair swayed as he stood there at ease, so similar to himself back in the day—when he first set foot on the Dark Continent, calling himself Thunder and believing he could split the sky, full of wild ambition.
Remembering those days, he felt a bitter, complicated pang.
"Got it," the old man said finally. "Now get out of here."
"Yes, sir."
Roy stepped back and bowed deeply toward the sea of graves. Then he straightened, nodded once to Maha, and turned toward the dream passage.
At the threshold, he stopped and looked back.
"Great-grandfather," he said, "I've decided. From now on, when I act, I won't be flying the Zoldyck banner."
Maha's brows twitched upward.
Roy smiled faintly.
"I don't want anyone saying I'm strong because I'm a Zoldyck," he said. "I want them saying the Zoldycks are strong because of me."
Maha stared for a moment, then bent down to yank off his shoe and whipped it at Roy.
"Then you'd better make sure the Zoldycks live under your shadow!" he snarled.
Roy slipped sideways, dodging easily.
"Heh. That's the idea."
He turned his back and walked away, his voice drifting back through the mist.
"Just watch me, Great-grandfather."
He stepped out of Maha's dream.
On the lightning-struck willow, a little flame burned quietly on the charred trunk.
Below, among the countless graves, the old man stooped to pick up his shoe and slip it back on.
He watched Roy's not-so-tall back recede into the fog, then stood there staring for a very long time.
At some point, a pale, slender hand rested gently on his shoulder, and Maha's wrinkled fingers covered it.
"Betty," he said softly, "you saw him, didn't you?"
A light, girlish laugh sounded behind him.
Two pale arms wrapped around his waist and a smooth chin rested on his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek.
If Roy had stayed, he would have recognized the woman instantly—the same gentle beauty from the yellowed photo on the tombstone: Betty Zoldyck.
She rubbed her cheek against his and said,
"That kid's just like you, Maha… another stubborn mule."
"I've always had a good eye," Betty said. "Maha, that child is worthy of your blood!"
"Brook's taken a liking to him too, from the look of things. Zoldyck-sama, what's the young master's name?"
"I'm guessing he's definitely a Zoldyck," someone else cackled. "Gyahahaha—!"
One headstone toppled. Then another. Then another. Graves cracked open, and silhouettes climbed out, one after another, swarming around Maha like a rising tide.
The old man stood in front of the countless dead, narrowed his eyes until they were thin white crescents, and smiled.
"Roy," he said. "He's my great-grandson. Roy Zoldyck."
A wind roared over the graveyard, rolling up laughter and shouted voices.
Outside Maha's dream, Roy stood with his back to the kaleidoscopic tunnel of dreams, looking out over the blue cognitive sea. The many doors that dotted its surface stood silent, waiting for his hand.
He didn't hesitate.
He reached out, pushed open one of them—and stepped back into the Demon Slayer world.
…
At the same time, in the Hunter world.
Taiichi and Kastro, after a roundabout trip and a layover in Yorknew, had caught a taxi and now arrived at the outskirts of Meteor City by noon the next day.
The driver was clearly a man who knew the score.
The moment Kastro mentioned their destination, his face changed.
"Meteor City, huh," he muttered, and after that he shut his mouth, never asked a single extra question.
He drove them to the drop-off point, took their fare, then hit the gas.
He pulled away so fast he was practically skimming the ground—like he'd never seen them at all.
After all, as the saying went:
What decent house cat goes rummaging through dumpsters?
Anyone volunteering to go to Meteor City… probably wasn't up to anything wholesome.
If they weren't traffickers, odds were good they were criminals of some other sort.
Roy—Taiichi—picked up all of this cleanly through 'En' , still wearing that mild, gentle half-smile.
He thanked the driver politely, then turned to face the endless fence of electrified wire, boxing Meteor City in from all sides.
This garbage heap the world had thrown away was exactly because of its brutality the perfect crucible for monsters like Chrollo, Uvogin, Nobunaga, Feitan and the other Spiders—and for elite weirdos like Hisoka—to be forged.
"We never reject anything," a whisper from the Spiders seemed to drift in his ears, "and we never let anyone take anything from us."
Up ahead, two men in black suits stood guard before a tall iron gate, rifles in hand, craning their necks to stare suspiciously in their direction.
"Let's go," Taiichi said softly.
Kastro, with his short white hair, followed half a step behind, copying Kastro's posture.
He'd studied this: precisely that half-step back was perfect—not so close as to be disrespectful and irritate his master, not so far that he couldn't throw himself in front to shield him at the first sign of danger.
"Tap… tap…"
Master and servant walked through mountains of trash, unhurried, drawing steadily closer to the iron gate.
The two men in black exchanged a glance.
They slid hands toward the inside pockets of their jackets, right above their waistbands, and barked,
"Stop right there!"
They stepped forward, blocking Taiichi's path.
"Who are you?"
"You have a pass?"
Meteor City might be a dumping ground, but it wasn't lawless territory. "Ownerless" only applied as far as the five great nations were concerned.
For crime syndicates, traffickers, drug dealers, and every flavor of scum and criminal, though… this place was paradise.
So in truth, Meteor City's background was extremely murky. On paper, it was "managed" by the Council of Elders, but who the Elders answered to—Roy (Taiichi) neither knew nor cared.
"We don't," he said honestly.
The guards stiffened.
"Then what the hell are you doing here?"
"You at least know why you're coming, don't you?"
Trafficking, drugs… it had to be one of the usual two.
Kastro shifted slightly closer to Taiichi.
The boy in the robe, prayer book in hand and sun pendant on his chest, smiled up at the guards.
"We're here," he said gently,
"To rent a place."
"And to preach."
"…?"
The two men in black stared at him, dumbfounded—like they'd just seen a ghost.
~~~
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