Chapter 14: Clash × Maha Zoldyck
Loyalty, too, depends on its object.
Tsubone had dedicated her entire life to the Zoldyck family.
From Zeno, to Silva, and even to the unborn Killua—
her devotion had always been reserved for the rightful heirs and successors of the clan.
So that day, she did not think she was wrong.
On the contrary—she believed she had acted entirely in Silva's interest.
If the father's pride would not allow him to seek guidance from his son, then such matters could only fall to the servants.
But now… things were different.
If Young Master Roy dared to shatter a surveillance camera with a single strike, and Silva's only reaction was not anger but faint delight…
Then Tsubone knew—it was time for her to change her stance.
---
Cradling the blade in her arms, Tsubone left the master's chamber.
The sun hung low. Its rays filtered through the long glass windows of the corridor, warm but lacking the harshness of noon.
Being a butler was not an easy life. One had to grind down one's flesh and spirit—
not only to care for the master's daily life and training,
not only to anticipate their moods,
but also, when needed, to provide emotional weight and value.
Thus, in the entire Zoldyck household, few people earned Tsubone's recognition.
Gotoh was one of them.
And today, in the corridor leading to the armory—
the old butler and the young one she acknowledged happened to cross paths.
She carried a blade to be oiled.
He carried Yukizō for the same reason.
Swords were paradoxical things: hard, yet fragile. They demanded regular care, oil to stave off rust, attention to hold back time's decay.
The irony was that normally, such weapons lay forgotten in the armory.
Yet now, the two most prominent butlers of the Zoldyck clan found themselves frequenting the same place for the same purpose.
It was 5:49 p.m.
Gotoh had already finished oiling Yukizō and stepped out of the storeroom.
The moment he did, he encountered Tsubone coming down the hall, cradling her blade.
He gave a curt nod, shifted slightly aside, and moved to walk past.
"I thought you'd hate me," Tsubone suddenly said.
Gotoh froze.
He did not turn. His voice remained calm, detached.
"I thought you'd do something on your master's behalf, after I'd embarrassed you. I've been waiting these past few days."
The rule of striking the dog to shame the master worked both ways in the Zoldyck family.
Indeed—on that day when Roy was cornered and asked to justify himself, Gotoh had burned with anger.
Even with his injured eyes, he had nearly gone to Tsubone demanding an answer.
But once he calmed down…
Fingers brushing Yukizō, he stood firm and said quietly yet with conviction:
"I chose to believe in the young master.
Just as he chose to believe in me.
I will always stand at his side—
and never become a burden to him."
Tsubone was silent for a long moment, then turned her head slightly.
"His hair is not silver," she reminded. "That means he can never inherit the family headship."
Gotoh adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and gave her a look of pure disdain.
"So what?"
"At least—
the young master treats me as a human being."
With that, he brushed past, not sparing her another glance.
He didn't care how she took it.
His steps carried him toward the kitchen.
The young master said he wanted to cook tonight… Heaven help us. What could he possibly be thinking? That's no place for someone like him…
Gotoh's heart clenched with worry. He quickened his pace, until at last he reached the kitchen—
And there, through the doorway, he froze.
Roy had an apron tied at his waist, a wok spatula in hand, his movements surprisingly practiced.
On the counter before him were neatly prepared ingredients:
minced garlic, sliced ginger, diced scallions, peeled tomatoes, beaten egg, minced pork, blanched eggplant, and a small bowl of glossy cornstarch slurry.
Two simple dishes—tomato scrambled eggs and eggplant with minced pork.
Ordinary, humble… yet they were the two dishes Roy had perfected in his previous life.
The ones he could always make with confidence.
Roy hadn't touched a stove in nearly ten years.
He had no idea how rusty his cooking skills had become.
But tonight, he decided to follow instinct—both to soothe his stomach and to give the Kamado children a rare chance to eat something better than plain porridge.
So he steeled himself, lifted the wok spatula, and did something that Zeno, Silva, Illumi, and even the ancient patriarch Maha would never be caught doing—
flipping a wok to stir-fry.
"Whoosh—" The stove flames leapt to life.
Outside, the cooks Roy had chased away were huddled at the doorframe, craning their necks to peek inside.
The sight was so absurd it felt like the sun had risen from the west—or like a rat had gone to wish a cat a Happy New Year.
What other explanation could there be for the eldest son of the Zoldyck family appearing in the kitchen, insisting on cooking for himself?
Even more shocking—he hadn't allowed even his personal butler, Gotoh, to assist.
He cooked alone, wielding the spatula with growing ease.
From awkward movements, to practiced rhythm, to fluid grace—Roy slowly rediscovered the feel of cooking.
Until at last—
With a clean, elegant flick of the ladle, two homely dishes were plated:
tomato scrambled eggs and eggplant with minced pork.
---
"…That smell… I've never scented anything like it before."
"Look at that color—bright, rich, glistening. I bet the taste is just as good."
"You fools—are you missing the point? Look at the young master's technique! The ladle work, the wok flipping, that finishing motion—no amateur could do that. Honestly…"
"I suspect even those so-called Gourmet Hunters couldn't cook as well as the young master."
The cooks whispered furiously among themselves.
Insiders recognized skill when they saw it.
Gotoh, listening from the side, wasn't surprised—he was shaken.
He had watched Roy grow since infancy. From cradle to manhood, he had been there at his side.
And yet—he had never known the young master could cook.
That ignorance, he thought bitterly, was a grave failure on his part.
But Roy gave him no time to wallow.
"Gotoh! Get in here and serve the rice."
The butler hurried inside.
Food was meant to be shared. For a cook, the happiest moment was seeing others devour the dishes they'd poured their heart into—preferably licking the bowl clean, saving trouble on the washing.
Roy had no issue letting Gotoh sit and eat with him.
But the young butler, bound by rigid class consciousness, refused.
Just as always, he served Roy a bowl of rice, then folded his hands and stood silently at his back.
Roy sighed inwardly.
A shame. He'd miss out on the rare chance to taste food from another world.
So be it—it meant more for him.
Or so Roy thought.
---
Until—
A sudden gust swept the doorway.
Someone stepped inside. Without a word, they picked up chopsticks and snatched a piece of tomato-and-egg straight from the plate.
Roy's brow furrowed. He looked up—
And froze. His pupils shrank.
He instantly set down his chopsticks, rose to his feet, and bowed with the utmost respect.
"Great-great-grandfather."