Chapter 15 – On the Variations of Nen X Maha the Food Guardian
When the world speaks of the Zoldyck family, the first thing that comes to mind is simple:
They are the number one assassin family in the world.
Two of their members—Zeno Zoldyck and Silva Zoldyck—are recognized as top-tier masters. They are overwhelmingly strong, cold-blooded, and notoriously unsociable. To them, people are nothing but contracts, money is the only measure of value.
And thanks to their long list of legendary kills, the world knows this creed:
"There is no one the Zoldycks cannot kill. If someone lives… it only means the money wasn't enough."
But veterans who have truly crossed paths with the Zoldycks—elder Hunters like Isaac Netero—know a deeper truth.
The one who truly forged the Zoldyck's terrifying status…
The one who embodies their unshakable foundation…
Wasn't Zeno. Nor Silva.
It was one man alone—
Maha Zoldyck.
The ancestor. The pillar. The hidden specter behind the name.
---
He appeared without sound, like a ghost.
A withered old figure, skin drooping like parchment over bone. At first glance he looked half-dead, a mummy who might crumble into dust with a breath of wind.
Yet when Roy rose and bowed to him, there was no trace of mockery or hesitation in his heart.
He knew better.
This decrepit shell was a mask. Maha's true nature was as unknowable as his age. If his mood soured, not even Silva—nor even Netero himself—could guarantee walking away unscathed.
After all, Roy's own bloodthirsty grandfather had once said:
"Across the whole continent, Netero is the only man who ever fought Maha Zoldyck… and lived."
That was how heavy the name Maha truly was.
---
The old man sat as lightly as mist, ignoring all presence around him.
Then—his chopsticks moved.
They flashed like lightning, clattering dish to mouth, one bite after another. What looked like slow movements actually left afterimages in the air.
Roy, stunned, quickly pulled up a chair opposite him. By then, half the two dishes were already gone.
That speed…!
The boy's stomach clenched. He snatched his own chopsticks, managed to scoop one piece of eggplant—then glanced back.
Three-quarters gone.
Another bite of rice—
Clatter!
Two empty plates slammed onto the table. All that remained were a few lonely scraps of tomato, spared only because Maha's old teeth could no longer chew them.
Roy's hand froze midair, chopsticks trembling.
"…Great-great-grandfather…"
The old man burped, pretending not to notice his great-great-grandson's wounded expression. His figure blurred—then vanished in an instant, only a fading murmur left behind:
"Hnh… these old bones aren't what they used to be. Teeth too dull… I'll leave you those tomatoes, boy. Get some vitamins."
…
Roy & Gotoh: "..."
They stared at each other, utterly speechless.
Finally, the young butler coughed lightly, lowering his voice:
"…Young Master, perhaps tonight… we should just stick to cream mushroom soup?"
Roy's stomach twisted at the thought. He waved it away, snatched back Yukizō from Gotoh's hands, and headed back to his chambers.
The night sky was hung with a thin, waning moon. His mood mirrored it—dim, not joyous, not bitter.
He regretted not even tasting his own cooking. Yet Maha's reaction, in its own bizarre way, reassured him. His skill hadn't dulled as much as he feared. With a little practice, he could bring it back.
Enough, at least, to impress a few brats like Takeo and Shigeru.
---
Entering his room, Roy moved to set Yukizō onto its stand. But his gaze swept the desk—and froze.
A book lay there, one he had never seen before. Its pages fluttered faintly in the night breeze through the window.
Whsshh, whsshh.
Roy frowned. He was certain this wasn't his.
He stepped closer. The book was old, pages yellowed, its cover blurred by age. But faintly, he could still make out the title:
"On the Variations of Nen Abilities."
Nen… Variations…
A primer? Roy's heart skipped.
He clutched the book and strode quickly down the hall, stopping before a small side-room he passed almost daily.
Inside, a dim lamp burned without end, the television flickering with cartoons twenty-four hours a day.
Through the window, Roy saw him:
A frail old man reclining in a rocking chair, mouth half-open, snoring soundly.
Maha Zoldyck.
Roy lingered at the window. He bowed deeply, book tight in his grasp.
The old man twitched. Perhaps his position had grown uncomfortable. Perhaps he'd simply grown weary. He rolled to his side, leaving Roy nothing but the curve of a hunched back.
Roy turned away at last.
Only then did Maha crack one eye, sighing faintly.
"Come out."
In the corner, the darkness itself stirred—shifting, writhing—until a shadowed figure stepped forth.
He had silver hair and a long silver beard, a metal collar fastened snugly around his neck. A close-fitting robe draped over his wiry frame, emblazoned with eight bold characters:
「One kill a day, active until death」
The words alone were enough to make the air feel heavier.
"Good evening, Grandfather."
Zeno bowed deeply to Maha.
The old man rocked lazily in his creaking chair, ignoring him entirely.
Zeno didn't mind. This was routine—his daily visit, his unspoken duty.
He moved behind Maha and set his hands to work, kneading the stiffened shoulders.
A killer's hands could hold a blade, but they could just as easily deliver precision massage. When it came to the knowledge of human anatomy and pressure points, the Zoldyck family could claim first under heaven. None would dare contest it.
Naturally, Zeno's technique was unmatched.
His fingers traveled from Maha's neck, down the spine, to the arms and legs. His tone remained casual, almost conversational:
"Grandfather, what made you decide to bring out Father's old notes?"
"If I'd known one good meal could put you in such a fine mood, I would've learned to cook decades ago."
"You?" Maha let out a derisive snort. A crooked smile tugged at the corners of his sunken mouth.
"You might dare to cook. But this old man wouldn't dare to eat it."
His voice turned sharp, cutting as a blade:
"A pack of killers who only know how to murder… just like your dead father. All of you—proud, arrogant fools."
Zeno fell silent.
The name of his father—Zigg Zoldyck—was a taboo that still lingered in the family, five generations on.
It was Zigg who had once accompanied Netero into the Dark Continent.
It was Zigg who had brought back the calamity now kept in the rear mountains.
And it was Zigg, on his deathbed, who had repeated the same warning again and again:
"Beware the curse."
The calamity still lived. The curse had yet to reveal itself.
And so, year after year since Zigg's passing, Zeno made his way here—just to make sure Maha had not been tainted by some unseen blight, had not collapsed overnight.
Thankfully, the old man's vitality, though waning, remained stable. Tonight, he had even been spirited enough to devour several bowls of food.
That, at least, was a good sign.
"…I didn't expect it," Zeno murmured, a note of surprise slipping into his voice. "Roy may lack talent in other areas, but his cooking really is something. Perhaps I should try it myself someday."
Maha's eyes snapped open.
The glare he fixed on Zeno was sharp enough to cut steel.
"He is my great-great-grandson!" Maha barked. "From now on, only I get to taste his cooking!"
Zeno: "..."