"The master still held back. With aura protection, even if you took some concussive damage, a few days' rest will have you fine."
Night had deepened by the time Gotoh relieved Luke and carried Roy back to his room. The boy's forehead was bandaged, a few bloody welts on his back. Kneeling by the window, the young butler carefully dabbed medicine on his wounds. A lamp glowed on the desk by the wall; lamplight mingled with moonlight, spilling a soft halo around the room.
Roy lay on his stomach, staring out as if admiring the moon, but his mind was spinning, replaying the fight. There was no doubt: the gap between him and Silva was enormous. It wasn't about Nen application—Silva hadn't even used Nen. Just raw power and reaction speed had crushed him.
In the end, it's the body…
Silva was at his peak; a flesh-and-bone frame hammered to an almost unreachably high level.
To even reach him, I should at least be able to push the Testing Gate fully open.
The Zoldyck Testing Gate: one leaf two tons, two leaves four, three leaves eight… to open them all demands 256 tons of arm force.
A normal adult maxes around 400–800 pounds—convert that to Physique…
Meaning Silva's "stat" was at least 500. How much higher, Silva wouldn't say and Roy wouldn't ask. He only knew that the next phase was simple:
Grind Physique to the baseline 500.
"Young master, bear with me—it might sting." The salve was harsh, very Zoldyck.
Gotoh had scarcely warned him when Roy sucked in a breath and all plans flew out of his head. Pain gets worse if you try to tough it out—so he shifted focus. "That doctor near Heavens Arena—reached him yet?"
"I sent word. He's free Thursday."
"Then book tickets for Wednesday."
Tanjuro's condition couldn't wait; the earlier the treatment, the better. "Reverse-conjuring" was the headache—could a Conjurer undo a conjuration? Roy figured: learn the four basics, then take the Hunter Exam, get the license, and dig the Association net.
As Gotoh finished bandaging, he added, "Wing called again—invites you to watch the fight on August 17.
"He said he'll cover tickets and all travel. As long as you come, nothing's a problem."
"What day of the week is the 17th?"
"Next Saturday." Gotoh nudged his glasses, voice tense. "He likely still hasn't given up fighting you. If he keeps pestering you, shall I…"
"Kill him?" Gotoh drew a hand across his throat.
Roy didn't look down on him, but he knew that if Gotoh tried, by next year he'd be laying violets on his grave.
"No need for killing.
"Besides—" He smiled thinly. "He isn't alone. There's a monster behind him."
A certain blonde twin-tails "loli" came to mind; if she raged and "popped," the Arena might not survive. Roy had every reason to believe her stats were 500+ as well.
"So refuse?" Gotoh probed.
Roy thought a moment. "Forget it.
"If he's sincere, we'll take a look.
"It's been a year—I'd like to see how far he's grown."
"They say his opponent is a seasoned Transmuter. If you watch, you'll learn a few things." Heavens Arena had already posted the matchup; easy to look up.
Roy only grunted, and when the bandage was set he waved Gotoh off—bring a dossier tomorrow. That night he lay flat and sank into sleep.
After a hard fight…
He drifted, and the prism tunnel opened again into his cognitive sea. Rolling up his trousers, he stepped into the surf and let the waves pound him, shouting:
"Aaah—"
Emptying the frustration, defeat, and gloom. He rubbed his face and pushed open the Demon Slayer door.
Fell through.
He woke again—by the brazier, under the quilt—Makomo's bright eyes peering at him.
Most of the ghosts figured that after taking leave and eating the hot pot Urokodaki had made, Roy would head home to "crit" his father. Instead… he meant what he'd said: he lay low in the cabin with Urokodaki all day.
When he went out, it was to hunt game for smoking—winter stores. Only late at night, after "good night" and the lamp blown out, did he mention softly that he'd be fighting. Master said nothing; everyone else was puzzled. Big-mouth Shinsuke blurted, "He's not going to fight in a dream, is he?"
That set off a lively debate. Some were sore—said Rōichirō lied to slack off. Others said maybe he dreamed of Tanjuro; father and son have long-standing knots, and the dutiful boy can only vent in dreams.
Shinsuke and Fukuda started scrapping again over it.
Oddly, only Makomo and Sabito exchanged a glance—and believed Roy. "My gut says Rōichirō isn't the lying sort," Makomo had told Sabito last night. She never closed her eyes—watched him for any sign. Aside from a furrowed brow and a few turns, he was no different. It disappointed her a little.
"He's awake—Sabito, ask him if he killed his father…"
Seeing Roy's eyes open, Makomo prodded Sabito; he rolled his eyes and pretended not to hear. Living and dead are different; if he can't hear them, what's the point?
Makomo's curiosity is getting worse by the day, Sabito thought—when Roy said:
"I lost. Badly."
Makomo, Shinsuke, Fukuda—all froze in place.