"Master Illumi!"
"Focus!"
A white arc of steel bisected the bullet headed for Gotoh—sliced along its nose into two neat halves.
Clink. Shell on the floor. Roy spun a one-handed flourish with the cane blade and, without pausing, lunged—straight for the woman's brow.
Gotoh cursed himself for the split-second he'd glanced at Illumi—saved by the young master at a critical moment. Anger flared; he snatched a stack of coins from his pocket, thumbed one, and snapped it—Nen-wrapped "rounds" screamed out.
In under two seconds the cabin looked like a colander.
The gunmen disguised as passengers dropped; the girl tilted her head and slipped Illumi's thrown steak fork.
"That's my prey." Illumi's first stab had missed; he kicked the door wide, strode in, brushed past Gotoh, and drove a hand-blade for the girl's chest.
Too slow… Seven steps out, the gun is king; seven steps in, the gun is still king if it's fast and true.
"I'll pulp you!" Her left hand produced another pistol; she hosed Illumi with fire.
Bullets poured down—no room to close. He had to break off mid-lunge and roll behind the overturned table.
So… without me, you two really can't??
"If only your bite matched your bark." Roy's daily 30,000 thrusts blurred into a thunderbolt; his point punched the woman's brow. In the time it took Illumi to blink, Roy—faster by far—had executed the "Clown's" puppet.
"Fast!" The "Clown" hadn't even re-cast—then he yanked dozens of children toward Roy with a fresh pull of Nen. "Roy Zoldyck, we didn't want to cross you. You barged in and wrecked our plan.
"Be sensible. Walk away—or I cut them down."
His possession came in "deep" and "shallow": deep crushes the host's mind; shallow borrows the body. The Zoldycks' reputation for precision is spotless—they rarely touch non-targets.
Brandon played that string, shoving civilians between Roy and the blade.
But you still have to be able to block the blade.
Nen glazed Roy's eyes; he saw the truth: the children had all eaten candy and were puppeted by a forest of Nen threads. Trace them back—source: the upper deck.
"Sun Breathing—Form One: Dance!" The cane blade sparked; rings of flame burned up the threads. Roy rolled a circle, never looking back—three strides, and he was out the door, sprinting for the deck.
Gotoh kept up a hail of coin-fire to screen him from the girl's fusillade…
Illumi watched from behind the table and felt… lost. What about me? What can I do? It was like there was no place for him here.
Bang-bang-bang—bullets against coins; Conjuration against Emission.
"Young Master Illumi—if need be, secure the cockpit," Gotoh called coolly. Illumi hesitated—then saw Grandfather Zeno step in, hands clasped behind.
"No need. The cockpit's covered."
One-tenth of his aura expended, Zeno had finally ridden Tsubone here. She'd hold the cockpit—no crashes. He'd mopped up the trash and come up.
Illumi: "…"
He stood there like a stunned goose.
Zeno brushed his shoulder on the way past and, twisting the knife, asked, "Where's Roy?"
His answer was a single Nen bullet that burst the girl's head into mist.
Thud. She hit the deck; blood splashed. Gotoh exhaled, pointed at the stairs to the deck.
They left, one after the other. Illumi stayed, alone amid the wreckage.
After a bit, he found a clean corner, slid down the wall, hugged his knees… and melted into the shadow.
…
In the near future, a certain orchardist once quipped:
Enhancers: simple minds, strong bodies.
Transmuters: fickle, fluent liars.
Emitters: impatient, hotheaded.
Manipulators: have to do it their way, love to argue.
So as a Manipulator, Brandon, once he sensed the tide turning, naturally tried arguing Roy down.
Too bad—Roy's blade was too fast, too sharp. No time to talk.
So then—fight.
Bzzmmm— Props chewed air; wind hit like a wall.
On the upper deck, Brandon set himself—watching Roy stroll up with the cane blade. He dropped his puppets and reeled all his scattered aura back, thumbed and snapped—Nen bullet.
Manipulators sit between Emission and Specialization; trained properly, they can reach ~80% of an Emitter's punch. The round was fast and mean—centerline to Roy's heart.
Ting— Roy split it with a Nen-primed blade.
Then… one, two, three—ting-ting-ting-ting—steel walked where it pleased.
Brandon's rounds grew thin as his aura bled. Roy's swordwork only got cleaner—and the distance shrank.
Roy paused.
Brandon did too—eyes narrowing.
"Inside three meters, your blade wins. What's this—at the end, the noble Zoldyck remembers mercy?" He yanked his collar open and bellowed, "COME ON—stick it in!"
Not very Manipulator "my-way"—more Emitter "hot-head."
"Too hairy—will dirty my blade." Brandon's chest hair was… a pelt.
Roy planted the blade and said evenly, "I know what you're thinking.
"Tank a hit, then ride the blade as a conduit to possess me—right?"
"So what if I am?" Brandon wasn't embarrassed to be read. He glared. "Don't dare? I'll walk.
"Three meters—that's my line."
He started backing away—
A flying slash flashed—the next thing he saw was his own head tumbling, a geyser of red erupting from his neck.
"Sorry I didn't mention—my 'big blade' isn't limited to three meters."