"Blade aura…"
In Brandon's dilated pupils, Roy's figure slid the blade back into its sheath. As Brandon's consciousness unraveled, a life's reel began to play—frame by frame, The Last Picture Show rolled in his head, and suddenly he was back in the one place he'd never wanted to remember: a grim, gray childhood.
A crumbling tenement, a hundred souls packed inside; narrow corridors with no air; coal-smoke from braziers, garbage piled at doors, socks and shoes reeking behind curtains—you had to pinch your nose to pass.
Brandon drifted through, found that little iron door he knew too well. Before he reached it he heard his father again, fisting his mother's hair and smashing her head into the wall.
"Slut—no money? Then go sell yourself!"
"I told you—next hand I'll win it back! Why won't you get it?!"
The woman sobbed and clutched his arm. "You can't— that's next month's food money…"
"Food your mother—when I win it back, you'll feast like a queen!"
Bang! The iron door slammed inward under his boot. Bills in hand, he slapped Brandon. "Useless brat—having you dragged me down!"
Brandon held his cheek and said nothing as the man swaggered off. He thought of his classmate Aaron—no gambler father, no prostitute mother—loved by parents, picked up by grandparents, pocket money for snacks. Everything.
Jealousy. Envy. Then a thought—
If only I were Aaron.
Next day, he was. Dad's and Mom's new clothes, Grandpa's and Grandma's cake, a car ride— a new life.
And when Aaron's life had problems, his playmate Mike's seemed better—so Brandon became Mike. Then Kelly. Then Gibson. Then Joshua. One body after another…
A string of borrowed lives.
He had more to enjoy—yet here he lay, forced to stop.
I'm not willing. I refuse to go like this!
His severed head glared; the mental film snapped; inky-black aura tethered head and neck and levered him up again.
Roy's eyes narrowed; with a shiiing the cane blade was back out.
He squinted, wary. Something felt… off.
After-death Nen?
No—
More like malice.
Unwilling to vanish, sell your soul to the dark, let hatred eat you—his potential in Nen was frighteningly high.
Roy thought of Jed—likewise gnawed by rancor; in life he'd stood toe-to-toe with Netero. Talent beyond question.
"Roy… Zoldyck… I… want… you…"
"I… want… to… be… you…"
Malice at work—head and body tugged together; Brandon staggered to rise—when, suddenly, a surge of figures erupted from his corpse. Some hugged his waist, some clamped his mouth, some bound his arms and legs—they pinned him, as if they'd been waiting for this moment.
Roy watched, a prickling déjà vu—like when he'd first met Minamino Hirotomo—catching the scent of souls.
"They're all innocents—wrongly killed."
Tap… tap… Footsteps behind. Zeno, white hair swaying, folded his hands and stood beside the boy, watching calmly as Brandon was dragged and gnawed. "Parasites are eventually parasitized, Roy. Your blade was slow.
"When you kill, be so fast they don't know they've died—
"and you cut off every chance for Nen or 'rules' to stitch them back."
Old killer's truth—the eight characters on his chest are proof enough.
Roy said nothing—watched as Brandon shrieked and reached for him, only to be hauled back by a hundred hands. After a moment he glanced at Zeno. "Grandfather—will you be like this in a hundred years?"
No Zoldyck, save Zigg, had died—Roy's question struck like a hammer.
The former head of the family—whose name makes the world flinch—stared for seconds, then smiled crookedly. "Heh-heh-heh… depends on how filial you pups are.
"Cross me and yes—someone's paying."
"Grandfather jests." Roy could picture it—Zeno, malice-eaten, launching a "Dragon Storm" and leveling the house. He pasted on a grin. "Send Father the bill—first in line."
"Hmph." Zeno shot him a look and let it drop.
"G—get off—let me go—Roy… Zoldyck—save me—I won't—possess—you—I—" The scream shattered—
Black malice evaporated. Brandon crashed to the deck; his head rolled to Roy's feet.
Roy punted it—hard. It burst into red mist.
Zeno's warning was right—if you aren't fast, then finish it.
Freed of their anchor, the "wronged souls" froze, then reactions erupted—some fell to their knees and wept, some howled at the sky, some stifled sobs, some laughed aloud—grief as varied as humans.
Roy wasn't a ghost; he couldn't feel what "release" is—just as when he'd asked Minamino whether to speak to his daughter again, and the answer had been no—don't make the living grieve again.
"…thank you." Faint, like wind.
He looked up: hundreds of figures bowed to him, smiles of release on their faces, and faded into points of light—swept by a breeze—
—and poured into him.
Zeno blinked—surprised.
The boy didn't resist—he accepted it, natural as breathing. He closed his eyes, letting each life's aftertaste roll through him as the panel chimed…
[Detected you have purified 123 "lingering souls."]
[By their entrustment, accepting their karma, they willingly transfer their remaining energy to you.]
[Notice: "Life Energy" +30]
[Host may allocate freely; e.g., to "Physique."]
~~~
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