One thread… two… three, four… each fell into his heart and vanished.
Roy opened himself and accepted the gifts—and as the price, he was made to live a hundred borrowed lives.
Sometimes he was Aaron, backpack on, hand in Grandpa's and Grandma's, skipping to school. Sometimes he was Mike, the handsome campus prince, drifting from bloom to bloom. Sometimes he was Joshua, the heir dragged back from overseas to a hundred-billion fortune, calling the wind and rain at the office…
But more often he was a street sweeper in the predawn cold… a line worker on nights and days flipped, driving screws eight to eight… a bald forty-something pinned under parents, children, mortgage, and car loan… an old man with no one to lean on, pushing a trike stall down the street… a white-haired elder at year's end laying a crowded table, yearning for children who never come home…
Joy and pain twined; lightness and weight ran together. When the boy opened his eyes again, the "past lives" slipped like smoke; with one long breath they dispersed into the air.
Bzzmmm— Props chewed the sky; the wind stretched his face tight.
Zeno stood hands clasped at Roy's side, watching the airship's prow plow the clouds into rolling surf. He glanced over: a strange mix of gravity and youth clung to the boy. Roy gave him a small smile—and Zeno, for a moment, lost himself.
"Grandfather, heading back?"
Target eliminated. "Shouldn't the fee be split with me?"
After all, it was his cut.
Heh—
Zeno blinked and turned away…
Downy chick, and already eyeing his pension—dream on.
The terrorists were cleared; the cockpit needed no watcher. Tsubone came up, then vaulted off—body becoming a machine—as she peeled away toward Kukuroo.
Gotoh had come up earlier with Zeno; now he stood quietly behind Roy—until Roy said, "Gotoh, a task for you."
He looked up; the boy's eyes were bright. "Hire a trainee butler. Requirements… can fly, can swim, can off-road… and—must not be worse than Tsubone."
"…"
Two headaches at once. He was a butler—not a wish-granting Nanika. He forced a "Yes, sir."
Bzzmmm— Tsubone and Zeno dwindled to a dot and were gone.
Roy watched a moment. "Let's move."
He and Gotoh swapped cabins, settled in with black tea.
Half an hour after the chaos, the airship reconnected with ground control and resumed normal ops. An announcement went out: Heavens Arena in under ninety minutes; be ready for PSB screening and statements.
With a mess this big, the police station was unavoidable. Roy had no time for "mundane." He decided to deplane early.
Zoldycks rarely walk through doors.
As the ship began descent, a thin figure dangled at the window, upside down, sliding down a sheet rope. Roy nearly dumped tea on his head.
Illumi stared with dead-fish eyes for a few seconds, then released and zipped down the knot-sheet rope.
Bedsheets, knotted together—who knew where he'd found them.
He hit the ground, stamped into Silent Gait, and vanished. "Shall we?" Gotoh asked.
Why not use what's there. Roy said nothing, threw the window open, grabbed the rope, and dropped; Gotoh followed. Outside the terminal, in a taxi, he remembered—their luggage was still in baggage claim.
"Young master—the hotel we booked won't check us in, then…"
"Straight to Heavens Arena. I've got money and a room there."
Above the 100th floor you can claim a private room. He had enough prize money banked to get by.
The stray bags? Another butler could fetch them.
Vrrm— He told the driver to go straight to Heavens Arena. Gotoh paid—flicking a "weapon" coin instead of cash—then followed Roy into the elevator for 199.
The elevator girl wore a pink uniform, short flame-red hair. She stared and pointed. "You—you're… that guy!"
"Iro."
"Yes, Iro!"
"Iro" was the alias Roy used at Heavens Arena.
After so long, the elevator girl felt almost like an old friend. Roy smiled and nodded. This time he could clearly feel the aura sheen on her skin.
No surprise—you don't last here without tricks. In the future, Gon and Killua would learn that the hard way—trapped in an elevator lesson they wouldn't forget.
"Long time no see. A lot of people have been looking for you!" She rattled off names—Kastro, Wing, a few 200F veterans—recent Arena stars.
Roy knew he didn't need to tell anyone—word would spread. After a few pleasantries he led Gotoh to his door: 1991.
199th floor, room one.
Click. He kicked off his shoes, folded onto the sofa, and began digesting what the wrongly killed had given him.
Gotoh, by habit, swept the room for bugs; none. He nodded, took Roy's badge to cash out stored winnings and buy clothes and supplies.
Twilight came; sunlight trimmed the boy's jaw and made him look every inch the warrior.
Roy closed his eyes and sank into the panel. He decided to add the 30 life energy to Physique in batches.
He worried a single dump might knock him out—so he started with +3.
Apply…
"Sss—"
A hiss between teeth.
Ants tearing him apart.
Skeletal muscle tearing… hematopoietic stem cells racing… mitochondria blooming… vessel walls thickening… hair shedding and re-sprouting…
All at once—pain enough to black him out again—
Ding-dong. The doorbell. A bright girl's voice: "Room service!"
A flat-chested little "waitress" pushed a cart in—gold twin-tails swishing, bright and fox-like.