"No wonder he's the rival I chose."
It wasn't often he heard praise like that from his master. Wing said with genuine respect, "From the first time I saw him, I knew he was very, very strong…"
An 81-win streak is legend at Heavens Arena.
"There's another—Illumi—also quite formidable," Wing added, recalling the hollow-eyed boy two years his junior, riding an 80-win streak and recently killing the Emitter who had sniped him.
"Just… a bit cruel. Likes killing."
"They're brothers."
"Huh?" Wing blinked at Bisky, then smiled in realization. "No wonder they look alike. The Zoldycks are impressive."
"If you know that, do you still want to challenge him?" Bisky stopped and looked at Wing squarely. "As you are now, you might not beat Roy-chan…"
Roy-chan? So Master really has her eye on him. Wing's chin lifted. "Challenge? Why not?"
Let the wind blow cold; the mountain still stands.
He grinned at Bisky. "Follow my heart—that's your lesson to me, isn't it?"
"Hee-hee… That's a Shingen-ryu kid." She rose on tiptoe and ruffled his hair. "Beat that Maurice fellow, then send the war letter.
"There's a 90-day quiet period—I'll put you through a crash course. Make the Zoldycks show some color!"
"Thank you, Master."
"Silly boy—you're my student, what's 'thank you'! Keep that up and I'll box your ears~"
She flashed a tiny fist; Wing flinched on reflex. "…Yes, Master."
…
"Young master, that 'girl' is no simple one."
After Wing pushed Bisky out, Gotoh served dinner. He was still thinking about how easily Bisky's single hand had nullified his Ren. His face had grown grave.
Roy chewed pizza and snorted. "She's no 'girl.'
"By age, you and I together aren't as old as she is."
In canon, when Bisky first showed up in Yorknew City sniffing after the "Blue Planet" gem, she was 57. Thirteen years earlier—44 now. "Half-old seductress" wasn't unfair.
"?"
Gotoh startled—but he trusted Roy wouldn't lie. So the disguise was that good.
"Could she be Transmutation?"
Only Transmuters—and a few rare Specialists—can change form at will.
"Don't just stand there—eat." Roy didn't elaborate. He peeled off a slice and pressed it into his hand.
He knew the granny wasn't "just" a Transmuter. If he had to title her—
"A warrior with a built-in healer."
Bisky is a brawler. Her Hatsu, "Magical Esthetician—Cookie," grants professional-grade "spa" abilities—erases fatigue, clears debuffs—an ideal support. In the future, when training Gon and Killua for the ants, she'd massage Gon to burn away fatigue and spike training efficiency.
"Chomp…" Gotoh took tiny bites. "Sounds right…
"With her backing, no wonder Wing's so persistent. Odds are once he wins this one, he'll challenge you."
"Ninety days—whenever he wants."
The 200th floor is the line—Nen above, chickens below. Arena rules give Nen fighters 90 "quiet" days after each match—take or refuse challenges at will.
Roy sipped milk, unconcerned. In ninety days, he didn't even know what he'd look like…
If Wing wanted to try, let him.
After pizza, he showered and flopped into the big soft bed. Hijacking, Bisky's "ambush," the agony of stat growth—too much in one day. It felt longer than a lifetime. He fell asleep fast.
Gotoh sat the night on the sofa, tucking the blanket now and then. Seeing him sleep soundly, he smiled, soft.
Hwash— Waves rolled and broke. Out of the prism tunnel to the familiar cognitive sea. He rolled up his trousers and stood in the shallows a while, cleared the mind, then pushed the Demon Slayer door.
Makomo's lovely eyes filled his view—she liked watching him sleep, curled beside him each time. Seeing him wake, she whispered to Sabito at the pillar, "Ne~ I still feel Rōichirō can see me."
You're so close you might as well crawl into his arms—unless he's blind, of course he looks your way first… Sabito thought, then followed Urokodaki into the kitchen to cut daikon sticks.
Taishō winters meant daikon and cabbage. Roy had eaten too much meat lately; Urokodaki worried about balance and added pickled radish for fiber and vitamins.
"You're up—congee's almost ready."
The brazier simmered—bits of smoked pork perfuming the room. Makomo sniffled again, helplessly.
Roy hid a smile and lazed on the warm bed a bit longer, then rolled to look out at the white world—quiet, empty, sky-high and cloud-thin.
Beautiful.
A hermit life here—books and garden, a cat and dog for company—wouldn't be bad.
The thought rose… and Roy pushed it down.
Apart from family, he was still young. Work to do. Sights to see. Weight to carry. A wide world to roam. Not time to stop.
Just as Tanjuro's words—passed through Tanjiro—said: Roy belongs to the world; no mountain or scene will hold him.
Gurururu…
Congee done. Urokodaki plated the radish and set the bowls.
Roy ate, insisted on washing up, then slipped back into the snow with his practice blade.
Daily "ten-thousand swings": begin.
Crunch… crunch… His steps bit the drifts. Behind him, Urokodaki watched. A cold gust erased his prints—and fluttered a crow in with a letter from home.
Signature: Giyu Tomioka.