[Name: Roy Zoldyck]
[Physique: 23.75 (note: average human = 1)]
[Remaining "Life Energy": 31]
Night.
Neon pierced the dark; traffic flowed like water.
After adding points, Roy sat in a bathrobe at the table eating dinner. Gotoh, having returned with Kastro from changing tickets, was at his side.
Tonight's meal: cheese-baked crayfish, a whole roast chicken with flatbread, and a liter bottle of fresh milk in the corner.
Kastro had been sent back to his room; they'd meet tomorrow morning before the flight.
As Gotoh served Roy and packed, he reported the day's loose ends: "After Harrison's death, I don't expect anyone to challenge you soon…
"The airship's at 10 a.m. tomorrow. I've alerted the front desk to have a driver ready, and Luke's sent someone to fetch the luggage we left at the airport—already home."
"And," he adjusted his glasses, "we ran into Young Master Illumi at the airport. The way he looked at Kastro… wasn't right.
"I suspect…"
"The test has only just begun," Roy cut in, carving the roast chicken. "Leave it. Consider it the first trial for an intern butler."
Plenty dream of entering the Zoldycks; you don't win hearts with a kowtow and a clever tongue alone.
"Yes." Gotoh pocketed the worry and continued: "The house called this morning asking when you'd be back… I told them your date of return."
He hesitated, then carefully: "Luke said he'll be waiting in the training hall to welcome you home."
With a baton?
Roy remembered how Luke had blocked the door with someone's "orders" when he left. He popped a juicy piece of breast into his mouth, swallowed—
"Tell him to get a bigger one. A million volts… is too low."
Is the young master… sulking at the master?
Gotoh said, uneasy, "Yes," and phoned Luke.
"I can't decide that…" Luke said, adrift. He felt caught between two guillotines—left or right, head off either way. He punted up to Silva.
Midnight moon.
Silva, a blanket over his shoulders, opened the door. Behind him, Kikyo snored. A white leg dangled off the bed. Luke ducked and relayed Gotoh's report verbatim.
Silva stared through the corridor's glass at the thick night, saying nothing as Luke bent deeper, sweat down his back.
"How many days has he been gone?"
"Four, sir. Five with tomorrow."
"Five…" Silva paused, then: "Do as he said."
"Yes." Luke bowed and backed out.
The door shut. A small hand slid down Silva's chest. "Who was it?" she murmured.
Silva didn't answer—he took her arm, pinned her to the door, and drove in.
That night broke the castle's silence.
In the dim little room, the old man rocked to cartoons, happily drumming the armrest. He grinned.
"Bit over half an hour… not bad. Better than last time."
Age makes you see through everything…
A family stays whole by one thing: succession.
More sons is good—unlike Zeno, Zigg, or Maha himself, each with only one child. Silva was doing well. Maha thought of Milluki, thought of Illumi—then the boy who bowed to him every day as he passed. He smacked his lips; it'd been days since he'd tasted the boy's cooking.
"Hm… when's Roy back… right—tomorrow. Tomorrow's good… a good day…" he mumbled, voice fading into a gentle snore.
…
"Young master, the forecast says tomorrow will be a good day. Sleep early."
The night deepened. Gotoh finished packing, killed the lights, and took the sofa.
One floor below, a boy curled in a jar in the dark, hollow eyes fixed across the hall on Room 9—waiting for the light to go out.
In 9, Kastro hung up on his master and packed. He paused, glanced up, and wondered whether he should say "good night" to the young master, first day on the job.
The answer: Roy's faint snoring, and his hands folded over his belly, rising and falling in sleep.
Sss-yaa…
The prism tunnel unfurled underfoot; beyond it the old sea. Through deep sleep Roy rolled up his trousers, waded the shallows, cleared his head, and pushed the Demon Slayer door.
That drop—
He opened his eyes and didn't see those pretty eyes. Curious, he rose and looked around—
Makomo had trailed into the kitchen and curled at Urokodaki's side while he dressed a fresh river fish.
"Fish this morning."
Hearing him behind, Urokodaki spoke without turning.
The knife moved in rhythm, slicing sashimi—torment for Makomo's appetite.
"Master's too good to Rōichirō," she pouted. "Up in the middle of the night to fetch him fish—I'm jealous, Sabito…"
The fox-masked boy glanced over and shook his head. "Genius deserves genius treatment.
"If we'd reached Rōichirō's height in life, Master would've fetched fish for us daily."
"Hee-hee—secret—I've had fish too," she teased, tugging at the corner of her eye.
Sabito sighed, then caught Roy stroll in to lean beside the post and watch Urokodaki work. After a long moment, Roy asked, "Master—where is your limit?"
Bisky had him thinking of Netero—ten thousand prayers, ten thousand punches; the limit—an hour. By that math, excluding the prayers, at full focus a day's punches… ten thousand times ten—a hundred thousand.
Urokodaki's ears twitched. He didn't answer.
Roy smiled. "I just want to know how deep the sword goes—at the deepest."
This time Urokodaki turned, meeting his eyes, a plate of fresh sashimi in hand.
"There is no deepest," he said. "Only deeper."
~~~
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