"Ren is will; Hatsu is action…"
"People use will, use thought, to direct action—win by aura alone; even without moving you can make the enemy retreat."
"For those who practice Ren, the first thing is a will strong enough. If the mind is weak, it hardens into obstinacy; you can't correct wrong ideas in time, you stray into madness—in severe cases you die."
"So when you train Ren, don't linger on the surface of 'Nen'. What you should really do is ask your heart."
"Ask yourself what you truly want, which way you intend to go—once the path is settled, then talk about practicing Ren."
Late at night, moonlight draped father and son in a silver veil.
Kikyo carefully rose, hand on her back, and peered past the doorframe: one tall, one small figure stood with hands clasped behind them at the window, looking out over Kukuroo Mountain's night—a strangely harmonious scene.
Is it just me? Her electronic eye flickered… Roy stood beside Silva, listening quietly, and a line surfaced in his mind—
Skill approaches the Dao; art communes with the divine.
When any "art" reaches its peak, it tends to curve toward "Dao."
"So Father means: the essence of Ren isn't on the material level—opening and closing nodes—but rather… arming the mind with thought, proving duty through action. Make will the cutting edge—strike the enemy's spirit."
Silva paused, glanced sideways at Roy. The boy's furrowed-brow focus seemed to glow—whether from the slit of lamplight across the door or a generous wash of moon, it set him apart.
"…'Arm the mind with thought; prove duty through action,'" Silva murmured. "Your grandfather said you had odd little inspirations. Seems he wasn't just talking."
"Kikyo—bring the notebook from my drawer."
Cre-eak. The door opened a little more; she passed out two notebooks.
"These are notes I compiled years ago on training the Four Fundamentals," Silva said. "Keep one; give the other to Illumi."
Roy took them in both hands, flipped a few pages—handwritten—then bowed. "Thank you, Father. I won't keep you waiting long…"
"Heh-heh… I hope."
A gust lifted his silver hair like a lion's mane.
Roy straightened, nodded to Kikyo, and retraced his steps, leaving husband and wife his not-so-tall yet no-longer-slight silhouette.
"He's grown up…"
"Mm. Grown…" Silva said. "Make sure the boy doesn't catch a chill." He watched Roy go, took a long last look, then led Kikyo back inside.
The door shut—
blood ties could not.
Back in the castle's time-worn corridors, Roy's thoughts flowed; his mood lightened—nothing like the heaviness of an hour ago.
"You look pleased… did you go see Kastro again?"
A lethal-dose neurotoxin is no joke; even with the antidote, the residue took Illumi a full day to burn out. On the way to his room, Roy met his big brother.
Fine—saved him the errand. He wouldn't have gone anyway; he'd have had Gotoh pass Silva's notebook along.
"Here." He flicked the notebook over.
Illumi snatched it, skimmed, then craned his neck to glare. "Turned over a new leaf?"
Why hand over hard-won experience for free?
"Father gave it," Roy said evenly. He didn't spare him a glance and walked on.
Notebook in hand, Illumi stared at his brother's receding back. Disappointment wrapped tight around his heart.
"I thought it was a gift… from you…"
He froze like a statue, facing where Roy had gone; after a long time he turned and drifted back to his room.
Above, the moon was full. From on high, the Zoldyck brothers walked left and right—two straight, fine lines that would never meet.
…
Dong—
Ten o'clock. The corner clock chimed.
Still chewing over Ren, Roy returned to his room—and saw Gotoh waiting at the door with a pair of white gloves instead of dinner. He stopped.
"Young master," Gotoh parroted Maha's cadence, "the master says: study when you should, eat when you should; and what you promised to do—do it. I'm hungry. I want to eat now."
Roy: "…"
Hard to say—spot-on imitation, or pale parody? He set Silva's notebook away—along with Bisky's and Maha's—closed the drawer, and headed for the kitchen.
"Let's go. Can't let the old man go hungry."
"Yes."
The young butler followed. They peeked in—
Maha sprawled in a chair, one foot on the seat, lazily gnawing a cucumber.
Seeing Roy, he grunted. "Skip the smashed cucumber. Stew a chicken."
One wouldn't do—Enhancers are bottomless pits—so Roy had told the kitchen to prep six.
He hoisted a cauldron over the brick hearth; Roy handled the wok, Gotoh fed the fire. Maha lounged, tapping the armrest now and then, pleased as a cat.
Soon—sear, add water, lid down—the chicken simmered. Roy snatched the lull to voice his puzzles about Ren.
Maha slit an eye and chuckled. "One lecture from your father wasn't enough—you want to pluck the old man too? Greedy pup."
"This isn't plucking—it's learning." Roy's face was earnest. "You said yourself, the nestling who cries gets fed."
The boomerang came whistling back. The old man studied him; the boy smiled back. A moment passed—and Maha sighed. "Fine.
"'Ask your heart' isn't for spouting grand empty clichés.
"'Thought' must land in practice before it becomes a weapon."
Roy listened.
"What is 'practice'? Solid experience, knowledge—tangible or not—the things buried deepest in you, the memory you won't forget… your reference.
"Humans can't imagine what they've never known. A blade, an event, a blow, a gain, a visualization—each can be your reference.
"Then borrow, imitate, and finally create—make it your own."
"So anchoring the most vivid 'reference' in your heart is the key to 'asking the heart'?" Roy frowned, thinking.
Maha didn't answer. He bit the cucumber. "The pot's boiling."
Roy started, killed the flame, and served. He ate with Maha, stealing glances for one more question—but the old man saw only chicken, no grandson. After a hearty raid, he tossed the chopsticks—and vanished.
"Too fast. Every time I watch Maha-sama eat, I think my eyes are playing tricks…"
You can't see the sticks move.
Gotoh tidied the wreckage. Of six birds, five were gone to Maha; the last to Roy. The boy dabbed his mouth and stepped out to the garden.
He tilted his head.
Near midnight. A plate-bright moon.
He lifted his hand, pinched a strand of moonlight, and watched it drift. Gotoh stood behind in silence.
"What do you think is unchanging?" Roy asked suddenly.
Gotoh blinked at the sky. "The stars?"
Roy snorted. "Does a firefly dare compete with a full moon?"
"Then the moon," Gotoh said, firm. "It rises and sets—no matter how the world changes, the moon still rises."
Does it?
Roy let the moonlight melt back into the night, turned, and fixed Gotoh with a gaze—two flames kindling in his eyes, growing bright. "The sun, idiot.
"Throughout heaven and on earth, I alone am the honored one. Wherever light reaches—that's as far as my eyes will go."
He said it low and steady, clapped Gotoh's shoulder, and walked for his room.
Gotoh watched him go—farther, then gone—and replayed Roy's talk with Maha. He stood there a long time, dazed.
The next day, when Roy saw him again, the young butler had dark rings under his eyes.
"Per the master, you have two days' leave for 'asking the heart,'" Gotoh relayed.
"No need." Roy bit into a burger. "Training as usual. As for 'asking'…"
He laughed under his breath. "Tell him—I already have a direction."
Remembering last night's burning eyes, Gotoh asked, cautious, "If he asks…?"
"Tell him: the sun."
"Yes."
The butler looked at him hard, served breakfast, and rolled the cart out…
On the way out a soft call stopped him. He turned. Roy looked serious. "You need to work, Gotoh.
"Pick Ren back up. I don't want to find you in the dust one day."
Hisoka… the cards… that skirmish in the trees—that had been no sweet memory.
"Don't worry, young master." Gotoh adjusted his gold rims and winked. "Even the sun needs a ring of stars…
"I'll make sure you see my growth."
"You…" Roy shook his head, smiling. He pulled Silva's notebook and spread it on the desk. "The original stays. Copy it here. You can leave when you're done."
"That's the master's…"
"What 'master'? He gave it to me—it's mine."
~~~
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