Not the Ant King—still only at squadron-leader tier.
Above Lion Leol, below Shaiapouf…
Crash— waves shattered into spray on the rocks.
Inside Roy's cognition sea.
Light motes knit into a human silhouette.
On his fourth disconnect from re: The Game of the Dead, Roy "respawned" in his own cognition realm, lingering on the feel of that last hammering blow from the Orc General—already close to a full-force strike from his father.
In the original, Silva dropped from the sky and one-shot Cheetu, flaunting absurd speed and power. Pure physique-wise, Silva would likely edge out even this Orc General—now promoted to Orc Warlord.
Twenty-two minutes.
Exam venue, underground corridor.
Gel counted the seconds, keeping the "Divine – Illusion" sigil running; a sheen of sweat budded on her smooth brow.
Nen was the only fuel for "Illusion." When the drain suddenly spiked, it meant—something huge had entered the field.
"That boy just met the mutated Orc."
Without a bestiary's readout, Gel could only call it a mutation. Truth was, she'd some strength—future "Snake" among the Zodiacs—but combat wasn't where she shone. She could handle Sajin and Gul'dan; the Orc General had snapped her neck like a twig the first time she set foot in the memory.
"Captain Youke, give her a hand." Even a straight-pipe can see details.
Botobai glanced over, clocked Gel straining to sustain the sigil, then—like a proper chief examiner—took the load. He spread his right hand; a ribbon of Nen dropped to the floor and coalesced into a grease-painted soldier in fatigues and beret.
The instant he formed, the soldier locked feet, ramrod straight. Right hand up—salute.
"Captain Youke, reporting!"
"Go."
"Sir!"
Right-face. Quick-march.
The soldier moved by the book; he halted by Gel, saluted again. Gel really had been flagging; she handed over the "Divine – Illusion" pharmaco-sigil at once. Unburdened, she shot Botobai a sidelong look, mind flicking: One-man army—was this a beast or an ability?
In the illusion.
After a short reset, Roy entered for the fifth time through the Black Gate.
This time he fired Foresight the instant he dropped—saw the Warlord's overhand mace, shaved the chain by a hair, and went straight for the chest with twin blades.
Skree— crimson blades lit the air; two crossing slashes leapt thirty meters and bit into the Warlord's chest.
It didn't budge—just rolled Ken across its body and ate the hit.
Ripples skated its aura.
Ken. Roy's pupils pinched. That hardness was unmistakable.
This wasn't plain Ten. Even with Hekto flaring, he'd punched through Sajin and Gul'dan—armor and all—yet left not even a mark here. Only Ken, not Ten, does that.
[Ken: a high-grade blend of Ten + Ren—pouring more aura onto the body to harden offense and defense.]
If Ten is a membrane spread thin across the skin, Ken is a plate cuirass—dense, hard, layered. Against experts, fights come down to Ken vs. Ken: crack theirs, or drain them till they can't hold it. That's the axis of victory.
BANG. Roy's blades failed to bite. The Warlord seized the opening, chain singing—
—and the axe ripped his chest open.
Fifth rollback: failed.
23:42, memory pinned.
Topside.
At the barbecue counter, two old men nursed tea. Neither had spoken in fifteen minutes. The air pressed down. The bean-face attendant all but forgot to breathe—until the chairman finally said:
"Zeno. Have the kid stop."
Netero set down his cup, voice low. "Twenty-plus minutes is already something."
"You and I both know what he's facing."
Zeno's white hair swayed as he rolled the teacup. He didn't even look over—just said, "Old man called me this morning. Very angry."
"The reel—you told me to bring it. If Roy fails this test…"
He paused, slid Netero a glance. "You can kiss your next visit with my father goodbye."
Netero's mouth twitched. He chuckled. "Old man set the clear at ten seconds. Your boy passed ages ago."
"If he won't come out, how is that my problem?"
Zeno nodded gravely. "True. Blame my grandson for being too strong."
Netero: "…"
He pointed at Zeno—and found he had nothing. Because… it was true.
Tick… tick… The counter in the corner ran on.
Roy didn't sulk when he popped out. He reset, dove—and died on the third exchange. Reset again—fourth, fifth… On the ninth, he sacrificed an arm, fired Full Concentration, slipped Illusory Blade to freeze a heartbeat—and finally scratched through the Ken, leaving the thinnest white line across that chest.
Nine runs.
Then a furious hammer caved his ribs. He blew out of the cognition sea and fell straight into the real—this time too drained to bounce back inside.
He swayed; Gotoh snapped an arm under his. He caught himself.
30:06—Clear!
Pop— the illusion shattered. "Captain Youke" handed the sigil back.
Gel looked Roy deeply, then simply declared:
"Passed."
In the corner, Illumi straightened off the wall. Against the opposite face, Kite pushed away, tugged his cap brim. Neither said a word. One—Illumi—slid hands into pockets and headed for the lift. The other fell in step.
In the giant hall, only Botobai, Gel, the two passers—Kanzai snoring on his feet—and Roy's two shadows, Gotoh and Kuraging, remained.
"Caw—"
Finally.
The little golden crow wriggled free of Kuraging's arms, scrambled back onto Roy's head, and burrowed into his hair.
The cuckoo clock chimed three.
A soft "dang" from the chime bar.
As if on cue, Roy drew a breath, looked up—and met Botobai's stare. Lines of heat crackled in the gap.
The future Dragon stared for a long moment, then rumbled:
"Same time tomorrow. I'll be here."
Roy said nothing. He tipped the bird on his crown and walked out. Gotoh and Kuraging trailed. Kuraging glanced back, gave the examiners a quick nod, and hurried on.
Step… step…
The elevator shut.
Gel watched them vanish, then asked, "What's your play?"
Botobai released his arms, snapped Captain Youke back to parade-perfect, adjusted the soldier's posture, and said without turning:
"The chairman already told us."
"Don't hold back."
"Tsk." Gel flicked a forked tongue—already tasting the furnace heat coiling behind Botobai's opera mask. To make the "big lug" get serious… that Zoldyck boy was worth it.
Ding—
The up-car doors slid open again.
Down the corridor from the barbecue, two cups of tea still steamed gently at the bar. Their drinkers were long gone.
"Here you are—grilled beef rice."
The curtain flipped; the owner emerged with plates. He spotted Roy and waved them over.
Gotoh frowned. "We didn't order."
The boss grinned. "Someone ordered for you."
"Who?"
"Your friend has seen the guest before," he said, winking at Roy.
Roy was quiet a moment—thought of the old man by the river—and sat. No fuss.
He rolled up sleeves and ate. Gotoh and Kuraging traded a look, then shut up and ate too. The bird—especially—ate. Ten plates later the owner looked faint.
At least they didn't ask for takeaway. Small mercies.
"Master, I'll renew the rooms." They hadn't expected to walk back out after checking in, so Gotoh had canceled at noon.
"You go with him," Roy told Kuraging.
Before she could answer, he'd already turned toward the riverside.
Afternoon light scattered coins across the water; birds stooped and rose with silver in their beaks. The boy walked until he reached an old man—then leaned on the rail beside him, copying his stance while the last of the illusion-fatigue ran off.
"When someone treats you to a meal, you accept. No need to be shy—your great-grandfather pitched in."
White hair swayed; Zeno stood with hands behind his back. Roy fell into step alongside and hummed acknowledgment, then asked—quiet:
"Grandfather… is Great-Grandfather still alive?"
Zeno's body went rigid.
~~~
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