Roy never thought of himself as a good person—certainly not some kindhearted saint. But as a human being, he still had his own line he would not cross.
He didn't want to know how Silva and Kikyo had met.
He only knew this: since he'd promised his great-grandfather he would become a beam of light for others—even if it was only a strand, even a sliver—then he had to keep that promise, no matter what.
Even if it meant standing against the entire world.
"Di-di-di…" A phone rang, breaking the heavy silence between father and son again.
Tsubone pulled out the phone and glanced carefully at Silva. "It's Hall."
Hall—the head of the Zoldycks' internal intelligence arm, and Tsubone's son—rarely called. If he did, it meant something was happening, and it wasn't small.
"Answer," Silva said, flicking his eyes toward Roy—who was rocking lazily in Maha's chair like he belonged there.
Tsubone nodded almost imperceptibly and picked up. Her expression changed the instant she heard the report.
"Master… Hall says our informant in Meteor City reports that 'Poison Bug' Guzman has moved. He's headed to… the young master's location."
"I can see him," Roy murmured.
Eyes closed, he let the mountain breeze wash over his face—warm, gentle. Through shared vision with Taichi, he was already looking at the green-haired, freckled boy from the file.
Meteor City.
West District, Fourth Street.
The Pale Church.
"Clap, clap, clap…"
Applause echoed.
On the edge of the wooden table grown from Wood Release, a figure appeared as if he'd been there all along—no warning, no footsteps, no shadow.
He perched right beside Chrollo, Sarasa, Pakunoda, and Shalnark, sitting casually atop the tabletop like this was his living room. Not far away lay Uvogin and Nobunaga, still "playing corpse" on the floor.
Guzman's dark-green curls swayed. Those soft, feminine eyes locked onto Roy behind the table, smiling warmly.
"Creating matter out of nothing… what a beautiful conjuration," Guzman said sweetly. "No wonder that idiot Bolton died in your hands."
"You used that trick—this 'woodification'—to block his bombs, didn't you?"
He rapped his knuckles against the table under him. Solid. Hard.
He behaved like a guest dropping by for tea, leisurely studying Roy with curiosity—while Chrollo, still trapped in the grief of Roy's illusion, and Sarasa, Uvogin, Nobunaga, and the rest all stared.
Pakunoda reacted the most violently.
The moment she saw Guzman's green hair, recognition hit her like a blade. Under the table, her pale fist clenched tight. Her emotions spiked—hatred so thick it almost had weight.
Roy caught it instantly.
Guzman lifted both hands, grinning. "Hey, hey, don't look at me like that. We're neighbors, aren't we? I'm just here to mooch a cup of tea. That's not too much, right?"
"So you know you're intruding," Roy said flatly.
A wet rag suddenly flew at Guzman's face.
Kastro's silver hair danced as he rushed in, three steps in two. Nen-light rose—he snapped into a Tiger Bite Fist stance, planting himself in front of Roy like a shield.
The rag never reached Guzman.
A shadow peeled out behind him, snatched it midair, and dragged it into darkness.
Kastro's pupils tightened. He smelled danger.
"Master… Nen user. And not an ordinary one."
The probe was tiny, fast, and instantly over. The young Spiders—after seeing Roy's power and getting beaten half to death by Kastro—had learned not to speak out of turn. Even Uvogin could feel the air turning sharp, sizzling like metal left too long over fire.
They glanced from Guzman to Roy… and then, instinctively, toward Chrollo.
But Chrollo's head was lowered, hollow and defeated—still drowning in the illusion, clutching his skull like it might keep him together.
"Oh, come on," Guzman sighed theatrically. "How is this 'intruding'? I'm just stopping by to say hello. And…"
He produced a bag of candy like a magician, offering it with a flourish.
"I even brought a gift."
"Name's Guzman."
Roy didn't take it. "Drug dealer."
"Don't be so mean. I'm spreading happiness."
En unfurled—yet Guzman's own presence flickered. Roy's "Heart-Worm" attempt slid off an invisible wall.
Guzman spoke as if chatting with himself while blocking the intrusion. "I'll admit it—you killing Bolton and Ilya impressed me. But sneaking in bugs to steal people's thoughts… hey."
He leaned closer, voice low and smiling.
"Priest… you're not exactly a good person either. So how about we stop pretending?"
"You're looking for death," Kastro growled.
"Kastro," Roy said, cutting him off with a single word.
Kastro froze.
Roy merely lifted a hand, calm as prayer. "Praise the sun."
Then his eyes ignited—two blazing suns within the pupils. The Eye That Shatters Illusion.
Roy said evenly, "That's a puppet. Don't waste your Nen on it."
Guzman laughed. "Now that's a man with sense!"
His body lurched, then collapsed inward—shrinking, stiffening, warping—
In an instant, he became a stitched doll, mouth opening and closing with loose thread hanging like drool. Glass-bead eyes stared straight at Roy.
Kastro frowned hard. "Transmuter?"
"And that shadow that swallowed the rag—what was that?"
Kastro's understanding of Nen was still shallow.
He didn't know that Nen didn't need to "make sense."
"The shadow is him. The doll is him," Roy said, expressionless. "Using drugs to manipulate people, extract their Nen, seize it by force…"
He named him with icy precision:
"Third Elder. 'Mental Morphine' Guzman. Leave."
"Your drug business, your Elder Council meeting in ten days—I'm not attending."
Mental Morphine: sells "Candy" laced with morphine-like stimulant, controls users, then invades their minds to forcibly seize mental/nen resources—similar in flavor to what Chrollo will later do with Bandit's Secret, except one is theft, and one is domination.
Guzman's doll-body tilted. A dangerous smile crept into the glass eyes.
"So I can interpret that as… you're refusing me?"
"Fourth Street will not have drugs," Roy said. "Not now. Not ever."
He raised a finger toward the candy bag.
A flicker of flame.
A surge of boiling steam.
The bag and its contents vaporized—erased into nothing.
"Good," the doll clapped. "Good. Good."
Guzman's gaze turned dark. "I hope you can stay this tough later, Priest."
Then whatever was animating the doll withdrew.
A second later, the doll fell face-first onto the wooden table with a dull thunk, lifeless.
The Pale Church went silent.
Uvogin and Nobunaga stared at each other, stunned.
Shalnark, Sarasa—lost. No one knew what to say.
Only Pakunoda spoke, eyes lowered.
"You shouldn't have refused him."
Her bright eyes were full of pain, crushed down so hard it barely stayed contained.
She inhaled sharply. "He isn't human. None of us are. You didn't need to offend an Elder for garbage like us."
"You didn't need to…"
"…waste money feeding trash."
Sarasa said nothing.
Shalnark didn't argue.
Uvogin and Nobunaga wore expressions like of course—as if it was obvious that kindness was the stupidest thing in the world.
And Roy—through heart-worm memories—had seen exactly why Pakunoda was saying this.
A little girl with amber eyes. Pakunoda's closest friend.
She'd approached Guzman and begged for candy—just one piece, just a lick of the taste. She'd let herself be used, violated, smiling through it, clutching the sweetness—
Then she'd been destroyed from the inside out, dying "happy."
Just like "Little Mary" on the Dark Continent.
Roy didn't answer.
His silence was deafening.
Then—
He drew his blade.
Light glittered. Yubashiri slid free, icy arc flashing in the church's dim air.
The priest rose—scripture in one hand, sword in the other.
And he said, without looking back:
"Kastro."
"Come with me."
"We're going to kill people."
A cold wind poured in, lifting Roy's black hair.
Kastro's silver hair flared as he straightened, voice firm.
"Yes!"
Master and servant strode out together—under the stunned stares of Pakunoda, Sarasa, Shalnark, Uvogin, Nobunaga, and the finally-waking Chrollo—
and marched toward North District, First Street.
Guzman's territory.
Around the Pale Church, eyes flickered from behind the trash mountains. Observers vanished to report.
Meteor City—barely settled after Bolton and Ilya's deaths—began to stir again.
From East, South, and West, groups started moving:
men in black suits and ties,
women in tight clothes with seductive silhouettes,
bald giants with tattoos and exposed chest hair—
all converging.
Nearby, on Third Street—
Berus leaned by a bright window, cigar lit, watching Roy and Kastro head for the North.
Smoke curled from his lips.
Beside him stood Lotus, face veiled.
Berus muttered, "Do you think someone can truly be that stupid?"
"I've been thinking for three days and nights. I still don't understand why he came here to preach."
Lotus glanced at him and said bluntly, "Aren't you also an idiot?"
Running recycling stations and legitimate business in Meteor City—like that made sense.
Berus ignored the jab. "I'm different. This is my home. I was born here. I grew up here."
"So I want it to be better."
"But him?"
"This isn't his home. Why does he care?"
He had no motive.
Preaching and charity—Berus thought it was all bullshit.
In this world, nobody moved without profit.
Unless—
Unless he was truly a fool…
or truly what Daniel Lauren called a "holy messenger," sent only to save.
Lotus stayed quiet.
Then she murmured, almost reluctantly, "I don't know."
"Maybe… he really is different."
And with that, she moved—silent as mist—following Roy's path toward the North. Berus, after a moment, sent men after her.
Then—
gunfire cracked in the distance.
"Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…!"
From North District, First Street.
~~~
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