Chrollo closed the door and went down to the first floor of the building.
At his request, Pakunoda had already called Shalnark and Machi to the first floor. The few of them each found a place to sit down.
"Did you find anything?" Chrollo looked first at Shalnark—the blond boy.
"Mm… I wouldn't say we found nothing." Shalnark turned his computer toward Chrollo. The toddler on the screen had about a seventy percent resemblance to the boy who called himself "Kisho"—two points missing in temperament, one in age. But the toddler's name was what made it interesting: Noah Barton. Moreover, the photo was black and white—indicating that the person was already deceased.
"I logged into the information inquiry system using a Hunter License, then found this in the Republic of Padokea's database using his photo."
Shalnark said, "But what I found was in the database marked 'deactivated.' Time of death was five years ago, age at death five years old, cause of death was rescue failure."
Chrollo nodded and continued asking Shalnark, "What about the language he spoke?"
Shalnark spread his hands innocently. "Searched all databases. Didn't find anything resembling those notes."
Chrollo: "The song he sang?"
Regret showed on Shalnark's face.
"Didn't find any clip with over seventy percent similarity—honestly, it sounded pretty good. I even wanted to download it."
"Hmm…" Chrollo pondered, then looked at Pakunoda. "Anything noteworthy in his memories?"
Pakunoda shook her head. "Some very strange images, but they're all fantasies—don't have much to do with his identity."
Chrollo looked at Machi. "Did you notice anything while treating him?"
Machi looked as though she had thoroughly examined him inside and out, answering without hesitation.
"No Nen marks, seals, or anything else on his body, and no implanted monitoring or recording devices. His body has been cut open and stitched back together, but without detailed instruments it's impossible to know the internal condition. As for his physical quality…"
Disgust appeared on Machi's face. "It's worse than the kids from the outermost garbage mountains."
After consolidating the information, Chrollo nodded.
"I understand."
The few who were ready to return to their rooms stood up, but Chrollo remained where he was, as if thinking.
Shalnark looked at him and asked with a smile, "Boss, are you thinking of recruiting him?"
Chrollo gave a noncommittal smile. "What do you think?"
"Better not. He's a burden." Shalnark shrugged.
"A burden?" Chrollo thought of the ice, fire, rock, and wind that had filled the corridor yesterday afternoon. That level of "release" would be hard to achieve even for someone who had trained in the Transmutation category for ten years. Though it was used with no method or technique at all—he could only barely give it one point based on quantity—but if properly cultivated…
What was interesting was that the little brat seemed completely unaware of the power he possessed.
Chrollo smiled again, said nothing, and stepped up the stairs.
He returned to his room. The crippled little brat who knew nothing lay sleeping soundly in the corner.
The white shirt he had generously sponsored had a collar that was far too large, leaving half of the kid's shoulder exposed. On the fair neck were more than one scar, like a little white rabbit covered in wounds that thought it had escaped the wolf's jaws and finally relaxed into exhausted sleep—unaware it had entered a den with even more wolves.
Chrollo walked over, bent down, and his long fingers closed around the boy's neck.
It wasn't that he wanted to kill him. After all, his ability was still with Chrollo—killing him would make it unusable and that would be a loss. But if only under intense emotions or when encountering something he couldn't accept could that silver-blue eye—possibly a second personality—be summoned, then Chrollo wanted to try—
Kisho felt a bit cold, and his neck felt a bit itchy.
He muttered, shrank back slightly, and rubbed his neck downward, brushing against the palm of the hand, as if craving a source of warmth.
Oh right, his Nen had been taken away. Without Ten protecting his body, and with winter just beginning a few days ago, the weather really had turned cold.
Chrollo didn't withdraw his hand, instead feeling the slender artery beneath the fair skin of the prey under his palm.
He thought, there really is no awareness of having entered a bandit's den.
What is the rarest thing in Meteor City? Food? Clean water? Heavy metals? None of those. It's trust—trust like offering one's neck and throat into a stranger's hands, like being able to sleep so soundly in a completely unfamiliar environment.
Rare as it was, it wasn't precious at all—on the contrary, it was the cheapest and most useless thing.
He lacked someone to teach him, using blood or life.
Thinking this, Chrollo released his hand and tossed a piece of clothing onto the sleeping boy.
...
The next day, news that the leader had picked up a child spread rapidly to everyone in the building.
Those who had gone out on missions also gathered at the doorway with interest, peering through the unclosed door at the boy who was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor inside.
Kisho was sitting leaning against the wall. If his biological clock was correct, he had woken up around six in the morning—but when he woke, the room was already empty.
The room was quite large. A huge window allowed a view far into the distance. All four walls were covered with bookshelves and books, and in the opposite corner was a sofa—one that looked very comfortable to lie on.
When he realized he could sit up, he was almost moved to tears. After sitting up, finding that he wasn't tied up and hadn't fallen made him want to cry openly, even though his body hurt like hell—after ten years of ALS that worsened absurdly within a year starting at age nine, and then three months since coming to this world, this was the first time he had sat up on his own.
But—his recovery ability was frighteningly good. His broken arm and thigh had actually recovered overnight?
He tried to stand up again. He spent an hour curling his left leg and found it hurt like hell. He spent another hour mentally preparing himself and tried moving his right leg, only to find it still hurt like hell, so he stopped—better to just sit.
Then he saw several pairs of eyes staring at him from the doorway.
A short figure with half his face covered, a man with no eyebrows and short blond hair, a black-haired man carrying a sword, and a tall gray-and-white-haired man who looked very dangerous.
Being stared at by so many people clustered at the door made his skin crawl. He could only force a stiff smile.
He couldn't understand the murmured words they exchanged, nor the few sentences they shouted at him. All he could do was keep smiling until his facial muscles stiffened.
At that moment, the people by the door moved aside to both sides, and a young man draped in black with a white-collared coat stepped in with long strides.
Flipping pages, eyes glowing purple, and then—
Chrollo's first sentence made Kisho's face turn pale.
"If you're awake, get up."
Kisho grimaced. "I can't get up…"
Even though as a guest in someone else's home it was very rude not to get up after the host had risen, but… it really hurt!
Reading pictures and guessing meaning from faces was one thing. His expression was bitter to the point of numbness, and the people outside instantly understood what he meant.
Shalnark teased, "Machi, did your body-stitching skills get worse?"
A vein bulged on Machi's forehead.
"You—" Considering Chrollo was there, she swallowed the rest. "Nonsense!"
Chrollo said nothing, only tossed out a sentence.
"Be downstairs within ten minutes." Then he turned and walked out, signaling the people at the door not to block it and to come down.
Kisho: "…"
Was "minutes" the same "minutes" he understood?
He felt like giving up, but the next second he thought of the look Chrollo had just given him. Clearly calm without the slightest ripple, and the voice was just a casual instruction, but for some reason it was terrifying—he couldn't muster even a trace of resistance. And it felt like if he didn't comply, something even more terrifying would happen.
After cursing a hundred times in his heart with filthy words that no one would ever receive—because no one here could understand—Kisho endured the excruciating pain as if his bones were being split apart. He propped himself up with his hands and tried to inch his way up. But for someone who had lain in bed for ten years and then sat in a box for who knew how long, this was far too much—no one can instantly master control over something they've never controlled before, just like no one can write neat standard script by picking up a pen with their toes without practice.
He crashed heavily back onto the floor.
Every muscle in his body felt like it was tearing itself apart to entertain its owner, trembling and twitching, trying to escape the owner's control and return to the good old days of not moving.
This was a sensation different from pain, yet more unbearable than pain.
Helplessness.
He had finally obtained a proper body, could feel its existence, yet couldn't use it at all.
...
Ten minutes later.
The expressionless spider head waited for a long time without anyone coming down. So, under the mixed gazes of pity, fear, and anticipation from the other spiders, he walked up the stairs. Then he saw the boy using his arms to drag his body out of the room, all the way to the spot just before the stairs.
The boy's face was covered in tear tracks, but the moment he saw Chrollo, he still smiled.
"My body hasn't been used for too long. I really can't stand up."
He lowered his head and said softly, "Sorry… Mr. Lucilfer."