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Chapter 2

The man’s crimson blood sprayed outward, mingled with brain matter, his bulging eyes frozen in confusion. In his final second of life, he never caught a clear glimpse of the diminutive figure before him. The shadow moved too swiftly; the bodyguards he’d hired at great expense were pierced by four precise bullets in a single breath, the silencer’s white smoke becoming the last sight in their fading vision.

The midnight streets of the upscale residential district were deserted, the lights as dim as those in the Zoldyck estate. The five corpses sprawled in pools of blood were like discarded, irrelevant parts—gears kept turning, unaffected by the loss.

When Illumi returned to his rooftop perch, the spark returned to his black eyes, followed by a wave of relief from completing the mission that nearly buckled his knees. He could feel the warm, sticky liquid on his face, a droplet sliding down his cheek to his lips. Instinctively, he licked it, the metallic tang of blood flooding his throat. Unable to hold back, Illumi clutched his stomach and dry-heaved.

He allowed the nausea to churn for only a few seconds before wrestling it back under control, reclaiming his familiar cold detachment. He shrugged off his bloodstained black cloak, wiped his face, and pulled out his phone to send his father a simple message: “Mission complete.”

Before departing, Illumi scanned the surroundings cautiously—no lights flickered in any windows, no hostile presences stirred nearby. Satisfied, he leaped across rooftops, vanishing into the distance, oblivious to the figure hidden in the shadows between buildings.

“Whew—”

Hisoka finally rediscovered his heartbeat and breath five minutes after the black-haired boy disappeared.

He thought he’d forever remember the grotesque contortions of the man he’d called “father” in his dying moments, the terror in those final eyes staring back at him. Bruises from the man still marred Hisoka’s body, and the scent of blood lingered in his nostrils. But beyond that, the details blurred into nothingness.

How had he killed the man? How had he escaped afterward? No memory remained.

Now, Hisoka’s mind was consumed solely by the black-haired boy—his graceful posture, reminiscent of a mountain cat, and his kills executed with ruthless efficiency. He replayed the scene obsessively: from the boy’s initial leap downward to his ghostly weave through five men twice his size, each pass claiming a life with a bullet. Hisoka caught only afterimages of the movements, fluid and light as if no legendary sprite could match such elegant dance.

“Ah, I really want to meet him properly.”

Hisoka licked his dry, cracked lips, golden eyes fixed on the direction the boy had vanished. A hot surge coursed through his trembling limbs, flooding his mind, drowning out every desire but the thrill of combat. In the darkness, his vision sharpened, as if he could once more see the boy’s black hair whipping in the wind of his swift actions.

In the past, Hisoka had never harbored a clear vision for his future.

In his rare daydreams, he’d strike it rich overnight, buy a mansion, and laze away his days in luxury. How to achieve that wealth never factored in; his only obsessions were escaping poverty so dire he couldn’t even afford snacks, and never becoming like his father.

After his mother’s death, Hisoka finally found a purpose: to kill the man he’d called father for five years. The urge swelled after the man dumped his exploitative work onto Hisoka’s young shoulders.

Living amid constant bellows—”Do this!” “What are you playing at?” “Get over here!” “I’ll beat you to death!”—Hisoka felt he’d endured long enough. But his height, barely reaching the man’s waist, offered no real lethality.

Household objects became Hisoka’s training tools in those oppressive times. He learned to mask his emotions, channeling rage into chores that honed his strength and willpower. He bided his time until age ten, seizing a moment when the man was off-guard to plunge his mother’s kitchen knife into the chest—not once, but over a dozen times to ensure no salvation.

Fleeing the small village covered in blood, no one noticed. Or perhaps they did but pretended otherwise, whispering and pointing behind him, mocking how his blood trail would lead to a swift capture, already shuttering windows against the familiar sounds of beatings.

It was understandable; Hisoka had escaped before, only to be dragged back and thrashed, disturbing the whole village. Still, he regretted missing their faces upon discovering the man’s corpse.

It must have been spectacular.

Hisoka felt no attachment to the village where he’d grown up—not enough to slaughter them all, but certainly enough to kick anyone who asked for help while they were down. He couldn’t be blamed; the adults saw his father as a murderer from Meteor City, making Hisoka the devil’s spawn. The children shunned him, taunting him with city-bought gum or chocolate from beyond the walls. He’d scavenge trash for scraps, cherishing rare expired treats. Eventually, he started snatching sweets from the bullies until no peers dared approach.

So, as Hisoka huddled in a corner near Serkas City’s gates, village life was already forgotten.

Thanks to years of beatings and escapes forging his stamina and stealth, he slipped into the city amid a crowd.

All on the same land, yet a single wall created such disparity. These buildings, if movable, could crush the village’s mud huts with ease—let alone their thatched shack. Hisoka had never seen so many outlandishly dressed people: puffy coats like rusted barrels back home, shoes with pointed tips gleaming like sun reflections in a well.

Utterly out of place, he was soon spotted by guards. In the chase, Hisoka swiped tempting red apples from a stall and snagged snack packs from a shop. Spotting “Bungee Gum,” he nearly cheered.

His malnourished, scrawny frame easily evaded the armored pursuers. He hid behind a cardboard box, savoring his spoils.

That hideout lasted three days.

Day one: mapping guard patrols. Day two: sightseeing. Day three: a solo party with scavenged food and toys.

By the fourth day, boredom set in. Curled in his “new home,” he observed passersby, comparing them to his fading memory of the man, simulating kills on those who seemed stronger.

Troublingly, he craved trying it for real.

That afternoon, eight potential targets emerged—five armored soldiers among them. He even pondered getting caught on purpose.

But tonight, on the fourth night, the assassination spectacle erased those notions.

Compared to those brutish, simple-minded men, Hisoka yearned for the black-haired boy facing him, cold black eyes delivering death’s invitation. They’d talk; he’d hear that voice, crisp as a falling bullet casing. Then battle—Hisoka likely dying, but glimpsing the boy’s magnified face in his final moment. What a bargain.

Of course, if Hisoka ever grew strong enough to win, crimson blooms on the boy’s body would eclipse any beauty—surpassing even the museum’s prized artwork he’d admired days ago. Then, perhaps, he’d reconsider Bungee Gum’s ranking in his heart.

He popped the last gum into his mouth, tossing the empty box amid accumulated snack wrappers and prank cards saved as mementos. Dawn would expose his spot with this trash heap, but no matter—by then, he’d be near the black-haired boy.

Swearing by his city knowledge, the boy’s destination was the airport—the only aerial exit he’d observed, a plaza for airships.

Serkas City had just one.

The airship Illumi arrived on waited for the return flight: 7 a.m. today.

Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep.

Illumi took a moment to answer; it was the old butler, Pro.

“Young master, is everything going smoothly?”

“Yes.” Speaking stirred the nausea again. “The 7 a.m. airship—home by noon.”

“Actually, no need to rush. The master says he’s just finished nearby work and will pick you up personally. Wait at the airport.”

Oh, wonderful. “Personally”—just code for inspecting his state and dictating his next life phase, framed as a favor.

Illumi didn’t want to dwell. He needed to compose himself before his father arrived. “Anything else?”

“That’s all, young master. You’ve worked hard.” Pro, sensing discomfort, ended quickly.

Illumi hung up and rushed to the bathroom, pinching his throat to stifle the urge, banishing vivid flashbacks. As his mother advised: deep breaths, think of the villa’s organ collection—just art pieces.

Killing firsthand felt worlds apart from training. Illumi could execute flawlessly mid-mission—leaps, sprints, dodges, triggers—all autopilot, his soul vacated, body a modified machine running rehearsed scripts. Only post-scene did reality crash in: not drills; five real deaths by his hand.

Even for this entry-level assassination—a mundane Serkas noble, basic handgun—Illumi couldn’t erase the raw truth: life slipped away in an instant.

His parents’ warnings echoed: “Abandon humanity and soul.” “Assassins need no emotions.” Pre-mission, he’d scoffed—after hellish training, what remnants could survive? Would they shield him from arrow barrages? Blunt his father’s endless whips? Lift him from infernos? Absurd. Any traces drowned in deep vats, pulverized by volts, buried under billions of venomous insects.

Yet at the target’s last gasp, his viscera churned with reclaimed senses, pent-up storms erupting in thunderous destruction of his five-year ice shell.

This wouldn’t do.

Father would arrive before dawn, spotting anomalies, unleashing unknown “special training.” But perhaps that was ideal—Illumi craved growth, to become a true Zoldyck, an elite assassin. This was his sole lapse; future tasks demanded focus, a microsecond’s distraction fatal.

He didn’t even know why his grandfather and father, merely standing unchanged, evoked being caged with beasts.

Anyway, Illumi stood before the airport’s vast floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun rising over distant towers. This was his last vulnerability.

Facing the glaring light, his narrowed cat-like eyes held rare languor, black attire gilded in gold, pale face tinged pink. Hidden behind a pillar, Hisoka stared, transfixed by that rosy hue.

Suddenly, the remorseless killer bathed in dawn’s glow seemed oddly harmonious—a delicate porcelain doll, stirring an even stronger urge to shatter the illusion.

The beautiful scene shattered, but not as Hisoka hoped. Before approaching, a colossal man—built like Serkas’ walls—passed his pillar. Hisoka glimpsed only the arm, thicker than his thigh, moving slowly yet whipping up wind.

“Father.”

If Hisoka’s heart had sound effects, it’d be “whoosh—pop,” like a gum bubble bursting on his face.

He couldn’t help it; few had spoken to him growing up, and those he despised, tuning out their voices. He deemed the boy’s the finest.

If pressed, he’d say it evoked a lark’s song—heard once, never seen. A neighbor girl had rescued one from the wilds; it died the next day from injuries. No more lark calls after, even in escapes to those wastes—bad luck.

“Illumi, well done.”

Illumi. Hisoka mouthed it, thrilled at the name. He eyed the burly man properly: only noteworthy was silver curly hair, nothing like the porcelain doll’s kin.

The man ruffled Illumi’s hair with a massive hand; Hisoka watched in horror, imagining it crushing the cute head like a toy ball.

“How do you feel? Ready for a higher-level mission next?”

“Rather than that,” Illumi tilted away, “I want to go to Heaven’s Arena.”

Hisoka swore the man paused before replying. “You can, but wait a bit. Eager for more training? Good—I agree you need it. How about another maze run?”

“Ah.”

Hisoka inexplicably heard disappointment in that syllable—like kids he’d robbed of candy—perhaps laced with subtle anger.

“I’ll add a few hundred ‘toys’ for you, then onto the next mission.” The tone brooked no argument, certain of compliance.

Illumi fell silent, lips pressed thin.

Hisoka felt pity but curiosity about these “toys”—shop dolls? Plushies? No, impossible. He couldn’t picture Illumi with them; it felt as absurd as guards patrolling in garish red tops and yellow pants.

Hisoka even sensed Illumi had no peers—like himself, unaccepted outliers. But Illumi was a meticulously crafted doll in a bespoke case, lined with poisoned lace killing intruders—dangerous beauty. Himself? A reviled clown in desolate dumps, thorns piercing his own skin.

As Illumi and his father passed, Hisoka locked eyes with those obsidian depths—just a moment, but it ignited a desire to ripple that serene lake. If—recalling Illumi’s words—he went to Heaven’s Arena, could they meet again?