Your Choice Is Meaningless

"My Lord, they have failed."

The subordinate knelt on one knee, his voice trembling with fear and panic.

Although it was within expectations, this group had been defeated far too quickly.

It made one wonder if the strength the Zoldyck family displayed on the surface was truly as they claimed.

Or if it was even more bottomless, like a deep pool.

What was even more terrifying was the suicidal retaliation of these madmen.

Could this Collei Castle withstand it?

One had to remember, this was retaliation from a family of assassins.

How could one not tremble in fear?

The middle-aged man addressed as "My Lord" felt his hand shake, causing his cigarette butt to drop and burn a hole in the gold-velvet carpet.

He felt no heartache, however, and simply crushed the cigarette out.

He let out a long breath.

The middle-aged man's eyes were deep and narrowed as he said indifferently, "You should know that once an arrow is shot, there is no turning back."

When one takes action, one must bear the price of failure.

"Besides, the Zoldyck family hasn't suffered much of a loss this time, so they won't take excessive action. At most, they will kill some of those hunters' associates as a public warning."

His mind was racing with thoughts, yet the middle-aged man remained certain.

The Zoldycks would absolutely not choose to attack his 'partners' over such a trivial matter.

He took another cigarette from the pack; his hand trembled slightly, but he stubbornly lit it.

For some reason, the man felt very uneasy at this moment.

He could only console himself that the Zoldyck family had never historically hunted down attackers to the bitter end.

Assassins would never choose to do such thankless work that paid no wages.

As if comforting himself as much as his subordinate, the man spoke again, attempting to talk down that sliver of panic.

"Even if they truly intended to go after the 'employer,' it would be impossible for them to trace it back to us."

The Collei family was merely one of the employers.

Moreover, they were not the true mastermind behind this affair.

Lowering his head in contemplation, the man cursed that old man in his heart more than once.

If it weren't for that old geezer insisting on venting his anger for his dead youngest son, how could his own family have been dragged into this?

What a pity, the Collei family could not stand against the Kalluto family, which was controlled by that old geezer.

Otherwise... why would he have to be so ingratiating toward that old man?

He resentfully shoved the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray.

He stood up and looked out the window, his frustration having nowhere to vent.

He could only endure.

He sighed gloomily and shook his head.

He hoped the Zoldycks would not set their sights on him because of this.

No one spoke; the air was filled with silence.

Only this man, who had toiled for his family for half his life, suffered in solitude.

Suddenly, the man felt something was wrong.

Frowning, he looked around.

It was too quiet.

Although this mansion was quite remote to begin with.

It shouldn't be this soundless!

He looked up at the clock hanging high on the wall: a quarter past eight.

His brows furrowed tightly.

At this hour, his daughter should be pestering him to tell her a story.

Unease spread in the depths of his heart.

He felt a bit panicked: "Jieya, little Jieya, sweetheart, are you there?"

Calling out his daughter's name, the man walked quickly out of the room.

He headed straight for the bedroom shared by his wife and daughter.

But before he could reach it, he was blocked by his own subordinate.

"Boss, run!"

Carls, his subordinate, clutched the wound on his left arm, gasping for air as he shouted.

"Th-this..."

Staring at the clean-cut stump of his subordinate's left arm, the man's eyes widened in disbelief as he stumbled back a few paces.

Impossible, this...

Carls was clearly a Hunter capable of using Nen!

How could this be?!

Sweat pouring down his face, Carls gritted his teeth as he looked at his master, who remained frozen in place.

He grabbed the man's arm with his only remaining hand and dragged him backward.

"A demon has entered this house!" he explained while running. "A white-haired demon! His methods of killing are bizarre beyond belief! I couldn't defend against them!"

Carls was also puzzled—who exactly was that person?

Why did he have no memory of such masterful killing techniques?

The angles were strange and tricky, striking directly at his pressure points.

Furthermore, that child's observational skills were exceptional.

It had taken only a few exchanges for him to find his opening.

If he hadn't learned 'Nen' a short while ago, he never would have escaped!

"Wait, what about my wife and daughter?"

Though being dragged forward, the man did not forget the purpose for which he had come out.

Where was Jieya?

Where was his lovely Jieya?

Gritting his teeth, Carls could only whisper, "Boss, forget about them."

The sight of their gruesome deaths was something even a veteran like Carls did not want to recount.

That person was nothing but a pervert!

A pervert who took pleasure in killing!

Clang.

A scalpel flew past Carls's temple and embedded itself into the wall at the end of the corridor.

Drops of blood trickled down his cheek.

Stopping abruptly, Carls pulled his boss behind him, his face full of vigilance.

This is it, this is the person!

Tap.

Tap.

The sound of leather shoes striking the floor echoed from the other end of the hallway.

"Why are you running?"

It was the voice of a boy.

It sounded puzzled, filled with genuine confusion.

"What an honor it is to become a work of art!"

He sighed with inexplicable emotion, yet his words struck a chord of heartfelt terror.

"Besides, if you were going to run, why take the 'protagonist' away?"

As the footsteps drew closer, bit by bit, the man caught sight of the intruder's face in the candlelight of the corridor.

A... a little child?!

He whipped his head around, looking at Carls in disbelief.

This—this little kid is the one who severed your left arm?

Ignoring the man's gaze, Carls remained on high alert, his entire body coiled with tension.

He couldn't predict where the child opposite him would attack from at all.

There was no pattern, yet every strike was lethal!

It was incomprehensible, yet incredibly dangerous!

The white-haired child, however, merely looked at Carls with interest.

"Hello, sir. What was that you used just now? Would you mind telling me?"

The child shrugged his shoulders and added, "If you are willing to explain the technique you just used, I will allow you to leave this artistic feast."

Upon hearing this, Carls's pupils constricted.

What?

An artistic feast?

You call this an artistic feast?

Your artistic feast consists of using silk threads to hang corpses and pose them in various shapes?!

Incomprehensible!

Receiving no answer, the boy did not grow angry; he simply smiled and said, "Do not be so cold. You know as well as I do that you are only doing this for the money. There is no need to lose your life over a job."

A reasonable persuasion—Coleman, the white-haired boy, was very considerate.

"I am merely curious. Besides, do you really think that as time goes on, I won't figure out the moves you use? Come on, just satisfy a child's curiosity."

He shrugged, his footsteps never faltering.

He continued, "Besides, one answer in exchange for your life—that is a very good deal."

Every sentence was addressed with "you," yet there was not a shred of respect in his tone.

His condescending attitude was repulsive, but because of his cruel methods, that annoyance ultimately transformed into a sense of despairing terror.

As he drew closer, you could only feel that his condescension was entirely justified.

Like a demon toying with humans, he possessed not a drop of mercy.

Vicious and insane.

Carls's face darkened as he spoke slowly, "If I tell you, then you must let my boss go as well."

As a bodyguard, protecting the boss was his duty.

There was no such thing as a bodyguard surviving while the boss died.

If that happened, even if Carls survived, he would become a laughingstock.

His reputation and dignity would be swept away entirely.

But Coleman, standing opposite him, acted as if he had heard a joke.

"Apologies, but I cannot accept that."

After all, if the protagonist runs away, how is one supposed to paint?

Art must be perfect, and it must be complete.

However, Coleman did not voice his thoughts, instead bringing up another point.

"One explanation in exchange for one person. You only have one explanation, so, do you want to trade for yourself, or for your boss?"

Utterly vicious.

The malicious factors hidden deep within his soul awakened.

The white-haired, red-eyed youth stood there, smiling.

Cruel and elegant.

His white suit was not even stained by a speck of dust.

The moonlight spilled down, illuminating him.

In a trance, he looked like a god descended to earth.

Silver light flickered, enveloping the white-haired youth.

It was as if it were guarding a treasure belonging to the heavens.

Serene and beautiful.

Holy and noble.

Yet, when he spoke, it was so cruel.

It shattered every filter.

Half-closing his eyes, Coleman was very magnanimous.

"I will give you thirty seconds to consider."

"Come, make your choice."

With his crimson eyes wide open, he watched him, filled with curiosity.

What will you choose?

Poor little gentleman.

Your own life?

Or your boss's life?

Choose loyalty, or selfishness?

Choose to uphold professional ethics, or betray your trust?

I am truly curious.

Are these so-called hunters really as noble as the rumors claim?

Standing at the vantage point, Coleman watched coldly from the sidelines.

His gaze was innocent and pure.

He watched that person struggle, watched that person sink into a sea of misery.

With a hint of enjoyment, Coleman observed "human nature."

Choose, hurry up and choose.

Although, no matter what you choose, your boss will die.

After all, on this exquisite canvas, how could it be without its all-important protagonist?