The confinement room. A heavy iron door was embedded in the soundproof walls. Milluki lowered his hand, the tip of his whip dragging a bloody streak across the floor. Killua was suspended from the rafters by iron chains, his feet off the ground, his silver hair hanging loose and covering most of his face. A ring of red marks circled his wrists, already crusted over with thin scabs.
The bolts outside the iron door gave a heavy scrape. The door was pushed open, and Zeno walked in with both hands clasped behind his back.
"I'm coming in."
Milluki's hand stopped in midair. "Grandfather? I'm carrying out my punishment—"
"Milluki, that's enough."
Milluki reluctantly put away his instruments of punishment and glared at Killua. Zeno looked up at his grandson hanging in midair. "Killua, you can leave now."
"Grandfather! How can you do that? Killua hasn't reflected on his actions at all!"
Zeno did not look at Milluki. He continued speaking to Killua. "Your father, Silva, is waiting for you."
Killua was silent for a moment. "...Got it." He forcefully snapped all the iron chains and dropped from the air. Broken metal fragments scattered at Milluki's feet. He took a step back and did not dare say another word. Killua flexed his wrists, then walked out through the iron door without looking back.
Zeno did not look in the direction he had gone. Only after the footsteps vanished at the end of the corridor did he slowly speak, as if talking to himself or asking the Milluki who was still standing there, "He's very special. What do you think of his potential?"
Only the broken iron chains remained scattered across the confinement room floor.
At the edge of the Forest Sea, Mike lay on the ground, his three tails sweeping back and forth across the gravel. Saitama leaned against the trunk of an ancient tree, having just stuffed the last kernel of corn into his mouth. The central head of Mike nudged against his leg, emitting the whimpering sound of a puppy begging for food. Saitama patted the head, which was thicker than his waist. "It's gone. Really, it's gone. I'll bring you some next time." Mike wagged his tails even faster, sweeping a clean arc across the gravel. Gon was dragging himself past in the distance, a full set of weighted rings on him. He paused when he saw the scene, grinned, and then continued running.
The banquet hall was brightly lit. The long table was covered with dark brocade, and the silver candelabras gleamed softly in the light. Netero sat at the head of the table, with Silva and Zeno seated on either side. Wutong stood beside the table, pouring more wine into Netero's glass. From the direction of the Forest Sea outside came the faint sound of Gon and the others dragging their weighted rings, along with Mike's occasional satisfied whine.
Netero held his wineglass and looked out through the candlelight. Gon had just climbed up from the gravel. The bandages on both his arms were soaked through with sweat and blood, but he gripped the door of the Trial Gate again and continued pushing through gritted teeth. "That spiky-haired boy. He's Ging's son."
"I saw qualities in him that surpassed Ging's. During the final test, Hanzo broke both his arms, but he refused to give up. His right arm was broken, and he didn't give up. His left arm was broken, and he still didn't give up. In the end, Hanzo gave up himself. That child didn't refuse to give up because he could win. He refused because there was something in his heart more important than winning or losing. I've only met a few people like that in my lifetime."
Silva followed Netero's gaze and looked outside. Gon fell again. This time, he lay there for a long while, while Kurapika and Leorio ran toward him. "His aptitude is inferior to Killua's. Potential, reaction speed, talent for Nen—he falls short in every category."
"That's why I said he was special. It isn't a matter of aptitude. It's that he can turn the impossible into the possible." Netero took another sip of wine. The rim of the glass paused at his lips, and he let out a soft chuckle. "Speaking of which—the bald man outside is also the type who can turn the impossible into the possible."
"That bald man," Silva said. "Mike seems to like him quite a lot."
"Are you sure it's because he likes him? I fought him on Glasses Island. I'll just give you the conclusion—even I wasn't his match."
Silva's hand stopped while cutting his steak. Zeno held his whiskey glass, its rim paused at his lips. Silence stretched across the long table. Wutong was holding a wine bottle, preparing to pour more, but his hand remained suspended in midair, the bottle still tilted.
"Not his match." Netero repeated himself. His tone was light, but every word carried heavy weight. "Not the kind of opponent you could almost beat. The kind of opponent where, after you've used every move you have, the first thought that comes to mind is: He stands in a dimension I can never reach."
Silva set down his knife and fork. Mike's satisfied whine drifted in from outside. The bald man who had used a single corncob to make their watchdog roll over and expose its belly—not even the chairman was his match. He called Wutong over. "Go to the Forest Sea and invite Mr. Saitama to the banquet hall." Wutong bowed slightly and left the banquet hall. Silva turned to Netero, his tone calm. "Chairman. I'd like to have a match with Mr. Saitama."
Wutong pushed open the door to the banquet hall. Saitama walked in, a few black dog hairs stuck to his yellow T-shirt, and a small patch of his trouser leg damp with Mike's drool. He took a seat farther down the table. A freshly fried steak had already been placed on the plate before him, accompanied by roasted vegetables and truffle mushroom soup.
Silva watched as he finished cutting the first piece of steak, stuffed the meat into his mouth, chewed twice, and then picked up his knife and fork to cut the second piece. "Mr. Saitama. I'd like to have a match with you."
"No."
Silva's expression did not change. The wrinkle at the corner of Zeno's mouth deepened into a smile. "He said no. Sorry for the trouble, Chairman."
"Exactly." Netero held his wineglass. "The tone in which he says 'no' is exactly the same. No hesitation, no fear, no courtesy. Just a simple too much trouble. I had to raise the stakes five times to get him to stand up—Hunter License, one hand, flying beast meat, any terms he wanted, and an official match. He rejected them all. In the end, Beans came over holding a menu for free hot pot. He took one look at it, stood up, and said, 'Let's go.'" He set down his wineglass and smiled faintly in Silva's direction. "Good luck."
Silva was silent for a moment. Then he spoke again, his tone still calm. "Mr. Saitama. The Zoldyck family's private ranch has as much marbled wagyu as you could eat. The premium grade is more tender than the flying beast meat on Glasses Island. As long as you're willing to have a match with me—regardless of the outcome, the Zoldyck family will provide all the hot pot ingredients. Wagyu, black pork, seafood, seasonal vegetables—all free."
Saitama paused while chewing his steak. "Are the sauces free too?"
"The entire sauce bar is free. Sesame sauce, minced garlic, chili oil, chive flower sauce, fermented bean curd—all free."
"Okay."
Silva stood up. "Wutong, go prepare the arena in the rear courtyard." Wutong bowed slightly and left the banquet hall.
Netero held his whiskey glass and watched Saitama stuff the last bite of his second piece of steak into his mouth, wipe the sauce from the corner of his lips with a napkin, and then stand up to follow Silva toward the rear courtyard. A muffled rumble came from that direction—the butlers were opening the long-sealed stone gate of the top-grade training ground. It had been a long time since he had seen the Zoldyck family open that gate.
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