Visits and the Banquet

The solitary confinement room. A heavy iron door was set into the soundproof wall. Milluki lowered his hand, the tip of his whip dragging a streak of blood across the floor. Killua hung from the ceiling beam in chains, his feet off the ground, silver hair spilling down to cover most of his face. Red marks circled his wrists, already scabbed over.

The bolt outside the iron door scraped heavily. The door was pushed open, and Zeno walked in with his hands behind his back.

"I'm coming in."

Milluki's hand froze in midair. "Grandfather? I'm carrying out the punishment—"

"Milluki, enough."

Milluki reluctantly put away the torture tools and shot Killua a glare. Zeno looked up at his grandson hanging in the air. "Killua, you may leave."

"Grandfather! How can you do this? Killua hasn't reflected at all!"

Zeno did not look at Milluki and continued speaking to Killua. "Your father, Silva, is waiting for you."

Killua was silent for a moment. "...Got it." He forcefully snapped every chain and dropped from the air. Fragments of iron scattered at Milluki's feet. He took a step back, not daring to say another word. Killua flexed his wrists and walked out through the iron door without looking back.

Zeno did not watch him leave. Only after the footsteps had faded at the end of the corridor did he slowly speak, as though talking to himself, or perhaps asking Milluki, who still stood where he was. "He's very special. What do you think of his potential?"

Only broken chains remained scattered across the solitary confinement room.

At the edge of the Forest Sea, Mike lay on the ground, his three tails sweeping back and forth over the gravel. Saitama leaned against the trunk of an ancient tree, having just popped the last kernel of corn into his mouth. Mike's middle head nudged against his leg, whimpering like a puppy begging for food. Saitama patted the head, which was thicker than his waist. "It's gone, really gone. I'll bring you more next time." Mike wagged his tails even faster, sweeping a clean arc across the gravel. Gon passed by in the distance, dragging a set of weighted rings. He paused when he saw this, grinned, then kept running.

The banquet hall was brightly lit. The long table was covered in a dark brocade tablecloth, silver candlesticks casting a soft glow beneath the lights. 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. Outside the window, faint sounds came from the direction of the Forest Sea: Gon and the other two dragging their weighted rings, along with Mike's occasional satisfied whines.

Netero held his wineglass and looked out the window through the candlelight. Gon had just climbed up from the gravel. The bandages around both arms were soaked through with sweat and blood, but he braced himself against the Trial Gate again, gritted his teeth, and kept pushing. "That spiky-haired kid is Ging's son."

"I saw qualities in him that surpass even Ging's. During the final test, Hanzo broke both his arms, but he refused to surrender. His right arm was broken, and he refused to surrender. His left arm was broken, and he still refused to surrender. In the end, Hanzo surrendered himself. That child doesn't refuse to surrender because he can win. He refuses because there is something in his heart more important than winning or losing. I've only met a few people like that in my entire life."

Silva followed Netero's gaze toward the window. Gon fell again. This time, he lay face-down on the ground for a long while as Kurapika and Leorio ran toward him. "His aptitude is inferior to Killua's. Potential, reaction speed, talent for Nen—he falls short in every aspect."

"That's precisely why I said he's special. It isn't about aptitude. He can turn the impossible into possible." Netero took another sip of wine, the rim of the glass lingering at his lips as he gave a soft chuckle. "Speaking of which—the bald man outside is also someone who turns the impossible into possible."

"That bald man," Silva said. "Mike seems to like him quite a bit."

"Are you sure it's affection? I fought him on Glasses Island. I'll just give you the conclusion—even I am no match for him."

Silva's hand stopped as he cut his steak. Zeno held his whiskey glass, its rim paused at his lips. Silence hung over the long table for a long time. Wutong was holding a wine bottle, ready to refill their glasses, but his hand remained suspended in the air as he forgot to straighten the tilted bottle.

"No match," Netero repeated. His tone was light, but every word bore down heavily. "Not the kind of no match where you can almost win—it's the kind where, after you've used every move you have, the first thought that rises in your heart is: He stands on a plane I will never be able to reach."

Silva set down his knife and fork. Outside the window came Mike's satisfied whine. That bald man who had made their family's guard dog roll over with a single corn cob—even the Chairman was no match for him. He called to Wutong. "Go to the Forest Sea and invite Mr. Saitama to the banquet hall." Wutong gave a slight bow and left the banquet hall. Silva turned to Netero, his tone calm. "Chairman, I would like to ask Mr. Saitama to fight me."

Wutong pushed open the banquet hall doors. Saitama walked in, a few black dog hairs stuck to his yellow T-shirt, one section of his pant leg dampened by Mike's drool. He took a seat at the lower end of the table. A freshly seared steak had already been placed on the plate before him, accompanied by roasted vegetables and truffle mushroom soup.

Silva watched him cut off the first piece of steak, stuff it into his mouth, chew twice, then pick up his knife and fork to cut a second piece. "Mr. Saitama, I would like to ask you to fight me."

"No."

Silva's expression did not change. The wrinkle at the corner of Zeno's mouth deepened. "He said no. Sorry to trouble you, Chairman."

"Exactly the same." Netero held his wineglass. "The tone when he says 'no' is exactly the same. No hesitation, no fear, no politeness. Just a simple, 'Too much trouble.' I raised the stakes five times before I got him to stand up—Hunter License, one hand, flying beast meat, any condition he wanted, an official match. He refused every one of them. In the end, Beans walked 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 at Silva. "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 all the marbled wagyu you could want. Premium grade, more tender than the flying beast meat from Glasses Island. As long as you are willing to fight me—regardless of the result, all hot pot ingredients will be provided by the Zoldyck family. Wagyu, black pork, seafood, fresh vegetables, all free."

Saitama stopped chewing his steak. "Are the sauces free?"

"The entire condiment bar is free. Sesame paste, minced garlic, chili oil, chive flower sauce, fermented bean curd, all free."

"Okay."

Silva stood. "Wutong, prepare the grounds in the backyard." Wutong gave a slight bow and left the banquet hall.

Holding a whiskey glass, Netero watched Saitama put the last bite of the second steak into his mouth, wipe the sauce from the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then stand and follow Silva toward the backyard. A muffled rumble came from that direction—the butlers were opening the stone doors to the long-sealed special training ground. It had been a long time since he had seen the Zoldyck family open those doors.