The afternoon sun was just right. Kikyo, who has a strong awareness of sun protection, moved to the gazebo. With her electronic eye, she could directly access all the surveillance cameras installed on Kukuroo Mountain.
Standing beside her, I didn’t have that functionality. I could only raise my binoculars and look down at the "game" taking place in the sea of trees.
The game was a game of hide-and-seek between Illumi and Killua—the same training Killua mentioned in the original story that he started at the age of three.
By the way, Milluki was playing Legos with Alluka. He was quite friendly toward his younger brother, who had a similar physical fitness rating as him. There was a sense of camaraderie—probably because they were in the same boat.
"As expected of Killua! He’s improving so quickly!" Kikyo praised.
Indeed.
The talent of a manga protagonist isn’t just high—it’s downright terrifying.
Unusually sharp intuition, lightning-fast reflexes, meticulous observational skills, and seemingly bottomless potential—the only limitations being his childlike stamina and mental endurance.
It’s precisely because of this talent that his training is unprecedentedly harsh. Such a rare gift can’t be wasted.
However, from an outsider’s perspective, Killua is just a poor kid being toyed with by Illumi.
There’s a full 12-year age gap between him and Illumi, so Illumi’s complete dominance is a given. On top of that, Illumi adds real killing intent and malicious "Nen," forcing Killua to hide as if his life depends on it.
In reality, Illumi knows exactly where Killua is hiding every time.
When Killua "gets caught" is entirely up to Illumi’s whims.
Sometimes, Illumi pretends not to notice, waiting until Killua thinks he’s gone before suddenly appearing behind him for a deadly "surprise." It’s downright sadistic.
Tch. This is the classic case of a high-level player bullying a newbie in the starter zone. Shameless.
Watching Illumi pat Killua on the shoulder, say a few words, and then let him run off again before starting the countdown and leisurely stalking after him like a hunter, I’m reminded of Illumi’s three-day "reflection period" in the torture chamber last month.
Killua would never imagine that his terrifying, absolute, game-dominating older brother was once hanging in the torture chamber, covered in whip marks, with the handle of a whip stuffed in his mouth, unable to speak, completely at someone else’s mercy.
Oh, to clarify—Illumi volunteered for it.
Illumi was so confident that even when I took unconventional actions beyond just "whipping," he didn’t resist at all. He truly believed his "excellent" grade in the Zoldyck torture course was well-deserved.
"How many points can you score, Illumi? Let’s see if the torture instructor was biased in your favor."
Turning "rule-breaking" into a "challenge" and "personal grudges" into a "test"—this kind of sleight of hand isn’t hard to learn if you put your mind to it.
Unlike usual.
This time, *I* was the one constantly "talking," while Illumi couldn’t speak.
*I* was the one in control, while *he* was at my mercy.
The reversal of roles, the feeling of trampling someone who’s usually above you—isn’t it exhilarating?
Normally, I dislike overly intimate contact because it invades my personal space. But the reverse is different. I can choose to get close or pull away at any time, dictated solely by my will. It feels safer that way.
Maybe I’m like those inherently weak but power-hungry necrophiliacs who prefer objects that never resist their commands.
Oh, don’t worry, I’m not *that* extreme. I don’t like corpses at all.
I just lack a little sense of security.
The warmth of my breath was blocked by his skin, spreading and lingering on the slightly cool tip of my nose before cooling further, leaving a trace of dampness.
One advantage of being an assassin is that they actively eliminate body odors to stay hidden. Aside from the scent of blood, I couldn’t detect any extra smells on Illumi. He felt more like an object than a living person. I wanted to get closer, press my nose against his cheek—soft and just the right temperature.
Standard questions would be free points for a top student like Illumi. I had to throw him some curveballs.
Like that surprised expression he showed a few minutes ago—I wanted to see more of those. Shattered, panicked, fearful, pleading, crazed… anything that would make him seem less like *himself*.
The essence of torture is the destruction of the spirit. The body is secondary—just a means to an end.
I think I know what to do. Maybe I’ve thought about it long before now.
The longer I wait, the less effective it’ll be. Have I already missed the perfect timing?
With the arrow nocked, I had no backup plan. I could only press on. My right hand reached into the drawer, feeling for the handgun wrapped in thin fabric.
The Zoldycks don’t have any particular preference for weapons. They treat weapon usage as general knowledge, not a specialized course—especially modern firearms, which they don’t emphasize. It feels a bit old-fashioned, but then again, they *are* an ancient family. Or maybe Nen abilities are just far more useful in this world than guns. I shouldn’t judge based on "real-world" common sense.
It’s a revolver, with bullets loaded into the cylinder, allowing for sequential firing.
I spun the cylinder. I wasn’t sure how many chambers it had, but I’d find out soon enough.
Illumi’s expression was perfectly calm. He knew I was watching him. He knew observation was a key part of torture. We took the same courses—both taught by the Zoldycks. He understood perfectly: as long as he didn’t waver, victory was his. It’s simple—the "victory" of the tortured lies in willpower.
Damn it. Competing with Illumi in a subject where he got "excellent" and I barely scraped a "pass" was bound to be tough.
To prevent guns from molding, corroding, or rusting, they need regular maintenance and should be stored in a cool, dry, ventilated place. The metal felt slightly cooler than my hand when I touched it.
Even with my "real-world" experience, I’m not particularly outstanding. Like everything else I do, I can’t quite reach perfection. Could someone like me really make the Zoldyck’s top student surrender?
I don’t know.
My only hope is that he has less experience in this area than I do. Logically, he *should* have less. I don’t even think of him as human. I’m not even sure if that gun would work or if it’s just a prop.
What’s even scarier is that he might not even care about such "trivial matters."
Starting with the wrong premise is my most common mistake.
Time is limited. Dragging it out too long would also count as the torturer’s failure.
I’m like an unskilled thief, anxiously fiddling with the combination lock on a safe before the next patrol arrives, sweating nervously as I fail to crack it.
Being a thief requires too much skill. Maybe I should just be a robber—use brute force, explosives, a crowbar, or just carry the whole thing away.
"Illumi, are you…"
I wanted to ask if he was even capable of it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t waste my time.
But then he seemed to relax slightly, answering me with "phenomena."
...It was mockery.
I yanked his hair harder, forcing his chin up toward the ceiling, his neck almost snapping.
"Illumi," I said threateningly.
His eyes were half-lidded, as if completely detached. As expected of the Zoldyck’s top student.
I bit my lower lip, using the pain to calm myself. I tossed the whip handle aside—I’d changed my mind. I wanted to hear his voice.
"I know you look down on me." You little brat.
A revolver typically consists of three parts: the frame, the cylinder and its rotation/braking mechanism, and the locking/firing mechanism.
I remember it clearly. Just as Silva said, my memory is exceptional—especially when it comes to grudges. With the Zoldyck genes enhancing it further, I can retain even more practical knowledge.
"..." Illumi opened his eyes to look at me, probably because he could tell I was being serious.
Torture is a battle between two sides—a contest of wills and methods. The torturer isn’t necessarily at an advantage, nor is the tortured necessarily at a disadvantage.
"I’ll make you regret..." handing the trigger to me.
"Sis," Illumi closed his eyes briefly, "I don’t look down on you."
"You’re lying." Manipulators are just as good at lying as Conjurers—all to achieve their goals.
"Even so, there’s no need to go this far..." Illumi paused, "It’ll be a hassle to clean up. What exactly are you trying to prove, Sis?"
"Prove... prove whether you’re a machine or not."
"Of course... I’m not a machine."
How is he *not* a machine?!
Why isn’t he reacting at all?!
If not for the residual heat and gunpowder smell, I’d think I was holding a toy gun.
I misjudged Illumi’s inhuman nature. What I did was meaningless.
Then I noticed Illumi was observing *me*.
This was a competition. He was trying to shake *me* too.
Make me doubt myself.
I resolved to outlast him in this battle of endurance, firing all the bullets—six in total, the standard for a revolver.
In the end, he was completely unharmed, leaving me unable to hide my fury.
Did I lose?
No. I refuse to lose.
I should’ve broken him. I *could’ve* broken him!
Amid the clang of metal, Illumi freed himself from the handcuffs and grabbed my right wrist. "You should wash this off soon if you don’t want to get caught."
"I’ve been thinking... Some details can’t be grasped through talent alone." Illumi used his other hand to smooth his disheveled hair. "Sis, did someone teach you? Hands-on?"
*That’s* what he’s thinking about?! And he’s right—it was my "real-world" ex-boyfriend. This goes beyond ordinary calmness and intelligence.
As the torturer, having the tortured see through my deepest secret left me horrified. I shook off his hand and rushed to the sink in the corner, washing my hands and splashing cold water on my face to calm down.
Once I was done, Illumi said he needed to clean up too. Any incriminating evidence we couldn’t deal with was temporarily stored in my game backpack.
I turned my back until the sound of running water stopped. I couldn’t leave yet—I had to wait for the smell in the torture chamber to dissipate. No one else could come in here.
"Done." Illumi stepped aside from the sink.
"..." Silently, I turned around and reached for the cloth in the sink, [Picking] it up.
After [Killua’s Poop], my game backpack had gained another strange item. My feelings were complicated.
Illumi had washed the whip I’d forgotten about too. That sink was originally meant for cleaning torture tools. There were hooks on the wall above it to hang freshly washed instruments to dry.
"Shall we continue?" Illumi followed my gaze to the whip hanging up to dry. "We still have plenty of time."
"..."
"Or we could talk about the meaning behind this torture session. As far as I know, Sis isn’t the type to waste time on meaningless things." Illumi raised an arm, blocking my path. "Meaning, or reason. There has to be *something*, right?"
"..." I couldn’t back down here. That’d be admitting defeat. I stopped in my tracks.
Illumi took two steps forward, standing directly in front of me. I clenched my teeth, meeting his lifeless eyes.
One way to create pressure: gradually shrink the other person’s space to move.
Behind me was the sink. One step back, and I’d hit the edge. I pressed a hand against Illumi’s chest as he closed in, his arms caging me on either side—just shy of an embrace.
Another way to create pressure: objective height advantage.
I don’t know when the gap grew beyond two centimeters. What I feared was happening—he was surpassing me, in every way, forcing me to look up.
A third way to create pressure: state the correct answer.
"A weakness." Illumi lowered his head until his forehead touched mine. "That’s what Sis wanted from me. Am I right?"
"..."
The light clink of a cup against a saucer pulled me back to the present.
"Meruem." Kikyo sat across from me, the fragrant afternoon tea spread between us.
She had been rambling about Killua until the hide-and-seek game ended, then transitioned smoothly into her good-mood teatime. I’d been zoning out, filtering the meaningless chatter. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t need to speak—just be a quiet, pretty dress-up doll.
I picked up my fork and cut into the triangular cream cake. The sweet but not cloying frosting, the rich dairy flavor, filled my mouth.
I’m not the type to save the best for last. I’m afraid of losing it.
The bright red cherry on top of the cake was eye-catching—the most striking garnish even in the "real world." Its appearance was more appealing than its taste.
Maybe I’d been spacing out for too long. Distracted, the cherry slipped off my fork, leaving a trail of cream on the table before falling to the floor. No one tried to stop it—no Zoldyck would ever eat food that had fallen off a plate.
...Except me.
An old habit from the "real world." I’d pick up food I’d accidentally dropped, believing it wasn’t dirty if retrieved within three seconds.
Kikyo thought she’d corrected it. I thought I’d corrected it. But when I wasn’t paying attention, I still instinctively bent down to grab the cherry.
"Gotoh!!" Kikyo snapped.
The ever-present butler moved at her first syllable, kneeling and covering the cherry with a handkerchief before I could reach it.
"Yes." Gotoh’s response came only after the action was complete.
"..." My fingers brushed the handkerchief.
I stared blankly at Gotoh’s knee touching the floor.
Back then, after Illumi finished speaking, he’d knelt on one knee, hands resting on my calves. I thought I shouldn’t have worn a skirt—his current angle was *very* inappropriate. I pressed a hand to his shoulder and asked what he was trying to do.
"Young Mistress." Gotoh wrapped the cherry in the handkerchief and pocketed it. "My apologies for the rudeness."
"..." I sat back down.
"You silly child!" Kikyo scolded lightly. But since Killua had performed well in today’s game, she was in too good a mood to fuss. She ordered Gotoh to take away the barely touched cake and bring me a new one. "Meruem, is something on your mind?"
"..." I shook my head, cutting a small piece of cake and eating it.
The cream melted in my mouth like ice cream. I licked the remnants off the fork’s tines.
Back then, Illumi had done the same...
Timid herbivores freeze when terrified. I’m the same—"shocked" doesn’t even begin to cover it. My brain short-circuited.
A seasoned office worker knows the importance of saving files regularly. Now, I know the importance of promptly [removing] my vocal device.
I can’t be sure what I might lose during a system crash.
"Ah, I missed one." Illumi said. "Fun—that’s another purpose of torture, isn’t it? How many points do I get, Sis?"
The leftover water in the sink had soaked my skirt. Thankfully, I had my game backpack to change outfits anytime, sparing me the embarrassment afterward.
"Let’s take turns giving each other tests." Illumi added, "Isn’t it unfair if only one side gets to ask questions?"
"And I’m not a machine."
"This is my proof."
My fingers tangled in his jet-black hair as I opened my mouth. Without my vocal device [equipped], not a sound escaped.
"..."
"...Meruem?" Kikyo called again.
I snapped out of it, pushing away the half-eaten cake. The cherry was still intact on top, but I’d lost my appetite.