"Just so you know," Feitan said casually, admiring the light gliding along the edge of his sword, shimmering in blood drops. "Machi can reattach severed limbs." He let out a cackle, seeing that despite the boy's unfaltering expression, his already anemic face paled a shade.
They stood facing each other, the steel sword drawn against the fan. Made from paper, yet hard like steel, although, the pretense of equality was feeble. The roles of the prey and the predator were clear at a glance. Zoldyck tried to hide his hitched breath, Feitan had to admit, he was indeed entertained.
"Calm down, just joking. Not wanna make too much mess in my homeland."
Feitan lunged forward aiming at the face, the fan shot to block. He shifted the weapon, revealing his feint, and only slid the sword's flat on the paper surface to direct a hit lower, almost scraping the ribs when the metal sunk into the skin. Now he could cut deeper or twist the blade to widen a wound. Both tempting options. Instead, he withdrew, giving just an elbow strike in parting and reminding himself to hold back. Even if to the lesser degree than the previous day, cautiousness was in order, as the self-control had never been his strongest suit.
Sensing the swarm of aura behind him, he parried the condensed paper, which shattered into thousands of little pieces, designed to attack him from every angle possible, slightly more concentrated on his weak point — the broken arm. He could immediately tell they weren't powerful enough to even touch him, but he took a split second to evaluate Nen inside every fragment and the threads connecting them.
Effortlessly stepping out of that paper prison, he instantly resumed the pace with a new rush of strikes. He threw a few easily foreseeable hits to mislead Zoldyck, then charged again. Another cut, a long slit along the spine, shallow, not to impair too much or cause paralysis. His heel jabbed into the boy's back, and at the moment he sensed a hint of stumbling, his knee dug between the shoulder blades, knocking him over, pinning down to the floor and pressing on the fresh gash. He held this position deliberately longer, breaking the smooth rhythm of the fight.
The body under him, tense at first, quickly went limp, showing no resistance or struggle. Feitan curiously observed this display of almost complete deprivation of natural reactions and animalistic instincts. He had no intention to kill young Zoldyck, him belonging to the Spiders being one of the reasons, but the boy had no way of discerning that. Yet, in the face of potentially mortal danger he just detachedly estimated his chances, and seeing he had none, his reaction was to listlessly give up, waiting in hope for being freed. It would be laughably easy to kill him. To do anything to him.
"Pitiful thing," Feitan hummed amused, and with a forceful kick, sent the boy hurtling across the room.
Feeling the release, he revived immediately leaping to his feet and recoiled, taking up a stance, ready to continue the fight.
Blood seeped from the cuts, making the embroidered white lilies on his kimono turn to red. Kalluto glanced at the ripped fabric, upset by the sight of dainty adornment profaned and torn to shreds.
A long time ago, he got conformed to the idea that his body had never belonged to him. It was a tool and as such, was meant to serve, so naturally, it experienced dulling and sharpening, breaking and fixing. Wounds were inevitable. But his clothes were his own. He was finding enjoyment in intricate patterns and beautiful textiles. While influenced by his mother, even here, so far from home, where she couldn't see him, he always took care to have his musubi properly shaped and to tie every koshi-himo neatly as if he was tying a bond to the part of his identity.
And now the threads were severed, the ragged edges tainted with his drying blood. Regardless of the sorrow, he had to remember it was just an insignificant sacrifice, just another step necessary in his endeavor. Symbols of his attachment to his upbringing meant nothing if the family itself was hurt and ruptured.
Therefore, he gritted his teeth and pulled himself together, taking another wave of slashes and cuts, trying to riposte with counter-attacks. Somehow, Feitan seemed even faster than before. Continuous, yet irregular strikes were breaking him out of rhythm, negating techniques that required focus and cadence. Kalluto hardly adjusted his Ryu in time to defend himself, the offensive moves could only leave him more vulnerable, which, considering the hail of unpredictable attacks, would be virtually the same as asking for death. Although, he noticed, this speed didn't hinder the man's skillfulness. Not a single cut was accidental. Their depth, their angle. Everything calculated to cause the most pain but not permanently damage tissues or risk bleeding out. Yet, if Feitan wanted, all of them could be lethal. Kalluto couldn't help but feel a hint of admiration for this precision, along with a growing curiosity.
Feitan's bloodlust was vastly different from the one he knew. That wasn't a cold and calculated force appearing and disappearing quickly during the successful assassination, as a matter of fact, killing seemed to be the last thing on his mind. This coarse, wicked feeling only grew with every wound the man inflicted, and every time Kalluto wasn't able to hide the pain in time.
"Disappointed," Feitan sighed insincerely. "I thought Zoldyck training is better." The words stabbed him straight in the sore point. He wondered if his weaknesses were so easy to spot, or if the man hit it by sheer luck.
In spite of the ache, he didn't allow himself to falter. Seeing the less intense congeries of paper couldn't cause much damage, he used them as distractions, buying just a little time to prepare the proper defense and wait for rare opportunities to attack. Despite his alertness, Feitan was always finding unguarded openings, giving him a few new gashes.
The sudden slash from the right. He had no time to dodge, so he blocked it with the fan. But Feitan didn't back out like before. The pressure only increased and the Nen-imbued blade started weighting him down. A rush of panic flashed Kalluto when he noticed a little tear appearing where paper clashed with metal. Quickly, he sent more aura to push the man away and protect his weapon.
A painful spasm burst from his core. He barely registered Feitan's boot shoving into his stomach, just below the rib cage, throwing him backwards. He ended up on the floor. Again. The force of hitting the ground momentarily left him breathless and stunned.
Before he could rise to his feet, Feitan appeared above, standing astride him, his blade drawn in front of his face.
"You said you saw my fight with ant." The derisive tone needled him when he was struck by a sour realization. He turned his head ashamed, but the steel shifting dangerously close to his eyes persuaded him to keep looking straight at Feitan.
"I did." His voice came out much weaker than he would prefer.
"And what you did just now?" The interrogation continued, he fought not to look away again.
"I concentrated all of my aura in one spot."
"And...?" The flat of the sword stroked a side of his neck and skimmed over the pounding artery.
"It left me defenseless."
"Yes." The blade moved a little lower, toying with the hem of his kimono. "But for you, torn clothes are least worries."
Kalluto couldn't hold back a twitch of his eyelid, when the rough, broken tip grazed his skin. The cold metal stung against the line of warm drops seeping through the shallow scratch on his sternum. The fleeting shadow of a grimace didn't escape Feitan's notice.
"What, regret your decision?" Kalluto was getting sick from the mirth in Feitan's voice.
"No," he replied without thinking. How much would his resolve be worth if a little pain or humiliation could break him? He had lived through worse, he could endure it too.
Feitan's gaze studied him a while longer, then once again he shifted his sword to Kalluto's eyes.
"You have different reaction time to sight and to aura, so you just squirm in place." He sheathed the blade into the umbrella. "But that for later. We done for today before you drop dead."
"I won't." Kalluto wanted to argue, but Feitan cast him a look, insufferably condescending and sneering.
He stepped off of him and turned to the exit, throwing a short "Stay" command, before disappearing behind the doors. Kalluto wasn't sure if the order meant waiting in general and not leaving the room or retaining the exact lying position, so he sat as the half-measure.
The anticipation didn't take long. Feitan came carrying a canvas sack and a glass bottle with transparent liquid, its intense sharp smell instantly filled the room.
"Undress." Hearing the terse command, Kalluto looked at him confused, the man just rolled his eyes. "To patch up cuts. If you infected and die, you have no use."
"I can do this myself." He stood attempting to resist, but his willpower crumbled when Feitan came closer.
"Don't disobey." The pressure of the hand placed on his nape brought him to his knees, and even though he physically could move, something about these words and gesture made him freeze in place, unable to object.
Hesitantly, he loosened up his obi and slid his kimono off the shoulders to uncover his back and arms, which were hurt the most. His assassin instincts screamed that exposing himself in front of the homicidal criminal was reckless at best, but he stifled it. He could and was going to bear any amount of discomfort if it helped him on his path.
Unwittingly, he tensed, feeling a touch of the cold fingers, first near his spine, intently sliding over the shape of the spider. He bit his lip, suppressing a hiss when a soaked cloth burned his skin. He was familiar with the ache of sanitizing open wounds, and he knew it had to be done for his own good, he just wished Feitan didn't press sore spots so hard and tie the bandages so harshly.
Kalluto closed his eyes, trying not to think about the pain, his mind drifting away as he focused on the texture of a fabric brushing his skin and firm hands on his body. Hazy memories of the Zoldycks' servants bandaging his wounds wandered in his head. It had to be years ago when he was too young to take care of himself; later, as soon as his moves gained competence, he learned to treat his own injuries, in secret, without risking his mother's worries and lamentation.
Despite the stinging of an alcohol and Feitan's not the gentlest attitude, having someone taking care of him felt calming. He didn't want to let his guard down, but his body involuntarily relaxed. Well-adjusted dressings eased the soreness, his muscles could finally rest, after the hours of stress and exertion strained them.
A wet warmth brushed against the back of his neck.
A sharp pain pierced through him. He gasped when Feitan's teeth dug deeper into his soft skin. Any other noises were cut off by the hand seizing his throat. He restrained the impulse to grasp it and pull away — it would be futile anyway. He tried to stop his organism from attempts to take a breath, as the lungs' helpless twitches only sent new flashes of panic to his brain. But his body didn't want to listen to rationality and refused to calm down. Warm liquid ran down his spine. The smell of iron, always so mesmerizing for him, filled his nostrils, and mixed with the heavy odor of alcohol, made him dizzy. His heart echoed through the racing thoughts. Feitan's breath burned. Black stains began to obscure his vision.
After the time, he couldn't tell how long, the hand on his neck loosened. A chuckle behind him swirled in his head, as he struggled for air. He dared not move when the man licked blood from his fresh wound, then cleaned it and bandaged like the previous ones. He still wasn't moving when he felt the hand ruffling his hair.
Even when Feitan left, Kalluto retained his position. His neck hurt, but pain was irrelevant to his body or mind, stunned with overpowering feelings growing inside him, aberrant and unsettling. His head was crammed with cotton wool, yet obtusely empty at the same time. No matter his efforts, he couldn't fully comprehend what just happened.
Kalluto woke up when the sun was already raised, he estimated it could be around eight or nine a.m., later than he usually started his days. He got up with a groan. The morning stretching was rather painful, as the fresh injuries aggravated his muscles, tight from the position he slept in — not quite lying, not quite sitting, it wasn't the most comfortable but allowed him to react instantly in case of a sudden attack.
He rubbed the bandages on his neck. The rough bite wound hurt more than the clean cuts of the sword, and he knew his body well enough to expect it would heal worse too. Habitually, he checked the Spider's locations. Even without the ability to further spy on Feitan, he heard everyone's voices from his Paper Dolls, so he decided to investigate why they gathered.
Before he got close to the three men, who were standing next to a stack of broken electronics, he stayed out of sight and took a moment to observe them. His many examinations always brought similar results, and every individual interaction further confirmed what he noticed when they were in a larger group. The Spider's behavior had no hint of formality or heeding the personal space. Loud and uncouth. They treated him without any courtesy, talking unceremoniously and startling him by incidental touches, like patting his shoulder or casual nudges. At first, when he made contact with them, he tried to assimilate, albeit slightly, by livening his tone up, but then he could barely recognize his voice, and it only made him feel like a liar. Maybe the Zoldycks weren't meant to sound friendly, he thought, wondering how Killua talked with these people who took him away.
Shalnark waved at him, when he approached them. He felt Feitan's eyes weighing on him, but he couldn't force himself to look back. Pretending to, all of a sudden, take interest in the Spider's current activity, he focused on the only working televisor and ongoing broadcast.
Because of cracks on the screen, the TV presenter seemed to have three eyes, when she looked seriously at the camera, reporting about recent world events. Kalluto looked rather indifferently at the photos of destruction and the series of unfamiliar faces. He was never particularly interested in politics, as the Zoldycks in general weren't affected by any of those issues, working for whoever was paying, without much consideration of their personal beliefs. His knowledge was limited to general comprehension needed on missions, and a few facts about the Hunter Association, he learned when Killua disappeared, and he wanted to make sense of that whole situation. Quite unsuccessfully.
"Phew!" Shalnark's laughter snapped him back to the present. "I wanted to say that I didn't expect them to use The Rose again, but I kinda expected it. They keep saying it's the last time, but it's always their quick fix."
His voice was melodious, but Kalluto found it somewhat unnerving, unable to get used to his excessive optimism. The last few days the man was even more cheerful than usual, as if he wanted to make up for the time he had been convalescing after a fight, struggling to move because of pain. Kalluto pretended he didn't hear anything about its cause.
"The warfare and mass murders in East Gorteau were probably related to those Ants, but go as far as a nuclear bomb?" Bonolenov wondered. "It had to leave havoc."
"For sure." Shalnark sighed, suddenly more pensive. "Knowing Uvo, he'd rush there right away to punch an even bigger crater."
They started laughing and, against his wishes, Kalluto felt like an intruder, sticking out uncomfortably. With slight unease, he waited out the Spiders discussing the events and their current plans, somewhat vague, as their future never seemed to be thoroughly scheduled. Ever since Kalluto joined them, he could notice the sense of stagnation hanging above the Phantom Troupe. Even when they had specific missions and duties, their actions appeared to be half-hearted, there was always some greater goal on the horizon. And he knew it was Chrollo. The name he heard from his father, said with rarely given respect, and every time it was mentioned by the Spiders, it emanated with feelings, hard for him to identify. He awaited meeting him, but also dreaded. The leader could likely see right through him, and confirm Kalluto didn't fit into his group.
After the chat finally died down, they separated, tending to their own matters, and he was left alone with Feitan. He couldn't get away with ignoring him anymore. But to his misery, a man persistently remained silent, so he had to be the one to gather strength and say something.
"Who's Uvo?" He asked, partially to break the awkwardness, partially to learn more about the Troupe. He was met with the mistrustful eyes.
"Spider. Number eleven," Feitan said slowly, then paused momentarily, sizing him up as though he wasn't certain if he wanted to tell more. "Died in Yorknew, not long before you joined."
Yorknew City. A place where Kalluto made a contact with the Phantom Troupe for the first time. Where he distracted them at the behest of his brother and his mysterious client.
He hoped these two occurrences weren't related.