Chapter XVII

The debate has been going on for almost two hours.

Chrollo Lucilfer sits with his leg crossed over the other, his chin propped at the heel of his palm, his raven hair hanging over his forehead. The debate started after breakfast, and with lunch now fast approaching, he could tell that they are nowhere near conclusion. He decides to stay quiet and observant, seated at Valtiel's right side as she argues with seven elderly men, trying to get her point across their thick skulls. At best, he is amused to watch her argue so passionately about her ideals, to see her cheeks burning with color, her eyes dark with resolve. At worst, he keeps a hand on her sleeve, to keep her from pouncing across the round table and probably slap some sense into the old men.

His dark eyes keep going back and forth as the debate continues.

"As I keep telling you, we cannot afford a school," one of the elders, Koran, snaps at Valtiel. "Have you taken a good look of the place, young lady? We live among scraps and weapons. We receive our food from the dump and whatever the Mafia brings us. A school is last of our concerns."

"You have already started the construction of the homes, have you not?" she fires back, her hands flat on the polished surface of the table. "Why not go further and build a school for your children?"

"I have no children," Koran growls.

"It's a metaphor, you god-rotting stupid−"

Chrollo hides a snicker behind his hand.

"You are among the Elders. Of course every child in Meteor City is your child, your responsibility," Valtiel finishes.

One of the bearded men shakes his head. He has sad, droopy eyes and an ugly scar across his nose. "I understand your meaning, Valtiel, but you must listen. We do not have the resources for that. We can barely provide for all the citizens now. What more to afford a school? To keep its maintenance?"

She rounds on him. "I thought Meteor City has connections with the outside world. I thought there is a give-and-take relationship between the city and the Mafia community?"

Koran speaks again. "That is only between weapons and assassins. We provide them human resources; they give us weapons in return. It is a simple logic that we go by."

"Then why couldn't we ask for more?" She whirls, eyes narrowed. "Surely, the Mafia would not find a little school too taxing when in comes to funds. They gamble and attend ridiculous auctions every year. A school for children should be nothing to them."

"The Mafia doesn't want us building schools," Koran hisses at her. "They want assassins and guards."

"And not lawyers, doctors, engineers, or pilots," finishes the scarred man, Meinerth.

"What−the Mafia does not want smarter assassins?" Valtiel challenges everyone around her, including her grandfather Ryence. Their eyes meet, though her grandfather chooses to remain silent. She sneers at them. "Would they settle with illiterate and barbaric child soldiers? Who would die the moment they are sent to their first missions?"

They fall silent and the answer becomes clear to her. Her frown deepens. "They do, don't they? They do not want smarter soldiers because they need expendable people. No one to question their missions or their morals. Just soulless puppets, off to the battlefield." She slumps back on her chair, feeling tired and defeated. "I am a fool."

Chrollo touches her forearm, though his eyes are trained to the elderly men. He leans forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees.

"If you are worried about financing the school, the Phantom Troupe can shoulder all the costs, from the construction to the supplies and the maintenance." He glances at Valtiel and hides a smile as he sees her face slowly brighten. "And there would have to be the teachers and staff, we can provide for everything."

Elder Meinerth stiffens, knuckles gripping his chair tighter. "For sure, Lucilfer?"

"Of course. I can see the advantage of providing education for our children here in Meteor City," Chrollo explains. He leans back on his chair and slips his hand into Valtiel's, squeezing hers in reassurance. "It is about time we make developments in our city, not just for providing better homes and food."

"And if the Mafia disagrees?" Elder Koran prompts, glaring at the pair's holding hands.

"If the Mafia disagrees, they can answer to the Phantom Troupe." Chrollo smirks deviously. "I want to see how brave they could hold against us−if it ever crosses their minds at all. I quite remember that our relationship with the Mafia is quite dear to them. It would be a shame if they destroy it for one school."

"They might," Koran says, "if they find out who is behind this idea."

"Miss Valtiel, you mean?" Chrollo looks at her, and then beams at Koran. "Oh, they wouldn't touch her."

"We would have to discuss the matter among ourselves for now." Ryence nods to the young pair, and they rise together from their seats. He could already hear the mumbles of disapproval from his fellow elders, but Ryence keeps a pleasant mask on until the two are out of sight and earshot.

On their way back to their room upstairs, Valtiel tugs at Chrollo's hand and stops walking.

"Did you really mean that?" she murmurs.

"Mean what?" He tips his head to the side.

"That the Phantom Troupe will take care of the costs?" As the words slip from her mouth, she still could not believe her luck. She is ready to share the expenses for the construction, despite not having a stable source on income. She never would have expected his help−nor would she ask him for it.

"Of course I mean it." He smiles and pushes her hair out of her face, away from her hopeful eyes.

They stand hidden in one of the church's alcoves, with a great statue of a forgotten saint the only witness to their closeness.

Chrollo traces a thumb under her eyes, across her cheek, down to her jaw. He lifts her chin up, raising her golden eyes to his. "And are you happy because of it?"

"I am," she says, breathless. Her voice shakes−whether for excitement or for nervousness in this close proximity she could not tell. She puts her hand above his own. "Thank you."

"I love your smile," he says. "I always watch you for your smiles."

She laughs and rolls her eyes, as if she is not convinced. He laughs along with her, and their quiet laughter resonates around the compact alcove.

"But why would you bring the Phantom Troupe to it? I am not one of the Spiders. They would be against it if the Troupe shoulders the costs."

He shrugs, stepping away from her to look up at the statue. It is a nun wrapped in her robes and coif. She bears no name, though he guesses he does not need to know her.

"They would understand," he says. "The Troupe does not focus solely on thefts and murders, you know. We can be philanthropists as well, for orphanages and hospitals and the homeless."

Unable to imagine the rambunctious Spiders helping the elderly or the homeless, she nods. It is indeed quite hard to imagine them, not when she has watched them massacre a whole theater of cultists and their audience. Harder still when she remembers how Uvogin could easily snap someone's neck, or Machi slicing everyone with only flick of her fingertips.

"When can we start?" she asks again, sounding excited.

"As soon as we can gather our funds." He takes her hand again and leads her back to their shared room.

"Would you tell the Troupe now?"

"I might." He produces his cellphone and chuckles to see Valtiel smiling and beaming at him again. He sits on the edge of their bed, phone pressed to one ear. His Kurta lays on her stomach across the bed, peeping up at him. The phone rings only once, and Chrollo feigns an energetic voice. "Shalnark?"

"Danchou!" Valtiel could hear Shalnark's equally excited voice from the other line.

She lets the leader and his Spider discuss about the situation, while she goes to her usual spot by the window to admire the view. Meteor City does not offer much scenery, but she still finds it refreshing and pleasing to the eyes. She has never seen so many strange-looking people gather so closely as family members. The children are everywhere and they are as energetic and as naughty as children could be. It brings another warm smile to her lips, remembering what little she could from her childhood.

Perhaps she could go downstairs and meet the children. Warren and Julia from yesterday never visited again. There are still so many out there playing and she could not wait to tell them that a school would be coming their way soon.

Chrollo finishes his call with Shalnark and fetches his book from the bedside table. "Shal would be disseminating the information to the others," he says, removing his bookmark and settling to a comfortable position against the headboard. "I asked him to start a fund-raising for an establishment."

She turns around to face him. "You did not mention a school?"

"Not for now, no. It would only prolong the conversation. I wish to finish my book. So please−" He shoots her an accusing glance−"Leave me in peace, Val."

"Fine, Danchou. Then can I go downstairs?"

"No, you cannot go where I cannot see you. Stay here. Read books with me."

"Your books are boring," she complains, trudging towards the bed and flopping herself horizontally, her face at Chrollo's shoulder while her feet dangle on the other side. "I don't want to read about politics and state affairs, old men trying to bomb each other's countries and all that."

"To each his own," he agrees pleasantly, and then wrinkles his nose in late disapproval. "Actually, they are not boring, Valtiel. They are educative and you know what they always say: history repeats itself. We would do better to learn from our past, to be better prepared for the future."

"Ah, that's good, then. You can read your politics and social revolutions, while I read my epic fantasies and mysteries and foreign languages." She reaches over his chest and grabs a red hardbound book. It is one of the books Chrollo has stolen from that snowy village's library, the book written in Jørn's native tongue. Often she wonders what happened to him that night.

She glances at Chrollo's face, his eyebrows knitted as he reads. "You know, I was thinking… What if I translate this one?"

"I am sorry. What?" Engrossed in his book, he looks quite confused at her. "That one?"

"You never seem to read it." She flips the brittle pages, inhaling a familiar scent of old books.

"I believe it is a collection of ancient religious poems, written by poet and philosopher," he says. "I have always wanted to read it, but the words are too ancient for me and my basic understanding of the Norden language could only allow me to understand children's fairytales."

"Would you want me to translate?"

He smiles. "That sounds very sweet, thank you."

Setting to busy herself while he reads, Valtiel finds a stack of paper from the church's library and drops herself on the desk in their room. The book of poems has more than five hundred pages, with twenty-four poems. She glances at the clock−11:48 A.M. She has enough time to work until midnight, possibly with lunch breaks, and knowing Chrollo, coffee breaks in between. She can do this.

She bends over her desk and starts to work.

Four hours later, the silence shatters with quick footsteps aiming for their room.

With a sigh, Chrollo puts down his book and opens the door before the other person could knock.

Warren stumbles into the room and falls to his face. He growls as he rises on his hands and knees, blinking dark eyes to regain his vision. Beads of sooty sweat roll down from his forehead to the curve of his jaw. He pants and fights to even his breathing. He hears a hurried scratching of chair against the wooden floor, and before he knows it, he has the young woman kneeling and peering at his face.

"Are you all right?" Valtiel asks, guiding him to sit up. She checks his face for any signs of injuries and pats at his face and shoulders. "Are you hurt? Why are you running?"

"Julia−" Warren pants and grabs Valtiel's wrists. His dirty fingernails dig into her skin. Chrollo's eyebrows twitch at the filth. "She's missing."

"Missing? How come?"

"I don't know!" Angrily, he pushes her out of his face and forces himself to stand. He glares at Valtiel, and then plans to do the same to Chrollo, but the Phantom Troupe leader scowls at him. Warren scowls back, dark eyes blazing. "You brought the enemy here," he hisses at Chrollo. "You arrive yesterday, then Julia disappears. Someone must have followed you! Someone!"

"You are angry and confused," Chrollo says in his gentle voice. "You are worried about Julia, I understand that. However, to blame and treat us without proof is something I would not tolerate."

"Bastard!" Warren curls his fists, wanting to punch the older man, but growls instead. "I don't know what the Phantom Troupe is doing right now, who their enemies are, but someone out there has taken Julia! I know because I already asked everyone, and everyone knows where everyone is!"

"Then there might be an outsider amongst us," Chrollo muses.

"Right." Warren sniffs and wipes his sweat off with his forearm. "Will you help me find her?"

A quiet knock comes from the door.

"Danchou−" Bonolenov stands at the threshold. "We have company downstairs."

"I will be right there. Take Warren with you when you go." Chrollo pushes the boy to Bonolenov and heads for the window. He narrows his eyes at the thick cloud of dust looming on the horizon.

Valtiel stands by his side. "Sandstorm?"

He shakes his head and darts for the door.

A huge crowd, thrice as large as yesterday, gathers in front of the church. Chrollo and Valtiel have to shoulder their way past the sneering onlookers, until they could join the seven Elders with Franklin and Bonolenov at the head of the crowd.

From afar, the dust continues to grow in size, higher and larger. To Valtiel, it looks like a great sandstorm headed their way. To the citizens of Meteor City, it is a threat−one they have to eliminate to protect themselves. She could see the foreboding looks in their faces, the way her grandfather Ryence glowers and the way his small hands clutch at his wooden staff. There is a group of young men surrounding him like bodyguards, their countenance focused and ready to attack.

Chrollo turns to Franklin. "What is this?"

"Some foolish outsiders most likely," the hulking Spider answers. "There's not much to see yet, but I can say there are quite several of them, and all of them Nen users. They do not bother hiding the malice in their aura. They must be a confident bunch. It's kinda impressive."

"We haven't had attacks lately," Bonolenov comments. "We could use some practice."

"No," Chrollo rules. "No games for now. Our priority is to deal with the current threat while ensuring the safety of the citizens. If they are confident enough to knock at our front gates, then they must mean bloodshed. Whatever they demand, we would not give them."

"Understood, Danchou," they say in unison.

"Lucilfer−" Ryence steps from the line and taps his staff on the ground. His brown eyes are glued to the incoming company, now close enough for him to see four custom-designed trucks with massive bodies and tires. He has never seen anything like it, and he wouldn't start fearing them now, not in his seventy-six years of living. He taps his staff again. "Come with me."

"To negotiate?" Chrollo's eyes gleam as he follows the lead Elder towards the entrance of the city.

The four trucks stop abruptly, few meters away from the entrance. Figures dressed in varying scarves and leathers appear on top of their trucks. Twenty-three of them, men and women, with black butterfly tattoos on various parts of their bodies, look down on the elder and the young man approaching them.

The group's leader understands the intention and drops down from his truck, a cloud of dust surrounding his muscular figure. "Afternoon, fellas."

Ryence nods. "What can we do for you, ladies and gentlemen?"

"Name's Zaire, of the Kiyobu Family." The leader is a hulk of a man, broad-shouldered and muscled. He has sharp cheekbones and heavy brows, and with a mop of thick black hair. His footsteps rumble as he closes the distance between himself and the pair. He grins at Chrollo. "And you are?"

"None of your business."

"Ah, the boyfriend," Zaire drawls, winking at his friends.

"I beg your pardon?" Chrollo blinks.

Zaire puts one large hand on Chrollo's shoulder and bends his knees to look at him in the eyes. What he meets is only a pair of dark eyes, too dark for him to see any hint of amusement behind them. He grins wider, very much reminding Chrollo of Uvogin, if only Uvogin dresses like a barbarian in leather belts and pants and spiky collars.

The hand on Chrollo's shoulder squeezes quite hard, the bones of his shoulder ready to shatter. Still, the young man never so much as flinches.

"Listen, I hate to break it to you, but we need something that is yours," Zaire whispers.

"I have nothing that might interest you."

"Are you sure?" Zaire straightens himself, his hand still on the shoulder, as he stares beyond Chrollo and Ryence−and finds a certain young woman with unmistakable platinum blonde hair and pale alabaster skin. Even at this distance, he sees her worried face. He chuckles. "I might have to take her."

Chrollo places his hand over Zaire's larger one. "Believe me: you don't want her."

Zaire squeezes harder and the bones shatter under his sheer strength. To his surprise and mirth, the young man does not seem bothered at the slightest. He shoves Chrollo away from him and shouts back to his comrades. "Bombs away, boys!"

Everyone tenses as one of the underlings surrounds himself in dark blue aura. The youth has blue hair and glazed black eyes, thirsty for blood and action. Seven crystalline orbs materialize from his hands. He throws them into the air and the orbs align in their position like constellations above Meteor City. Each orb glimmers, though they float idly in the air, as if waiting for more orders.

Zaire tightens his fist and aims to punch Chrollo−but the latter snatches the elder and pounces away from harm.

Instead, Zaire's fist comes in contact with another hulking man, larger than he is, with strange ear and lip piercings. Franklin breaks Zaire's fist in one hand and punches him on the face with the other. The Kiyobu leader flies across the field and lands on one of their trucks, smashing the front and engines.

Franklin jumps back to the group and puts some distance between him and the mobsters. He glances at Chrollo as he settles the elder with the others. "You okay, Danchou?"

"Danchou!" Valtiel rushes to Chrollo's side, reluctant to hold his shattered shoulder. An unbidden wince comes from her upon seeing how his left arm limps at his side. Blood has started swelling where the broken bones should be. "Oh no… Danchou, your−"

"Never mind that." Chrollo grunts and with his right hand, he pushes her towards the church. "Stay inside and do not go anywhere else. Franklin−" He turns to his friend−"You are our vanguard for now. Keep most of the fighting at the gates. Let no one slip from you. And if they manage to do so, Bono−" He turns again, gritting his teeth from the slight pain−"Take the misses. No one must approach that church."

"They want the lady, Danchou?" asks Bonolenov, adjusting his boxing gloves.

"They do," Chrollo confirms, standing his ground between his Spiders.

"We would not let them." Franklin takes his position at the very front and detaches his fingertips, hanging loosely with thin chains.

With a wicked grin, he fires Nen bullets at high speeds, obliterating the mobsters at their front doors. He cackles as some of them fall prey to his attacks, though most are prepared and seemingly capable Nen users, able to summon auras around the bodies to lessen the damage of the bullets.

Zaire lets out an ear-piercing whistle. Two of his men appear at his sides and rush straight to Franklin.

Franklin directs one hand at them, but the two enemies separate into two more, and then four and eight. He realizes that they could either be an Emitter, like him, or a Conjurer−able to recreate themselves. When the bullets pierce through the doppelgangers, he knows at once that this is an Emitter's ability.

More of Zaire's assassins evade Franklin's barrage of Nen bullets. They round Franklin's sides, hoping to outnumber his flanks and enter the city. To their surprise, the giant does not try to stop them as they go past streets and approach the church.

Then, blocking their pathway is Bonolenov.

"Attempting to take the lady is serious offense to the Phantom Troupe. Even the mere thought of it requires a hefty punishment. In the place of Danchou, I would be the one punishing you all." He transforms then, conjuring a feathered tribal armor and spear.

An assassin breaks off from the small group and attacks Bonolenov with aura transmuted into mist. It surrounds them in thick, gentle gusts. He nods to his companions and attempts to lose Bonolenov in the mist, but the Spider dances in the midst of it all, his bandages discarded to create a melodious tune from the holes of his body. Zaire's assassins brace themselves for an attack, but the tune hypnotizes and distorts their minds. Bonolenov, light and graceful on his feet, finishes them quietly in the mist.

Standing at the top of his truck, Zaire notices how many of his men have failed in their tasks. Growling low in his throat, he snaps his fingers to the blue-haired youth.

"Makali'i, time to draw out the lady. Activate the Sails and have four of them targeting her. The remaining three on that boyfriend and his pets."

The boy nods and looks up to where his orbs are. The ability requires a massive amount of aura, and to target four people at a time is already so taxing. Yet he does his duty and waits for the main target to emerge from her hiding place.

"Time to draw out the lady!" Zaire shouts for his remaining soldiers. His shattered fist from his previous encounter with Franklin is already useless. "Makali'i, stay out of those three's reach. They are the most dangerous; the boyfriend most especially."

"But he is wounded," Makali'i observes. "You broke the bones of his left shoulder."

"Then you are a fool, and a fool to even say it," Zaire snarls. "He is the strongest of them all."

More assassins stream into the city, recklessly falling prey to either Franklin's bullets or Bonolenov's graceful fighting techniques. By the time Franklin finishes his assault, more than fifteen bodies of Nen users are sprawled across Meteor City's lawn, their life's blood watering the dry patch of land.

Inside the church, hearing that the attacks have ceased, Warren jumps from his seat and aims for the door.

Valtiel grabs his hand. "Where are you going? Danchou said to stay here."

"Chrollo asked you to stay here, not me." Warren snatches his hand and bursts out of the church. "They're the outsiders responsible for Julia's disappearance! I'm sure of it! If they won't tell me, then I'll have to ask them myself! Those bastards are responsible!"

"Wait!" She sighs exasperatedly and runs after him outside. "You can't go now!"

"Makali'i−" Zaire pats the blue-haired boy and points an index finger to the horizon. "The lady."

Suddenly, the crystalline orbs blaze into life. Like engines, they release a loud revving noise that catches the attention of the three Spiders on the field. Franklin and Bonolenov crane their necks to see what is happening, while Chrollo's eyes are on Zaire and Makali'i, studying and anticipating their movements. Their attentions are also on the orbs.

Chrollo wants to take advantage of their momentary distraction.

And so he does.

In one powerful kick, Chrollo pounces and crosses the hundred-foot distance between him and the enemies. His Bandit's Secret slowly materializes in his right hand. The two men have no idea what is coming towards them, until Zaire notices the barely concealed malice in Chrollo's aura and starts shouting "Activate it now! Activate it!"

Chrollo flips through the pages of his book and summons one of his favorite stolen abilities, at the same moment as Makali'i activates the orbs.

A large glass box encases Chrollo and his remaining enemies, just as a blue lightning attempts to hit the Troupe leader. The attack never hits him, shielded away by the same crystalline surface as the orbs. He dusts off his white shirt and approaches his enemies.

Outside the glass dimension, the lightning hits Franklin and Bonolenov−one bolt each−powerful enough to make them grunt in pain and fall of their knees. Valtiel, running after Warren, receives the brunt of the attack−four bolts of unbridled lightning to make her jerk and scream from the intense pain, her body seizing as her pale skin smokes and chars.

With Chrollo inside the glass cage, he could not hear her pained screams, but Franklin and Bonolenov do.

They scramble towards her in a panic, their hands suspended in midair, as if they are afraid to touch her, to bring more pain. Their eyes are wide with unspoken horror, their faces written with guilt. They failed to protect her as they had promised their Danchou. Now she lies unmoving on her side, too weak and hurt to speak. They are not even sure if she is still breathing.

Zaire holds up his hands for Chrollo to see. "Ah, the loyal boyfriend, indeed."

"There must be a misunderstanding," Chrollo answers kindly, lips spread into a little smile. "Whoever informed you that I am Valtiel's boyfriend must be mistaken. We are not−" He pauses, uncomprehending the concept itself. What is this? What is he talking about, anyway? He shakes his head. "Valtiel and I are not there yet."

"The prince would be glad then." Zaire chuckles.

"Is that the one who sent you? A prince?"

"If you're not her boyfriend, then this is not your business, pal," Zaire says.

"Whether or not you tell me, that is not my concern." Chrollo approaches them with his fluid grace, while his enemies flinch and look around the box. His pride swells. "Do you like it? It is called the House of Mirrors, a conjured dimension of crystals. Nothing we do inside would affect the outside world. You dispel bombs; Meteor City would be safe. Unless, of course, you are killed inside. You also die in real life. Now, I did not come here for revenge." His gaze falls upon Makali'i. "I want to know about your ability."

Makali'i bares white teeth at him. "Is this a trick?"

Chrollo smiles. His broken shoulder limps in an odd angle. "I am not fond of tricks or traps during battles. Rather, I am interested to learn about your ability. If you refuse to tell me, then I would have to be a little more persuasive."

"What do you mean?" Makali'i asks nervously.

"Zaire is your friend, right?" Chrollo hums. "Whose life do you treasure more: yours or his?"

"Don't tell him anything, Makali'i." Zaire attempts to tackle Chrollo, but the Spider head catches his fist and kicks him on the stomach. The strength forces him across the dimension, hitting the other end of the box. The crystalline wall gleams and recreates fractals behind the man's large body. Zaire falls limp to the floor, his head lolling like a drunken man.

"Shall I demonstrate more?" Chrollo turns back to Makali'i. "Or are you ready to tell me?"

"Don't−" Zaire grinds out, blood bubbling from his mouth.

Frowning, the Troupe leader grabs Zaire's broken fist and dislocates the joint connecting the hand to the wrist. Zaire's screams bounce off the ceiling of their impenetrable glass cage. The crunch of bones sounds music to Chrollo's ears−and horrifying to Makali'i.

Chrollo snatches Zaire by the nape and presses his thumb where the spine should be. The large man screams louder, feeling every inch of sharp pain lancing from his spine and down. Again, Makali'i blanches and cowers, like the young boy that he is.

As Chrollo opens his mouth, the boy interrupts him.

"I will tell you," Makali'i answers, shaking with fear. "I promise to tell you about my ability. Just please−"

"Don't worry. I promise to spare the both of you," Chrollo says.

Makali'i takes a deep breath and refuses to glance at Zaire's state. "I am a Transmuter, and my ability is called the Seven Sails. I conjure seven orbs that contain my aura transmuted into electricity. The orbs could only target seven people at a time, though I could change that depending on the target. The more orbs focused on one target, the more powerful the attacks are. They are not supposed to miss their targets but−" He nods to Chrollo's book−"Somehow your ability made it possible to evade."

"Interesting," Chrollo says. "And what does the electricity do? Did you include other properties into it?"

"I do," Makali'i replies with a sigh. "The electricity is laced with a fast-acting sleeping potion that slows heartbeats and respiratory functions. It is not too harmful, really. Its goal is merely to indispose the target. Nothing to be worried about, I promise you."

Chrollo senses the increasing anxiety in the boy's voice, and lets it end here. "Good enough. One more thing. I need you to touch the book's cover please."

Makali'i obeys. Then he staggers, one hand clutching at the side of the truck. "Y-You said no tricks…"

"It is not a trick."

"I hope it's not, because you have a bigger problem now…"

"What do you mean?"

"The prince's lady?" Makali'i wheezes and falls on his knees. "She was hit by four lightning bolts."

Slowly, as if in a dreamy state, the glass dimension shatters around them in a thousand pieces.

"WHERE IS SHE?!"

A harsh voice demands as Chrollo appears inside the church. His mangled shoulder and arm sway as he walks in large, quick strides, sidestepping anyone who comes in his way. His dark eyes are darker than their usual grey−almost black now in his terrible temper. The elders stand no chance as the leader of the Phantom Troupe pushes his way through the crowd, uncaring if he bumps onto someone. He reaches the church's infirmary, where more people have gathered outside the door, Warren included among them.

The boy actually looks guilty, and for all his ferocity and snarls, he now gives Chrollo an apologetic look.

Glowering, Chrollo enters the room and is blocked by his two Spiders. He frowns. "Move it."

"Danchou−" Franklin begins, his voice tender and soothing and everything else to calm the brewing storm inside their leader. It must have been ages since he last saw the Danchou this furious. "Now, I need you to listen to me this one time, Danchou. Valtiel? She's all right now. Her condition is stable−"

"I said−" Chrollo draws himself to his tallest height and glares at Franklin−"Move it."

"Y-Yes, Danchou." Defeated, both Franklin and Bonolenov step aside.

Chrollo passes them by and turns around a corner, towards the farthest space of the spacious infirmary. One of the elderly female doctors attends to his Kurta. She shakes her head at him and lets him come closer. He parts the white curtains and looks down to the bed. He swallows hard at the sight of her.

Her alabaster skin is dark with burned flesh and blisters, mostly on the shoulder and arms. The dress she wears today is discarded to the side, burned and tattered like rags. She breathes faintly, as she does in her sleep. To his relief, she does not seem to be in pain, though he could only imagine the pain of the blisters on her skin. It is from a Nen lightning; he should not worry so much. Real world lightning and Nen lightning are two different things.

Bonolenov stands at the foot of the bed. "Forgive us for failing you, Danchou," he murmurs.

Chrollo sinks into the nearest chair, too exhausted to think properly. With his good hand, he reaches underneath the blanket and takes her hand. It is undamaged, but cold. He kisses her fingertips.

"It was not your fault," he whispers. "Do not blame yourselves."

"She's not only injured, Danchou," Franklin drawls, choosing his words as carefully as he could.

"Which means?" Chrollo prompts, eyebrows furrowed at his Spider.

As if on cue, he could feel unusual warmth emanating from Valtiel's body. His eyes widen as he notices a smooth flow of aura radiating from her−warm and soothing as steam. Then he remembers that she was hit by a transmuted lightning, and by all means, a transmuted lightning is still made from pure aura. He could not believe his eyes; he did not foresee this turn of events.

Bonolenov nods to the body. "Her aura nodes have been opened from the attack," he explains. "The lightning was powerful enough to kill an ordinary person and she should have died, but since her aura started leaking and enveloping her body, it prevented her from succumbing to her injuries."

"She is using Ten in her sleep," Chrollo observes, shocked yet somehow impressed.

"That alone is enough to let her heal," Franklin agrees. "She's healing herself unconsciously."

"Val has potential," Bono adds.

"As it turns out, yes." Chrollo runs a hand across her forehead. It feels feverish under his touch, and he knows it is the product of her Ten. He smiles, tired and spent and still suffering from a mangled shoulder, now bleeding internally.

Then he chuckles deep in his throat, confusing his Spiders. "Send for Machi," he says. "My shoulder is in dire need of fixing."

Author's Notes: I feel like there's a manhunt for me now considering how I've been missing-in-action for almost a month now. I'm very sorry for the long wait. The last three or so chapters, I've been editing it only in my smartphone. This time around, I worked hard and waited long enough until I could buy myself a laptop for my writing. And lo and behold! I have a laptop now and expect a regular update in my stories! Thanks for understanding, friends!

It's official! Val's now a Nen user! What could her Nen type and ability be? Any guesses? Suggestions? 😈

*Amy - Omg, thanks for the triple reviews!Warren and Julia: the young orphaned versions of Chrollo and Val. Your review did make me wonder. What could have been if Val had lived with them in Meteor City? How could have they turned out if she grew up with them? A part of me thinks Val would retain her personality, but in an environment like MC, she might have turned slightly evil... or at least with malice. And Chrollo being Chrollo... just the simple man, it might be the very small part in him that is human, that actually cares for Valtiel's well-being. And your guess almost hit the mark! It was one of the prince's associates, nothing more. Thanks so much for your support, for all the lovely reviews! Sorry if the update took so long!

*Milady13 - Yes. Sadly, she hasn't noticed that no one remembers her. It could be that she was excited and nervous at the same time that she didn't have time to notice? It's sad, really. She's still a lost puppy in Meteor City.

*xenocanaan - Thank you! Hope you enjoy this one!

*HuangShaotian0005 - I do hope you're psychic, man. That'd be awesome! Whoever slips that Val isn't really from MC, they'd be dead meat. Be it Chrollo, Franklin, or Phinks who could Ripper Cyclotron the poor soul out of his misery. Haha!

*Mia Mena - Oops! No kissing yet! But they're getting there! And your guess was on point! You do remember the past chapters and the little hints I throw here and there. Good job! *high five*

*Dontcha - If only Chrollo understands that normal "friends" can't sleep in the same room, in the same bed! This handsome man needs to understand boundaries and whatnot! But hey! Val's not complaining either! And thanks for the double review!

*Oops - Good catch there! Chrollo stopped shoving the "You're a Spider" mantra down her throat once she started becoming more independent. She's not the same blank-minded Kurta that he saved from the cave. After three months, she travelled and saw the world. She already knows how gruesome the world and the Troupe works. And she knows she's not one them. Chrollo knows he can't brainwash her as much anymore. Hope this helps!

*ChroVal - Kissing is prohibited. XD That can wait until much later... probably.

*Eric - Don't worry! I have no plans abandoning this story! I'll work on it no matter how much life can be such a difficulty.

Thank you all so much for your patience in reading this story! I am forever grateful to all those who are giving me a chance to publish this story and share my passion as an amateur writer! I cannot thank you guys enough!