Note:
Usual disclaimer: I don't own Hunter X Hunter or Asura's Wrath
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Chapter II
Kukuroo Mountain
Days had slipped by in a fog of pain and stillness within the Zoldyck estate's medical wing.
Kikyo awoke at last, her consciousness clawing free from the depths of exhaustion and blood loss.
Her dark hair stuck to her sweat-slicked forehead, her face shadowed with weariness beyond her age.
The bed groaned as she shifted, her hands fumbling to her flattened belly, a hollow ache where her son's fierce kicks had once stirred.
Her eyes snapped open, sharp and unyielding despite the haze of recovery. The room sharpened into view; medic butlers lined against the walls, their masked faces bowed low, and Tsubone standing like a granite pillar at the bed's foot, her towering form rigid with duty.
Kikyo's voice rasped out, raw and urgent, slicing through the oppressive quiet.
"Where's my baby?" she demanded, her gaze raking over them, wild with a mother's instinct. "Where's Asura?"
The medics stiffened, their heads dipping further, a ripple of unease passing through them. Their rehearsed lie, The child didn't make it. Dead at birth, hung unspoken, cemented by Zeno's chilling threat.
Kikyo's stare burned into them, fierce and unrelenting, fraying their composure. The lead medic, a wiry woman with a mask dangling below her chin, parted her lips to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
Tsubone stepped forward, her broad frame casting a shadow over the bed. Her deep-set eyes glistened with unshed tears, a crack in her stoic facade, but her voice held steady, heavy with the burden she carried.
"Madam Kikyo," she began, her tone low and measured, "the child… he didn't survive. He was lost during the birth."
Kikyo's breath hitched, her hands clutching the sheets as if to anchor herself.
"No," she whispered, "No," the word trembling with denial. Then louder, a desperate edge cutting through, "No! I felt him… he was alive! I know he was! Where is he?!"
The medics flinched their silence, a deafening confession of their fear.
Tsubone's hands clenched at her sides, her loyalty to Zeno warring with the ache in her chest.
She'd held Asura, watched his eyes blaze with life, and now she buried that truth beneath a lie she loathed.
"He's gone," she said, her voice faltering slightly. "There was nothing we could do."
Kikyo lurched upright, her body trembling with the effort, her dark eyes blazing with defiance.
"You're lying!" she screamed, her voice cracking the room's fragile calm. "I'd feel it if he was dead… I'd know! Give him to me… give me my son!"
Before Tsubone could respond, the door slammed open, and Zeno strode in, smothering the air.
His eyes locked onto Kikyo, cold and unyielding, as he halted beside the bed.
The medics shrank back, their fear of him palpable, while Tsubone straightened, her tears drying under his gaze.
"Enough," Zeno snapped, his gravelly voice cutting through Kikyo's cries like a blade. "Your son's dead, girl. He didn't make it. Stop this wailing… it changes nothing."
Kikyo froze, her sobs choking off as she stared at him, disbelief warring with a rising tide of grief.
"Dead?!" she echoed, her voice small, fragile, before it hardened into a snarl. "You're lying too! I felt him… I felt his strength! What did you do with him?!"
Zeno's expression didn't waver, his sharp eyes boring into hers with ruthless finality. "You felt what you wanted to feel," he said, his tone flat, unmerciful. "The boy was born weak… too weak to live. He's gone. That's the end of it."
Her hands balled into fists, nails digging into her palms as tears spilled down her cheeks. "Weak?" she spat, her voice venomous despite her trembling frame. "He was stronger than you'll ever be, you bastard! You did something… I know it! Where is he?!"
Zeno stepped closer, looming over her, his presence suffocating. "You'll watch your tongue, you insolent brat," he warned, his voice low and lethal.
"He's dead, and that's all you need to know. Mourn him if you must, but don't test me with your delusions."
He turned to Tsubone, his gaze sharp. "Get her under control. She's no use to this family like this."
Tsubone bowed her head, her massive hands steadying Kikyo's shoulders as the girl collapsed back onto the bed, her strength spent. "Yes, Master Zeno," she murmured, her voice a hollow echo of obedience. Her fingers tightened briefly on Kikyo's trembling form, a silent apology she couldn't voice.
Kikyo's sobs broke free again, raw and ragged, her body curling in on itself as the lie took root. "Asura…" she whimpered, her hands clutching her chest, her grief a visceral wound. "My baby…"
Zeno lingered a moment, his sharp eyes flickering with something… regret, perhaps, or resolve, before he turned and strode out, his boots echoing down the corridor.
Tsubone remained, her stoic mask intact despite the tears that had threatened to betray her.
She held Kikyo gently, her loyalty to Zeno unyielding, though her heart ached with the secret she'd buried.
The medics hovered silently, their relief at Zeno's intervention overshadowed by the weight of Kikyo's despair.
Two days had slipped since Kikyo's tear-soaked awakening, and the Zoldyck estate steeped in a silence that gnawed at its edges.
Silva returned as dusk bled into the sky, his hair dulled by the grit of a brutal mission. In the Kakin Empire, he'd felled three warlord figures, each assassination a grueling ballet of stealth and slaughter that left his bones weary and his pale eyes shadowed.
His outfit carried the faint tang of blood and ash as he crossed the estate's threshold, his boots ringing against the stone floor.
The air turned sour the instant he stepped inside. A muted wail drifted from the private quarters he shared with Kikyo, slicing through the stillness like a blade. Silva's heart plummeted, a cold unease tightening his chest as he hastened his stride.
He found her there, crumpled on their bed, her dark hair a wild shroud over her tear-streaked face. Two medic butlers stood beside her, their masked faces bowed, their hands twitching as if unsure how to mend the storm of her sorrow.
"Kikyo," Silva said, his voice steady despite the dread coiling within him. He sank to one knee beside her, his rough hand grazing her trembling shoulder. "What's wrong? What happened?"
She raised her head, her eyes red and hollow, locking onto his with a pain that cut deeper than any wound. "He's gone, Silva," she sobbed, her voice fraying at the edges. "Our son… Asura… he's dead. He didn't make it."
The words slammed into him, robbing him of breath. His hand stilled on her shoulder, his mind scrambling to reject the unthinkable. "Dead?" he repeated, his tone flat, incredulous. "He was strong… I felt it before I left. How did this happen?"
Kikyo's cries sharpened, her fingers digging into his sleeve as she pressed her face against him. "They say he was too weak… couldn't survive the birth… I don't know! I felt him, Silva… I knew he was alive, but they took him from me! Your father—" Her voice broke, swallowed by grief.
Silva's jaw clenched, his pale eyes narrowing as suspicion flickered through his shock. He lifted Kikyo into his arms, cradling her trembling form, and turned to the butlers. "Speak," he ordered, his voice a quiet, lethal edge. "Tell me what happened."
The lead medic, a gaunt man with a nervous tic, stepped forward, his mask slipping below his chin. "Master Silva," he faltered, "the child… he didn't survive. Mistress Kikyo lost too much blood and the boy… he was stillborn. Master Zeno ordered us to handle it."
Silva's stare drilled into him, cold and piercing, hunting for the lie beneath the fear. The butler's words rang hollow, too polished, and that gnawing instinct honed by years of killing whispered of deception. Before he could press further, a shadow loomed in the doorway.
Zeno entered, his storm-gray eyes fixed on his son, his presence a wall of unyielding authority. He stopped beside the bed, silencing the room with a glance. "Silva," he said, his gravelly voice calm, "I'm glad you're back. How is your mission?"
"Done," Silva replied tersely, his grip on Kikyo tightening as she shuddered against him. "Three warlords dead in Kakin. Now explain this, father. Kikyo says our son's gone… dead. Is it true?"
Zeno's face remained a mask, his hands clasped behind his back. "It's true," he said, his tone clipped and final. "The boy didn't survive. Weak from the start… couldn't handle the birth. I buried him. There's a shrine for him now by your cabin in the forest."
Silva's chest tightened, a rare fracture in his stoicism as his father's words sank in. He glanced at Kikyo; her sobs muffled against him, then back to Zeno. "A shrine?" he asked, his voice low, laced with a quiet threat. "You buried him already? Without me here?"
"No sense waiting," Zeno said, his gaze unflinching. "You were off spilling blood across the continent. It's done. See it if you need to… mourn him there. But don't drag this out."
Silva's eyes darkened, his instincts roaring that something was amiss. Zeno's calm was too perfect, too rehearsed.
He eased Kikyo back onto the bed, brushing her hair from her face with a gentleness that belied his tension, then stood, his towering frame rivaling his father's.
"Take me to it," he said, his voice a controlled challenge. "I want to see where my son lies."
Zeno's lips twitched into a faint smirk as if he'd expected this. "Fine. Follow me."
They left the room, the butlers melting into the shadows as Kikyo's cries faded behind them.
Beyond the estate's walls, a forest stretched wide, its canopy parting to cradle an open glade where the cabin stood, a simple place Silva and Kikyo had claimed for quiet rest.
The air here was crisp, laced with pine and earth, a balm of fresh freedom they'd savored on lazy afternoons.
It carried a bitter edge as they approached a small shrine near the cabin's side: a rough-hewn stone etched with "Asura" in stark lines, a single wilted flower drooping at its base.
Silva halted before it, his silver-blonde hair glinting in the last rays of daylight as he stared at the name.
His heart sank, a hollow grief warring with that persistent unease. The open area around the cabin, once a sanctuary of light and air, felt suffocating now, the forest's whispers mocking his loss. "This is it?" he murmured, his voice barely audible. "My son's grave?"
Zeno stood beside him, his sharp eyes glinting in the fading light. "That's it," he said. "Born and gone in a night. You've got Kikyo to tend to now; focus on her. This is finished."
Silva's hands balled into fists, his gaze lingering on the shrine. The lie was too seamless, and the scene was too contrived.
He'd faced death enough to know its chaos, and this felt… staged. The fresh air he'd once breathed here with Kikyo now stung his lungs, tainted by doubt.
But with his wife shattered and his exhaustion pressing down, he had no evidence… only a father's intuition clawing against the stillness.
"Finished," he echoed, his tone hollow as he returned toward the estate.
The secret of Asura's survival lay more profound than the empty shrine, a truth Silva's senses couldn't yet unravel… but one that simmered in the quiet, waiting to erupt.
The forest glade stretched wide around the cabin, its open expanse bathed in the cool, pine scented air that Silva and Kikyo had once cherished.
As the night deepened, the freshness felt like a cruel mockery, the breeze carrying the faint rustle of leaves past the small shrine etched with "Asura."
Silva stood before it, his silver hair catching the moonlight, his pale eyes fixed on the stone. His hands hung clenched at his sides, the weight of his mission in Kakin… three warlords dead by his hands… paling against the hollow ache in his chest.
Zeno lingered a few paces back, his eyes tracing his son's rigid silhouette. Guilt gnawed at him, a rare, bitter pang beneath his iron resolve.
He'd buried the truth of Asura's survival deep and sent the boy to Augus to shield the family from his untamed Wrath, but the lie sat heavy now.
Kikyo's sobs echoed in his ears, and Silva's quiet pain cut more profound than he'd expected. For all his pragmatism, Zeno felt the fracture he'd carved into his son's world… a fracture he couldn't undo.
He stepped forward, and placed a rough hand on Silva's shoulder. "You did your job out there," Zeno said, his gravelly voice softer than usual, tinged with an awkward attempt at solace.
He nodded toward the shrine, forcing the words out. "This isn't on you, Silva. It's just how it ended."
Silva didn't turn, his gaze locked on the stone, but his voice came low, strained. "I should've been here, not halfway across the continent. He was my son, Father… mine and Kikyo's. And I didn't even see him."
Zeno's grip tightened briefly, guilt twisting sharper in his gut. "You couldn't have changed it," he said, the lie steady despite the ache behind it. "He was too weak… gone before you could've made it back. You're here for her now. That's what matters."
Before Silva could respond, a shadow emerged from the trees, slow and deliberate.
Maha Zoldyck stepped into the glade, his frail form hunched beneath a dark cloak, his eyes glinting like steel in the dimness.
The ancient assassin rarely left the estate's oldest wing, his presence a rarity that hushed the air.
Kikyo face was pale, her dark hair tangled, her eyes red but burning with a fragile defiance.
Silva turned at the sound, his breath catching as he saw her. "Kikyo," he murmured, crossing the distance swiftly to pull her into his arms.
She leaned into him, her sobs quieter now but no less raw, her hands clutching his cloak as if he were her anchor.
Maha halted near the shrine, his weathered gaze sweeping over the scene.
His voice, a dry rasp, broke the silence. "A loss like this… it cuts deep," he said, his tone gruff but carrying a weight that stilled them all.
"But you're Zoldycks. You endure. You, girl…" He nodded at Kikyo, his eyes softening. "You survived birthing him. That's strength. And you, Silvaz… you've spilled enough blood to prove yours. This…" He gestured to the shrine. "It's done. Mourn it, then move on."
Kikyo pulled back from Silva, her voice trembling but fierce. "Move on?" she snapped, glaring at Maha through tears. "He was my son, not some mission to shrug off! I felt him… I knew he was strong. You're all lying to me… I can feel it!"
Zeno's jaw tightened, guilt flaring as he met her accusing stare. He stepped closer, his voice firm but laced with an edge of restraint. "Enough, Kikyo. He's gone. You're imagining things because you want him back. We all do. But he's not here."
Maha raised a hand, silencing Zeno's retort. He hobbled toward Kikyo, and placed a gnarled hand on her arm… a rare gesture that stunned her into silence.
"Grief twists the mind," he said, his rasp softer now, almost gentle. "I've buried more than you'll ever know, girl. You'll carry this, but you'll live. You've got fire in you… use it."
Kikyo's lip quivered, her defiance crumbling under Maha's unexpected touch.
She sank against Silva again; her sobs muffled against his chest.
Silva held her tightly, his pale eyes lifting to his great grandfather and Zeno. "
"You're sure?" he asked, his voice low, searching. "There's nothing else to this?"
Zeno met his gaze, his guilt buried beneath a mask of resolve. "Nothing," he lied, his tone unwavering. "He's dead. Buried here. That's the end."
Maha nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stepped back. "Listen to your father, boy. You've got a wife to mend and a family to hold. Don't let this break you."
Silva's jaw clenched, his instincts still whispering of deceit, but the weight of Kikyo in his arms and the exhaustion in his bones dulled the fight in him.
He turned to the shrine, the fresh forest air stinging his lungs as he breathed it in… a scent once tied to peace now soured by loss.
"Asura," he murmured too low for the others to hear, a father's quiet farewell to a son he'd never held.
Zeno watched, his hand slipping from Silva's shoulder, the guilt a silent shadow he'd carry alone.
"You're still young," Maha rasped, his voice a dry crackle that cut through the quiet. "Both of you—barely past children yourselves. You can make more. This…" He nodded toward the shrine, his lips curling faintly. "It's not the end of the world. Zoldycks don't break over one loss. You've got time and strength. Use it."
Kikyo stiffened in Silva's arms, pulling back just enough to glare at Maha, her red-rimmed eyes flashing with defiance.
"More children?" she spat, her voice raw and trembling. "He wasn't just one loss… he was my son! Our son! You think I can replace him like he's nothing?"
Maha's smirk didn't waver, though his gaze softened a fraction, a rare glint of understanding in his steely eyes.
"I think you're alive, girl," he said, his rasp steady. "And so's he." He jerked his head toward Silva. "You've got fire in you… both of you. Use it to build again. That's how we survive."
Silva's jaw tightened, his arms tightening around Kikyo as he met Maha's stare.
"Easy for you to say," he murmured, his voice low, edged with exhaustion and pain. "You didn't feel him… didn't see what we made. He was a strong Grandfather. I know he was."
Zeno shifted, his guilt flaring as Silva's words struck too close to the truth.
He stepped forward, his hand resting briefly on Silva's shoulder, a gesture heavy with unspoken conflict. "He's right, though," Zeno said, his gravelly voice quieter than usual, tinged with a forced steadiness. "
"You're young… twenty and sixteen. There are years ahead for more heirs. This one's gone, Silva. Let it rest."
Kikyo's head snapped up, her tear-streaked face twisting with fury. "Gone?!" she hissed, shoving against Silva's chest to face Zeno. "I felt him—I know he was alive! You're hiding something, both of you… I'll tear this family apart to find out what!"
Zeno's eyes narrowed, his guilt buried beneath a mask of iron control. "You'll do no such thing," he snapped, his tone sharp but measured.
"He's dead, Kikyo. Buried here. Your mind's playing tricks because you can't accept it. Stop this… focus on healing."
Silva's hand slid to Kikyo's hair, stroking gently as he wrestled his pain into submission.
"We won't forget him," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "But we live. They're right… we're young. We can try again. He'd want us strong, Kikyo… not broken."
Her eyes remained closed, the fight draining from her as reason seeped in, cold and unyielding.
She exhaled, a trembling breath that carried her surrender. "Okay," she whispered, barely audible. "Okay… he's gone. I'll… I'll try."
The words were a fragile truce with reality, her grief bowing to the logic of survival.
Zeno watched, his guilt a quiet ache as Kikyo's resistance crumbled. He'd won, the lie holding fast, but the victory felt hollow.
"Good," he said, his voice softer now, a rare trace of relief. "You've got each other. Heal. Build again."
Maha's smirk flickered a glint of approval in his sharp eyes. "That's it," he rasped. "Youth bends, doesn't break. You'll see."
He turned, as he shuffled back toward the trees, Tsubone following silently.
Silva held Kikyo tighter, his gaze drifting to the shrine one last time. The name "Asura" stared back, etched in stone, and a shadow of doubt lingered in his chest… faint, unformed, buried beneath the need to comfort her.
"We'll be okay," he murmured, more to himself than her, the fresh air stinging his lungs with its clarity. "We'll make it through."
Kikyo nodded against him, her eyes still shut, her breathing steadying as she leaned into his strength.
The glade's openness wrapped around them, a bittersweet embrace that sealed their acceptance… a reality forged in loss, underpinned by a secret they couldn't yet pierce.
Zeno lingered a moment longer, his eyes tracing the couple, the guilt a shadow he'd carry as he turned away, leaving them to the quiet of the forest and the weight of a lie that held their world together.
The Republic of East Gorteau
Twenty-six years had swept by, a relentless march of time that transformed the wilds of of East Gorteau into a proving ground for a warrior forged in shadow.
The dojo Augus had claimed stood weathered but unbowed at the forest's edge, its wooden walls scarred by years of combat, its yard a sprawl of trampled earth and splintered trees.
The air hung thick with humidity, laced with the sharp tang of pine and the musk of sweat… a far cry from the crisp glade of Kukuroo Mountain, yet a fitting cradle for the man Asura had become.
He towered now at six feet six inches, a broad-shouldered giant whose tanned skin gleamed under the sun, his white spiky hair… stark and wild, he took the hair color from his father Silva.
His red pupils burned with an intensity that marked him apart, a flicker of the Wrath mantra simmering within.
Clad in a tattered gi, his muscles rippled with the strength of a lifetime's training, honed under Augus's brutal guidance.
At twenty-six, he was no longer the infant Zeno had spirited away; he was a force, raw and unrelenting, molded by the only family he'd ever known.
Augus had raised him in the lie's embrace, spinning a tale of orphanhood parents lost to a car accident, a tragedy that left Asura alone in the world.
The boy had swallowed it whole, his red eyes trusting as he clung to Augus, the towering brute who'd become his anchor.
In the dojo's isolation, surrounded by the forest's whispering canopy, Augus was father, master, and kin… his gravelly voice a constant, his ancient sword a looming promise.
He'd taught Asura everything; how to channel the crimson fury of his mantra, how to fight with fists and feet and endure the pain that would break lesser men.
They sparred relentlessly, their clashes a symphony of power that shook the trees.
Asura's fists roared with Wrath, each strike a burst of red energy that cratered the earth, but Augus… seven feet of scarred muscle and Greed, always emerged victorious.
His massive frame moved with a speed that defied its bulk, his bare hands deflecting Asura's onslaughts with a grin that taunted and taught in equal measure.
The ancient blade, Wailing Dark, stayed planted on the dojo's floor, a silent sentinel of their pact.
"You're still too slow, kid," Augus rumbled, his voice a deep growl as he sidestepped Asura's latest punch, the air crackling with displaced force.
They stood in the yard, the afternoon sun slanting through the branches, sweat beading on Asura's brow. Augus's grin split his scarred face, his tangled hair wild as he loomed over his pupil.
"You still can't land a real hit for over twenty years. What's that Wrath of yours worth if it can't touch me?"
Asura straightened, his chest heaving, his red eyes narrowing with defiance. "I'll get you one day, old man," he shot back, his voice a low, resonant echo of Silva's… though he'd never know it. "You're tough, but I'm tougher. Just wait."
Augus laughed, a booming sound that rattled the dojo's walls.
"Tougher? Hah! You've got spirit; I'll give you that. But you're not there yet."
He crossed his arms, his massive biceps flexing as he nodded toward the sword inside. "The day you force me to draw that blade, I'll go full power. Then we'll see what you're made of, Asura. Until then, you're just a pup barking at a wolf."
Asura wiped the sweat from his brow, his grin fierce despite the bruises across his knuckles.
"A pup who's six-six and still growing," he said, squaring his shoulders to match Augus's height as best he could. "You've trained me too well… I'll make you eat that sword one day."
Augus snorted, clapping a heavy hand on Asura's shoulder, nearly staggering him. "Big talk for an orphan I dragged out of the junk heap," he said, the lie slipping out as quickly as ever. "You've got no one else, kid… just me. So keep swinging. I'm all the family you need."
Asura's grin softened, a flicker of warmth breaking through his fire. "Yeah… you are," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "You've been there since I was nothing. I'll beat you, father… but I owe you everything."
The words hit Augus harder than any punch, a twinge of something… guilt, maybe… flickering in his chest.
He'd kept Zeno's secret, raised Asura as his own, and turned a Zoldyck heir into a warrior of mantra.
But that bond, forged in sweat and sparring, was real. He shoved the feeling down, his grin returning.
"Owe me a win," he said, returning to the dojo. "Come on… round ten. Let's see if that Wrath's got teeth today."
Asura followed, his red eyes blazing with determination, his tall frame cutting through the forest's haze.
He didn't know his blood tied him to Kukuroo Mountain, to a father whose silver hair mirrored his own, a mother whose fire he'd inherited.
To him, Augus was the world… a master who'd shaped him, a family he'd fight for.
The dojo loomed ahead, its shadows hiding the truth of his birth, while the mantra in his veins pulsed, waiting for the day it would roar free… and challenge the blade that taunted him still.
The afternoon sun dipped low over the forest encircling Augus's dojo, casting long shadows across the trampled yard.
The air buzzed with the hum of cicadas, thick with humidity and the lingering scent of pine… a respite from the morning's brutal sparring.
Asura sprawled on a weathered bench outside the dojo, his six-foot-six frame glistening with sweat, his white hair plastered to his tanned brow.
His red pupils glinted as he gulped water from a dented canteen, his chest still heaving from the latest round with Augus.
The old warrior had bested him again, his fists a blur of Greed-driven power, the ancient sword Wailing Dark left untouched in its silent vigil.
Augus lounged against the dojo's scarred wall, his towering seven-foot bulk dwarfing the structure, his scarred arms crossed over his chest.
His tangled hair hung wild, framing a grin that lingered from their sparring banter. The break was a rare pause in their relentless rhythm, the forest's quiet wrapping around them—until a sharp trill cut through it.
Augus's hand dipped into his cloak, pulling out a battered phone, its screen cracked but glowing. He squinted at the caller's name, his grin fading into a grunt of recognition.
"Zeno," he muttered, stepping away from the wall. He shot Asura a brief, unreadable glance, then turned his back, pressing the phone to his ear. "Yeah, what is it, old man?"
Asura's ears perked, his red eyes narrowing as he caught the name. He set the canteen down, leaning forward, but Augus's low rumble kept the conversation muffled.
For twenty-six years, Zeno Zoldyck had been a shadow in Augus's world… a business partner tied to the warrior's ventures, a voice on the line that surfaced every few months.
They'd built a quiet empire together: Augus handling muscle and dirty work in the fringes, Zeno funneling resources and contracts from the Zoldyck's vast network.
Over the years, Zeno's calls had often veered to Asura, curt inquiries about his progress, strength, and mantra, veiled as casual interest. Augus always answered, gruff but honest, never hinting at the boy's actual blood.
"How's he doing?" Zeno's voice crackled through the phone, sharp and steady despite the years. "Still swinging, I assume?"
Augus smirked, glancing over his shoulder at Asura, who watched with idle curiosity. "Yeah, he's a beast—six-six now, built like a damn tank. Wrath's burning hot, but he's not fast enough yet. Keeps coming at me, though stubborn as hell."
"Good," Zeno said, a faint edge of satisfaction in his tone. "Keep him sharp. Any trouble?"
"Nah," Augus replied, scratching his jaw. "Locals steer clear, and he doesn't ask questions. He still thinks he's an orphan—car crash story's holding. You?"
"Same," Zeno said. "Family's fine. Business is steady. Just checking in." A pause, then quieter, "He's twenty-six now. Time's ticking."
Augus's grin faltered, a flicker of unease in his gut. "Yeah, I know. He'll be ready when it counts. Talk later." He snapped the phone shut, shoving it back into his cloak, and turned to find Asura staring, his red eyes sharp with interest.
"Who's Zeno?" Asura asked his voice low and resonant… a mirror to Silva's he'd never heard. "You've been talking to him forever. Some big shot?"
Augus snorted, ambling back to lean against the bench. "Just a partner, kid. Old bastard with deep pockets. We've been running jobs together since before you were crawling, keeps the gold flowing, keeps this dump standing."
Asura tilted his head, his white hair shifting as he frowned. "Heard something from a local the other day, the guy at the market, selling junk. They said the name 'Zoldyck' like it's cursed. Assassins, killers, the whole family of 'em up on some mountain. That Zeno one of them?"
Augus's eyes narrowed, his grin tightening into a line. He straightened, looming over Asura, his voice dropping to a growl. "Yeah, he's a Zoldyck. And you stay the hell away from 'em, you hear me? They're trouble, cold-blooded, sharper than my blade, and twice as mean. Don't go poking around their name, Asura. You've got me, that's enough."
Asura blinked, caught off guard by the edge in Augus's tone. "Just asking, old man," he said, raising his hands with a half-grin. "Didn't know they spooked you that bad. What's their deal?"
"They don't spook me," Augus snapped, his scarred hand flexing as if itching for his sword. "They're a nest of vipers, killers who'd slit your throat for a dime and call it a favor. I deal with Zeno 'cause he pays, but that's where it ends. You don't need their world, kid. Stick to this one—ours."
Asura leaned back, his grin fading as he studied Augus. The warning hung heavy, a rare crack in the warrior's usual bravado. "Fine," he said at last, shrugging. "You're the boss. Never heard of 'em anyway, sounds like ghost stories to me."
"Good," Augus muttered, easing back against the wall, though his eyes lingered on Asura a beat too long. "Keep it that way. Now quit yapping, break's over. Round eleven. Let's see if you can make me sweat this time."
Asura rose, stretching his towering frame, his red eyes glinting with defiance. "Bet I'll get you to that sword one day," he said, cracking his knuckles as he stepped into the yard.
The forest rustled around them, its shadows hiding the truth Augus guarded—a truth tied to a mountain Asura didn't know was his birthright and a man on the phone who'd shaped his fate from afar.
Three months had slipped by in the dense wilds of the Republic of East Gorteau, the forest around Augus's dojo thickening with the onset of a humid autumn.
The air carried a damp chill, laced with the earthy scent of moss and the faint rustle of leaves shedding from the canopy. Inside the dojo's yard, Asura sat cross-legged on a slab of cracked stone, his towering six-foot-six frame still as a statue.
His white hair hung loose, framing his tanned face, while his red pupils glowed faintly beneath half-closed lids. Sweat beaded on his brow, not from exertion but from the intensity of his focus, a meditation that had become his newest ritual.
For weeks, he'd taken to this practice, guided by Augus's gruff insistence that "Wrath ain't just fists—it's a fire you gotta tame."
The results were undeniable. Asura's mantra pulsed stronger now, a crimson aura flickering around him like a living flame, sharper and more controlled than the wild bursts of his past.
His strikes in their spars carried a new weight, his movements a hair faster, his endurance stretching beyond what Augus had thought possible. At twenty-six, he was no longer just a brawler, a warrior edging toward mastery.
From the dojo's weathered balcony, a rickety perch Augus had bolted together years ago; the old warrior watched, his seven-foot bulk leaning against the railing.
His scarred arms crossed over his chest, his tangled hair whipping in the breeze as he squinted down at Asura.
The kid's progress gnawed at him, stirring a mix of pride and unease. He'd raised this boy for twenty-six years, fed him the lie of a car crash orphanhood, and kept Zeno's secret locked tight.
Now, Asura's growth was a blade sharpening too fast, close to cutting through the veil Augus had woven.
"He's getting there," Augus muttered, his voice a low growl lost in the wind. His sharp eyes traced the faint red glow around Asura, the mantra's pulse syncing with the boy's steady breaths.
"If he keeps this up, he might be ready… ready to force my hand, ready for that damn blade."
The thought lingered, heavy as the ancient sword Wailing Dark resting inside the dojo.
Augus had set the rule years ago: the day Asura made him draw it, he'd unleash his full Greed-driven power.
It was a benchmark, a test of the kid's worth… and a line Augus wasn't sure he wanted crossed.
Zeno's last call echoed in his mind… Time's ticking… and the weight of their pact pressed harder. Was Asura ready for the truth? For the world beyond this forest? For the Zoldycks, he'd been warned to avoid them.
Asura's eyes snapped open, the red glow flaring briefly before fading, his meditation breaking as if he'd sensed Augus's stare.
He rose, stretching his massive frame with a grunt, and glanced up at the balcony. "You are spying on me, old man?" he called, his voice resonant, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Thought you said meditating's for monks, not fighters."
Augus snorted, stepping to the balcony's edge, his shadow falling long across the yard. "
"Spying? Nah… I'm just making sure you're not slacking. That glow's new… Wrath's waking up, huh? You're finally listening to me."
Asura cracked his neck, his grin widening as he flexed his hands, faint sparks of red energy dancing between his fingers.
"Yeah, it's different now. It feels like I can grab it and shape it. Took your stupid advice for once. Next spar, I'm landing a hit… you'll see."
"Big talk," Augus shot back, his grin masking the flicker of unease in his chest. "You've been saying that for years, kid. It still ain't touched me without that sword staying put. Keep dreaming."
Asura laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed through the trees. "Dreaming's over, old man. I'm catching up… meditation's the trick. Give it a month, and you'll be dodging for real."
Augus's grin held, but his eyes narrowed, assessing the confidence in Asura's stance, the power simmering beneath his skin.
"We'll see," he said, his tone gruff but thoughtful. "Return to it, then… don't waste my time looking pretty. I'll be down in a bit to test that 'trick' of yours."
Asura nodded, dropping back into his meditative pose, the red aura flaring anew as he closed his eyes. Augus lingered on the balcony, the forest's damp air clinging to him as he watched.
"Ready," he murmured, too low for Asura to hear, his hand tightening on the railing. "Maybe too damn ready."
The dojo stood silent behind him, Wailing Dark's hum a faint whisper in the stillness. Three months had pushed Asura further than Augus had expected, and the old warrior's mind churned.
If this kid was ready, if he crossed that line… what then? Zeno's shadow loomed more enormous; the Zoldyck name a specter Augus had kept at bay. He'd now watch, wait, and wonder how long the lie could hold against a Wrath growing too fierce to contain.
The old man somehow felt a pride swell in his chest, raw and unbidden, as he watched the kid he'd raised from a squalling babe.
Asura was the son he'd never had, a truth that cut deeper than any blade. Asura saw him as the only family, and Augus had let that bond grow, a tether stronger than he'd meant it to be.
Inside, it ached. Augus was a brute, a warrior carved from Greed and battle lust, a man who'd slept with countless women across continents and never lingered long enough to care.
Fights were his lifeblood, the clash of fists and steel his most faithful love, yet here he stood, staring at Asura, wishing the kid were his flesh and blood.
Not Zeno's grandson, not a Zoldyck heir, but his… a son to carry his name, fire, and legacy.
The thought of Asura leaving, of him one day finding his real family and walking away, twisted something in Augus's gut. Pride mingled with a quiet hurt, a fear he'd never voice.
"He's damn near perfect," Augus muttered under his breath, his gravelly voice lost to the wind. "Stronger every day… my kid, not theirs." His eyes traced the red glow around Asura, the Wrath he'd nurtured, and a bitter edge crept in.
"If he ever finds out… if he goes back to them…" He didn't finish the thought, his scarred hand tightening on the railing until the wood creaked.
Asura stirred below, his meditation breaking as he stretched his towering frame with a grunt.
He glanced up, catching Augus's stare, and grinned. "What's with the face, old man?" he called, his resonant voice cutting through the forest's hum. "You look like I already beat you."
Augus snorted, shoving his emotions down with practiced ease.
"Dream on, kid," he shot back, his grin returning, rough and broad. "Just thinking you're still too slow. That fancy glow won't save you next round."
Asura laughed, the sound deep and warm, echoing off the trees. "Keep talking… I'll make you eat those words soon enough. Meditation's my edge now."
"Yeah, yeah," Augus grumbled, waving him off. "Get back to it, then. I ain't raising a slacker."
He straightened, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the yard, but his grin faded as he turned away. The pride lingered, bittersweet, a father's glow for a son who wasn't his.
He closed his eyes, the forest's damp air cool against his scarred face, and let the moment settle. The ache stayed, a quiet wound he'd never tend.
He pushed off the railing with a low grunt and lumbered inside the dojo. The ancient sword Wailing Dark hummed faintly in its place, a silent witness to his thoughts.
Augus rummaged through a cluttered shelf, pulling out a battered flask of dark liquor, his old companion for nights like this. He uncorked it, the sharp scent hitting him as he took a long swig, the burn chasing down the hurt.
"Should've been mine," he murmured, too low for the forest to hear, his eyes glinting with pride and regret. He leaned against the wall, flask in hand, and stared at Asura through the cracked window.
The kid was back at it, red aura flaring, oblivious to the old warrior's longing. Augus took another drink, the taste bitter as the lie he'd lived for twenty-six years, a lie that kept Asura close, for now, even as the shadow of his real family loomed ever nearer.
Augus had been gone for three days, dispatched on one of Zeno Zoldyck's shadowy errands, a job that pulled him from the Republic of East Gorteau's forest and left the dojo in a rare, echoing silence.
The residence stood alone amidst the trees, its traditional luxury softened by the night's humid mist, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp stone.
Asura remained behind, the sole guardian of the sprawling eight-room fortress, its shoji screens and tatami mats steeped in the quiet of his master's absence.
He slept in his expansive room, sprawled across a futon; he relaxed, his white hair splayed over the pillow, his red pupils hidden behind closed lids.
The forest held its breath until the faint creak of a floorboard shattered the stillness.
Two intruders slipped into the dojo, their steps muffled but deliberate, drawn by whispers of Augus's hidden gold.
The basement locker, tucked behind a false wall, gleamed in their minds. It was a prize worth the risk, ordered by their boss, a faceless voice commanding theft from the shadows.
The first, a pink-haired girl with blue eyes, moved with a predator's grace as she extended her En, a subtle pulse of aura scanning the space.
The second, a tall blonde with a revolver slung at her hip, followed close, her breath steady, her gaze darting to every shadow.
Asura's eyes snapped open, his Wrath mantra flaring in his chest like a sparked ember. He sensed them, not the sound, not the creak, but the prickle of their presence, an instinct honed by years under Augus's brutal tutelage.
He rose silently, his bare feet whispering across the tatami, his towering form slipping through the dojo's halls like a phantom.
The intruders reached the basement stairs, and the pink-haired girl, En, brushed the locker's iron bulk below.
She hissed a warning to her partner, her threads coiling like invisible serpents. "He's here… someone's awake. Move fast."
They descended, the blonde's hand tightening on her revolver as the pink-haired girl pried at the false wall, her Nen threads slicing through the wood to reveal the locker.
Gold bars glinted in the dimness, a hoard that sang to their greed. "Danchou'll be unpleased if we don't grab this," the blonde muttered, her voice low and tense. "Hurry—"
A broad and unyielding shadow loomed behind them. Asura crossed his arms, his voice a low, resonant growl that froze them mid-motion.
"Stealing's a rude thing, you know," he said, his tone casual but edged with a threat that vibrated through the stone walls. His red eyes glowed faintly in the basement's gloom, his white hair stark against the darkness.
The pink-haired girl spun, her Nen threads lashing out like razor whips, aimed to slice him apart.
"Kill him!"
She barked, her aura surging. But Asura moved faster, his hand blurred, a flash of crimson Wrath cutting through her threads like paper.
Before she could react, he closed the gap, pinning her to the ground with a single, effortless motion, his massive hand clamping her wrist. She gasped, her sharp eyes wide with shock, her Nen useless against his raw power.
The blonde cursed, yanking her revolver free and firing a sharp crack as the bullet streaked toward Asura's chest.
Time slowed, the air thickening with the gunshot's echo, and then… silence.
Asura's hand snapped up, fingers closing around the bullet mid-flight, the lead crumpling between his knuckles.
He stood, releasing the pink-haired girl to dangle the mangled slug before their stunned faces, his grin feral and unyielding.
"Nice try," he said, his voice a rumble of amusement. "But you picked the wrong place to rob."
The blonde's revolver clattered to the floor, her hands trembling as she staggered back, her bravado shattered.
"What the hell are you?" she stammered, her tall frame shrinking under his gaze.
The pink-haired girl scrambled up, clutching her bruised wrist, her Nen threads limp and useless.
"Dman it… Danchou didn't warn us about this!"
Asura stepped forward, towering over them, his red eyes blazing with a controlled fury.
"I'm the guy who lives here," he said, cracking his knuckles, the faint red aura flaring around him. "And that gold? It's not yours. Tell your Danchou to send better next time… or don't bother. Now get out before I stop playing nice."
The tall blonde woman's jaw tightened, her arms crossed over her big chest. The Pink one shot her a look, her voice a hissed whisper despite the pressure on her wrist.
"Pakunoda, we need to finish him… he's too strong. I can feel it… he's like Uvo, maybe worse. We can't just let this slide!"
"Finish me?" Asura echoed, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Big words for someone pretty like you. Who's this Uvo you're yapping about?"
Pakunoda's eyes narrowed, her composure fraying as she uncrossed her arms, her hands hovering near her sides. "It's useless, Machi," she said, her tone flat but resigned.
"He's stronger than us… way stronger. He caught a bullet like it was nothing. He might match Uvo… hell, he might outclass him. We're not winning this."
Machi glared up at Asura. "You don't know Uvo," she spat, her voice venomous. "He'd crush you… big guy or not."
"Don't care who your Uvo is," he said, his tone casual but steel-laced. "Leave now, or I'll pin you both to the wall and call it a night."
Pakunoda nodded, her blonde hair shifting as she exhaled sharply. "Fine," she said, her voice clipped.
"We won't take anything. We are leaving in peace… let's go, Machi." She grabbed her revolver from the floor, holstering it, and glanced tensely at Asura, her pride bruised but intact.
Machi rubbed her wrist, her pink hair falling into her eyes as she glared at Asura. "You're lucky we're on a deadline," she muttered, brushing past him to join Pakunoda. "Next time, you won't catch us off guard."
"Next time, bring better toys," Asura called after them, his grin widening as he tossed the crumpled bullet into the air and caught it. "And tell your Danchou to pick softer targets. This one's mine."
The women turned to flee, their footsteps quickening toward the stairs; Asura's voice cut through the shadows, low and resonant.
"Hey… stop,"
He called them, uncrossing his arms and stepping forward. His tone shifted, losing its edge, replaced by a gruff warmth that halted them mid-stride. "Have a drink before you go. You're already here… might as well." He doesn't know why he invited them to such a thing.
Machi froze, spinning back with a glare. "What?" she snapped, her voice sharp with disbelief. "Are you insane? Or dump enough to invite us!"
Pakunoda paused on the stairs, her blonde hair catching the faint light as she turned, her brown eyes narrowing.
"He's serious," she muttered, more to herself than Machi, her hand hovering near her holstered gun.
"What's your game, big guy? We're not here for tea parties."
Asura grinned, a feral flash of teeth that softened into something almost friendly. He tossed the mangled bullet onto the stone floor with a clink and shrugged, his massive shoulders rolling.
"No game," he said, his voice a deep rumble. "You broke in, you lost… fair fight. I don't hold grudges over a drink. Come on, pretty ones; Augus keeps the good stuff upstairs. You're not stealing it, so what's the harm?"
Machi's glare faltered, her defiance warring with confusion as she glanced at Pakunoda.
"He's nuts," she hissed, but her posture eased, the threads dissipating. "Paku, tell me we're not doing this."
Pakunoda studied Asura, her pragmatic mind weighing the oddity against the risk.
"He caught your threads and my bullet," she said, her tone flat but curious. "If he wanted us dead, we'd be corpses. One drink… then we're out. Danchou doesn't need to know about this part."
Asura chuckled, turning toward the stairs. His bare feet were silent on the stone.
"Smart one," he said over his shoulder. "Come on, kitchen's this way. You'll like this wine."
The women exchanged a look… Machi's scowl clashed with Pakunoda's cautious nod before following, their steps hesitant but drawn by its sheer absurdity.
The dojo's halls opened into the vast kitchen, its dark wood and stone hearths glowing under lantern light.
The long oak table dominated the space, its surface scarred from years of Augus's feasts. Asura rummaged through a cabinet, pulling out a clay jug and three mismatched cups. The sharp scent of fermented liquor wafted as he poured.
He slid two cups across the table, his red eyes glinting with a strange hospitality. "Sit," he said, dropping into a chair that creaked under his weight. "Name's Asura, by the way, you"
Machi hesitated, then snatched a cup, perching on the table's edge rather than sitting, her guard still up.
"Machi," she muttered, sniffing the drink warily. "You're a freak stronger than half the guys I know. What's your deal?"
Pakunoda took her cup, leaning against the counter. Her posture was less hostile but alert. "Pakunoda," she said, her voice calm. "And she's right… you're no normal thug. That strength… it's not just muscle. You're Nen's something else."
Asura took a swig from his cup, the burn of the liquor grounding him as he grinned. "Something else, huh? I was raised in a dojo, trained by a bastard tougher than me… it keeps me tough. You two aren't half bad yourselves… those threads and that shot? Decent moves."
Machi smirked despite herself, sipping the drink and wincing at its bite. "Decent's not enough against you," she said, her tone grudging. "You're like Uvo on a bad day… maybe worse."
"Uvo again," Asura mused, leaning back, the chair groaning under him. "Who's this guy you keep throwing at me? Some big shot I should know?"
Pakunoda's eyes flickered, a hint of caution returning. "Someone you don't want to meet," she said, setting her cup down.
Asura drained his cup, the burn of the liquor grounding him, then set it down with a clink, his grin sharpening as he leaned forward.
"Phantom Troupe, huh?" he surprised them, his resonant voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Didn't think I'd catch that little slip about your 'Danchou' and this Uvo guy. You two fit the bill… sneaky, tough, and cocky as hell."
Machi choked on her drink, coughing as she slammed the cup down, her blue eyes narrowing to slits.
"What the hell did you just say?" she snapped, her Nen threads twitching faintly at her fingertips, ready to strike.
Pakunoda straightened, her hand drifting toward her revolver, her calm facade cracking as she stared at Asura.
"How do you know about the Troupe?" she demanded, her voice low and edged with suspicion. "Who are you?"
Asura's grin widened, unfazed by their sudden alertness. He leaned back, crossing his massive arms, the chair groaning under his weight.
"Relax," he said, his tone casual but steel-laced. "My mentor… Augus… he's from Meteor City. Same dump you two crawled out of, I'd bet. He's told me stories… thieves, killers, a crew that doesn't flinch at blood. Phantom Troupe's the name that stuck. Didn't take much to put it together when you started name-dropping."
Machi's glare deepened, her posture rigid as she slid off the table, standing beside Pakunoda.
"Meteor City?" she echoed, her voice venomous. "Your mentor's some old bastard from there, and you think you've got us figured out? What's his deal… and what's yours? That power you used down there… it wasn't Nen. What the hell was it?"
Pakunoda's eyes flickered with recognition, her hand pausing near her gun as a memory stirred. She tilted her head, studying Asura with a new intensity.
"Augus!?." she murmured, her voice softening as the name clicked. "I remember the locals talking about him when we were kids… some brute no one could touch. Even the Mafia wouldn't mess with him. He said he had something… different. Stronger than Nen. Is that what you've got?"
Asura shrugged, his red eyes glinting with a flicker of pride. "Mantra," he said, the word rolling off his tongue like a challenge. He flexed his hand, a faint crimson aura sparking around his fingers before fading.
"Not Nen… just something I was born with, something Augus taught me to shape. Wrath, he calls it. It keeps me strong, keeps me standing. That's all you need to know."
Machi scoffed, crossing her arms, though her blue eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "Mantra? Sounds like some fairy tale bullshit," she muttered. "But whatever it is, it cut my threads like they were nothing. You're no pushover… I'll give you that."
Pakunoda stayed silent momentarily, her mind racing back to Meteor City's gritty streets, the whispers of Augus, a towering figure who'd crushed anyone dumb enough to cross him, a legend wrapped in rumors of unearthly power.
She met Asura's gaze, her voice steady but probing. "If Augus is your mentor, and he's got that same… mantra… no wonder you're a freak. It's stronger than Uvo, but maybe it's hard to say. But you don't know what you're tangling with, dropping our name like that."
Asura chuckled, pouring another drink, the jug sloshing as he raised it in a mock toast. "Tangle with you? Nah… I'm just having a drink with some decent pretty girls who thought they could rob me blind," he said, his grin sharp.
"You're tough, I'll give you that… Pink's got grit, and Blonde's got brains. But I don't care about your Troupe or your Uvo. I'm here, this is my place, and you're leaving empty-handed. That's the deal."
Machi smirked despite herself, the tension easing a fraction as she grabbed her cup again. "You're a cocky bastard," she said, sipping the liquor with a grimace. "Lucky for you, we're not stupid enough to push it tonight. But don't think this is over."
Pakunoda nodded, stepping toward the door, her composure regained. "He's right… we're done here," she said, her tone clipped. "Thanks for the drink, Asura. Next time, we won't be so friendly." She glanced at Machi, jerking her head toward the exit, and the two slipped into the dojo's shadowed halls, vanishing into the mist beyond.
Asura watched them go, his red eyes narrowing as he swirled the liquor in his cup.
"Phantom Troupe," he murmured to himself, the name lingering like a spark in his mind.
Augus had mentioned them to him… a tale of Meteor City's chaos, survivors, and killers. Mantra pulsed faintly in his chest, a reminder of the power he wielded, a power Pakunoda tied to Augus's legend. He didn't know the Zoldycks waited beyond his forest, didn't know the gold he'd guarded tied him to them, but the night had left a mark, a curiosity that wouldn't fade as the dojo settled back into silence.
The mist hung thick over the forest encircling Augus's dojo in the Republic of East Gorteau, its damp tendrils curling through the trees as Machi and Pakunoda slipped out into the night.
The dojo's warm lantern glow faded behind them, swallowed by the humid darkness. The faint hum of cicadas and the rustle of leaves filled the silence they left in their wake.
Their footsteps crunched softly on the forest floor, the air heavy with the scent of pine and earth, but their retreat carried weight beyond the failed theft, a strange, lingering feeling about the man they'd just faced.
Pakunoda walked ahead, her tall frame cutting through the mist, her blonde hair catching faint glints of moonlight.
Her revolver rested heavily at her hip, but her mind wasn't on the weapon… it was on Asura!
His towering presence, his red eyes glinting with that odd mix of masculinity, menace, and warmth, the way he'd caught her bullet like it was nothing and then offered a drink instead of death.
Her chest tightened, a flush creeping up her neck she couldn't quite name. A crush… stupid, reckless, and unbidden stirred in her, sparked by his raw strength and disarming grin. She kept her face neutral, her brown eyes fixed ahead, but her heart betrayed her with a quickened beat.
Machi trailed a step behind, her pink hair tousled, her hands shoved into her pockets as she kicked at a stray root. Her cocky smirk lingered, masking the flicker of something deeper, something she'd never admit.
Asura had pinned her like a bug and cut her Nen threads with ease, yet he'd let her up, poured her a drink, and called her brutal. It rattled her, that strength paired with a casual charm she couldn't read. She liked a challenge, sure, but this guy? He was a puzzle she didn't trust herself to solve. Her pride kept it buried, her attitude a shield, but the strange pull lingered.
"He's… different," Pakunoda said at last, her voice low, breaking the quiet as they neared the forest's edge. She glanced at Machi, her tone careful but tinged with something soft. "Stronger than Uvo, maybe. That mantra thing… It's not just power. There's something about him."
Machi snorted, her smirk twitching as she shot Pakunoda a sidelong glare. "Different? He's a freak with a big mouth," she said, her voice sharp, cocky as ever. "Caught us off guard, that's all. Don't go getting starry-eyed, Paku… he's still a pain in the ass." Her words dripped with bravado, but her fingers flexed in her pockets, a tell she couldn't hide.
Pakunoda's lips quirked, a rare hint of amusement breaking her calm facade. "Starry-eyed? Maybe," she admitted, her gaze drifting back toward the dojo's shadowed outline. "But you felt it too… don't lie. He's not just some thug. Danchou won't be pleased we came back empty-handed, though."
Machi's smirk faded, her sharp eyes narrowing as she kicked another root harder this time. "Yeah, well, Danchou can shove it," she muttered, defiant but edging with unease. "He sent us in blind… no warning about a guy who grabs bullets and cuts threads like they're string. What were we supposed to do, die for the gold?"
Pakunoda slowed, turning to face Machi, her expression hardening with resolve. "We tell him there was nothing there," she said, her voice firm. "No gold, no stash… just a big bastard with too much muscle. He doesn't need to know we got outplayed… or that we drank with him. It's cleaner this way."
Machi raised an eyebrow, her cocky grin creeping back despite herself. "Lying to Chrollo? Ballsy, Paku," she said, a flicker of admiration in her tone. "Fine… I'll back you up. 'Empty dojo, tough guy, no loot.' Keeps us off the trouble, and I don't feel like explaining how I got pinned by some grinning idiot."
Pakunoda nodded, her sharp eyes softening as she glanced back one last time, the dojo now a faint blur in the mist. "Good," she said, her voice quiet. "Let's move… he's not our problem anymore."
But as they pressed deeper into the forest, the strange feeling clung to them… Pakunoda's quiet crush was a secret she'd guard, Machi's buried intrigue a spark she'd deny. Asura's name lingered in their minds, a man trained by a legend from Meteor City's shadow who'd shaken them more than they'd admit, his mantra a mystery they'd carry back to a Danchou who'd never know the truth.
Inside the dojo, Asura sat alone at the oak table, the jug of liquor half-empty, his red eyes glinting as he stared into his cup. The night settled around him, the forest's whispers a distant hum, oblivious to the women he'd unsettled or the blood tie to the Zoldycks that waited beyond his grasp.
A pale light filtering through the forest's dense canopy, casting dappled shadows across Augus's dojo.
The mist had lifted, leaving the air damp and cool, scented with pine and the faint earth musk.
Augus trudged through the trees, cutting a broad path, his scarred arms laden with a sack of supplies from his latest job for Zeno Zoldyck.
His tangled hair hung wild, his outfit dusted with travel grime, but his eyes glinted with the alertness of a warrior returning home.
He stepped inside, the tatami mats creaking under his weight, and his gaze swept the ground floor. The kitchen caught his eye first; the long oak table bore three mismatched cups, one still half full of liquor, the jug tipped on its side.
A faint scent of fermented brew lingered, and the basement door hung slightly ajar, its frame scuffed as if forced. Augus's grin faded, his massive hand tightening on the sack as he dropped it with a thud. "What the hell happened here?" he muttered, his gravelly voice rumbling through the silence.
Asura emerged from the hall, filling the doorway, his white hair tousled from sleep, his red eyes bright despite the early hour. He stretched, cracking his knuckles with a casual grin, unfazed by Augus's scrutiny. "Morning, old man," he said, his voice resonant and warm. "You're back early… good trip?"
Augus crossed his arms, looming over Asura as he jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Trip was fine and gold's flowing," he growled.
"But this? Cups out, and the basement door is scratched up…. It looks like someone's been sniffing around. Spill it, kid. What'd I miss?"
Asura's grin widened, a flicker of pride in his red eyes as he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms to mirror Augus.
"Had some visitors last night," he said, his tone light but edged with satisfaction. "Two girls… Sneaky types broke in while you were gone. I'd guess you went straight for the basement after your stash."
Augus's eyes narrowed, and an alarm flashed through his grizzled features. "The gold?" he snapped, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "They get anything?"
"Nah," Asura said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Caught 'em in the act. A pink one called Machi tried slicing me up with these Nen thread things. A blonde, one named Pakunoda, shot at me with a revolver. Didn't work out for 'em. Cut the threads, grabbed the bullet, pinned 'em down. Easy."
Augus blinked, his scowl easing into a mix of surprise and approval as he processed Asura's calm recounting. "Grabbed a bullet?" he echoed, his gravelly voice tinged with a rare note of awe. "And Nen threads? Shit, kid… you're getting sharper than I thought. What'd you do with 'em after?"
Asura shrugged, pushing off the wall to grab the half-empty cup from the table, swirling the liquor with a grin. "Let 'em go," he said. "Made 'em promise not to steal… had a drink with 'em first, though. I figured they'd earned it for the effort. Oh, and get this… they're Phantom Troupe. I picked it up from their chatter about some 'Danchou' and a guy named Uvo. Said you're from Meteor City too… knew the name."
Augus's grin returned, broad and fierce, though a flicker of unease danced in his eyes at the mention of the Troupe.
"Phantom Troupe, huh?" he rumbled, clapping a heavy hand on Asura's shoulder, nearly staggering him.
"Bunch of crazy bastards… thieves with teeth. You drank with 'em after they tried robbing me blind? You're a damn fool, kid… but I like it. And yeah, Meteor City's my old stomping ground. Guess the stories stuck."
Asura laughed, the sound deep and straightforward, echoing off the dojo's walls. "Fool or not, they didn't get squat," he said, setting the cup down. "The blonde girl said you were some big shot back there, scared of the Mafia. True?"
Augus snorted, turning toward the basement door to inspect the scuffs, his pride swelling despite the mess.
"True enough," he said, his voice gruff but warm. "Smashed a few heads, made 'em run... Proud of you, kid, kept this place tight. But don't pour my best brew for thieves next time, yeah?"
Asura grinned, following him to the stairs. "No promises, old man. It keeps things interesting. You gonna tell me what's in that locker now?"
Augus shot him a sidelong glare, his grin tightening. "Gold," he said curtly, brushing off the question as he descended. "That's all you need to know."
Asura's eyes glinted with curiosity, the Phantom Troupe's name lingering in his mind. But before Augus left, he turned to him and chuckled a low, rumbling sound that rolled through the room like distant thunder.
He fixed Asura with a look, a sly, knowing glint in his gaze that made the younger man shift uneasily. "Don't tell me you had sex with 'em, huh, Asura?" Augus said, his gravelly voice thick with mischief, his grin widening to show a flash of teeth.
"Two pretty thieves, along with you all night? Come on, kid… spill the real story."
Asura's eyes widened, and a flush crept up his tanned neck as he straightened. He was tensing.
"No!" he blurted, his voice cracking slightly, betraying his nerves. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Augus's stare. "Didn't touch 'em—swear it. Just a drink, that's all. But… yeah, they were pretty, for sure. Real lookers… tough ones, too."
Augus threw his head back and laughed, a booming roar that shook the dojo's walls, his massive hand clapping Asura's shoulder with enough force to stagger him.
"Pretty, huh? Hah! I wouldn't blame you if you did, kid," he said, his tone gruff but warm, his grin unrepentant.
"You're a man; bout time you had a woman in your life to satisfy those desires. Can't keep swinging fists forever… need something softer to swing at, eh?" He winked, his crude humor cutting through the morning's quiet like a blade.
Asura's flush deepened, but he squared his shoulders, meeting Augus's gaze with a mix of embarrassment and resolve.
"Not like that," he said, his voice steadying, a hint of defiance creeping in. "I'd want a wife… someone real, not just some street woman to bang and ditch. You raised me better than that, old man… or at least I thought you did."
Augus's laughter softened into a chuckle, his sharp eyes narrowing with a flicker of respect though the mischief lingered.
"A wife, huh?" he rumbled, crossing his arms as he leaned against the stairwell.
"High standards for a stubborn idiot like you. Fair enough, I guess I didn't raise a complete savage. But those two… pink and blonde? It sounds like they'd keep you on your toes. Tough, pretty, and cocky, my kind of trouble."
Asura snorted, brushing his hair with a grin that masked his lingering nerves.
"Yeah, well, they're Phantom Troupe trouble… not my type," he said, his tone light but firm. "I'll stick to guarding your gold and kicking ass… works fine for now."
Augus smirked, his pride swelling as he gave Asura a nod, his massive hand ruffling the kid's white hair like he was still a boy.
"Good answer," he said, his voice gruff but warm. "Keep your head on straight… women like that'd eat you alive. Now go clean up this mess; I'm checking the stash. And next time, lock the damn door."
Asura laughed, swatting Augus's hand away as he turned to grab the cups, the tension easing into their familiar banter.
"Yeah, yeah… keep your gold, old man," he called over his shoulder. "Maybe I'll find a wife who can cook better than you, too."
Augus chuckled again, lumbering down the basement stairs, his heavy steps echoing as he left Asura to the kitchen.
Asura moved around it, gathering the cups with a grin and still tugging at his lips. Augus's heavy steps echoed down the basement stairs, fading as he went to check his gold stash, leaving the younger man alone with the mess.
Asura chuckled to himself, a low, rumbling sound that bounced off the walls as he stacked the cups in one massive hand.
"Dirty-minded old bastard," shaking his head at Augus's crude jest about Machi and Pakunoda.
Augus had taught him plenty over the years, sex included, gruff, practical lessons delivered with a smirk and a flask in hand. "It's a fight like any other, kid," he'd say, "just with better stakes." Augus had lived it, bragged about it, countless women, countless nights, a warrior's conquests as natural to him as swinging a blade.
Asura, though? He felt a heat creep up his neck, unbidden and sharp. Machi's soft skin flashed through his mind, the brief moment he'd pinned her in the basement, her wrist warm and yielding under his grip, her defiance clashing with the unexpected smoothness against his calloused hand.
He paused, the rag stilling on the table, his breath catching as the memory lingered. Her pink hair had brushed his arm, her sharp eyes glaring up at him, and that heat… Wrath or something else? had flared in his chest.
He'd let her go, kept it calm, and offered a drink instead, but now, alone, the sensation burned brighter.
Pakunoda's cool stare and steady voice flickered in, too, her strength a different pull, but Machi's touch stuck, a spark he hadn't chased. He swallowed, his red eyes narrowing as he shook it off, the flush fading as he resumed cleaning.
"Dirty old bastard's right about one thing," he muttered, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Gotta get out more."
The cups clattered into a stack, the jug righted with a thud, and the kitchen settled back into order. Augus's lessons echoed sex, a battle, a need, but Asura's heat was his own, a quiet ember stoked by a thief's skin he'd never admit rattled him.
The forest outside whispered on, the dojo's walls holding secrets beyond gold, and Asura turned from the table, the day stretching ahead, his master's laughter a shadow he couldn't quite outrun.
To be continued...