Chapter 8: So What?

By evening, the people Zeno arranged had already arrived.

A middle-aged man stood before them—his posture rigid, shoulders broad, and eyes sharp. He had the presence of someone well-versed in martial arts. His attire hinted at a dojo background, though time had worn it thin.

Kaizen sized him up, his gaze cold and calculating. There was something off about the man's aura—intense but jagged, as if forged through harsh discipline.

The man stared back, measuring Kaizen in return.

The butler at the door stepped forward, standing beside them.

"Master Kaizen, this is the sparring partner arranged by Master Zeno. He practices karate and managed to infiltrate the Zoldyck estate, but we captured him alive."

He paused for effect before continuing.

"He is a skilled fighter by outside standards—a master in his own right."

Kaizen gave a slight nod, signaling his readiness.

The butler turned toward the martial artist.

"Sanghir, your task is simple: fight Master Kaizen. You're free to use any technique or strategy you can think of. The battle is limited to this courtyard."

His voice lowered to a chilling calm.

"If you defeat him, you walk out of here alive."

Sanghir blinked, processing the offer.

"All I have to do is beat the kid, and I can leave?"

"That's correct," the butler confirmed.

Sanghir narrowed his eyes.

"And why should I believe you?"

The butler's expression didn't waver.

"Because you're in the Zoldyck estate. If we wanted you dead, you'd already be buried. Your life—or death—doesn't matter to us. But we're giving you a chance."

A cold shiver ran down Sanghir' spine, though he masked it with a sneer. He knew the butler was telling the truth.

Before arriving at the Zoldyck estate, Sanghir had scoffed at their reputation. The world's most feared family of assassins? Big deal. He thought himself capable of outmatching them, convinced that defeating a Zoldyck would earn his dojo legendary status.

But that confidence crumbled the moment he crossed the threshold.

Even the servants of the Zoldyck estate outclassed him. A maid had subdued him with frightening ease, as if swatting away a fly. He wasn't even deemed worthy of meeting the real family members—until now.

And now, he stood face-to-face with a child.

"Humph," Sanghir snorted, fixing his gaze on Kaizen. "What if I accidentally kill him?"

The butler smiled faintly. "If you can manage that, by all means, try."

Sanghir clenched his jaw at the butler's dismissive tone.

It was clear to him now: Kaizen wasn't an ordinary child.

Though only nine years old, Kaizen had been trained under the brutal eye of Maha Zoldyck. The Zoldycks weren't just practitioners of Nen—they were killers, honed from birth. Even without using Nen, their bodies were weapons.

Killua Zoldyck, at just six years old, had fought his way to the 200th floor of Heavens Arena, achieving feats most adults could only dream of. The only reason Killua hadn't progressed further was his own choice to stop.

Kaizen, standing now in front of Sanghir, was at least as strong as Killua had been—and perhaps even stronger. Unlike Killua, Kaizen had already learned how to manipulate Nen.

If the fight became dangerous, Kaizen could unleash his Nen. Even one technique—like Ten—would shift the tide in his favor.

Sanghir stood no real chance. The butler knew it. Kaizen knew it. And deep down, Sanghir knew it too.

"Let's begin," Kaizen said softly, his voice calm but brimming with confidence.

Sanghir narrowed his eyes, his muscles coiling as he prepared to strike.

In a flash, Sanghir lunged forward. His speed was remarkable, fast enough to create a slight sonic boom as he closed the gap between them. His fist shot toward Kaizen's head like a bullet.

But it met only air.

Kaizen flickered—his body vanishing like an illusion, leaving an afterimage in his place.

"Too fast!" Sanghir gasped, his eyes widening.

The two engaged in a fierce exchange, each strike filled with intent to kill. Sanghir had the upper hand in raw strength and experience, but Kaizen's speed and reflexes were on another level.

And something else became clear to Sanghir:

Kaizen was improving as they fought. Every move he made was faster, sharper, more precise. Meanwhile, Sanghir had no room for growth—his skills were already maxed out.

"Master of Stealth!"

Suddenly, Kaizen's footsteps vanished. The silence was deafening, disorienting Sanghir.

His heart raced as he frantically scanned the area, but Kaizen was nowhere in sight.

Then—

Boom!

Kaizen emerged from Sanghir' blind spot, his fist crashing toward the martial artist's guard.

Sanghir barely had time to react, crossing his arms in front of him to block. But the impact was brutal. Kaizen's momentum, combined with his own strength, sent Sanghir staggering backward. He stumbled several steps before regaining his footing.

"You little—" Sanghir growled, glaring at Kaizen.

Kaizen remained still, his expression unreadable.

"That's enough for today," the butler interjected, stepping forward to end the fight.

Sanghir huffed, frustration clear in his eyes. He knew when he'd been outmatched.

The butler gave him a brief nod, a sign that the encounter was over.

"You've done well to survive this long."

Sanghir scoffed but said nothing more, knowing better than to push his luck.

Kaizen, unfazed, turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Sanghir to stew in the bitter taste of defeat.

The butler gave Sanghir one final glance, as if to say, Consider yourself fortunate to leave alive.

And with that, the courtyard returned to silence, the brief storm of violence leaving nothing but a memory behind.

Sanghir clenched his fists, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He had come to the Zoldyck estate dreaming of glory. Instead, he had barely survived a fight with a child.

As Kaizen's figure disappeared into the shadows, Sanghir knew one thing for certain:

He had faced the next generation of the Zoldyck family—and lived to tell the tale.

For now.

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