Chrollo's Proposition

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A year later, Haruto, now a teenager of 16, strode forward with a regal air that defied his years. Canary trailed just a step behind him, her every movement embodying the loyalty that ran deeper than the roots of the ancient trees that encircled them. Feitan and Phinx, now aged 18, flanked the pair. They followed Haruto not because they were forced to, but because they recognized the spark within him that was akin to the pulsating heart of a blazing inferno, the quiet authority that lay underneath the surface of his calm facade.

Nobunaga and Uvogin, each a formidable presence in their own right, trailed behind the group, their statures imposing, casting long shadows over the sun-dappled earth. Their respect for the young man was not communicated through subservient words or obsequious gestures. Instead, it manifested in their disciplined silence, and their watchful eyes that never strayed too far from the lad they chose to follow.

The meeting place was a wide-open courtyard, a space swallowed by silence and adorned by an intricate mural depicting a chaotic blend of vibrant colors and patterns. Chrollo, the man who had summoned them, lounged on a comfortable couch, his languid posture belying his watchful eyes. The members of the Chrollo's Troupe, Pakunoda, Shalnark, and Franklin stood rigid behind him, their demeanors a stark contrast to Chrollo's relaxed composure.

"Ah, the Young Lord arrives," Chrollo mused aloud, a hint of amusement playing in his voice. There was an implied challenge in his words, testing the waters of the newfound power dynamic.

Haruto's lips twitched, not in annoyance, but amusement.

Across Chrollo, a seat, shabby and broken, appeared to be the assigned place for Haruto. A mockery of a throne for the Young Lord. Chrollo had made himself comfortable on a luxurious cushion, perhaps expecting Haruto to play along with the unspoken insult.

Canary didn't even wait for Haruto's reaction. A surge of Nen blasted from her like a powerful gust of wind, catching the derelict seat in its force and pulverizing it to dust. A ripple of shock traveled through the courtyard, turning heads towards the source of the unexpected onslaught.

"Haruto will not be disrespected!" Canary's words echoed, a sharp blade slicing through the silence. Her usually calm and composed demeanor was now replaced by a ferocious aura, her eyes blazing with a murderous intensity that left no room for argument.

The dust particles from the ruined chair still floated in the air when Haruto moved. A slight lift of his hand, a silent order that quieted the raging Canary. His gaze then turned towards Chrollo, his eyes shimmering with an arrogant amusement that mocked the man's feeble attempt at dominance.

"No need for dramatics, Canary," Haruto said, his voice low and calm, but carrying an authority that was impossible to ignore. He turned his attention to the dust floating in the air, the remnants of the chair, his lips curling up in a wry smile.

"Seems like your hospitality lacks in some areas, Chrollo," Haruto's words carried a tone of veiled mockery. His eyes, however, remained sharp, dissecting the man lounging before him.

Feitan and Phinx exchanged glances. Their stoic faces revealed nothing of the thoughts brewing inside, but they did not miss the slight smirk that tugged at Haruto's lips. This was the dance of power they had been observing ever since Haruto had begun to embrace his king-like attributes, his silent arrogance seeping into his every action and word.

Feitan broke the silence first. "What is it that you wanted to discuss, Chrollo?" His words were straightforward, devoid of the usual biting sarcasm that often clung to his sentences when dealing with anyone else other than Haruto.

Chrollo's nonchalant disregard of Haruto's jab sparked an undercurrent of tension. His smile remained placid as he said, "Did you hear about the incident that happened five years ago? Where a citizen of Meteor City was unjustly killed?"

It was Uvogin, the mountain of a man, who grunted out a terse response, "What of it?"

"I was the one who punished those responsible." Chrollo's voice was soft, yet there was a tangible edge to his words, a self-congratulatory undercurrent that left no room for doubt about his perceived accomplishments. The courtyard echoed with his audacious claim, filling the air with thick tension.

Around Haruto, his companions stiffened. Their glares were sharp, their hands twitched minutely, ready to summon their Nen at a moment's notice. They remembered the incident too well, the unjust murder, the meticulous planning by Haruto that led to the perpetrators' deserved fate. Yet, the young lord merely smiled, a cryptic curve on his lips that suggested amusement rather than offense.

Chrollo seemed oblivious to the quiet rebellion simmering in the courtyard. He continued to indulge in his self-praise, spinning tales of his courage, his clever maneuvers that led to the punishment of the culprits. He spoke of orchestrating a spider's web of connections, forcing his victims into a corner they couldn't escape. How he had manipulated the people around him, like a puppeteer controlling marionettes, to ensure that the scales of justice were balanced. The members of the Chrollo's Troupe behind him nodded along, feeding off his smug satisfaction.

Haruto's companions shared his smile. Each of them knew the truth, each of them had been a part of the real justice delivered that day. Yet, they allowed Chrollo his moment of self-glory, let him bask in the lie he had created for himself.

Feitan, who'd been silent all along, abruptly cut through Chrollo's narration, "Enough of the past, Chrollo. You've had your moment. What does any of this have to do with the present?"

Before Chrollo could reply, Phinx interrupted, "And why should we care, Chrollo? It's not like your tall tales have anything to offer us." His voice echoed with a resonant mockery.

Ignoring the interruptions, Chrollo turned to teen leader across from him, "Haruto, what say you to my story?"

"Your storytelling is...entertaining," Haruto replied, his words dripped with derision, and his eyes sparkled with an audacious challenge. He looked pointedly at the remaining dust from the destroyed chair and then back at Chrollo, the message clear.

Chrollo, too caught up in his own tale, added, "Something similar happened recently. Sarasa, one of our friends, was killed." His voice was tinged with regret, but it felt hollow, insincere. It seemed like a contrived emotion meant to incite sympathy rather than a genuine feeling of loss.

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