ズﾉﾚﾚひムの刀
͓̽F͓̽a͓͓̽̽n͓͓̽̽t͓̽a͓͓̽̽s͓͓̽̽y͓̽ ͓̽K͓͓̽̽i͓͓̽̽l͓͓̽̽l͓͓̽̽u͓͓̽̽G͓͓̽̽o͓͓̽̽n͓̽
Killua has died once already.
In every history book, there's a chapter of the infamous Killua Zoldyck: The face of the cover is blurry, as if the artist was unsure...
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6,700 words.
A constant fuzz lingers over Gon's vision, softening every sharp edge and bright light of this unfamiliar atmosphere. It's cold, so cold, and at first, Gon believes he's entered the foreseen shadowlands, its dreary, gray atmosphere leaving color to the imagination.
He continues ambling forward.
The grass looks dry, the trees miserably bare. Birds do not sing, and animals do not scurry the forest floor. Heavy, burdened rain clouds lurk above, and the wind howls, the wintry air clashing against his exposed skin like a storm of needles. It freezes his nose numb, but still, he could faintly smell fleshy blood nearby. In fact, it's so close he can feel its metallic taste dry his tongue.
Behind a sea of thorny brambles, he sees it.
It shocks his eyes wide open.
Blood is splattered on everything, dripping from tips of grass and stained into innocent soil. An overflowing pool of scarlet steams against the freezing temperature.
A dead human body. Even for Gon, it took multiple glances to identify that much. His nose wrinkles in disgust.
"This isn't good at all."
Gon jerks his head behind him towards the unfamiliar, monotone voice.
The towering person's steps are gracefully silent, and Gon instantly recognizes the intricate pattern of embroidered netherweave silk. Pale hands, lithe and long like spiders' limbs, uncover his shaded face.
Gon's entire body halts in fear. The world grows static and noisy, entirely overwhelmed by the sheer intuition of malicious power before him. He struggles to move, run, but when he peers down to his un-responsive legs, demanding an explanation, he notices... translucency. Undergrowth is clearly visible through his clothed legs.
A ghost?
No, a vision. He read something about it in school.
He stares back at the warlock.
His cheeks are sunken in, skin pale like Killua's but one shade closer to death's chill. Large, crazed, black orbs for eyes stare hollow at the lifeless body, his thin lips neither pleased nor curled in distaste. And then he speaks. "His death was quite unclean." And though his voice wields no such currents of frustration, it strikes some sort of unimaginable fear that rattles Gon's bones.
The warlock jolts his head behind him, and Gon's eyes follow. Twines of long grass push to the side unnaturally, footprints only slightly engraved in the soil. A silhouette, the size of a young child, glimmers into visibility.
Gon's mouth shocks open.
This face... white wisps of snowy locks...
Blue eyes twinkle with a now-faded innocence, lids rounded and eyelashes dark and long. His cheeks are plump, and his hands...they don't have dark veins crawling up his arms like twined vines. The child blinks expectedly at the warlock, droplets of fresh blood smudged across the bridge of his nose, where some rebellious strands of tousled hair slumbered. "What's wrong, Brother? He's dead, like you wanted."
