Chapter Text
“Once, long ago, there was a young prince.
“His name has been forgotten by men, but his mark is one left like a scar in the pages of history books. His memory is not a fond one, but it’s one kept in solemn remembrance as a lesson.
“He was a prince beloved by his subjects, kind and true to fair and all he met- be them Street urchin or wealthy nobleman. He greeted all with the same loving smile.
He was often given books, as gifts. He loved them, saying it was wonderful how people could give gifts even if they couldn’t give something lavish- and he gave his own gifts in kind.
“Beloved may he have been, he was done with life quite young. No one quite knows what ever happened to him; all that is known is that his physician and knight were struck by grief, having raised him. The knight disappeared, not seen afterward, and the physician only remained a short five years before following suit. The king remained on his throne a decade longer than he might have otherwise in the prince’s absence, and thus led to the belief in historians that he may have played some part in the death of the young boy. There has never, however, been proof of this.”
Killua closed the book with a soft, dull thump.
He ran his fingers absentmindedly over the stitches in the leather cover as he glanced down at the children curled up in his lap. The fireplace a little ways away from him crackled softly as charcoal split, sending quiet shadows dancing across their rosebud lips and button noses.
Both asleep.
Killua smiled contentedly and lazily pondered how he’d carry them both to bed without waking them. He tipped back and forth in his wooden rocking chair, the floorboards letting forth a halfhearted groan of complaint with the movement.
Kalluto coughed quietly in his sleep, throwing drops of spittle onto the blanket he had bunched up by his nose. Killua watched quietly as the cowlick lock of hair sticking up on the crown of the child’s head bobbed back and forth with the movement. Alluka stirred by him, but both settled soon enough. Rocking had that effect on them, they found the rhythm soothing. Killua made a small mental note about the cough.
A bit stronger than last night, I think. Might have to pick up some honey and lavender at the market tomorrow and brew him some tea.
It was a little startling, that thought. There was a maturity there, some sort of parental offhanded care. Killua cringed. Parental wasn’t how he’d like to address himself, as a child of sixteen.
He supposed, as the caretaker of his siblings, he really was a parent of sorts- but he certainly wasn’t prepared to admit that he was an adult just yet on that basis alone.
It was an uncomfortable notion, to say the least.
Killua set his book down gently on the table beside his chair and stood, struggling under the weight of two children on half-asleep legs. The patchwork quilt on his lap fell in a sad heap by his bare feet, and he peered down lazily to check it wouldn't catch alight from the fire.
He stumbled a little, but eventually he managed to get to his siblings’ bedroom.
He set them down gently in their beds, ever-so careful so as not to wake them. Kalluto clung to his blanket still; his small hands clenched tightly into fists in and around the worn, hole-riddled fabric.
Killua didn’t know why he was so fond of the thing, ratty as it was, but he didn’t question it either. Kalluto was a strange child, and he formed odd attachments to many things (the longer teaspoon in the kitchen, the right side of the armchair he and Alluka both sat on to eat their supper, the single hairbrush they owned that he’d allow on his head.). Killua and Alluka had learned not to wonder for rhyme or reason, because there seldom was any.
Killua wandered back into the living room and sat on his knees on the rug by his chair, peering into the dying embers in the fireplace. Small tongues of flame still writhed around the charred logs, letting forth tiny bluish lights. The odd tones painted the bricks in strange, gentle colours. Killua found some fondness for the beauty of them, tainted only slightly by offhanded perplexion at their complexity.
He was tired, but not enough to sleep. Just tired enough to be this mesmerised looking at something pretty. He stared, eyes wide like a younger child than he was, as the fire shrank into a glow and the glow dimmed into smoke- until the charcoals were cool and he was sitting in the dark.
Killua slid down onto his side, the rough fibres of the rug brushing harshly on his cheek. He pondered whether it might cause redness tomorrow. Nothing he couldn’t fix.
He wondered if he should go to his room and get into bed, but the thought of moving seemed impossible. He was too tired.
He slept there, curled up in the woollen quilt he’d left earlier, in the cold living room.
<><><><><><>
Killua sighed, young sunlight falling over his face as he leant out of the window to taste the first morning breeze. Such was a treat in the springtime, in his opinion.
He turned away and stepped into his boots. The old leather was soft and malleable with wear, cradling his feet just right. He tied the string of his cloak about his throat, organising the fabric on his shoulders so that the ribbon wouldn’t tug and press against his Adam's apple. The cloak was soft, made of some kind of animal skin. Killua had often wondered what animal it had come from, but had come to the decision that knowing wouldn’t do much for him.
He crept into the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise in the small hours of the morning. His siblings were still asleep.
On the table sat a small fabric pouch he’d prepared the day before. He undid the knot in the rope to check on the contents- a bread roll, some berries, a straining water skin and a small package of creamy cheese wrapped in parchment paper.
Pretty sure that wasn’t there when I packed this. Killua thought. Maybe it was Alluka and Kalluto. They had a habit of stealing the key to the scullery and sneaking treats. He supposed they put it in there as a surprise. He tied the rope back up and closed the pouch.
He hooked a burlap sack over his arm, a sleek wooden bow over his torso, and a quiver of carefully crafted arrows at his hip. He scribbled a messy note on a paper pad he kept on the counter, telling his siblings where he’d be- and to keep out of the scullery.
With that he started out of the house. A small chill wound its way in as he opened the door, and he breathed it in before he stepped outside.
The smooth, chilly air bit at Killua’s cheeks, and he immediately regretted not thinking to bring a scarf to burrow his face in.
He made his way through winding streets and alleyways, keeping to the side out of habit despite most of the town still being in bed.
The sun climbed steadily upward, clawing its way over the mountains at the horizon to boast its light. The fiery orange glow sat warmly on Killua’s scarred, porcelain hands as he stared down at them- another habit, walking through the street.
Killua made his way out of town, into the heather-strewn fields around it, and into the woodland a bit farther out. The cool, damp soil almost seemed to murmur a welcome in the squelching sound it made under his shoes.
He sighed, letting the dewdrops that rolled onto his skin from the foliage brush away the last of the morning cobwebs from his head. His feet moved automatically, taking him swiftly and silently deeper into the trees.
He slowly pulled his hood down so he could hear better. The thickness of the fur muffled the sounds of the forest: Birds’ wings, rabbits tumbling, golden-haired foxes treading stealthily in fallen leaves- all of them were sounds a hunter needed.
It didn’t take long for Killua, experienced a hunter as he was, to find something to stalk.
It wasn’t too efficient, stalking; It might fetch much more if he quickly shot down anything he could find, he wagered, but he didn’t know there’d be anything else. The single deer he was trailing behind would feed him and his siblings for a week, and that was only if they had nothing else to eat.
If Killua were to be wholly truthful, stalking was his favourite part of hunting. It was calming to him- it was quiet, but still required enough focus that his mind didn't wander. He could walk for some few miles behind whatever prey he’d found, and be quite content the whole way. He did, in fact. They walked for half a day before the deer stopped to rest.
It had moved at a slow, relentless and steady pace- but now it lowered its head gracefully to lap at water from a small spring between some rocks, sending up a small crowd of frightened yellowish insects. It seemed regal in the way it held itself, in the way the sunlight fell just right between the gaps of the tree canopy above onto its wide eyes and matted downy coat. Killua allowed himself a moment to feel remorseful about killing something so pretty, and then quelled it. If he didn’t get this deer it’d be wasted time.
It wasn’t wise to be flippant with game, because there wasn’t ever a guarantee he’d find something else.
Killua quietly pulled his bow from his torso and loaded it with an arrow, careful not to clack them together. He stared down the shaft, lining the point up with the deer’s eye.
I can at least make it quick, I guess. He thought.
He drew back his arrow, revelling in the electric ache in his shoulder and the groan of the string.
It was a sharply awakening moment, the second before a kill. A moment where his eyes zeroed in on the target and his heart grew louder and faster until it was like raindrops on a windowpane, right in his ears.
He let forth a slow breath, and it almost seemed to crystallise back on his skin. The string juddered, aching to be sprung forward. His fingers smarted on the joints where the cord was pressed.
He stepped forward, placing his weight on a rotting log that served as a makeshift bridge across a large dimple in the earth.
The deer snapped its head upward, peering at him in a rather startled way. Killua stared at it. He had a few seconds before it realised the gravity of the situation and fled.
He relaxed his fingers, bracing for the painful twang of the string-
Snap!
The log he was standing on broke in a soft, clumsy split, sending him tumbling.
Killua yelped as he rolled.
He vaguely identified pains in all different places on his body (quite a strong one on his forearm), but more pressing to him was the fact that the deer had surely run off, startled by the sudden crash.
He scrambled up as soon as he came to a stop, digging his feet into the earth on the side of the pit to scrabble out. It was a clumsy, messy process and when he got up the deer just shy of being out of sight.
He sprinted after the animal, tearing up dead leaves, flowers, and grass in his frenzy.
If he were anyone else, Killua would have had trouble keeping up to such a fast creature, but he wasn’t anyone else. It’d been awhile, but old training was slowly revitalising itself in his limbs in response to the quiet thrill of pursuit. This feeling was particular, specific, and nostalgic in the worst kind of way. This sensation of following something that knows what’ll happen if it’s caught. It was something he’d gotten used to years before, and had decided since not to indulge in if it wasn’t necessary- and it was this time; the deer would feed him and his siblings.
He revisited his earlier consideration of this animal’s importance to them, and with a sinking heart he realised they really didn’t have much to eat. They could get by, of course. Going hungry for a little bit wouldn’t kill them- but Killua didn’t know when he’d be able to make time to hunt again.
He knew Alluka and Kalluto wouldn’t complain aloud, but the rumbling of their bellies would be very telling of how eager they’d be for a meal. He heard that sound a lot- he heard it too much.
Killua felt a pang of guilt in the back of his throat as he ran. He’d wasted most of the day, and it was very unlikely he’d be able to get anything else now with the time he had left- he had to be back by sundown, after all. He had hours, if that. Sure, he may not have found any other game if he’d searched for easier prey, but he’d have been able to forage some large quantity of berries and wild vegetables. He cursed his own foolishness; he should have known better than to try and bag something risky.
He stumbled over his feet, tangling them in thick shrubs and roots. As he wrestled with them to get free he looked up, just in time to see the deer stare at him for a half-mocking second before ducking into the cathedral-like doors of a large stone structure.
Killua stared after it.
He’d come across these ruins before. The castle of an old dead prince, whose death was shrouded with rumours- or more aptly, with fairy tales.
He’d never gone inside; the people of the village where he lived very loudly expressed how they felt about trespassers- the prince had been loved, after all. They thought of his castle as a sort of headstone, a marking of his place, and walking through it was an insult to him.
That being said, it wasn’t illegal .
It made Killua feel guilty, of course it did, but not as guilty as he’d feel coming home empty handed to two hungry children.
He heaved his body up, yanking a pocket knife from under his belt to hack at the twisting branches until he was free.
He stood, ever so slowly, and crept into the castle.
A dense chill settled on his skin when he crossed the threshold, thick and oily and damp. Killua shuddered, the hair on his neck standing at attention.
He held up his knife, walking with a velvet tread through the empty hallway.
The deer had left tracks. Muddy hoof prints- and when the mud had been wiped off and run out, gaps in the thick layer of dust and dirt that covered the stone flags like a shifting carpet. They were simple to follow, illuminated clearly by spring sunlight falling playfully through what remained of yellowed window panes.
He turned to the left, padding softly through the hall into a dining room. He found himself holding his breath, as if that’d help matters.
He skirted around the swollen wooden dining table, distantly wondering who on earth would need that many chairs, feet letting up a stench of damp mould from the once-crimson carpet as they touched it. He wrinkled his nose at it, moving swiftly on. A large doorway to his right led into a courtyard, so he ducked outside without a second’s hesitation.
There were more tracks out here, pressed deep into the sloppy mud. Last week’s rain had soaked in, with nowhere to slip off to the side in the confined walls of the court, leaving the earth just shy of a bog. Judging by the struggling foliage and a barely-alive apple tree, Killua could guess the same had been happening for some time.
He followed the tracks, wading through the garden, and went back inside through a large, arching window.
Killua found himself in a large, lavish hall; He was dwarfed my high ceilings with crystal chandeliers, astounded by windows that seemed to paint the sunlight that they let through in prettier, richer shades of gold though they were perfectly clear- and he felt like an intruder when his eyes settled on a couple dancing. It was only then that he heard music. Deep and passionate tones rang clear and bold from imaginary cellos, pianos and harps.
The couple didn’t notice him, so he observed them.
One man was tall and thin with russet hair and loose clothes. He was hunched over a little, but didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. He had a kind glint in his eye that was quite comfortable in spite of the lack of direction.
The second man was shorter, and seemed quite feminine at first glance. His hair was as golden as the light that he was bathed in, and framed his face like a halo. His deep red shirt made his pale skin look even whiter, though it wasn’t as though Killua had much room to form an opinion on that matter.
He was barely out of the window frame when the colours started to change.
The music warped, as though what had been lines of sound had been distorted- like a rippling reflection on water. It didn't sound pretty anymore- though it didn’t sound bad either. It sounded somewhat otherworldly.
What must have been a thousand gorgeous colours flooded from beneath the couple’s feet, stripping away the walls and floor and dying the air in bright colours.
A forest seemed to spring from between the floorboards, pink and red trees coiling upward and tangling their branches together. Mushrooms the size of small cottages slunk from the gaps between the trunks, all thin stems and crushed gills and green shades.
A strange, entirely other world had appeared, candy coloured and wild and deeply uncanny. Killua placed a cautious hand on a leaf that had appeared next to him.
It was real. That fact seemed unfathomable, but right there on his fingertip was the smooth feeling of a leaf, the bumps for veins, the dewdrops that turned the baby pink cobweb above it into a diamond necklace.
The strange trees and mushrooms seemed to bend over, as though they were leaning to get a look at the dancing couple. Killua shuddered at the strangely human impression they gave.
Killua wandered past the dancing couple, cutting through foliage the colour of the expensive cakes in bakery windows and cuts of rich cloth. Silver tree sap stuck to his hands as he did, gumming his fingers together where they met and blurring the lines of his fingerprints.
He looked up, and with a start he realised he wasn’t quite alone- or at least he assumed. He wasn’t sure if these were people.
A large dog, walking on its hind legs, strode past him in a bright red suit and a navy bonnet. A duck the size of a tall man wearing a frilly pink dress and a top hat was standing a few feet away, telling other walking animals the time as far as Killua could tell.
Deciding he might as well investigate, Killua walked up to the duck.
“’Scuse me, what time is it?” He asked, semi-politely. The duck ignored him.
“Excuse me.” he said, louder. Still no response. He half-wondered if the thing could hear him at all.
An otter, even taller than the duck, strode toward them as smoothly as if it were floating.
“What’s the time, love?” It asked in a high, motherly voice. The duck looked up at it and turned out it’s wrist, which looked startlingly like a person’s.
“It’s half past six.” Came a small, polite whisper. Killua peered down and saw a shrimp clinging for dear life to the fibres of the duck’s feathers.
“He’s guessing.” the duck said offhandedly. “Shrimps usually are.”
The otter walked away, satisfied. Killua stomped off soon after, annoyed from being ignored. He heard the duck mutter something about his impertinence to another animal, but remained decidedly ignorant out of spite.
He cut his way through the leaves until finally, when he parted a few branches with maroon red bark, he found his way out of the great hall and into a kitchen with a large set of stairs. Curiously, the forest ended as quickly as if he were walking from one room to another.
He wandered up the stairs, curious, and came into an empty room with more hoofprints on the floor. Remembering what he was in the castle for, Killua followed them through a doorway into a long hall.
Whilst he walked, Killua pondered the dancing men.
How were they there? He wondered. No one’s been in this castle for a while, and everyone who lived here is dead.
He shook the idea of the supernatural out of his head, walking onward. The two men seemed frightening in how unknown they were, so he turned his attention away. A small scuffle made him look up.
There was a child, about his age, sitting below a window reading a book in the bare light that streamed through.
He was staring at the pages with a puzzled expression, eyes squinting. He was concentrating so hard that Killua could see his tongue sticking out pinkly between his lips.
Killua tried to creep by, feet even quieter than they had been before, but he wasn’t successful. The boy looked up, his honey-brown eyes attentive and sharp.
“What are you doing here?” He asked. Killua stared for a second, wondering how on earth this boy could talk with such innocent curiosity to somebody he didn't know.
“I’m Killua.” He said simply, sliding his knife back into his belt as a sign of passive intent. The boy nodded.
“I’m Gon!” He said cheerfully, returning to his book.
Killua watched as the boy stared intently at one spot on a page, bringing the book closer and further away from his face, squinting, before he dropped it in his lap.
“It’s no use!” he exclaimed, sighed with exasperation and sat back. “I don't know what it means!”
Killua contemplated walking away, but the boy seemed harmless- and he piqued Killua’s interest. He padded over, standing on his toes ready to sprint away. He'd have left already if he were anyone else, but he was confident enough in his own abilities that he decided to indulge in his own childish curiosity. He looked at the open book.
“Which word?” He asked. Gon pointed, and judging by the way his face twisted he almost seemed frustrated with the word itself for not making sense to him.
“Malison,” Killua muttered. “I don’t know either.” Using such a big word seems pretentious. He thought. Gon sighed again and closed the book, setting it at his side.
“How old are you?” he asked, smiling his same bright smile. Killua laughed a bit.
“Sixteen.” he said, sitting down across from Gon, who rested his chin on his hand.
“That’s how old I was!” he said, crossing his legs. Killua gave a small hum.
“How old you where when… what?” He asked. Gon chuckled.
“When I died!”
Killua shuddered, leaning backward onto his hand.
“What d’you mean ‘when you died’? You look pretty damn alive! ” He exclaimed, a little bit too loudly. Gon stood up, leaning out of the window to look into the courtyard, and Killua stood up beside him. He was calmed by this boy’s calmness- maybe even a little embarrassed at his own volume.
“I don’t like to talk about it much, of course, but I can promise that it’s true.” Gon said, a little wind from outside ruffling his dark hair. Killua could swear the boy turned a bit transparent as he spoke, but decided it must be a trick of the light.
“How do I know you aren’t lying?” He asked with no real conviction. The mysterious boy turned to look at him.
“What use would I have for lying?” He asked, and he really didn’t seem to know the answer. Killua wondered if that was a result of innocence or ignorance- or some odd combination of both.
“I suppose you’re right.” He mumbled. He sighed, reaching inside the bag on his arm. He fished out the small food pouch he’d packed in there earlier, struggling with the knot for a full five minutes before it came undone.
“You want some?” He asked offhandedly. The ghost boy nodded, smile widening. Killua held out the open package, dropping a few wild strawberries in doing so. The boy’s hand scrabbled in excitement as he picked up the water skin Killua had half-emptied while stalking the deer. He let some of the cool, clear water down his throat- and a lot of it run down his chin.
“I have a drink in years!” He exclaimed, handing back the water skin and eyeing the berries completely indiscreetly. Handing the pouch over with an overdramatised sigh of defeat, Killua stuffed the almost-empty skin back in his bag.
Suddenly his head pricked up.
“Hey, did you see a deer come through here?” He asked. Gon’s eyes flickered to the knife on his belt, flashing.
“Are you gonna kill her?” He asked. Killua couldn’t read the boy’s expression, but still felt slightly judged. He nodded, a bit indignant. Gona nodded too, looking back out the window.
“I saw her, she went down that hallway.” He said, pointing. Sure enough, faint hoofprints could be seen on the stone flags. Killua started toward them, but stopped a few steps away.
“Why’d you ask if you were gonna tell me anyway?” he asked, slipping his knife back out of his belt to continue his search. Gon let out a small hum, pursing his lips.
“Dunno. Just curious.” He mumbled, clearly distracted by whatever he was staring at.
Killua smiled as he walked away. He could tell the conversation was over, but he didn’t feel brushed off. It had ended peacefully, trickling to a stop like slow-moving water. He wasn’t sure if it was a deliberate skill of the strange boy, or if it were just how pleasant he seemed, but a sense of fondness settled in his chest nonetheless.
<><><><><><>
He came home with a feast that night, heaving it behind him whilst villagers out even this late at night tried to strike up bargains for it. He politely declined.
Alluka and Kalluto were delighted when he got home, attempting to drag the deer to the furnace with weak arms and small hands to cook it themselves. Killua had to pick them up to settle them on their worn armchair so he could cook.
They went to bed sleepy from stuffed bellies, Kalluto snoring from a stuffy nose. Killua remembered his forgotten plans to buy honey with a start, but was too at peace to feel panicked about it.
I’ll grab something from the shop tomorrow, lord knows we have enough of some cure or other. He thought, leaning out of the window like the boy in the castle had done.
Gon was still on his mind, for some odd reason. Killua would have liked to put it down to the fact that he was a ghost, but lord knew he wasn’t easy enough to sway for that to be the reason. He must have seen a thousand horrors, all before adolescence, and none had had quite this effect- half of them he’d all but forgotten about by this point.
But not Gon. He’d stuck like the silvery tree sap from the forest in the great hall in the castle, which had sullied his supper a bit by remaining stubbornly under his fingernails.
He wondered about this strange spectre of a boy, how he worked- and how the dancing men worked too. How had they been there, ignored by time, preserved so perfectly in death? How had the boy’s skin glowed so bright in sunlight that ought to have swerved ignorantly around him? How had his eyes been that striking when he stared out of the window that casually?
Killua felt strange, almost sick to his stomach and with the sound of the ocean swishing in his ears. He wrestled down the not-quite-unpleasant, unfamiliar sensation. There were better things to focus on.
Almost on cue, Kalluto let out a small whine on his bed. Killua glanced over, and the poor child was doused in sweat. It stuck his hair to his forehead, and soaked his pillow. His blanket was shockingly damp when Killua pulled it a bit away from him to get to his head to place the back of his hand against it. Too hot, of course it was.
Killua soaked Alluka’s old shirt, which had grown too small on her as she grew, under the kitchen tap. He flinched as the icy water washed over his hands; it had been cooled in the tank outside by the cold night air, leaving a crystalline chill climbing up his wrists. He hoped Kalluto wouldn’t get frostbite from the thing, and then berated himself for being paranoid. He hurried his way back to the children’s room.
He laid the shirt on Kalluto’s head, and he immediately settled.
Killua sighed in tired relief, sitting down on the floor between the beds.
I hope to god he’s better by tomorrow. He thought. I don’t want to spend tomorrow night on their bedroom floor as well.
He wondered if it was a selfish thought, considering his own inconvenience when his younger brother was ill, but he doubted it’d grow to be worrisome. If it were anything more than a summer cold, he doubted he’d have much else on his mind, but it wasn’t.
He considered dragging in his rocking chair, or the armchair his siblings ate their meals in, to at least provide comfort while he fell asleep- but that would wake up the children. Kalluto needed sleep to get a little better, and Alluka got grumpy when she was woken up. He didn’t think it was worth one child with worsening health and the other wreaking havoc across his household.
Instead he stood up and went back to the window, leaning on the sill but not looking out this time. He kept his eyes on his brother, however much they wanted to close.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, mind returning once again to the ghost boy.
With a groan he pulled himself away from the windowsill, eager for distraction, and made his sleepy way into the kitchen.
I’ll only be a minute. He assured himself. Nothing will happen while I’m gone.
He ran his head under the cold tap, gasping at the aching cold running in rivulets down his face. He watched as drops of water rolled off his nose, landing in the metal sink basin with quiet tones. The rhythm was soothing, and the water blasted away any fatigue that had hoped to harbour in his head.
As he turned off the tap he winced at a smarting pain in his right forearm. He glanced down at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light, and saw a large, wide scrape climbing in a ragged pattern up the topside of his wrist.
Might have been when I fell chasing the deer. He thought, vaguely recalling the pains all over his body while he tumbled.
He wondered how on earth he hadn’t noticed it before, given that it had been so long since, but let out a defeated sigh. He was too tired out to think about it- in fact that was probably why. He was exhausted, and he hadn’t been clear headed for a while.
Lacking the energy to dress the wound properly, Killua ripped off a strip of fabric from his shirt. The loud shriek of tearing fabric was startling in his state.
He doused it in water from the tal to clean it a bit, and wrapped his arm. He hissed at the friction on raw flesh, wincing.
He turned the tap off again, shaking cold water from his hands, and stumbled back into the children’s room.
When Killua got there he was greeted by Kalluto having settled, smiling contently in his sleep whilst he clutched tightly onto his blanket.
Killua found that he was smiling himself; this was a sense of normalcy, to say the very least. This wasn’t talking otters in pink lipstick or ducks with shrimp watches clinging to humanlike arms. There were no dancing ghost men summoning a multicoloured forest, and no dead boy with a pleasant smile. There was only an older brother caring for his siblings, just like every other day.
Just like normal.
That being said, normalcy hadn’t negated Killua’s childlike interest. There was a burning desire to understand those strange people in that crumbling old castle, and a blazing curiosity surrounding Gon specifically.
With a concrete resolution setting in place, Killua decided that he’d investigate further the next day.