Zenless Zone Zero
Hugo Villard regained consciousness inside a strange, unfamiliar comfort—like he'd been gently hauled up from an icy abyss and laid on shore.
Warmth wrapped around him first: dry, clean, perfectly measured, like fluffed cotton晒 in early-spring sunlight, softly pressing itself into every corner of memory that had been eaten raw by cold and agony. The warmth drove the chill out of his bones and gave him a near-luxurious sense of safety.
Then came smell.
A strong medicinal fragrance—earthy, bitter with grass and roots—strangely blended with a thread of mellow honey sweetness… and the dry scent of sun-warmed timber, plus the faint "clean cloth" note of soap pod.
It was a calm symphony of scent, an extreme contrast to the back alley before he passed out: blood, rust, rot, and death's clammy cold—heaven and hell, pressed together.
His eyelids felt lead-heavy. He forced them open a crack.
The blurred view was like fogged glass slowly wiped clear by light. What he saw wasn't a stained, freezing ceiling—only warm wooden beams.
A few ribbons of golden sunlight slanted down from a skylight, tracing bright paths through floating dust motes—alive, dancing.
He was lying on a narrow bed with soft plain cotton sheets. A clean, sun-scented quilt covered him. Every wound had been properly wrapped. The pain still lingered, but the tearing, grinding torment had been mysteriously smoothed down to something bearable.
"Ah! You're awake!"
A crisp, bright voice burst out—pure, unhidden joy—like spring water hopping over river stones, instantly sweeping away the last hush in the room.
Hugo turned his head. The movement tugged a dull ache through him, but he didn't care. He followed the sound to a small figure by the medicine stove.
A boy—absurdly young, almost childish.
He stood beside an old wooden rack lined with labeled glass jars. A small brazier burned beneath a ceramic pot that bubbled softly, sending up white steam. The rich herbal scent came from there.
He had rare short silver hair, as if moonlight had condensed into threads—each strand rimmed with soft glow under the slanting sun, pure and untouched.
But the most arresting part was his eyes—
clear jade, flawless, like the best gemstone without a hint of impurity. They were so transparent it felt like they could reflect the deepest corner of a person's heart. Right now they were filled with uncomplicated delight, as if he'd discovered a treasure.
He looked delicate, like someone who'd stepped out of a fairy-tale page. Yet when he focused on the simmering medicine, carefully adjusting the fire, those same jade eyes—and the slender wrist stirring the brew, steady as a metronome—carried a calm concentration and professional certainty that didn't match his age at all.
He wore a washed-faded linen shirt, slightly too big; sleeves rolled up high, revealing pale arms that somehow suggested hidden strength.
So this was the "good person" who'd dragged him back from the edge.
Hugo confirmed it silently—and an emotion he couldn't name began to grow.
But years spent moving through shadow, living with danger, and the instinctive wariness of any unfamiliar place made his nerves tighten on reflex.
He tried to prop himself up, to sit and see more clearly—assess the room, assess his situation.
That tiny intent to move was caught instantly by jade eyes that functioned like radar.
"Wait—don't move!"
The joy on the boy's face snapped into something almost stern—care, urgent and sharp.
He set down the long-handled wooden spoon and rushed to the bedside in three quick steps, like a startled but lightning-fast deer. Both hands reached out—hands carrying the faint bitterness of herbs and the warmth of sunlight—and with gentle but undeniable force, he pressed Hugo back into the pillows.
"You're badly hurt," the boy said. His voice stayed soft like stream water, but it carried the kind of seriousness only doctors have.
He frowned delicately, studying Hugo's pale face and the cold sweat at his temple, his tone a mix of lingering fear and relief.
"You did emergency bandaging for yourself—really impressive, honestly, that you could even think of self-rescue in that condition—but you were barely conscious. The wrap was awful: off-position, not enough pressure, still bleeding…"
He paused. A flash of aftershock crossed the jade in his eyes, replaced immediately by responsibility.
"…Still, that minimal treatment mattered. It held long enough for me to find the bleed, inject repair agents, and bring you back. Your wounds have only just stabilized—if you move, they'll split open again."
Hugo let himself sink back. He could feel the bed's softness, the clean quilt, the lingering herbal scent on the boy's fingertips, and the firm concern behind every word.
He watched the boy—this child who'd saved his life, eyes so clear they looked like they'd never seen filth in the world—and an absurdly real question slid out, carrying Hugo's usual self-mockery… and a thin edge of probing.
"…Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid?" The boy tilted his head. Silver bangs slipped at his forehead with the motion, and his face held only sincere confusion, like Hugo had asked the strangest question imaginable. "Afraid of what?"
Hugo tugged the corner of his pale mouth, trying to form his habitual, half-cynical, half-testing smile. Weakness made it look strained; his voice came out low and hoarse.
"For example… what if I'm a villain beyond redemption…"
"Maybe I just finished looting some unlucky bastard. Or threw an enemy into a bottomless Hollow."
"And this blood on me… might not all be mine…"
He hadn't even finished—
when something changed.
A black blur—fast as lightning—shot out of the shadow at the foot of the bed, the corner hidden by a medicine cabinet.
So fast it left only an afterimage across the retina.
The next second, it landed silently beside Hugo's pillow, so close he could see the tiny textures on its smooth metal shell and feel the cold, dangerous "metal presence" coming off its small body.
It was a Bangboo.
Jet black, as if carved from the deepest night—no stray color, no shine. It was small, just a little larger than an adult's palm, but its long rabbit ears—meant to look cute—were pulled straight up like unsheathed daggers, the tips leaning slightly forward, bristling with aggression.
It didn't make the usual "En-ne" noises.
It simply stared.
Round electronic eyes glowing a dark, icy red locked onto Hugo's face without blinking.
A formless, cold, violent pressure seemed to form out of nowhere—like an ice storm made physical—slamming into Hugo from all sides with a clear warning. The rest of his teasing words were shoved back down his throat.
Even the air felt like it had frozen solid; the sunlight coming in seemed colder.
From those emotionless electronic eyes, Hugo could read a naked threat with perfect clarity:
Move again. Say one more thing against my master. I'll make you regret it.
Just as the tension sharpened to the breaking point—like the black little thing might pounce at any moment—
a pale hand scented with herbs reached in.
"Alright, Xugeya—relax."
The boy's voice carried warm reassurance, like spring wind melting ice. Naturally—almost casually—he lifted that deadly little black Bangboo into his arms and cradled it against his chest.
His fingers scratched gently at the base of its stiff ears in a familiar rhythm, soft as stroking a feather.
A miracle happened.
The Bangboo—Xugeya—melted.
Its rigid body softened visibly. The dagger-straight ears drooped, settling against its round head. The red glow in its eyes flickered quickly and turned mild, obedient.
From its speaker, a long, barely-audible synthetic sound slipped out—heavy with dependence and satisfaction.
"En~~~ne…"
It burrowed deeper into the boy's warmth like a hedgehog finally safe enough to tuck its spikes away—though it still shot Hugo occasional side-eyes, wary and judging.
Holding the newly "defrosted" Xugeya, the boy's jade eyes curved into crescent moons. His smile was bright and a little proud. He rubbed his soft cheek affectionately against the Bangboo's cool metal head, then looked back at Hugo and said—with innocent certainty, as if stating an unshakable truth:
"See? With Xugeya here, I'm not afraid at all."
He paused, then added seriously, and mischievously flicked the distinctive silver cowlick at his forehead.
"And my cowlick didn't send any stabbing pain."
He pointed at it with solemn conviction. "It's super accurate! That means deep down, you're someone trustworthy. Xugeya is just too nervous about me—he's a really great guardian."
"…"
Hugo stared at the Bangboo that had switched from "miniature murder weapon" to "clingy obedient" in under two seconds, then at the boy's cowlick—apparently upgraded into a moral-alignment radar.
A ridiculous sense of reality—one that had nothing to do with Hugo's schemes, calculations, or constant distrust—rose in him like heat.
He laughed.
The laugh tugged his abdominal wound and sent a clear dull pain through him, but even that pain seemed softened—diluted by how bizarrely warm this scene was.
"Judging people with a cowlick… cough."
A real smile—helpless, amused—finally showed on his pale face. His voice regained a trace of that elegant, lazy tone that belonged to him.
"Interesting… truly unheard of."
"If it were possible, I'd love to collect that miraculous cowlick of yours."
"Maybe… cough… at some oddities auction, it'd sell for an unexpectedly high price?"
"EN-NE! EN-NE EN-NE—!" (rapid, high-frequency, full threat!)
The instant Hugo finished, the black Bangboo in the boy's arms exploded back into "combat mode."
Its ears snapped upright like startled vipers. The red glare flared. Its whole tiny body radiated an even colder warning than before, spitting sharp, angry "En-ne!" bursts that sounded like eviction notices made of knives.
As if it was one second away from leaping up and clawing Hugo's face into abstract art.
"Hey—hey—Xugeya! Calm down! Calm down!"
The boy fumbled, quickly pushing it back into his arms and rubbing hard at the base of its ears and along its back to soothe it, then looked at Hugo with a mix of helplessness and mild blame.
"See? You made him mad again."
"He hates it when anyone tries to get ideas about me… or my things."
Then—like scolding an older kid who keeps pulling pranks—he said with gentle but firm care:
"Your most important task right now is: lie down. Don't move. And then…"
He glanced at the medicine stove.
"…drink your medicine properly. Hurry and get better. No more moving around, and no more saying weird stuff, okay? I'll go bring the medicine!"
He turned back toward the bubbling pot, still holding Xugeya, who continued to grumble low, dissatisfied "En… en… ne…" noises in his arms.
In the tiny clinic, golden sunlight flowed quietly; dust motes glittered; strange herbal fragrance filled the warm air; the boy hummed a light, off-key tune.
Only Xugeya's occasional, aggrieved "En-ne" punctuated the calm.
Hugo lay there, watching the boy's slender back—thin, yet somehow full of life and warmth—and the black little guardian that kept baring its teeth at him, only to be effortlessly "tamed" and reduced to symbolic struggling.
Without realizing it, the tension he'd carried for who-knew-how-long began to loosen.
A long-forgotten stillness—almost luxurious—spread through his cold, exhausted limbs like the living heat inside that bitter medicine.
And at the same time, his never-dying mischievous streak came back online.
He watched the boy busy himself, lips curling.
"So, Mr. Cowlick… what's your name?"
"Don't call me Cowlick!" The boy answered immediately. "My name is Qianye. My teacher gave me that name!"
"Is that so…"
"Then, Mr. Qianye—since your cowlick can't become part of my collection…"
"What about you? Any interest in becoming my private collection?"
"EN-NE!!!! EN-NE EN-NE!!"
(You're asking to die! I'll tape your filthy mouth shut and elbow you until you spin like a propeller seven hundred times before crashing!!!)
"…Sir, quiet—" Qianye began, trying to restrain the enraged Bangboo again.
"Call me Hugo," Hugo purred, shameless as ever. "My treasure."
"EN-NE!!!" (You have chosen death!!!)
"Xugeya, calm down!"
Watching Qianye struggle to stop Xugeya—who wanted to beat Hugo up but was also clearly afraid of hurting his own little master—Hugo finally stopped hiding it.
He laughed out loud—
…ah. The cut on his mouth seemed to crack again.
Outside the window, birds seemed to be singing.
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
Uma Musume, But I Only Have Five Years Left to Live (Chapter 175)
Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 115)
Ben Tennyson Wants to Join the Justice League (Chapter 126)
TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter105)
Yu-Gi-Oh! — Transmigrated into the White Dragon Girl (Chapter100)
"Is this chat group even serious?" (Chapter82)
I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter134)
Can Playing Games Save the World? 65
Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 70
From Junkman to Wasteland 66
Weekly Refresh of Overpowered 31
I'm Grinding Proficiency Like 46
From Kiana, Lord Ravager, Onwa 87
Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
Warhammer: My Primarch Is Remi 79
From Demon Slayer to Grand Ass 64
The Way the Umamusume Look at 68
Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 73
Naruto: Weaving the Future, Be 45
Zenless Zone Zero, but Kamen R 49
Multiverse Crossover: The Perf 45
My Cyberpsycho Girlfriend 45
Uma Musume: The Dark Trainer 31
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 27
I, a Reincarnation-Loop Player 26
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