Tickle, trickle.
Cold, rough, yet invigorating water cascaded over Chrollo as he stood beneath the shower—following Jet's insistence that he clean himself. The transformation into a Sleeper had refined his body, purging impurities, though, judging by the foul odor they carried, those impurities were far from pleasant.
His appearance hadn't changed drastically, yet there was an undeniable refinement—subtle but significant. His lean, well-toned physique had sharpened, sculpted not into bulk but into something honed, efficient. Every movement, even the way water dripped down his skin, carried an effortless control, as if his body had been tempered to its peak without excess.
Dark strands of wet hair clung to his forehead, framing his piercing gray eyes—eyes that held a peculiar weight, as if constantly measuring the world, dissecting its secrets. But now, they seemed even more inscrutable carrying a stillness that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, slicking it back as the water continued to cascade over him, its cold touch like a fleeting reminder of his own ever-shifting nature. The cross tattoo on his forehead remained stark against his pale skin, unblemished, unshaken. The process had refined his body, yet it had not altered the essence of who he was.
Chrollo Lucilfer was an actor in the grand play of life. He was not rigid—he was malleable, ever-changing, like clay molded by the hands of necessity. Throughout his life, he had donned countless personas, shifting to fit the roles demanded of him. Now, nothing had changed.
Ironically, this shared quality—his ability to adapt, to slip into whatever role was needed—was something both Chrollo Ashwin and Chrollo Lucilfer had in common. Despite their different environments, both knew the same truth: the world was unkind, but never indifferent. For every action, there was a reaction—a consequence.
Chrollo Lucilfer's harsh upbringing had instilled a unique worldview, one that Ashwin had not been privy to, but it was a truth that resonated with him nonetheless. Both men knew that they would not yield. Like clay, they were ready to change, to adapt to whatever the world demanded of them. To survive, to live—not just for themselves, but for others.
Chrollo had filled the sink in the provided shower room to the brim, allowing the still water to settle before reaching for a tattered tie—a remnant from his previous outfit, one he had never chosen. After all, he had transmigrated into a younger version of Chrollo, far younger than he should be. His once formal attire now lay in tatters, little more than scraps after Lucifere's brutal encounter with the Zoldycks.
Biting down on one end of the flimsy fabric, he tore it with a controlled amount of force, the ragged edges giving way to his persistent grip.
He took the small fragment and placed it gently into the sink. Chrollo's fingers hovered above it as he steadily channeled his nen, imbuing it with his focus. Performing a water divination was an unusual choice, but not entirely surprising. He had expected his nen to lean towards specialization, though his Aspect added complexity. Yet, in a strange way, it also made things easier. After all, he lacked no affinity.
That had confirmed it: he was a dual-affinity nen user, similar to Kurapika, yet absolutely different .He was both a Specialist and a Transmuter, as if two distinct entities coexisted within him. Logically speaking, it made sense in a way. The Specialist nen, originating from his body—once belonging to Chrollo Lucilfer, head of the Phantom Troupe—was a reflection of his physical existence, an expression of the world around him. The Transmutation, however, emanated from his soul, his ego, his self. It was as if he were constantly in flux, torn between what he had been and what he was becoming.
The realization lingered in the stillness of the water, its surface now calm, the once-vibrant hues fading into clarity. But his mind was not as clear. His connection to his past, to Lucilfer, tugged at him like a phantom, a shadow he couldn't escape. He was both anchored in his former self and adrift in the currents of his new identity.
Suddenly, the quiet of the room was broken by a sharp knock at the door.
"Chrollo," a familiar voice called out, low and commanding. "Time to move. The academy's waiting for you."
Chrollo's eyes flickered to the door, but his focus remained on the sink, where the water had returned to its natural state. Slowly, he pushed himself away from the sink and reached for a fresh set of clothes, his fingers brushing the fabric as if they were guided by an unseen hand.
The academy, like the city it was built within, was a fortress—impenetrable, deadly, and full of challenges. It was a place where he would either find his true power or be swallowed whole by the weight of its expectations.
****
Before Chrollo's eyes, one of the most iconic scenes from Shadowslave unfolded, though he was nothing more than an uninvited intruder on this stage.
Before the gates of the Awakened Academy, three new students stood at the threshold. Among them, Nephis—tall and slender, with clear gray eyes and a detached expression—waited in silence. Her silver-white hair was cut short, neatly parted to the side, its pale strands blending with the falling snow. Like Chrollo and Sunny, she wore the standardized police tracksuit issued to all Sleepers, an unfashionable yet practical uniform.
The massive red gates of the academy loomed before them, a stark contrast to the cold air and the gentle descent of snowflakes that settled upon the frozen ground.
The Sleeper compound was relatively small, positioned in the southern part of the Academy and surrounded on all sides by training fields and parks. It was a low, modern structure built from reinforced materials, its design mirroring the rest of the Academy—minimalist yet resilient. Like most of the buildings here, the majority of its structure lay hidden underground, leaving only a few pristine alloy-clad floors visible above. In the summer, with the surrounding greenery in full bloom, it might have looked almost serene.
Inside, the building was spacious and well-lit. Chrollo, Sunny, and the silver-haired girl were led into a vast hall where nearly a hundred other Sleepers—young men and women who had been chosen by the Spell at roughly the same time—were already gathered. They waited for the start of the induction ceremony, their expressions a mixture of nervous anticipation, tension, and excitement.
The logistics of the Academy were a constant nightmare for its administrators. The Spell's infection rate was erratic, making any attempt at a structured, standardized education nearly impossible. Some Sleepers had an entire year to prepare for the Dream Realm. Others had mere months. And some, the most unfortunate among them, had only days.
At first, the hall was filled with hushed murmurs, but as time passed, the quiet chatter swelled into lively conversations. Sleepers swapped harrowing tales of survival, compared the memories they had received, and—foolishly—some even revealed their Aspects and Flaws. Unlike Sunny and Nephis, who remained reserved, Chrollo had deliberately engaged with other Sleepers. Not out of kinship, but cold, calculated pragmatism.
He had already theorized that Nen was an inherent part of the Spell. If that were true, then his Aspect ability, Bandit's Secret, would flourish in this environment. He could already fulfil one of its activation requirements. The only question was whether the Spell treated Aspects as a substitute for Nen—or if Memories and Echoes could serve the same role.
"Hey, how was your first Nightmare?"
Chrollo had seamlessly integrated himself into the conversation, casually chatting with a small group of boys.