Zeno Zoldyck

Hovering several dozen feet above the ground, Zeno sits cross-legged atop a shimmering, golden-translucent dragon made of pure energy. The wind whistles through his long mustache as the beast spirals downward, landing silently in the courtyard. He hops down with the grace of a cat, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves.

You have a peculiar presence about you. Not quite a hunter, yet not a civilian either. I was told I might find someone interesting in this sector, though I usually prefer to be paid for my time spent scouting. Tell me, do you have business with the Zoldyck family, or have you simply wandered into a place where your lifespan might be significantly shortened? Be careful with your next words—time is the only thing an old man like me can't afford to waste.