Twelve years. The knowledge that I had over a decade before the pivotal events of the Hunter x Hunter canon began didn't just settle into my mind; it reshaped my entire perspective over the following weeks and months. The frantic, desperate edge that had fueled my training since awakening Nen softened, replaced not by complacency, but by a deeper, more patient, almost cold intensity. I still pushed myself relentlessly – physically and with Nen – but now it felt less like a desperate scramble to catch up and more like the deliberate, meticulous construction of an unbreachable fortress, stone by painstaking stone. Kenji's "foundation first" mantra resonated more profoundly than ever before. I had time now. Time to build something truly solid, something formidable.
The rhythm of our lives on Ryujinshima continued, a steady counterpoint to the internal storm of my newfound knowledge and refined goals. My days remained filled with Kenji's demanding training sessions – the snap-Gyo reflexes, the exhausting Ten maintenance, the frustrating Hatsu Foundation drills – interspersed with the normalcy of chores, helping Mom around the house and garden, and continuing my education through her patient lessons. The world outside our island felt simultaneously closer and further away – closer now that I understood my place in its timeline, but further because I knew I wouldn't step onto its larger stage for years yet.
As my twelfth birthday in November approached, the traditional age for aspiring Hunters to take the exam, the question of my own path became unavoidable. Gon was twelve when he left Whale Island and began his adventure; the coincidence of my age felt like the turning of a predetermined page. The time was right. I knew I couldn't stay on Ryujinshima forever, no matter how safe and loved I was here. My potential, my knowledge, the sheer power I was building – it all felt like it was meant for something more, something out in that wider, dangerous world.
I waited until after dinner one evening, a few weeks before my birthday, the three of us gathered in the main room. The familiar, comforting scent of Kenji's wood oil from the workshop mingled with the last lingering traces of Mom's cooking – perhaps grilled fish or a hearty vegetable stew. The lamp cast a warm, soft glow, highlighting the worn, comfortable familiarity of the space. Mom sat on the low couch, her fingers busy with her knitting needles, the click-clack a soothing background noise. Dad was by the hearth, examining a tool, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Mom, Dad," I began. My voice was steady, outwardly calm, but I could feel the distinct tremor of anticipation, a nervous energy, coiling tight in my chest. "I want to take the Hunter Exam next year."
The soft click-clack of Mom's knitting needles stopped abruptly. Her hands froze in her lap, the yarn held taut. Her face, usually so open and warm, clouded immediately with a deep, palpable worry. "Kess!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp with alarm. "The Hunter Exam? It's... it's so dangerous! People get hurt... badly. Worse." Her eyes, wide and troubled, pleaded silently with Dad, seeking his support, his confirmation that this was a terrible idea.
Dad set down the tool he had been examining, his movements deliberate and slow. He turned his full attention to me, his expression unreadable, the usual warmth in his dark eyes replaced by an intense, probing gaze that felt like he was trying to read my very soul. The silence in the room stretched, thick with unspoken fears and expectations. "Why, Kess?" he asked quietly, his voice low but carrying immense weight. "Why do you want to be a Hunter?"
It was the question I expected, the necessary hurdle. I couldn't tell him the full, convoluted truth – not about my past life, about the knowledge of a future I shouldn't possess, about wanting to be strong enough to navigate the coming storms and perhaps avert tragedies. That secret had to remain mine alone. So, I chose a partial truth, one that resonated with a boy's ambition in this world. "I want to see the world," I said, articulating a desire that had grown with every map I'd studied, every story I'd heard. "Beyond Ryujinshima, beyond Jappon. I want to learn more than I can here, test myself against real challenges, find things hidden... explore the unknown." I paused, gathering my resolve, and met his intense gaze directly. "And... I want to understand Nen better. Really push its limits. The Hunter Exam seems like the place where people do that, where they're forced to grow in ways they can't anywhere else."
Mom looked ready to erupt in protest, her hands fluttering nervously, but Dad held up a hand gently, a silent request for her to wait. He studied me for another long moment, his eyes searching, weighing my words and the conviction behind them. Finally, a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "You have learned much," he stated, his voice neutral. "Your foundations are… adequate." Coming from Kenji, whose standards were impossibly high, that single word – adequate – was the highest praise he could offer. It meant he recognized the depth of my effort and progress. "If this is the path you truly choose, Kess," he continued, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at Mom, "I won't stop you." He reached out and took Mom's hand, his calloused fingers closing gently around hers. "He has his own path to walk, Hana. We knew this day might come."
Mom still looked deeply worried, her eyes glistening slightly, but she squeezed Dad's hand and gave a small, shaky nod, relenting. She trusted Kenji's judgment implicitly, and perhaps she saw the unwavering determination in my eyes, the reflection of a resolve she knew she couldn't break. The decision was made. The quiet life on Ryujinshima, the years of focused training, were leading to this departure.
The months leading up to January were a period of quiet, focused preparation. My training intensified further, refining not just techniques but strategy and adaptability. Kenji focused on practical survival skills, navigation, and recognizing dangerous intentions. Mom, despite her worries, channelled her energy into ensuring I was as prepared as possible in other ways. She taught me more about the world outside Jappon from her old books, detailing different cultures and common dangers. She mended and reinforced my clothes, helped me select durable gear, and spent hours packing and repacking a sturdy backpack, weighing each item, agonizing over what I might need. There were long, quiet evenings spent together, simple meals that felt imbued with the unspoken weight of my impending departure. Goodbyes were understated, filled with hugs that lingered longer than usual and promises to be careful. The island, my home, felt both comforting and, now, a little small.
Departure day arrived quickly in the crisp air of the New Year. The scent of salt and pine hung in the air. We walked together to the small village port, the same one where Kenji had first shown me the water divination. I was dressed simply in a durable, long-sleeved tunic of a muted grey, sturdy dark trousers tucked into worn but comfortable leather boots, and a practical, dark cloak fastened at the neck. It was clothing designed for travel, unassuming and built to last. Mom fussed over my pack one last time, checking the straps, stuffing an extra fruit and a small, hand-sewn sachet of fragrant herbs into an outer pocket, her eyes suspiciously bright, the effort of holding back tears evident in the slight tremble of her lips. Dad handed me a sturdy, well-oiled leather satchel. Inside, I found a reliable compass, a detailed map of Jappon's main islands (though I noted, with a surge of understanding, that it was notably lacking detail for the more remote, potentially dangerous areas of the wider world), a small but adequate amount of Jenny, and a familiar, perfectly weighted whetstone. He didn't offer long speeches or emotional farewells. "Pay attention," was his only advice, his voice low and firm, accompanied by a rare, almost imperceptible squeeze of my shoulder and a firm nod that spoke volumes – of trust, of expectation, and of knowing I was ready.
Taking the small ferry from Ryujinshima to the bustling, sprawling port city on mainland Jappon felt like stepping not just onto a different piece of land, but into another world entirely. The air here was thick with the smell of exhaust fumes, saltwater, and a thousand different foods. The noise was overwhelming after the quiet of the island – the constant roar of traffic, the shouts of vendors, the blare of horns. It was a shock to the senses, a chaotic, vibrant tapestry of humanity and commerce. I could feel the significant, uncontrolled leaking aura of thousands around me – a chaotic sea of different energies, intentions, and emotions from people who clearly possessed Nen but had no mastery over it. From this teeming port, the next stage of the journey began.
I learned quickly that dedicated transport existed for Hunter Exam hopefuls – unofficial ferries that plied the coastal routes, collecting applicants before heading towards the undisclosed location of the Exam site. I found the dock for the 'Southern Cross', a large, somewhat weather-beaten ferry, its gangplank a steady stream of individuals carrying backpacks and an air of strained ambition. Aside from myself, it quickly became apparent there were no other individuals on this vessel who had achieved true mastery over their Nen; the captain and crew gave off no detectable aura, and the passengers' emissions were wild and untrained.
Boarding the Southern Cross was like stepping into a condensed microcosm of the world's ambition and desperation. The ship was already partially full, and as we pulled out of the harbor, the captain announced we would be making several stops at other coastal towns and islands to pick up more applicants before setting our final course. The voyage became a slow collection of hopefuls, each new port disgorging more individuals onto the crowded decks. They came in every conceivable shape, size, and demeanor. There were hulking, muscled figures radiating raw physical power; slight, nervous-looking teenagers clutching worn bags; sharp-eyed individuals with wary, calculating eyes; boisterous groups laughing and boasting; and solitary figures who kept to themselves, their intentions often written clearly in the uncontrolled fluctuations of their aura.
I found a relatively quiet spot near the stern, leaning against the railing, and spent much of my time simply observing the raw, unfiltered humanity around me. My ability to perceive aura allowed me to see the emotional states and general energy levels of the passengers. I watched their interactions – tentative alliances forming, rivalries simmering, moments of surprising kindness and casual cruelty. Most were loud, expressive in their nervousness or bravado, their uncontrolled aura flaring visibly with their moods. I kept my own aura carefully contained within my body, maintaining a steady, almost imperceptible Ten, observing from the periphery. Occasionally, if someone's aura seemed particularly erratic or if I saw a quick, suspicious movement, I might focus a fraction of aura into my eyes, a flicker of Gyo, just to get a clearer look, but mostly, their uncontrolled emissions were enough to read the room.
Several days into the voyage, the sea began to change dramatically. The sky, previously a clear blue, took on a bruised, purplish hue that mirrored the growing unease among the passengers. The calm swell turned into a choppy, increasingly violent motion that sent vibrations through the ship's deck. The wind howled, tearing at the ship's rigging with a sound like a banshee's shriek. Water crashed over the bow, drenching the forward deck in cold spray and sending shouts through the air. Panic began to ripple visibly through the passengers. Some scrambled for cover, faces pale and slick with seasickness and fear. Others yelled questions or demands at the impassive crew, their earlier bravado dissolving like sugar in the rising tide.
But I noticed something else entirely. Watching the captain from a distance, I saw no sign of struggle or distress in his demeanor. His grip on the wheel was steady, his eyes calm as he surveyed the churning water ahead. He wasn't fighting against the storm; he was deliberately steering into the worst of it, navigating a precise path through towering waves and churning currents that felt far more violent and specific than mere bad weather. This wasn't an act of nature; it was a test. A deliberate, engineered challenge orchestrated by the ship's master.
The chaos on deck intensified exponentially as we plunged deeper into the maelstrom. Passengers were thrown off balance, screaming as they slammed into railings or each other, tumbling across the wet deck. Luggage slid and crashed, adding to the pandemonium. The air filled with cries of fear, shouted curses, and the sickening sounds of uncontrolled vomiting. People were focused entirely, desperately, on clinging on, on surviving the physical onslaught. Their wild, untrained aura flared even more intensely with pure panic, uncontrolled and exposed for anyone with the sight to see.
My body, however, reacted automatically, a testament to years of relentless physical conditioning under Kenji. My feet found their perfect stance on the pitching deck, my balance instantaneous and absolute. My core was tight, inherently stable, absorbing the violent lurches of the ship with minimal effort. I didn't need to use Ten to reinforce my footing; my physical control was more than sufficient. I moved slowly but deliberately through the pandemonium, navigating the mayhem with an almost serene detachment, stepping over fallen bodies and around sliding debris. My breathing remained even, my focus sharp. My senses, including my perception of aura, were heightened, taking in the details of the unfolding disaster, observing who succumbed utterly to panic and helplessness, who tried and failed to find stability, and who, if anyone, managed to maintain some semblance of composure amidst the chaos. It wasn't just a storm; it was a physical and mental filter, a brutal stress test. Those who couldn't handle unexpected danger and discomfort, whose basic physical capabilities crumbled under pressure, whose focus was solely on their own immediate misery, were being shown their fundamental unsuitability for the path they were attempting to take.
By the time the ship finally emerged from the treacherous waters, battered but intact, the atmosphere had changed entirely. The earlier boasting and bluster were gone, replaced by exhausted silence, pale, drawn faces, and the quiet sounds of people tending to bruises or wiping away sickness. Many were visibly shaken, their earlier confidence shattered, their auras dim and weak. Others were physically injured or too seasick and demoralized to even stand. Looking around the decks, I saw empty spaces where people had been clustered before, individuals who had either retreated below deck in despair, given up on the Exam entirely, or perhaps even been lost overboard in the most violent lurches (though I saw no evidence of the latter, the possibility hung in the air). The unofficial elimination had begun, conducted not by a proctor's voice or a written test, but by the unforgiving sea guided by a demanding captain who had deliberately created this ordeal.
The remainder of the voyage was significantly calmer, a quiet, subdued aftermath. The number of hopefuls had been significantly reduced, their ranks thinned by the simple reality of the journey's initial challenge. We finally sailed into a large, bustling harbor under a clear sky. This was the destination. Disembarking onto solid ground felt strange after days of constant, violent motion. Looking back at the ship, then at the pale, strained faces of the few who remained and were capable of disembarking, I understood. The journey itself had been the first phase, a test of fundamental resilience that most had failed.
Ahead, the harbor opened up, with a port town rising from its shores. I had arrived. The real test, the official beginning of the 276th Hunter Exam, waited somewhere within its limits. I adjusted the strap of my pack, a quiet sense of readiness hardening within me. The journey so far had been a harsh, necessary introduction to the world of the Hunter Exam, proving that Kenji's relentless focus on foundations – both physical and with Nen – had been precisely what I needed. I was ready to find the Navigator.