When death came, it was nothing like people imagined. There was no life flashing before his eyes, no white light lifting his soul, no merciful summons from a god.
At the instant Ryan's consciousness ended, something seemed to wrench it from his body. He had no time to check whether the last line of code in his head had been saved before darkness swallowed him whole. He had no time to think, much less the strength to struggle. Like a machine cut off from power, he fell silent in an instant.
But he had not truly "disappeared."
In the void after his consciousness was torn free, he could still sense an indescribable feeling of existence clinging to him. He could neither see nor hear, yet he seemed to float in some strange place between death and new life.
Then, after the chaos, light appeared.
It was neither fierce nor particularly bright, but it stood out sharply against the darkness. Like the source of some unseen pull, it slowly drew him in one direction. The pull was gentle yet irresistible, like a tide deep within the womb, or the first heartbeat before birth.
Then came a suffocating pressure.
He could feel something soft and heavy enclosing him. Amniotic fluid, a womb, walls of flesh... He remembered those words, but he could not control his body or even open his eyes. A fierce instinct urged him to break free, yet all he could do was endure every squeeze, contraction, and push. He heard muffled, distant sounds: a woman shouting, machines beeping, and a cry—his own cry, sharp and helpless as it burst into the air.
The moment his consciousness reconnected with his body was utterly unfamiliar.
Ryan felt his skin for the first time—wet, soft, far too sensitive. Air entered his lungs, and he coughed violently like someone breathing for the first time. But he could not control his voice. He did not even know whether he could say, "I'm still alive."
His eyelids were too heavy. Through the narrow slit he managed to open and the blur of tears, he saw a round face with tears at the corners of its eyes and a smile on its lips. A woman was drawing him into her arms. Her embrace was warm, carrying the scent of milk; another hand, rough and strong, wiped blood and amniotic fluid from his face. It belonged to a man.
He heard them speak in an unfamiliar language, yet somehow understood every word:
"It's a boy... We have a son."
"He's crying. Thank goodness. He's strong."
In that moment, Ryan realized the truth—he had been reborn.
More precisely, he was alive again, in an entirely different world. Not a digital world or a dream, but a real, tangible one. The air had warmth, sounds had depth, and his body had weight. He had been given time again.
This body was terribly fragile. He could not roll over or lift his head; even crying was a reaction beyond his control. He could only let the young couple wrap him in a blanket, cradle him, soothe him, and rock him gently. Pressed against a chest, he felt it rise and fall with each breath. Warmth came to him, and with it a sense of safety, but he could not respond.
The next few days passed in a long haze.
His moments of clarity came in fragments, like glints of light between shards of glass. Each day, he could stay lucid for only a few minutes. Most of the time, he felt trapped inside a heavy skull, constrained by an infant's developing brain and capable of little more than instinctive reactions. He tried to focus and move his muscles, but his neural pathways had not fully formed. He could grasp his mother's finger, but not control his grip; he could hear his father talking with the neighbors, but retain only a sentence or two at a time.
But Ryan never gave up.
He treated this helpless infancy as a necessary stage of settling in. His consciousness was a spark that first had to make a home inside this frail body—to adapt, to hide, and above all, to grow.
Several weeks later, he finally stayed steadily awake for more than ten minutes and managed to remember the layout around him and the rhythm of each day. He grew familiar with their modest home: an old television stood in the corner, its lower-right frame peeling away; cooking fumes drifted from the kitchen into the bedroom every evening; and outside the window, he sometimes heard the low rumble of transport trucks and the distant echo of advertisements from some tower.
What truly shook him came one night.
His father sat down on the living room sofa and turned on the television. During an advertisement, a name appeared at the bottom of the screen—one so familiar it sent a chill down his spine:
—Heaven's Arena.
Ryan's eyes flew wide.
It was no mistake, no similar name, no hidden reference.
It was that world.
The images on the television struck Ryan's mind like a hammer.
The tower rose from the ground, its glass walls reflecting the sunset and the signal mast at its peak pointing skyward like a spear. An announcer excitedly introduced the "two hundred and twenty-first challenge match." Two fighters crossed paths on camera, fists and feet whipping through the air. The stands shook, and the crowd surged with excitement without descending into chaos.
Heaven's Arena was unmistakably where the strong first stepped into the spotlight in that world.
Ryan did not lose himself in shock. Instead, he grew strangely calm. Confirming which world he was in had been his first priority since awakening. Now that the answer was certain, the restless uncertainty within him suddenly fell quiet.
He had been reborn into the world of Hunter x Hunter.
That meant more than facing a world far more complex and dangerous than his old one. It meant he could not afford to grow up the "normal" way. He knew better than anyone that this was no sheltered setting where everyone could become a protagonist. Hundreds of thousands signed up for the Hunter Exam every year, yet only one in ten thousand truly qualified. And Nen Ability was no part of a basic education. Learning it meant crossing a threshold of blood and fire.
He had to start preparing now.
His body was still developing, and his brain remained limited, but neither stopped him from carrying out the most basic plan:
Hide his true self, observe the world, build his foundations, and improve steadily.
To that end, he deliberately seemed less intelligent. He stopped staring at the television with an attention span beyond his years when his parents were around. At meals, he learned to chew more slowly and smile more foolishly. When his mother cooed at him in a baby voice, he answered with vague, slow sounds.
People needed to think he was "just a normal child."
His parents soon relaxed. His mother often said, "Ryan isn't a particularly naughty child. He's quite well behaved." His father would add with a laugh, "Just a little too quiet sometimes, like a tiny grown-up."
To Ryan, that was the best praise he could receive. His disguise was working.
In private, he began trying basic exercises beyond what an infant would normally do. He repeatedly tried to roll over beside his bed, at least fifty times a day, until he could lie on his side, turn onto his back, and sit up without help. He gripped the bed rail with his small hands, gradually training his grip and the steadiness of his arms. When his mother was out of the room, he tried walking along the wall. Even if he could take only two steps, he kept his rhythm and balance steady.
He knew these exercises would not make him strong overnight. That was precisely why every bit of progress mattered to him.
Day after day, he studied the objects around him—the coffee table, the lamp, the placement of the electrical outlets—and built a mental picture of the room. He listened to television broadcasts, gradually picked out the basic rules of the language, and began matching written characters on the screen with their sounds. Bit by bit, he built his own map of the world.
Most importantly, he never stopped thinking.
When had Nen first become known to the public? Did the upper floors of Heaven's Arena truly bar people who could not use it, as the rumors claimed? Did the Hunter Association allow minors to register? Were there signs before a Nen Ability awakened? He kept a list of questions in his mind and planned to test them one by one over the coming years.
He divided his growth plan into four stages:
Stage One: Physical development and cognitive training (infancy to age five)
Stage Two: Information gathering and basic tactical planning (ages five to ten)
Stage Three: Preparation for awakening a Nen Ability and practical combat tests (age ten until the Hunter Exam)
Stage Four: Step onto the stage, develop a system of Nen techniques, and enter the world of combat (when the events he knew began)
This was no idle fantasy.
Ryan knew the world of Hunter x Hunter was far more complicated than the average adventure story. Nen Abilities did not awaken through sheer will, nor was there only one path to becoming stronger. He would not assume that memories of his past life would let him soar straight to the top. He intended to claim every scrap of strength he could, step by step—from an infant learning to grip with his hands to the day he could wield a weapon he had conjured himself.
Every night as his mother lulled him to sleep, she liked to say, "My baby grew a little taller today. Hurry up and grow big."
Ryan kept his eyes closed and breathed softly. He did not answer.
But in his heart, his answer never changed:
I'm already on my way.
Before you continue