Before Departure

Leaving the martial arts hall on the 26th floor, Ryan did not rush down the tower. He did not mention the result of that Nen test to anyone, nor did he display any trace of Nen ability outwardly. The only one who knew he had completed the Water Divination test and had his Conjuration affinity recognized by Wing was himself.

He clearly remembered the words Wing said at parting:

"If you cannot even control Hatsu, do not talk wildly about mastery. First stabilize Ren and Shu, and don't rush to conceive of any abilities. Nen is a blade, but the blade is in your mind, not in your hand."

After that, he sat alone in the corner of a vacant training room almost every night, practicing Shu and Ren. With no light and no sound, he relied solely on his heartbeat, breath, and the rhythm of his consciousness to grope for the stable channel of aura. He constructed a Conjuration-belonging "induction map" inside his body: paths, rhythms, shapes, thickness... Every attempt was recorded as a map.

Yet by day—he continued to fight.

Climbing all the way from the 27th floor to the 100th floor, he consistently maintained his usual fighting style: precise, calm, lacking strong oppression, yet always maintaining total control of the overall situation.

Among the spectators, some called him the "shadowless style"; others said he was a "silent mechanical suppressor." No one could tell whether he was stronger than his opponents, nor could anyone truly describe where he won. But he won, winning every single match.

His battles were not dazzling, yet they left his opponents with almost no room to counterattack. It was not victories achieved by suppressing momentum or crushing strength, but rather stacked one "tactical trap" after another.

"He doesn't look like a martial artist at all," some spectator had said privately in the 87th-floor waiting area. "He looks like... an assassin who sets traps. Before you even realize you've been seen through, he has already buried where the exit is."

By the 100th floor, Heaven's Arena opened a personal channel for him and automatically arranged a dedicated accommodation area. He did not enter applications for higher matches because he knew very well: further up, the 200th floor was another threshold. And there, it was not just a matter of fists and kicks.

He did not plan to open that door yet. He was not in a hurry.

During this period, he fought a total of 11 battles without a single defeat.

The total prize money came to 3.24 million Jenny.

Calculated according to the original economic estimation, it was equivalent to about 2.9 million yen—enough to support one person living a low-key life for a year, or to fund the basic expenses of a family of three for half a year.

He did not squander it.

He quietly transferred two million of it in three installments to his family account. The payee bore his father's name, and the note read only: "Backup."

The remaining 1.24 million he exchanged into portable universal coins and digital Jenny stored-value cards, packing them into a dedicated anti-magnetic coin pouch. That was the complete reserve prepared for the journey he was about to embark on—not for enjoyment, but for survival.

That early morning, as he just came out of the 100th-floor training area, an encrypted internal message popped up on the system bulletin board outside the elevator doors:

"Association numbered channel has opened. The annual unified Hunter qualification examination will officially start on January 7. Assembly location: Zaban City, East Loop Line, underground third floor. Time: 5:00 AM."

He recognized the naming format of this system number—it was an instruction that only those who passed the initial screening would receive. Two months ago, he had uploaded an anonymous examinee packet under the pseudonym "Resta", containing structural deduction questions, psychological model diagrams, physical logic trajectories, and four simulated decision-making tests.

At that moment, he knew he had been chosen.

He did not hesitate.

Instead, he walked back to his room and opened that old bag he never had the heart to completely seal away—inside lay the travel supplies he had prepared for years:

An alloy compression slingshot (an old frame bought and modified six years ago, with elasticity twice that of an ordinary military crossbow);

Two light daggers, a universal disassembly tool, a multi-functional water purification canister, several packs of compressed dry rations;

Three self-configured emergency hemostatic gels;

And his notebook.

On the first page of that notebook, the training routine suggestions left by Wing still remained.

And on the back of that paper, he added a line of characters:

"Ren is the breath of the heart, Shu is the bone of Nen. Without obtaining its form, one must not test its blade."

He closed the bag and stood up.

Time to take a trip home.

Not for farewell, but to confirm:

When I leave, I am no longer "that boy walking out of the mountains."

The road home was not far, but this time he walked it with exceptional stillness.

The city's streets and alleys were just as usual, with winter light pouring through the gaps in the buildings, cutting the ground into patches of thin shadows. Ryan wore an unremarkable grey coat, his backpack as compact and smooth as ever. No one paid him any mind, just as the past him had never actively drawn attention.

The instant the key inserted into the door lock, he heard the bubbling sound of the kettle on the stove inside.

His mother was preparing dinner.

The noise of him opening the door and entering was not loud, yet it still made his mother peer out from the kitchen.

"...You're back?" Her voice was not high, yet it trembled slightly at the tail end.

Ryan nodded, placing his bag in the corner beside the entryway: "Came back to get some things, and to say it."

His mother acknowledged it with a sound and didn't ask any further. She was always like this, never stopping him, yet never speaking of letting go.

Dinner proceeded as usual. He didn't mention the Hunter Exam, and his mother didn't ask. This silence was not unfamiliar between them, yet it wasn't cold—like a kind of mutually defaulted, silent contract.

After dinner, he sorted his carry-on supplies in his room. The equipment already in his bag practically required no replacement, but he still habitually checked every seam and whether every buckle was loose. He inserted the exchanged Jenny cards into the side compartment, separated by value. Every budget had an independent note.

He wrote on a notebook page:

"Zaban City transportation route: Line A is the fastest, but Line B is hidden. Daily requirements: accommodation 25,000, meals 10,000, reserved emergency expenses 12,000."

This was the way of Conjuration. Not fighting by inspiration, but surviving by planning.

Outside the window, the sky grew late, and the sound of bowls and chopsticks colliding came from the kitchen as his mother washed the dishes.

He walked to the doorway, looked at her back, and finally spoke: "I'm setting off tomorrow morning. You don't need to see me off."

Her hand paused slightly, and she turned to glance at him, her gaze complex: "Is it... the matter of the exam?"

"Yeah."

She shed no tears, nor did she urge him to stay. She merely put the bowl down gently, dried her hands, and approached him.

"You don't tell us where you're going, you don't tell us what you're preparing to do, and you decided everything all by yourself..." Her tone was calm, yet carried a trace of hard-to-conceal dampness.

"But you are no longer a child." She took a deep breath. "I know stopping you is useless either way."

"Only—" She paused. "Don't be like your father, hiding everything in your heart. Your dad, though he doesn't say it, actually figured out long ago what you've been practicing all these years."

Ryan was startled, then lowered his eyelids: "I thought I hid it very well."

"You return fewer times, but each time the mud on your soles, the calluses on your knuckles, the wear marks on your shoulder straps... I am your mother, I can tell."

He was silent for a moment, then said solemnly: "This is the path I chose. I won't let you down."

His mother's eye rims reddened, yet she did not cry.

"I know. From childhood you were never a child who lived by emotions."

"Yet you are also human—you shouldn't have to carry it all by yourself."

Those words were like the wind, like a needle, and like a clap of thunder echoing after the rain.

Ryan did not respond, only quietly pasting the Nen cultivation suggestion slip he had brought back from the tower onto the head of his bed when the night was deep and quiet, reading through it one last time, and then neatly putting it away.

Five in the morning.

The city was still asleep, the first bus had not yet departed, and even pedestrians were sparse on the streets. He put on his coat, shouldered his pack, and picked up that slingshot pouch he had used for years from the entryway. The door closed gently.

Just as he walked to the alley entrance, a shout rang out from behind: "Ryan!"

He turned back.

His mother stood at the doorway of their home, draped in a thick coat, with red marks brought by the cold wind on her face, yet standing extremely straight.

"That sentence your dad couldn't bring himself to say, I'll say it for him—" Her voice carried a trace of hoarseness.

"When you return, if you get hurt, don't push yourself."

Ryan nodded gently, his voice not loud, yet extremely clear:

"I promise you—I will return with a complete self."

Then he turned around, stepping onto the journey leading to Zaban City.

No guard of honor, no tears.

Only his resolute pace, and that vow hidden deep within his chest:

"I want to become a hunter. Not for the approval of others, but so I myself can stand at the deepest part of that world—without retreating ever again."