Before Departure

After leaving the Martial Arts Hall on the 26th floor, Ryan did not hurry down the tower. He told no one the result of that Nen test, nor had he shown any trace of a Nen Ability in public. The only person who knew he had completed the Water Divination test and been recognized by Wing as having Conjuration tendencies was himself.

He clearly remembered what Wing had said before they parted:

"If you cannot even control your Hatsu, do not speak of mastery. First stabilize your Ren and Ten. Do not rush to imagine some ability. Nen is a blade, but that blade is in your mind, not your hand."

After that, he spent nearly every night alone in a corner of an unused training room, practicing Ten and Ren. There was no light, no sound. He relied only on his heartbeat, breathing, and the rhythm of his consciousness to explore stable pathways for his aura. Within his body, he constructed a "sensory map" belonging to Conjuration: routes, rhythms, shapes, thicknesses... Every attempt was recorded as a diagram.

But during the day—he kept fighting.

From the 27th floor all the way to the 100th, he maintained his usual fighting style: precise, calm, not overwhelmingly oppressive, yet always in control of the entire match.

Among the spectators, some called it the "Shadowless Style"; others called him a "silent mechanical suppressor." No one could tell whether he was truly stronger than his opponents, and no one could accurately describe how he won. But he won. Every match.

His fights were not spectacular, yet his opponents could barely strike back. His victories did not come from overwhelming presence or crushing strength, but from one "tactical trap" after another piled together.

"He doesn't look like a fighter at all," a spectator had said quietly in the waiting area on the 87th floor. "He looks like... a trap-setting killer. Before you realize he has seen through you, he has already decided where your escape route is."

When he reached the 100th floor, Heaven's Arena opened a personal channel for him and automatically assigned him a private lodging area. He did not apply for higher-floor matches, because he knew very well that the 200th floor was another threshold. And up there, it was no longer simply a matter of fists and feet.

He was not ready to open that door yet. He was in no hurry.

During that time, he fought eleven matches without a single defeat.

His total prize money came to 3.24 million Jenny.

By the original story's economic estimates, that was equivalent to roughly 2.9 million yen—enough for one person to live modestly for a year, or to cover a family of three's basic expenses for half a year.

He did not squander it.

He divided two million into three transfers and quietly sent it to his family account. The recipient bore his father's name, and the note said only: "For emergencies."

He converted the remaining 1.24 million into portable universal coins and digital Jenny stored-value cards, then packed them into a specialized anti-magnetic coin pouch. That was all the reserve he had prepared for the journey ahead—not for comfort, but for survival.

That morning, just as he emerged from the training area on the 100th floor, a coded internal message appeared on the system bulletin board outside the elevator:

"Association ID channel activated. The annual unified Hunter qualification examination will officially begin on January 7. Assembly point: Zaban City, East Ring Line, underground level three. Time: 5:00 a.m."

He recognized the naming format of that system ID—it was an instruction received only by those who had passed the preliminary screening. Two months earlier, he had uploaded an anonymous applicant package under the alias "Resta," containing structural deduction problems, psychological model diagrams, physical-capability logic tracks, and four simulated decision-making tests.

At that moment, he knew he had been selected.

He did not hesitate.

Instead, he returned to his room and opened the old bag he had never been willing to seal away completely. Inside were the travel supplies he had prepared over many years:

An alloy compression slingshot, built from an old frame he had bought and modified six years ago, with twice the elasticity of an ordinary military crossbow;

Two light daggers, a universal dismantling tool, a multifunction water-purification canister, and several portions of compressed rations;

Three emergency hemostatic gels he had formulated himself;

And his notebook.

On the first page of that notebook were still the cultivation procedure recommendations Wing had left behind.

And on the back of that page, he had added a line:

"Ren is the breath of the heart; Ten is the bone of Nen. Before its form is attained, do not test its edge."

He closed the bag and rose to his feet.

Time to go home.

Not to say goodbye, but to make sure of one thing:

When I leave, I will no longer be "that boy who came out of the mountains."

The road home was not far, but this time, he walked it with unusual quietness.

The city's streets and alleys were as they had always been. Winter light spilled through gaps between the buildings, cutting the ground into patches of thin shadow. Ryan wore an inconspicuous gray coat, and his backpack was as compact and neat as ever. No one noticed him, just as he had never sought attention in the past.

The moment his key entered the lock, he heard the kettle burbling on the stove inside.

His mother was preparing dinner.

The sound of him entering was not loud, but it still made his mother lean out from the kitchen.

"...You're back?" Her voice was soft, but it trembled slightly at the end.

Ryan nodded and set his bag in the corner beside the entryway. "I came back to get some things, and to let you know."

His mother answered softly and did not ask further. She had always been like this. She never stopped him, but she never said she was letting him go, either.

Dinner proceeded as usual. He did not mention the Hunter Exam, and his mother did not ask. That silence was not unfamiliar between them, yet it was not cold—it was like a tacit, wordless agreement.

After dinner, he organized his supplies in his room. The equipment already in his bag hardly needed replacing, but he still habitually checked every stitch and every buckle for looseness. He slipped the exchanged Jenny cards into the side compartment, sorted by value. Every budget item had its own separate note.

He wrote in his notebook:

"Zaban City transport routes: Line A is fastest, but Line B is more discreet. Daily requirements: lodging 25,000, meals 10,000, emergency reserve 12,000."

That was the Conjuration way. Not fighting through inspiration, but surviving through planning.

The sky outside gradually darkened. The clatter of bowls and chopsticks came from the kitchen as his mother washed the dishes.

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

Her hand paused slightly. She turned to look at him, her expression complicated. "Is it... about the exam?"

"Yes."

She did not cry, nor did she try to persuade him to stay. She merely set down the bowl gently, dried her hands, and walked over to him.

"You don't tell us where you're going. You don't tell us what you're planning to do. You just decide everything on your own..." Her tone was calm, but there was a faint dampness she could not quite hide.

"But you're not a child anymore." She took a deep breath. "I know there is no use trying to stop you."

"It's just—" She paused. "Don't be like your father and keep everything buried in your heart. Your dad never says it, but he noticed long ago that you've been training in something all these years."

Ryan froze for a moment, then lowered his eyes. "I thought I hid it well."

"You don't come home often, but every time, the mud on your shoe soles, the calluses on your knuckles, the wear marks on your shoulder straps... I'm your mother. I can tell."

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

His mother's eyes reddened, but she did not cry.

"I know. Since you were little, you were never a child who lived by emotion."

"But you're still human—you shouldn't have to hold everything up on your own."

Those words were like wind, like needles, and like a soundless clap of thunder after rain.

Ryan did not answer. Late that night, when all was quiet, he silently pinned the Nen training recommendations he had brought back from the tower above his bed, looked through them one last time, then put them away neatly.

Five in the morning.

The city was still asleep. The first buses had not yet begun running, and even pedestrians were scarce on the streets. He put on his coat, slung on his bag, and took the slingshot case he had used for years from the entryway. The door closed softly behind him.

He had just reached the mouth of the alley when a voice called from behind him, "Ryan!"

He turned around.

His mother stood at the front door, wrapped in a thick coat. Her face bore red marks from the cold wind, yet she stood perfectly straight.

"I'll say the words your father can't bring himself to say—" Her voice was slightly hoarse.

"When you come back, if you're hurt, don't force yourself to endure it."

Ryan nodded gently. His voice was quiet, but utterly clear:

"I promise you—I'll come back whole."

Then he turned and set out on the journey to Zaban City.

There was no ceremony, no tears.

Only his steady footsteps, and the vow hidden deep within his chest:

I will become a Hunter. Not for anyone else's approval, but so that I can stand in the deepest reaches of that world—and never retreat again.