Storms Through the Night

The running entered its seventh hour.

The moisture beneath the grass thickened, and the air felt like a wet towel without holes wrapped around their heads, making it hard to breathe. The view ahead blurred slightly—not entirely from fog, but from the dampness unique to the wetlands, slowly rising against their eyelids.

Not far away, a muffled peal of thunder rolled through the clouds.

"...Is it going to rain?" a candidate murmured.

Before the words had faded, the gray at the horizon seemed to be coated in lead. The sun, which had not been visible for long, was completely obscured. Then, slanting threads of rain began to fall from high above.

At first, they were only sparse, thin lines, barely noticeable as they landed on the grass blades. But soon, they grew denser, forming a silent curtain that shrouded the entire running route.

It was not a downpour, but it was wet enough. Slippery enough.

The grass roots on the ground had already been loose. Now, with the added moisture, the terrain had become like flagstones coated in soapy water. One careless step could send someone slipping.

"Ah—!"

A cry came from ahead. A candidate missed his footing during a sharp turn and tumbled down the grassy slope beside him, rolling twice before stopping. Shallow cuts appeared on his face and arms.

"How can there still be room for uphill running in this rain... This is practically a trap!"

It was not a trap set by anyone, but a problem caused naturally by the terrain and rain combining. The wetlands had always been complicated. Now, they had simply become more real.

Ryan did not change direction at that moment, but he instinctively shifted a light layer of "Ten" into his feet, ensuring that even while in Zetsu, he could steady his footing as much as possible.

His rhythm did not change.

No one knew what he was thinking, and no one noticed that before the rain had begun to fall, he had quietly bypassed the central grassy hill and chosen a higher, firmer route along the slope.

He was not the first person to change routes, but he was the first to realize that the slippery area was about to spread.

He observed the direction in which the grass roots bent and used the slant of the rainwater runoff to judge which areas would become slippery first and which could remain stable for a while longer.

The wind was not strong. Only the rain was dense.

He knew it would not become a disaster, but it would be enough to create a break in everyone's rhythm.

That meant people would fall, hesitate, and retreat. And once that happened—the running pack would break apart.

He silently turned sideways and detoured along a narrow path behind a short tree, avoiding the exposed strip of grass roots ahead. No one saw the small movement.

But seconds later, a candidate preparing to sprint suddenly saw two people ahead slip and fall one after the other. He immediately stopped. "Don't rush! It's slippery!"

"It's the same over there! The water's pooling downhill!"

"Look at the grass under your feet—they're bent! Those are all water lines!!"

The candidates behind them began changing direction in panic.

Then someone spotted Ryan—the boy who never spoke to anyone, yet had never fallen. He was stepping along the edge of a slightly raised crack in the grass, cutting diagonally toward the left.

"That guy hasn't fallen... Did he go that way?"

"I'll follow him."

The person who said that did not truly want to follow him. He only hoped to find a route where his feet would not slip.

He just did not want to fall again.

Ryan heard the words, "I'll follow him," but gave no response. He did not even look back. Nor did he deliberately slow down, maintaining that steady rhythm, almost mechanical, as he continued onward.

He knew—the rain was only temporary, but if his rhythm was disrupted now, he would instead fall into even more dangerous confusion.

It was not that he could not run through it himself. It was that other people would crash into him in their panic.

All he had to do was establish a stable rhythm that others could use, letting the chaos recede just a little.

The rain continued, and more and more droplets gathered on the grass roots they had stepped over.

But he never stepped on wet leaves, only on intersections of branches and grass roots. He did not travel along the central route, instead advancing around the thinnest parts of the crowd.

Amid the rain, Ryan inconspicuously passed one fallen candidate after another. He did not help them, but neither did he ignore them.

He merely went around them—and with each detour, left behind a landing rhythm that those behind him could imitate.

The running was not over yet.

But this rain was enough to filter out those who only knew how to follow and did not dare to judge for themselves.

And Ryan belonged to neither of those categories.

The rain continued to fall, growing denser and denser.

Yet it did not cause a catastrophic collapse. It merely exposed the grassland's true nature completely. The ground that had seemed level began to reveal slight depressions under the rain's wash. The slopes, protruding stones, rotten muddy roots hidden beneath the grass blades were all washed clean, becoming slick and hard to stand on.

The candidates began to lose order.

Someone had intended to sprint, only to fall on a small slope and drag down the two people following behind him. Someone else avoided the main route and tried to take a shortcut, only to sink waist-deep into a patch of grassy marsh softened by the rain.

"I'm stuck! There's a pit here!"

"Stay away from there! All the water's collecting over there!"

But shouting was one thing; no one truly knew where to go.

Because in these wetlands, every route that had originally been passable had been redefined by this rain.

Ryan slowly descended the grassy slope, using his left hand to brace against a low branch while keeping his feet on slightly raised patches of ground.

He knew that stopping at a time like this was the least sensible thing to do. Being seen, surrounded, or asked for directions could all expose his rhythm and position.

But this time, he still paused for a second in front of a narrow stone block.

It was not to wait for anyone, nor was it to make way for others.

It was because ahead—someone was about to make a wrong choice.

A young candidate, around thirteen or fourteen years old, short in stature and covered in rainwater and sweat, was trying to leap from a descending grassy slope onto a patch of stone. He was probably trying to save a step, but he had missed something—beneath that stone surface was a runoff ditch concealed under the grass.

If he jumped, it would not just be a matter of falling. His foot would sink in, and he would likely plunge into the mud and water, possibly getting injured outright.

Ryan made no sound.

He merely shifted his left foot from its current landing spot to the side—half a step off the original line, landing precisely on solid ground at the corner of the stone surface—an obvious correct foothold.

The boy saw it.

He paused instinctively, drawing back the foot he had been about to use to jump. He looked again at Ryan's footing, then quickly turned and went around the crack in the grass.

There were no words, no thanks.

But Ryan did not look back, either.

It was not help, nor was it guidance—merely something done in passing.

Rainwater ran down the side of his neck. His collar had long since been soaked through, yet he never turned his head, focusing only on continuing up the slope.

The wind blew from behind his right side, carrying a few faint whispers of, "You can go this way." He paid them no attention, but he knew several people had already begun imitating his footwork to adjust their rhythm.

He had not intended for anyone to learn from him, but he never avoided being seen.

Because what was truly worth borrowing was never who he was, but—the direction beneath his feet.

On the other side of the examination route's main road, Gon and Killua were slowly making their way uphill.

The two of them were barely affected. Gon even remarked, "This rain actually packed the grass down a little."

Killua did not look back. He merely flicked his wrist, shaking the water from his sleeve. "Don't slip. I don't have time to carry you."

Leorio was breathing heavily, and after Kurapika glanced over the terrain, he led him around along a grassy ridge uphill.

Their position was close to the main road, within the primary view of most of the examiners. But they did not know—on another route, another group was running to a different rhythm.

The rain gradually weakened, but the wind blew straighter.

The fog began to close in, and several upright, marker-like short trees appeared at the horizon. That was the Association's preset buffer zone before the finish line.

Five hundred meters remained.

Ryan did not accelerate. He adjusted his breathing and returned to a standard four-beat rhythm.

Behind him, the boy who had just detoured around the runoff ditch had completely lost him. But footsteps remained—meaning no one had fallen again.

That was enough.

It was not about saving people.

It was about letting them run a little longer without being eliminated.

Doing something like that without changing his own rhythm did not count as unnecessary.

That was Ryan's current understanding of "resources."