The floor seemed to drop away beneath me. Hantā Raisensu. Hunter License. The two words echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of my mind, blotting out the quiet sounds of the house, the gentle rhythm of Mom's needlework, the crackle of the oil lamp. My tiny world didn't just tilt; it spun violently, threatening to throw me off entirely. It felt like the moment before a car crash Anon had once narrowly avoided – senses hyper-alert, time stretching unnaturally, the mundane suddenly charged with terrifying potential. The License. Not just a license, the License – that small rectangle of plastic, deceptively simple, yet holding the key to unimaginable privileges, dangers, and adventures in the intricate world Yoshihiro Togashi had meticulously crafted. A world I had devoured, analyzed, and escaped into from the crushing mediocrity of Anon's existence.
And Kenji. My Dad. This quiet, unassuming carpenter with the perpetually serious face and hands perpetually dusted with fine sawdust... he spoke of possessing one? Or at least, having access to one, using it casually to smooth passage through guarded territory?
The implications didn't just crash; they detonated. A tidal wave of understanding – terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure – washed over me. This wasn't merely a world like Hunter x Hunter. This was it. Gon, Killua, Kurapika, Leorio – they were potentially real people, living or yet to be born. The monumental Hunter Association, the intricate power system of Nen, the bizarre and lethal Magical Beasts roaming hidden corners of the globe, the existential threats posed by the Phantom Troupe, the horrifying Chimera Ants... all real. All existing somewhere beyond the peaceful confines of our rural home. An electric current, sizzling with pure terror and giddy wish fulfillment, shot through my small frame, making my fingers tingle. The ultimate isekai fantasy. And simultaneously, the ultimate survival nightmare.
My perception of Dad – Kenji – warped, recalibrating in an instant. I stared at him, really looked at him across the low table. Every controlled, economic movement he made as he folded the map, every time I'd seen him effortlessly heft timbers that should have strained him, the focused, almost impenetrable look that sometimes settled deep in his dark eyes – was it just the quiet competence of a master craftsman? Or was it the ingrained discipline of someone trained, tested, honed by challenges I couldn't begin to fathom? Was the faint aura of seriousness not just his personality, but the quiet confidence of a man who had faced genuine danger and survived? Was he an active Hunter, living undercover? Retired? Had he merely passed the grueling Exam once, long ago, and chosen this quiet life? How strong is he? Does he know Nen? Did he ever tell Mom? The questions swarmed like angry wasps in my skull, demanding answers my toddler body and still-developing vocabulary couldn't possibly hope to extract.
But the need to know burned. I had to try.
Subtlety was paramount. A four-year-old launching into questions about secret organizations and deadly exams would raise alarms I couldn't afford. Think like Anon, I told myself, be unassuming. I needed to probe gently, use the limited tools at my disposal.
A few days later, an opportunity arose. Kenji was sitting on the veranda, organizing receipts and documents into a worn wooden box – his 'important things' box. Taking a deep breath, I toddled over, adopting my most innocent expression, and pointed a chubby finger towards the jumble of papers. "Dad," I began, carefully selecting simple words from my rapidly expanding lexicon. "Card? See card? Shiny... card?"
Kenji glanced down, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slight smile. He reached out and ruffled my red hair – an affectionate gesture I was now hyper-aware of, a constant, visible reminder of my own incongruity in this family. "Cards?" he chuckled softly. "Dad has lots of cards, Kess. Business cards, cards for wood suppliers, discount cards." He fished out a simple, flimsy merchant's discount card from a local hardware supplier and showed it to me. Thick paper, faded print. Definitely not a Hunter License. Was he genuinely misunderstanding my toddler babble? Or was it a deliberate, skillful redirection? The ambiguity was frustrating.
I pressed slightly, recalling the specific word I'd overheard him use. "Dad... Hantā?" (Hunter?)
He paused then, the rhythmic sorting of papers stopping for a beat. A flicker of surprise registered deep in his brown eyes before being instantly smoothed over, replaced by mild, paternal amusement. "Hantā?" he repeated, testing the word as if surprised I'd latched onto it. "Hmm. Where did little Kess hear that word? Dad is a carpenter, remember? I build things." He tapped the sturdy wooden railing of the veranda for emphasis. "Wood," he said firmly, the Japanese word grounding the conversation back in the mundane. It felt like a perfectly executed deflection. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the simple truth – the license belonged to a past he no longer identified with.
My covert attempts to locate the actual license proved equally futile. Driven by that consuming, burning curiosity, I'd sometimes seize opportunities – when Kenji left the wooden box momentarily unattended, or when the lid of the large storage chest where he kept older tools and belongings was slightly ajar. I'd stretch on tiptoe, tiny fingers fumbling with worn latches or trying to peer into shadowed depths. But my reach was laughably short, my motor skills clumsy, and inevitably, Hana's gentle hand would close over mine, steering me away. "Ah-ah, Kess," she'd murmur, her voice soft but firm. "Those are Dad's important work things. Not for playing. Come, let's see if the carrots in the garden need watering." My inner adult, the frustrated Anon, would silently fume at the sheer, infuriating helplessness of being trapped in this small, incapable body. But outwardly, I could only allow myself to be led away, the mystery remaining stubbornly locked away.
Life, oblivious to my internal HxH-fueled existential crisis, marched on relentlessly. I was still, undeniably, a toddler. New words became sentences, sentences became conversations. I mastered the complex art of running across the yard without tripping over my own feet (most of the time). I diligently helped Hana pluck weeds from around the strange, vibrant vegetables in her garden, learning their names and uses. I learned the faces and names of our few nearby neighbors, the general layout of the closest market town's stalls, the comfortable, predictable rhythm of our quiet, rural life. The duality remained jarring, often surreal. One minute I'd be celebrating the monumental achievement of stacking six wooden blocks without them toppling, feeling a genuine surge of toddler pride; the next, my mind would be contemplating the philosophical differences between Enhancers and Manipulators, or recalling the visceral horror of the Chimera Ant arc with a clarity that made my stomach churn.
Small confirmations that this was the HxH world continued to trickle in, like breadcrumbs dropped by a careless god. Hana once served a hearty stew she called "Horned Rabbit Stew." When I asked what that was, Kenji, with a patient smile, sketched a rabbit for me on a scrap of wood – a creature that looked remarkably normal except for the pair of distinctly curled, ram-like horns sprouting from its forehead. Another time, Kenji returned from a trip to a coastal town grumbling about the exorbitant price demanded by a certified Navigator for passage beyond the main shipping lanes. "Charging triple just because it's 'Sea Serpent season'," he'd muttered to Hana over dinner. "Bandits, the lot of them." Magical Beasts treated as seasonal nuisances, specialized, high-risk professions like Navigators – it all fit seamlessly, terrifyingly, into the established lore. My certainty solidified from frantic suspicion into a cold, hard fact lodged deep in my gut.
By the time I was nearing my fourth birthday (or perhaps my forty-sixth, depending on how you counted), the initial shockwaves had subsided, settling into a constant, underlying awareness that colored my entire perception. I was Kess, a red-haired, green-eyed child living in what appeared to be a quiet, rural corner of the world depicted in Hunter x Hunter. My quiet father might be significantly more than he seemed. My future path was a terrifying blank, shrouded in the potential dangers of this world. But the first step, the only step I could conceivably take right now, felt blindingly clear, echoing the relentless drive of the fictional boy whose journey started it all.
I needed to get stronger. Physically. Mentally. In any way this small body would allow.
That afternoon, while Hana was inside preparing lunch, the rhythmic sounds of chopping drifting through the open door, I stood barefoot in the dusty patch of yard we used for playing. Sunlight warmed my skin. I took a deep breath, trying to center myself, mimicking poses I vaguely recalled from manga panels depicting basic martial arts stances. I tried balancing on one leg, arms outstretched, feeling the immediate wobble in my ankle, the protesting burn in my underdeveloped thigh muscles after only a few seconds. I attempted to lift rocks that were just slightly too heavy, my arms straining, knuckles white, managing only a slight budge before dropping them with a grunt. It was clumsy. It was pitifully ineffective. To anyone watching, I must have looked utterly ridiculous.
But inside, the HxH fanatic, the reincarnated Anon, the being now known as Kess, was deadly serious. This wasn't play. This was the beginning.
Patience. Learn. Observe. And train. My second life, fraught with unbelievable peril and possibility, had truly begun.