Turning six wasn't marked by a party or special gifts, but by a cold, hard realization that slammed into me one quiet afternoon while I was meticulously copying runes onto my wooden board. I was tracing the symbol for 'six' when a memory fragment from Anon's HxH obsession surfaced with chilling clarity: Killua Zoldyck. By age six, raised in the art of assassination, Killua had already mastered techniques I could barely comprehend, endured torturous training to build resistances, and possessed lethal speed and skill. Six years old. Heavens Arena. Poisons. Electricity. Assassination.
A wave of icy dread washed over me, starkly contrasting with the warm sunlight slanting across the floor. I looked down at my own small, clumsy hands, still struggling to perfectly form the angular runes. I was Kess Kobayashi, age six. I could run without falling most of the time. I was learning basic arithmetic. The gulf between Killua's deadly proficiency and my own fragile existence wasn't just staggering; it felt like an existential threat. In a world that contained people like Killua, families like the Zoldycks, organizations like the Phantom Troupe, and horrors yet unknown... my current pace wasn't just insufficient, it was suicidal.
That chilling comparison lit a fire beneath me, burning away any lingering complacency. My previous 'training' efforts felt laughably inadequate, like children playing pretend. This wasn't about getting a little stronger; this was about survival. I began throwing myself into the physical guidance Dad offered with a new, almost desperate ferocity that seemed to catch his attention. When we ran the trails behind our house, I pushed my small legs until my lungs felt like they were tearing, ignoring the stitch in my side, focusing solely on keeping his steady retreating back in sight for just a few steps longer than last time. Taste of dust and sweat filled my mouth. During the balance exercises on the fallen log Kenji used as a makeshift beam, I fought for every extra second, muscles screaming in protest, sweat dripping into my eyes, refusing to fall until my legs physically gave out. The simple strengthening exercises – push-ups against a low stool, lifting heavier rocks – became internal battles, gritting my teeth against the burn, pushing for one more repetition until my arms trembled uncontrollably and collapsed beneath me.
Dad watched this frantic escalation with his usual quiet, assessing gaze. One afternoon, after I'd pushed myself to near-vomiting exhaustion during running drills, he placed a steadying hand on my shoulder as I gasped for air. "You are eager today, Kess," he remarked, his voice calm, though I thought I saw a flicker of something – concern? curiosity? – deep in his eyes before it vanished. "Good spirit. But remember the foundation. A house built too quickly on weak ground will fall in the first storm." He didn't discourage the raw effort, but he began subtly adjusting my routines, demonstrating proper form with painstaking patience, explaining why controlled breathing mattered, ensuring I stretched thoroughly to avoid injury. His calm presence became an anchor, preventing my frantic internal urgency from leading to reckless self-harm. Did he suspect the true, terrified source of my sudden drive? Impossible to say. His serene expression remained an unreadable mask.
Alongside Dad's structured guidance, my secret sessions intensified, carved out of the pre-dawn chill or the deep twilight shadows after Mom thought I was asleep. I'd slip out into the cool, damp air, the world quiet except for crickets or the first birdsong. I attempted more complex movements gleaned from hazy memories of HxH manga panels – trying to mimic acrobatic flips (mostly resulting in painful thuds on the packed earth), practicing rudimentary hand-to-hand stances that felt awkward and unbalanced on my child's frame. I scrambled higher into the sturdy oak tree at the edge of the yard, testing my nerve, jumping from branches that made my stomach swoop, collecting scrapes and bruises I learned to quickly wash and hide. My meditation attempts grew longer, more focused. I'd sit cross-legged on the cool ground, breathing deeply, desperately trying to sense something beyond the mundane – the subtle flow of 'aura' the characters manipulated, that inner energy, that spark of potential. But there was only ever the familiar thrum of my own pulse, the air filling my lungs, the rustle of leaves. Frustration gnawed at me, a bitter counterpoint to the relentless determination that forced me back out there day after day. Is it even possible for me? Or am I just a normal kid in a dangerous world?
Dad's other lessons continued, becoming increasingly nuanced. He taught me more intricate carpentry skills, patiently guiding my hands as I learned to use a small plane or chisel with precision. His instructions in tracking, observation, and environmental awareness also deepened. We ventured further into the surrounding woods, Dad teaching me to move with minimal sound, identifying the subtle differences between deer and boar tracks, pointing out which berries were safe and which induced painful cramps, showing me how to read the age of a trail by the disturbance of fallen leaves. "A good carpenter respects the forest, understands its language," he'd explain simply. But filtered through my HxH knowledge, these felt like vital survival skills, potentially early lessons in Zetsu or environmental awareness crucial for any Hunter. Is he teaching me to be a carpenter, or something more?
One cool evening, sitting indoors by the lamp, he introduced a new exercise, pulling out a soft cloth blindfold. "A test for your senses, Kess," he said calmly. He had me sit straight, blindfolded, the darkness abrupt and total. Then, he began placing different objects into my outstretched hands. Common things, mostly related to his work or our home. "Tell me what it is," he instructed, his voice steady. "Don't guess. Focus. Use your hands, your nose, even your ears if they can help. Feel the shape, the weight, the texture, the temperature. Ignore what your mind thinks it should be, perceive only what is."
Closing my eyes beneath the blindfold, I forced myself to breathe slowly, deeply, pushing away racing thoughts, just as he'd taught me during breathing exercises. I focused my entire awareness on my fingertips, my palms, the air currents against my skin. The rough, splintery bark of pine. The surprising weight and smooth coolness of a river stone. The distinct, oily metallic tang and sharp edge of his favorite hand-plane blade. The porous, lightweight feel of a dried mushroom. The faint, specific sweetness of cedar wood, identifiable by scent alone. It was an intense exercise in sensory focus, demanding I shut out all internal chatter and heighten my awareness to an almost painful degree. The deliberate exclusion of sight, the forced reliance on other senses... it felt remarkably similar to descriptions I recalled of preparatory Nen exercises, like the focused concentration needed to later perceive and manipulate one's aura.
As I correctly identified the cedar block, holding it gently, breathing in its scent, I felt Dad place his hand briefly, warmly, on the crown of my head. A silent gesture. Was it approval? Simple acknowledgment? Pride? The touch lingered for only a second before withdrawing, leaving me unsure. But the intensity of the exercise, the deliberate honing of senses beyond sight, felt like another significant piece clicking firmly into place. My father, the quiet carpenter, was systematically teaching me skills that felt uncannily useful for navigating the perilous world of Hunter x Hunter.
And I, Kess Kobayashi, soaked it all in, driven by a six-year-old's body and the chilling knowledge of a forty-something man who knew exactly how dangerous this second chance at life could be. The foundations were being laid, brick by painstaking brick.