The turn of the seasons, marked by the changing scent of the Ryujinshima air – from the brine and damp earth of spring rains to the thick, pollen-heavy sweetness of summer – dictated the rhythm of my ninth year. But beneath the surface rhythm of chores, exploration, and Mom's patient literacy lessons, pulsed the deeper, more demanding cadence of Nen training. My world, once measured by the height I could jump or the complexity of the runes I could copy, was now defined by the invisible shroud of Ten and the constant, subtle effort of perception.
Dad's instruction remained grounded, relentless, echoing the patient solidity with which he joined timbers. Mornings often began before dawn, sitting on the cool, dew-kissed veranda, forcing my young mind and body into the discipline of Ten. Maintaining that steady, almost imperceptible flow of aura around myself felt like trying to hold smoke in my hands – demanding constant, exhausting vigilance. The slightest lapse in concentration and Dad, meditating silently beside me, would murmur, "Flow is uneven, Kess. Feel the edges fraying? Contain it." Frustration was a familiar companion, a bitter taste in my mouth as I wrestled my own energy back under control.
Practicing Zetsu felt like pulling a heavy cloak over myself, muffling my presence until the world seemed to fade slightly at the edges. Dad would test me, seemingly appearing from nowhere while I thought I was perfectly hidden, his quiet presence suddenly there, a reminder of how far I still had to go. "Better," he might concede, his voice neutral, "but your breathing still gives you away. Silence must be absolute, inside and out."
Ren remained the mostly-uncharted territory. Dad permitted only brief, controlled flares, designed purely to build stamina and control, like testing the tension on a perfectly drawn bowstring without letting the arrow fly. "Feel the power gather, Kess," he'd instruct calmly, as I forced my aura outwards, feeling a dizzying pressure build behind my eyes, "but hold it. Control is everything. Unleashed power without purpose is just destruction, aimed at yourself as often as not." He never elaborated on that warning, but the gravity in his voice was enough.
My training in Gyo, however, quickly became a test of reflexes and visual acuity. It wasn't about broadly perceiving the world, but specifically about the immediate, focused application of aura to my eyes to see what was deliberately hidden. Dad, stepping into a role that felt both familiar and deeply unsettling based on Anon's memories, would integrate this practice into our day with startling abruptness.
We could be walking through the woods, me trying to maintain Ten while navigating uneven ground, when without warning, Dad would stop dead, his hand shooting out, index finger pointing towards a tree or an empty patch of air. My heart would leap into my throat. Instantly. That was the key. I had to instantly shift my aura, focusing a burst of it into my eyes to see what he was projecting using In – usually a rune, sometimes a number, a simple symbol hidden to the naked eye.
If I was fast enough, if the hidden symbol snapped into focus the moment he pointed, Dad would simply lower his hand and continue walking as if nothing had happened, offering no praise, just the silent acknowledgment of a task completed correctly. But if I was too slow, if I fumbled with the aura or the symbol remained invisible for even a second too long, the punishment was swift and directly tied to physical exertion. "Drop and give me fifty," he'd say, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. Or, "Circle the house ten times at a sprint." Or, worst of all, "Back to the well. Fill the buckets and bring them here. By hand." The physical demands were rarely crippling but always immediate and exhausting, hammering home the necessity of instantaneous Gyo.
"Seeing with Gyo isn't about thinking, Kess," he explained one evening after I'd failed a particularly brutal series of snap-Gyo tests, my arms aching from carrying heavy stones. "It's a reaction. A reflex. Like pulling your hand from fire. When you need to see what's hidden, you need to see it now. Hesitation kills." My eyes, accustomed to the mundane world, were being forcibly rewired, trained to instantly perceive the layer of hidden aura overlaid upon reality. It was a brutal, effective method, and my muscles burned with the cost of every moment of slowness.
Then came an afternoon steeped in the particular golden light of late summer, the air buzzing with cicadas. We'd just finished a grueling session on maintaining Ten while performing complex physical tasks – balancing on uneven rocks, carrying precisely filled buckets of water – when Dad paused, his usual post-training assessment unspoken. He walked over to the well, drew fresh, cool water into a plain wooden cup, then carefully plucked a single, vibrant green leaf from a nearby camellia bush, its surface still glistening with tiny droplets. He floated the leaf gently on the water's surface.
My breath caught. My heart gave a sudden, hard thump against my ribs. The Water Divination. The ritual Anon remembered vividly from countless re-readings, the simple test that revealed the fundamental nature of one's Nen.
"Your Ten has stabilized," Dad observed, his voice even, though I thought I detected a deeper seriousness in his dark eyes as he set the cup on a flat, sun-warmed stone between us. "The vessel holds water without leaking. It's time to understand the water's nature. Your Hatsu type." He held up a cautionary hand. "This reveals only your innate category, Kess. The path your aura naturally follows. Developing Hatsu itself… that is work for years from now. The foundation must be rock-solid before you build the walls, understand?"
I nodded, mute, my throat suddenly dry. The cicadas seemed to buzz louder, amplifying the nervous energy thrumming just beneath my skin. I knelt before the stone, the rough texture grounding against my knees.
"Place your hands around the cup," Dad instructed. "Center yourself. Then, release your Ren steadily. Not a sudden blast. A controlled expansion."
My hands felt clumsy as I cupped them around the smooth wood. The water radiated a faint coolness against my palms. I closed my eyes, taking slow, deliberate breaths, trying to push down the excited tremor that threatened to disrupt my focus. I reached inward, finding that familiar pool of warmth, that nascent power, and gently, firmly, coaxed it outwards, visualizing it flowing down my arms, through my hands, towards the cup. It felt denser now, more substantial than it had during my accidental awakening – a tangible pressure emanating from me.
I opened my eyes.
The surface of the water remained still for a heart-stopping moment. The green leaf floated serenely, a tiny boat on a placid pond. Then, as if nudged by an unseen finger, it began to move. Not a random drift, not a tremble from my unsteady hands, but a smooth, purposeful glide. It slid across the water, tracing the curve of the cup's rim, completing a slow, deliberate circle before coming gently to rest near the opposite side.
I stared, mesmerized. The movement felt subtle, yet undeniable. Precise. Controlled.
Dad watched the leaf settle, his expression unreadable for a long moment. He finally gave a slow, single nod. "Manipulation," he stated, the word landing with quiet weight in the warm air. "Your aura carries the property to command, to imbue things with your will. You moved the leaf itself." He met my gaze, his dark eyes intense. "A versatile affinity, Kess. Manipulators can devise intricate abilities, controlling objects, elements... sometimes even people, though that path is fraught with complexities and often requires strict conditions." He leaned forward slightly. "But it demands exceptional control, intricate planning. Never forget: foundation first. Control of self before control of others."
To underscore the difference, he reached for the cup. His large, calloused hands, usually coated in fine sawdust, dwarfed the simple wooden vessel. He cupped his hands around it, mirroring my earlier posture. His expression remained impassive, but the air around him shifted instantly. Without needing Gyo, I felt it – a palpable thickening, a rising pressure that seemed to push against my skin, raising goosebumps despite the summer heat. He wasn't flaring his Ren aggressively, but the sheer density of his aura was unmistakable.
The water inside the cup reacted instantly. It didn't ripple; it swelled. The volume surged upwards, cresting over the rim in a sudden, perfectly controlled wave, splashing onto the stone before receding just as quickly as he retracted his aura, leaving the water level slightly lower, the leaf now plastered against the inside of the cup.
"Enhancement," he said, the single word needing no further explanation. "Strengthening oneself, or objects, through aura. Direct. Powerful." He paused, looking thoughtful as he dried the cup. "But these two are only part of the spectrum."
He led me back towards the house, sitting down on the veranda steps and picking up a stick, sketching a hexagon in the packed earth. "Nen types have relationships," he explained, his carpenter's precision evident even in the dirt drawing. He pointed to the top point. "Enhancement, like mine. Powerful, straightforward physical augmentation." He moved clockwise. "Next is Transmutation. Changing the properties, the quality of aura itself." Another point. "Conjuration. Creating physical objects out of aura." He indicated the bottom point. "Specialization. This is different. It's for abilities that fall outside the other five categories. It's almost always something you're born with; you generally can't learn to be a Specialist." He moved to the next point. "Manipulation, like yours. Controlling objects or beings." He completed the hexagon. "And finally, Emission. Separating aura from the body, projecting it."
He looked up from the drawing, meeting my eyes. "You are a Manipulator. That means your Hatsu will naturally be strongest using Manipulation – one hundred percent efficiency. Your next best category is Emission," he pointed to the adjacent type, "where you'll have about eighty percent efficiency. Enhancement and Conjuration," gesturing to the types one step away, "are possible, but you'd only be working at sixty percent efficiency. Your least compatible type is Transmutation," pointing directly opposite Manipulation on the hexagon he'd drawn, "expect only forty percent efficiency there at best." He tapped the Specialization point again briefly. "As for Specialization, efficiency is zero. While Manipulators and Conjurers," he gestured to its neighbors, "are the ones most likely to develop into Specialists later in life under rare circumstances, it's not something you can aim for or train towards. Focus on your natural strengths." He rubbed out the hexagon with his foot. "Knowing this helps understand your potential and limitations. But," his gaze hardened slightly, "it changes nothing about the basics. Foundation first."
Later that week, emboldened by the shared ritual, by the undeniable proof of our connection through Nen, I finally voiced the question that had been a silent ember in my mind for years. Dad was meticulously sanding a smooth plank of cedar, the rhythmic rasp of the paper against wood a familiar sound in the workshop space adjoining our house. The air smelled richly of cut timber. I was practicing maintaining Ten while supposedly helping sweeping shavings, though mostly I watched his focused movements.
"Dad," I began, trying to inject a note of casual curiosity into my voice, my own aura held carefully in check, "you talked about needing a License for that trip north… and now, knowing about Nen…" I hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Were you… were you ever a Hunter?"
The rasping sound stopped. Dad's hands stilled on the pale wood. He didn't turn around immediately. His gaze drifted past the open doorway, towards the sliver of bright blue ocean visible between the trees. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant cry of a seabird.
"That..." he said at last, his voice quieter than usual, roughened slightly, like worn wood grain. "That was a long time ago, Kess." He paused again, then drew a slow breath. "I held a License, yes. I traveled. Did some things." He resumed sanding, the motion deliberate, measured, perhaps a fraction slower than before. "It's not always a life of glory, like in the stories children tell. Danger, loss… they walk alongside adventure." He looked down at the smooth wood under his hands. "Sometimes, building something solid, something that lasts… raising a family in peace… that holds more weight. More value."
He offered no names, no places, no thrilling exploits. Just the quiet confirmation, wrapped in weary experience. A path chosen, and then, deliberately, set aside. Not retired, perhaps – could a Hunter ever truly retire? – but inactive. Purposefully grounded here, on Ryujinshima.
Another layer of mystery peeled back, only to reveal more questions beneath. What 'things' had he done? Why step away? The urge to press him warred with the understanding that the door he'd opened slightly was now firmly closed.
More subtle questions surfaced during mundane moments. One afternoon, he was patiently showing me the painstaking process of restoring the razor-sharp edge on an old, oddly shaped chisel. It was made of dark, heavy metal I didn't recognize, the wooden handle worn smooth and dark with age and countless grips, etched with faint patterns that weren't the familiar runes of our written language. It felt ancient, somehow different from his regular tools.
"I've never seen you use this one, Dad," I remarked, tracing the strange patterns on the handle with a fingertip. "How did you learn to fix something so… old?"
A faint smile touched Dad's lips. He ran his thumb almost reverently over the worn wood. "You learn many things over the years, Kess. How different materials behave, how pieces fit together, how to mend what's broken."
"How many years?" The question slipped out, driven by pure curiosity, louder than I intended.
Dad's smile didn't falter. He looked up from the chisel, his dark eyes meeting mine directly. There was amusement there, perhaps, but also something deeper, an oldness that seemed incongruous with his face, which bore the lines of perhaps forty, maybe forty-five years at most. "Enough years," he replied smoothly, the twinkle in his eye deepening. "Plenty of time to learn the grain of the world." He paused, then chuckled softly, a rare, warm sound. "Speaking of learning the grain of things... and needing quick eyes... let's try those snap Gyo exercises again before dinner. You were a little slow on the last set."
His words sent another jolt through me. He'd casually deflected the age question again, hinting at a vast span of 'years' and an understanding of the world's fundamental nature, then immediately pivoted back to the rigorous training, connecting the abstract idea of 'learning the grain of the world' to the concrete practice of Gyo and needing 'quick eyes'. The suspicion hardened. The way he spoke of 'years,' the depth in his gaze, the casual sidestep… it echoed chillingly with Anon's memories of Biscuit Krueger, the eternally youthful Hunter who disguised decades of experience behind a child-like facade, maintaining the appearance of a girl but possessing the knowledge and power of a master. Could Dad…? Was it possible? Could my quiet carpenter father be maintaining his appearance through Nen, masking decades, perhaps even a century or more, of life? The thought felt both ludicrous and, in this world of impossible powers, disturbingly plausible. Another secret, perhaps the deepest one, locked behind his calm gaze.
"Knowing your Nen type, Kess," Dad said later that evening, as we sat on the veranda watching the stars emerge in the deepening twilight, bringing my racing thoughts abruptly back to the present, "or knowing about a License I once carried… it doesn't change today's work. Or tomorrow's." He reached over and tapped my forehead lightly, a familiar, grounding gesture. "Foundation first. Always. Now, back to Ten. Maintain it until bedtime. Feel the flow, steady as the tide."
I nodded, drawing my aura back into that familiar, protective shroud. Manipulator. Son of an Enhancer. A retired (or inactive) Hunter. A man potentially far older than his appearance suggests. My father, Kenji Kobayashi, was an ocean of secrets, and I had only just begun to skim the surface. My own path stretched before me, here on Ryujinshima island – Kess Kobayashi, Manipulator-in-training. The foundations were being laid, yes, brick by patient, careful brick. But the structure they would eventually support felt vastly more complex, and perhaps infinitely more dangerous, than I could have ever imagined.