We rested under the brutal, unyielding gaze of the desert sun for perhaps an hour, the initial, raw relief of surviving the tunnel giving way to a wary, simmering anticipation for what came next. The silence of the vast, empty landscape was broken only by the wind whistling over the dunes and the occasional groan or choked cough from one of the less fortunate survivors. Then, a distant humming began, steadily growing louder, a mechanical drone cutting through the natural quiet. All eyes turned towards the horizon, scanning the bleached sky.
A large shape appeared, growing rapidly larger – an airship, its sleek, silver form shimmering faintly in the harsh light. It descended with surprising grace, its shadow sweeping over us like a cool wave before it settled gently onto the hot sand a short distance away. The powerful engines whined down, kicking up a swirling, opaque cloud of fine dust that temporarily obscured the vessel. A ramp lowered from its side with a smooth, almost silent hydraulic hiss, touching down onto the sand.
A figure emerged from the airship's interior light, silhouetted for a moment against the bright cabin before walking down the ramp. As she drew closer, her appearance was… unexpected. She was petite, surprisingly so, barely taller than my twelve-year-old self, though clearly an adult, likely in her mid-twenties. She walked with a light, energetic step that seemed incongruous with the weight of her role. She wore clear, perfectly circular glasses perched on her nose, which seemed a little too large for her small face, and her shoulder-length brown hair was tied partially back with a prominent, cheerfully bright blue bow that bounced with each step. Her figure was soft, a little rounded around the waist, entirely lacking the immediate, physically intimidating aura that many Hunters, including Dad or the Kiriko in his true form, possessed. Yet, there was a definite sharpness in her eyes behind the glasses, an alert, assessing intelligence that hinted at far more than met the eye. Her clothing was a curious mix: practical khaki trousers tucked into sturdy ankle boots, topped with a cream-colored tunic embroidered with intricate geometric patterns along the hem and cuffs – patterns that vaguely resembled game board layouts. Over this, she wore a dark green vest with an almost comical number of pockets, each one bulging slightly. Several assistants in standard, nondescript coat-and-tie suits followed silently behind her down the ramp, moving with efficient anonymity like shadows.
As she reached the bottom of the ramp, she beamed at us, a wide, enthusiastic smile that seemed to promise something entirely different from the physical brutality of the first phase. "Alright everyone, up and at 'em!" Her voice was surprisingly bright and cheerful, carrying easily over the remaining hum of the airship's engines and the desert air. "Let's not dawdle! Sand gets everywhere, and it's a nightmare to clean! All aboard!" She gestured towards the waiting airship with an inviting sweep of her arm.
We survivors, a ragtag group of dust-covered and weary individuals, shuffled towards the ramp. As we ascended, leaving the harsh desert behind, we found ourselves ushered into a large, well-lit hall within the airship's main cabin. The space was expansive and meticulously prepared: dozens of low tables were set up in neat rows, each bearing a square, three-tiered wooden board marked with a complex grid, alongside two sets of distinctively shaped playing pieces. The polished wood gleamed under the lights. My clear memory from the series supplied the name instantly: Gungi. The national game of the Republic of East Gorteau.
Our proctor, the petite woman with the cheerful bow, stood near the front of the hall, beaming at the assembled group of survivors. She clapped her hands together lightly, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. "Welcome aboard, successful applicants! My, you all look a bit dusty!" A few weak chuckles rippled through the survivors, acknowledging the understatement. "I trust Proctor Tsezguerra didn't rough you up too badly?" she added, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"He certainly tried!" someone muttered from the back, earning another round of weary amusement.
"Excellent!" she chirped, adjusting her glasses with a quick, practiced motion. "Just checking! I am Zest Childress," she announced, her voice clear and brimming with a focused energy that belied her appearance. "Professional Card Hunter, board game enthusiast extraordinaire, and your proctor for the Second Phase of the 276th Hunter Exam!"
Her enthusiasm for her chosen profession and for whatever game this was going to be was infectious, though tinged with an undeniable competitive sharpness in her gaze. "And for this phase," she declared, gesturing dramatically towards the waiting tables, her arms sweeping wide, "we'll be engaging in a delightful test of strategy, foresight, and tactical acumen via one of my personal favorites: Gungi!"
She launched into an explanation of the rules, her voice clear and concise, occasionally punctuated by enthusiastic gestures. She explained the objective, the movement of the different pieces – Generals, Lieutenants, Archers, Cannons, Fortresses, Spies, and more – and the crucial rules about stacking pieces on the three-tiered board. The core mechanic was simple: capture your opponent's General. The structure of the phase was also straightforward: we would be paired randomly against an opponent, and the winner of a single match would pass. Simple, brutal elimination, applied to the mind rather than the body.
A hand shot up from the crowd, belonging to a tall, earnest-looking applicant near the front. "Excuse me, Proctor Childress! There are 79 of us who made it. That's an odd number of applicants."
Zest tapped a finger against her chin thoughtfully, her head tilted slightly. "Sharp eye! Indeed it is. Seventy-nine. Which means," her already wide smile widened further, taking on a distinctly playful edge, "one of you, and only one, will receive a 'Bye' and automatically pass this phase without having to play! Lucky you, whoever that may be!"
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd, a mixture of envy, hope, and renewed tension. An automatic pass was an incredibly appealing prospect after the physical ordeal we'd just endured and facing a potentially difficult, unfamiliar strategic game. Another applicant voiced the obvious concern, his voice tinged with nervousness, "But… most of us have likely never played this game before! Is it fair?"
Zest didn't miss a beat. "Not a problem at all!" she chirped, her tone dismissing the concern entirely. "We wouldn't want ignorance of the rules to be the sole reason for failure, now would we? That would be a poor test of actual Hunter potential." She paused, her gaze sweeping across the faces before her. "Strategy, however... that is something a good Hunter needs in spades." She let the implication hang for a moment, the silence punctuated only by the low hum of the airship. "My assistants will distribute beginner-friendly rulebooks. You will have precisely one hour to study them. After that hour, the matches begin!"
An assistant in a dark suit promptly came forward, carrying a simple wooden box. "Alright," Zest called out, her voice regaining its brisk, directing tone, "form a single line, please! You will each draw one slip of paper from the box. Find the person with the matching number written on your slip – that's your opponent! And, as promised, one of you will find a lovely 'Bye' slip instead."
What followed was an immediate, undignified scramble. The alluring prospect of a free pass, combined with the anxiety of facing an unknown game, erased any semblance of order as applicants pushed and shoved to get towards the front of the makeshift line forming near the box. Their auras flared with impatience and a competitive edge. Having learned the value of conserving energy and avoiding unnecessary physical conflict whenever possible – Thanks, Dad, those endless hours of dodging drills paid off in more ways than just avoiding rocks – I hung back, leaning against the wall, letting the initial surge pass. The frantic energy of the crowd was almost amusing in its predictability. By the time the line had dwindled, and I reached the box near the end of the shuffling applicants, only a few slips remained. I reached in, my fingers brushing against the folded paper, pulled one out, and unfolded it.
Written in clear, simple script was the single word: Bye.
A wave of profound, almost overwhelming relief washed over me, so potent it almost made my knees weak. I discreetly folded the paper, careful not to reveal my good fortune, and tucked it away securely in a pocket. My mind flashed back instantly to Anon's past life – hours spent hunched over dusty Chess boards, trying and failing to grasp the deeper strategies, utterly floundering during a brief, embarrassing attempt to learn the game of Go. Complex, abstract strategy board games had always been a genuine blind spot, a glaring weakness in my otherwise well-rounded knowledge base from the previous life. Gungi, with its three-dimensional board, its intricate piece interactions, and its layers of strategy, felt exactly like the kind of intellectual battlefield where I would likely crash and burn against a competent, experienced opponent, regardless of my physical or Nen abilities. I had truly, truly dodged a bullet. Thank you, arbitrary lottery system! For once, my lack of board game skills works in my favor.
The assistants moved through the crowd, efficiently handing out slim, plain Gungi rulebooks. Even though I had the bye, one was pressed into my hands as I rejoined the main hall. Zest's voice rang out again, a clear command cutting through the murmuring crowd. "One hour starts now! Find a spot to study. Remember, everyone, including our lucky bye-holder, must be back in this hall when the hour is up, or you will be disqualified by default!"
Some applicants immediately dispersed throughout the airship's designated passenger areas, finding quiet corners to bury their noses in the rulebooks, their auras tight with concentration. Others stayed in the main hall, huddled over tables, nervously flipping pages, occasionally glancing at their opponents, perhaps hoping to glean strategy by proximity or intimidation. Not knowing quite what else to do, and needing a little space from the intense study groups, I stepped out into the adjacent corridor. It offered slightly less quiet but kept me close to the main action. I opened the rulebook.
The diagrams were clear, the explanations concise. General, Lieutenant General, Archer, Cannon, Fortress, Spy… piece movements, stacking rules, capturing the enemy General. My photographic memory, a gift from this life, absorbed the text effortlessly, locking away the rules and piece movements with perfect recall. But understanding? Enthusiasm? None came. The intricate strategies, the required foresight spanning multiple moves and board levels, the spatial reasoning across three tiers… it all felt like a tangled knot in my brain, refusing to resolve into anything intuitive or engaging. It was like reading a highly technical manual for a subject I had absolutely zero intrinsic aptitude for. The rules made sense, but the game itself remained a frustrating, abstract puzzle. After maybe ten minutes of forcing myself to stare at the dense pages, trying to visualize moves and counter-moves, a dull headache starting behind my eyes, I closed the book with an internal sigh of defeat. This wasn't my battlefield. I objectively had no talent for this whatsoever. Accepting this clear limitation, I headed back into the main hall to simply wait and observe the unfolding mental duels.
The hour passed surprisingly quickly, filled with the low murmur of studying, the nervous fidgeting, and the occasional frustrated sigh. A sharp buzzer sounded, echoing through the hall, signaling the end of the study period. Everyone reassembled, faces grim with concentration or anxiety, clutching their rulebooks like lifelines. Zest clapped her hands again, her smile back in place, though her eyes were sharp. "Time's up! Please follow my assistants to your assigned boards!"
Pairs of numbered opponents were guided by the assistants to the low tables. The tension in the hall became thick enough to taste, a palpable wave of focused energy and apprehension. Zest gave the final instructions regarding time limits per move and overall match duration, then, with a flourish, declared, "Let the Second Phase matches… begin!" Another buzzer sounded, a longer, sustained tone, and the clacking of Gungi pieces immediately filled the hall, the sound like tiny wooden footsteps on the polished boards.
I found an unobtrusive spot near a wall, close enough to watch several boards without being in the way, occasionally nodding politely to the suited assistants standing nearby, who seemed to be monitoring for cheating or rule infractions. The games began. Some players moved quickly, aggressively, slapping their pieces down with force, their impatience evident. Others moved with painstaking slowness, agonizing over each decision, their brows furrowed in concentration. I saw confident postures crumble after unexpected moves, saw nervous players find sudden, desperate resolve. Even without fully grasping the deep strategy, I could appreciate the ebb and flow, the silent mental combat unfolding before me. I watched the players' faces, reading their auras for hints of confidence, doubt, frustration, or surprise.
I started making playful mental bets with myself, a way to pass the time and stay engaged. Okay, #23 is playing too defensively, giving #112 too much board control. He's going to get suffocated. I bet #112 wins in ten moves. A few minutes later, #23's General was expertly trapped. Called it. Hmm, #301 looks completely panicked after that last move by #44, but #44 seems to be falling for a simple feint... maybe #301 pulls it off with a desperate gamble? Nope, #44 recovered quickly, saw through the feint, and forced a checkmate with ruthless efficiency. Dang, thought #301 had a shot. It was strangely fascinating, watching these miniature wars unfold, trying to read the players' intentions and skill levels as much as understanding the game itself, which remained, for me, a frustratingly abstract puzzle.
Slowly, inevitably, matches concluded. Quiet handshakes, sometimes glares filled with resentment. Winners would give small, relieved sighs, their shoulders slumping slightly, while losers slumped more dramatically, their shoulders heavy with defeat and disappointment as assistants politely but firmly escorted them towards another part of the airship, presumably to disembark later, their Hunter dreams ended for this year. The number of active games dwindled: the initial thirty-nine pairs became twenty, then ten, then just a handful of intense, protracted struggles that drew small knots of onlookers.
Finally, after what felt like hours of focused silence and the constant clack of pieces, the last match ended. A collective exhale swept through the hall. Zest stepped forward, beaming, clearly having kept easy track of the results. "'Thirty-nine matches played, thirty-nine winners determined," she announced cheerfully, her voice echoing slightly in the now quieter hall. "Add in our lucky bye, and that means 40 of you have successfully advanced to the Third Phase! Congratulations!" She clapped enthusiastically, a genuine delight in the success of the few evident in her demeanor. "The airship is still proceeding towards the location of the Third Phase, so you have some time to relax and recover. Feel free to move about the designated passenger areas, rest, recuperate, but please do not disturb the flight crew or enter restricted zones. We wouldn't want any… unfortunate accidents."
Forty left. The Gungi test, my personal intellectual Achilles' heel, had culled nearly half the remaining applicants in just one hour of strategic combat. Luck, blind, pure luck in drawing that slip of paper, had definitely been on my side this time. As the other survivors began to cautiously mingle, some introducing themselves to their fellow passers, others finding quiet spots to rest on the airship as it traveled onward through the sky, I felt that keen edge of relief again, sharp and undeniable. But also, a renewed awareness settled deep within me: relying on luck wasn't a sustainable strategy in the Hunter Exam. The next phase wouldn't offer a free pass.