POV: Sullivan Prentiss Morteuxe (Age 10)
The Morteuxe manor, usually a sanctuary of calculated quiet, felt charged with an unsettling tension. Sullivan stood before his father, Julian, recounting the ambush with the dry, detached precision of a military analyst.
He described the cinnamon distraction, Evelyn's parry, and finally, the anomaly with the third thug.
"...and then, Father, his grip dissolved. Not from force, but from a sudden, internal decision. It was as if his mind simply revoked the command to hold me. It lasted less than a second." Sullivan concluded, his jade eyes intent on his father's reaction.
Julian Morteuxe listened, entirely still. The only sign of his processing was a slow, rhythmic tapping of his index finger on the Ebon-Wood Dagger, which now rested on the mahogany desk. He looked less like a noble lord and more like a predator evaluating an unusual prey.
"It was not a coincidence, Sullivan," Julian finally stated, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "It was a release of Aura—unconscious, untrained, and dangerously premature."
Sullivan frowned. "Aura? Like the stories of the Hunters? That 'life force' that governs the strength of beasts?"
"It is what separates the shepherd from the wolf, and the wolf from the apex predator,"
Julian confirmed. He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly piercing. "That fleeting effect you created, that moment of mental rupture? That is the hallmark of a potential Specialist—the rarest and most volatile form of Aura control, known as Nen."
Sullivan was fascinated, but hid it well. A system. A complex, internal system that governs my previously inexplicable capabilities. This changes everything.
"And why is this 'premature'?" Sullivan asked, his tone demanding objective data.
"Because you are ten, and you did it out of instinct, not discipline," Julian said sharply.
"Nen is control. It requires years of methodical training, starting with Ten—the fundamental act of protecting your body with your aura. You achieved a form of advanced Hatsu without the foundation."
Julian rose, walking to the towering wall of books that covered the library. He pulled a volume so old the spine cracked—not a ledger of influence, but a sealed Morteuxe archive.
"The Morteuxe line has always produced Manipulators or Conjurers—individuals who control objects or create structure.
Predictable, orderly, powerful. You, however, are showing signs of the type of talent that breeds either gods or monsters. You are a reactive genius—you calculate every step, but when forced into an immediate, unplanned confrontation, your subconscious mind, that arrogant core of yours, creates an immediate, overwhelming effect."
He placed the archive on the desk. "This is your greatest strength, Sullivan: your mind's capacity to immediately adapt to an existential threat. And it is also your most fatal weakness—a reliance on reaction, rather than initiation."
Julian's decision was swift, ruthless, and entirely logical.
"The Veil Mountains will remain closed for the year. This Basin cannot contain your potential—or your arrogance. You must learn control, or that 'gift' will tear you apart, or worse, make you predictable to a true master. I have arranged for you to take the Hunter Exam next year, the moment you turn eleven. Until then, you will begin preparatory training."
The Preparation
Julian did not train Sullivan himself. Instead, he summoned a man named Silas.
Silas was a man of contrasts: a former Mid-Tier Hunter specializing in tracking lost artifacts, now serving as a Morteuxe retainer. He had the quiet discipline of a monk but the scarred, quick hands of a street fighter.
Silas's training was brutal, tailored specifically to dismantle Sullivan's reliance on his intellect and force him to ground his capabilities in his physical body.
It began with Zetsu—the complete suppression of Aura. For hours, Sullivan would sit, cross-legged, trying to feel nothing, sense nothing, be nothing. The silence in his mind was agonizing.
"Your Mind is your engine, Young Lord," Silas would observe, circling him slowly. "But an engine running without a chassis is just scrap metal. Zetsu is how you learn to be a man before you become a god."
Then came the physical grind. Hunting small, highly evasive Nen-beasts known as Shadow-Foxes in the outer wilderness of the Basin—creatures only barely discernible through the beginnings of his sensory talents. This was to teach him how to hunt, how to sustain himself, and how to respect the danger in the world.
He was forbidden from using any conscious Nen. He had to rely on observation, tracking, and raw, ten-year-old muscle memory.
Days bled into months. Sullivan's slender frame became wiry and tough. He learned to track a scent across stone, read the subtle shifts in wind to predict a Shadow-Fox's escape route, and, most importantly, to fight with his body before his mind could over-engineer a solution.
The True Weakness
One afternoon, Silas cornered Sullivan in a sparring ring.
"Strike me, Young Lord," Silas commanded, standing perfectly still, his hands relaxed.
Sullivan, now quick and disciplined, moved.
He feinted high with a punch, aiming to sweep Silas's leg low—a textbook move he'd practiced a hundred times.
Silas didn't move his hands. He simply lowered his center of gravity an inch and used his shoulder to intercept the blow, deflecting Sullivan's force perfectly sideways. Sullivan stumbled, falling into a pre-set trap: Silas's foot came up, hooking Sullivan's ankle and sending him sprawling.
Crash.
Sullivan immediately sprang up, rage flashing in his eyes, but Silas's heel was already pressing lightly on his throat.
"You lost because you tried to execute a five-step plan when only a one-step action was required," Silas stated calmly. "You see the possibilities of a move, but you do not feel the necessity of the moment. You are arrogant, Morteuxe. You believe you can predict the future, so you rely on what you think your enemy will do next."
Silas lifted his heel. "Your great strength, your mind's speed, is a lie. It is a defense mechanism. You don't control situations; you react to them with overwhelming analysis. Your arrogance makes you reactive, not proactive."
Sullivan lay there, breathing hard, the cool mud soaking into his training gear. He didn't argue. He absorbed the data.
My weakness: Arrogance born of analysis. A reliance on calculated reaction.
Silas knelt beside him, his expression suddenly sympathetic. "The Hunter Exam is not about strength, but about resilience, adaptation, and discipline. The world beyond the Veil will not pause for your calculations.
You must make your weakness your shield."
"How?" Sullivan asked, his voice raw.
"You will become a Hunter," Silas said, standing and extending a hand. "You will be assigned a mentor who will teach you Nen.
And they will force you to conceptualize an ability based on the flaw that defines you. You must take your biggest weakness—reactivity—and make it the strongest principle of your power. Only then can you begin to master the chaos you crave."
Sullivan took the hand, his eyes burning with a new, terrifying focus. He was ten, and he was about to step onto the path of the world's most dangerous profession, armed only with a mind that was faster than his body, and an arrogance that was slowly being hammered into discipline.