The city continues to unwrap itself in layers.
Sister starts sending him out more often once it's clear he can walk more than five steps without fainting. He learns the main slope by heart: orphanage at the lower fringe, markets in the middle, station and office buildings near the top.
On one trip, he catches a proper glimpse of the station.
The building is big and rectangular, with glass panels at the front and a tangle of tracks stretching out behind it. People mill in and out through wide doors, some with luggage, some just loitering. Above the entrance, the city's name is spelled out in sharp letters.
He repeats it in his head until it settles. Another piece of the map.
Inside, he hears a few seconds of a loudspeaker announcement drifting out through the doors:
"—express train to Mitene Union capital departing platform three. Passengers, please—"
Mitene Union.
Canon geography was never fantastic, but the name hits something solid in his memory. It anchors this place to the wider world in a way streets and shops didn't.
All right, he thinks. That narrows it down. A little.
He's not arrogant enough to think he can rebuild the whole world map from this. But at least he knows he's in a real country from the stories, not some filler zone.
Another day, he passes a newsstand.
Newspapers and cheap magazines hang from clips, pages rustling faintly in the breeze. He doesn't have the money to buy anything, but for a few seconds, while the vendor is arguing with a customer, no one is looking at him directly.
Headlines scream about trade disputes, local elections, a minor border incident that turned into a bureaucratic mess. A smaller column mentions "increased Hunter activity in the east due to dangerous creature sightings." No names he recognizes. No Gons, no Kurapikas, no Zoldycks.
Good. Probably early. Or at least before the big, loud arcs.
He doesn't stare. He doesn't linger. He looks, registers, and moves on before the vendor can turn suspicion into shouting.
Back at the orphanage, he starts sorting everything in his head.
City: mid-sized, in the Mitene Union, with an express line straight to the capital.
Local Association presence: a liaison office only. Hunters pass through; they don't settle.
Economy: not collapsing, not booming. Enough stress in the adults' voices when they discuss prices to show the line between "scraping by" and "sinking" is thin.
People: tired, mostly. Not heroic. Not cartoon villains. Just operating in the gap between "what should be" and "what is."
Which is all the anime never had time to show. It had exams and towers and shining arenas. Somebody still had to bake all that terrible bread.
One afternoon, the nun sends him and a different boy to deliver a letter up near the business district.
"You go straight there," she says, eyes on Ryu. "No wandering."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he answers.
He dreams of it constantly. But wandering without a map is a good way to stop being a person and start being a missing poster. This is targeted recon.
They climb higher than he's been before. The air changes slowly: less smoke, fewer rotting crates, more polished stone and cleaned windows. People's coats get nicer the further uphill they go. The street vendors thin out, replaced by offices with shiny plaques and reception desks.
They find the address: a charity office. The sign out front talks about "supporting vulnerable youth" in friendly, rounded letters.
Inside, the air smells like paper and furniture polish. A woman at a desk glances up, sees two kids from the wrong part of the slope, and slots them into the mental category of "temporary annoyance."
"Yes?" she says.
"We're from the orphanage," the other boy says, holding out the letter. "Sister sent this."
She takes it between two fingers, like it might be sticky, and disappears into the back.
"Wait there," she adds.
They wait.
Ryu uses the time.
Certificates line the walls. Photos of smiling groups at events. Names of donors printed in bold. There's a large map of the city with pins stuck into certain districts. The lower areas, the ones he knows, are dotted with far more red pins than the rest.
On a small table sits a stack of pamphlets. He picks one up.
The front says something about "building better futures." The inside is more honest.
Words jump out.
"Underfunded districts."
"Increased crime rates."
"Exploitative labor."
"Unlicensed Fighters and underground matches."
That one makes him pause.
Underground fights, he thinks. Of course they exist. Heaven's Arena can't have a monopoly on bad decisions.
He reads a little more. "Children drawn into illegal combat for small payments." "Lack of proper oversight." It's vague, because donors don't like details, but the shape is clear.
The secretary comes back before he can finish.
"All right, you can go," she says, already turning away. No money, no food, not even a "thank you." Just dismissed.
He puts the pamphlet back exactly where it was and leaves.
On the way down, the other boy grumbles.
"She didn't even give us anything," he says. "Not a coin. Not a biscuit. Nothing."
"You expected cookies?" Ryu asks.
"She works at a charity."
"Charity's for donors," Ryu says. "Not messengers."
The boy scowls. "That's stupid."
"Accurate, though."
The boy doesn't have an answer for that.
Ryu lets the slope carry them back down toward their side of the city, toward markets and patched walls and the orphanage gate.
That night he lies awake longer than usual.
The ceiling above him is still cracked. The walls are still thin. Someone is snoring like they're losing a fight.
His mind won't let it go.
Underground fights. Liaison office instead of full branch. Hunters doing low-tier work. City stuck between "provincial" and "important."
In the distance, somewhere, are all the names he grew up watching on a screen. Heaven's Arena. Yorknew. The Zoldycks. Ants. The big, bright arcs.
Here, there are small gears grinding.
Men who take low-paying Hunter jobs. Kids dragged into illegal fighting rings. Orphanages begging for bread from shopkeepers who raise prices because their suppliers raised prices because someone used "economic reform" as a slogan.
The show cut away from this. It had to. There's no time for every side street in twenty-four minutes.
He doesn't have that problem.
He closes his eyes and checks in with his own body again. Muscles tired but stronger. Breathing steady. No Nen, no aura, nothing dramatic.
Just a slightly upgraded version of the fragile kid who woke up here.
He'll take it.
Explore, then survive, then power, he thinks. In that order. If possible.
It isn't a vow. Just a working plan.
Plans change. People break. Worlds don't care.
Tomorrow there will be more errands, more glimpses, more small chances to pull at the edges of the world and see what's underneath. He intends to use every one he can reach.
The rest can wait.