Ethan was an ordinary young man of the 21st century.
His parents had high hopes for him when he was born.
During the first few years, everything seemed normal.
His mother worked part-time.
His father repaired HVAC units and came home tired but smiling.
There were family photos from that period, the kind that showed everyone trying to look presentable in matching shirts bought at a summer sale.
Then the COVID-19 pandemic arrived.
Within a month, his father lost his job.
Next came the debts.
First came credit cards.
Then rent it.
Then there were loans from people who preferred threats over paperwork.
His father began drinking to cope.
When drinking was no longer enough, he gambled.
When he won, he celebrated too much.
When he lost, he screamed at home.
The domestic violence gradually became background noise.
Young Ethan saw everything.
He stored it deep inside himself, but his emotions remained flat, like a TV stuck on mute.
When he was three, his mother told him she was leaving "for work."
One year later, his parents divorced.
Ethan went with his father.
He was four years old.
He clearly remembered his mother's face.
After that day, he never saw her again.
Even twenty years later, that memory still ran through his mind like an unskippable trailer.
After the divorce, his father told him he needed to "find opportunities."
In reality, he went to another city to gamble.
Ethan was left with his grandparents in a small town outside New York City, becoming just another kid in America raised by relatives because his parents were not around.
They argued about money.
They argued over chores.
They argued about the arguments from yesterday.
Ethan listened to all of it, but felt nothing.
Sometimes he wondered whether he had been born without the "emotion" app installed.
When he was twelve, his grandfather passed away.
His father returned for the first time in a year just to attend the funeral.
Three years later, his grandmother's Alzheimer's worsened, and she died as well.
After that, his father continued to appear once a year, but his visits became shorter and shorter.
Five minutes, three minutes.
Eventually he never came at all.
From the age of twelve onward, Ethan lived alone.
He cooked instant noodles by himself.
He watched television alone.
He slept alone.
He believed this was simply how life worked.
As if he were meant to be alone.
Time moved.
Twenty years passed.
"This dogshit life," Ethan muttered.
He stood on an NYC subway platform, watching commuters scroll through TikTok with dead eyes.
Whoosh.
The train slid into the station.
Before the doors opened, people pushed forward as if a Black Friday sale were happening inside the carriage.
Ethan did not move.
He waited for the chaos to subside, then stepped forward.
Ouch!
A sharp cry rang out behind him.
He turned and saw an elderly woman with pure white hair collapsed on the platform, clutching her chest.
"What happened to her?"
Probably a heart attack.
Someone recorded a video.
Someone stared.
Someone live-tweeted.
No one moved.
Ethan watched without showing any emotion.
The train doors closed.
People continued to scroll.
"This dogshit society," he thought.
His life followed the same routine each day.
7:10 AM: Wake up, wash, and get dressed.
7:40 AM: Leave the apartment.
Walk for ten minutes to the subway.
Wait five minutes.
It was a thirty-minute ride.
It was a five-minute walk to the lobby.
I had fifteen minutes to buy a bagel and a coffee.
Then came the part he hated most: six elevators and lines long enough to qualify as tourist attractions.
He usually arrived at the office at 9:00 or 9:01.
Beep.
Check-in successful.
He always received a resentful look from the admin clerk, as if he had personally caused her to work overtime.
From 9:00 to 10:00, he planned the day's tasks.
Then he sat beside his department leader in the car going to the main corporate headquarters in Midtown for the monthly managers' meeting.
The car drove through Manhattan.
Ethan stared out the window at the clear sky.
Hmm?
A black dot appeared overhead.
"What is it?" the leader asked.
Ethan shook his head, his eyes locked on the dot.
Nothing.
He leaned against the window and rested his chin on his palm.
Am I the only one, or is that thing getting bigger?
The truth was simple: the dot was not just getting bigger.
It was diving straight toward Manhattan at a frightening speed.
"Could it be a meteor?" he murmured.
His left eyelid twitched.
His danger sense activated.
Ever since childhood, Ethan had been unusually accurate at sensing danger.
That sense once saved him from many accidents.
When he was in college, he almost went on a vacation out east.
Two days before his departure, a feeling in his gut told him to cancel.
Instead, he took a short trip nearby.
Four days later, a massive earthquake struck the area he originally planned to visit.
Thirty-two were dead.
Hundreds were injured.
Thousands were affected.
As he recalled that memory, the black dot expanded until it filled his entire vision.
"This world is unbelievable," Ethan thought.
BOOM!!!
A huge object tore through the car's roof and smashed into Ethan's temple.
Ten minutes later, New York was flooded with notifications.
On April 1 at approximately 10:23 AM, a meteorite struck a moving car on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
One person died instantly.
Four others were injured when the vehicle went out of control.
But the global internet was not shocked by the casualties.
People were shocked by who had died.
Ethan became the first person in recorded history to be killed by a meteorite in New York City.
He was the only man to be killed by outer space in the most statistically impossible way.
He instantly became a legend.
It was a very unfortunate one.
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Republic of Padokea, Dentora Region, Kukuroo Mountain.
On this towering peak, 3,722 meters above sea level, the Zoldyck Family's magnificent mansion stood, nestled halfway up the mountain.
Deep in Kukuroo Mountain's forest, a small figure moved through the undergrowth, clutching a stripped tree branch in his hand.
This was Ethan, who had transmigrated into this world, with pure black eyes, short bangs, and a pitch-black child's suit.
Now known as Illumi, he was three years old and a member of the Zoldyck Family, renowned for its assassination skills.
Rustle...
Illumi pushed aside the tall grass ahead, ducked down, and stepped out of the thicket.
He spotted Irumi playing in the sandbox at the amusement park.
Zebro removed his monocle, polished it with a handkerchief, and put it back with a smile.
"Young Master Irumi is exceptionally talented. Everyone adores him," he said.
"If his bloodline were just a little better, I think I would like him even more," Gotoh said without a trace of emotion.
Illumi ignored their conversation.
He jogged ahead and they followed him down the corridor.
"Illumi, what are you doing later?" Zebro asked.
I'm going to meditate in my room. Go find something else to do.
Illumi gave him a helpless look.
At three years old, Irumi was still a child, clingy and playful.
"Oh," Irumi mumbled blankly and kept walking beside him with an indifferent expression.
They reached the end of the corridor.
Illumi clicked the door open, and the two of them entered the room together.
The room had two beds, one for Illumi and one for Irumi.
The difference was stark: Irumi's bed was piled high with toys, while Illumi's bed held nothing but a blanket and a pillow.
After entering the room, Illumi took off his shoes, climbed onto his bed, sat cross-legged, and began meditating with his palms turned upward.
Meanwhile, Irumi scrambled onto his own bed and began playing with his toys, occasionally dropping them with a clatter.
Illumi meditated frequently.
He knew that while Nen abilities in the Hunter World were tied to innate talent and bloodline, a Nen user's mental state was just as important.
Through meditation, Illumi could sense the world's mysteries more clearly.
For example, there was the peculiar aura emanating from Irumi, which felt like both emotion and some kind of energy.
Illumi knew how Nen abilities were awakened and how to train them.
He was also eager to find out his own Nen aptitude.
How quickly someone awakened their Nen ability was a direct measure of their potential.