Creation did not begin with power.
It began with a definition.
Ethan sat alone in the empty room, the cold concrete beneath him unmoving, unchanging. The silence here was no longer oppressive. It was neutral. Waiting.
Just like his aura.
He activated Ten without thinking. It wrapped around his body naturally now, a thin, perfect containment. No leakage. No waste.
He released Ren slowly.
His aura expanded outward, obedient and precise. It did not flood the room. It did not escape his control.
It waited.
Just like him.
The man's words echoed in his mind.
Conditions. Structure. Intent.
Hatsu was not force.
It was the law.
Ethan stood.
He extended his aura slightly farther, feeling its edge, its reach. It responded instantly. Not as something separate from him—but as something that was him.
He looked toward the far wall.
There was nothing there.
No object.
No person.
Nothing to command.
He spoke anyway.
"Move."
Nothing happened.
Of course not.
There was no target.
No condition.
No structure.
Control without definition was meaningless.
The door opened.
The man entered, silent as always.
"You are attempting creation," he said.
Not a question.
Ethan did not turn.
"I need a rule," Ethan said quietly.
The man said nothing.
He did not confirm.
He did not deny.
He waited.
Ethan understood.
Rules were not given.
They were made.
The man stepped aside.
Another boy was pushed into the room.
Older.
Awakened.
His Ten was active—weak, but present.
A Nen user.
The door closed behind him.
The boy looked at Ethan, uncertain.
Afraid.
Resistant.
Good.
Resistance is defined structure.
Ethan activated Ren.
Not aggressively.
Not wastefully.
Precisely.
He felt the boy's presence.
Felt the separation between them.
Felt the moment where intent became action.
This was where his rule would exist.
He spoke.
"Step forward."
The boy did not move.
His Ten resisted instinctively.
His will held.
Ethan felt it.
The resistance.
The inefficiency.
This was force.
Primitive.
Wasteful.
Wrong.
He stopped.
He changed the rule.
Not force.
Authority.
He focused his intent—not on the boy's body, but on the space between command and resistance.
And he defined it.
When I give a clear command, resistance will weaken.
Not spoken.
Declared.
His aura responded immediately.
It did not expand.
It aligned.
He spoke again.
"Step forward."
The boy hesitated.
Not long.
Not completely.
But enough.
His foot moved.
One step.
Small.
Uncertain.
But real.
Ethan felt it.
Not control.
Authority.
The cost was minimal.
The structure held.
The rule existed.
The man observed everything.
Silent.
Certain.
"You have defined it," he said at last.
Not praise.
Recognition.
"A rule."
Ethan did not release Ren.
He maintained it.
Stabilized it.
Refined it.
"This is your Hatsu," the man continued.
He stepped closer.
"Not domination."
A pause.
"Authority."
The word settled into reality.
"You do not force obedience," the man said.
"You reduce resistance."
He turned toward the door.
"This is efficient."
Not approval.
Validation.
"Those weaker than you will obey."
He paused.
"Those stronger than you will hesitate."
Another pause.
"And hesitation…"
He looked back once.
"…is enough."
The door closed.
Ethan stood alone with the other boy.
His aura remained active.
Defined.
Silent.
He looked at the boy.
And spoke.
"Leave."
The boy obeyed.
Not instantly.
Not completely willingly.
But without resistance.
The door opened.
He left.
Ethan ended Ren.
His aura returned to Ten.
Contained.
Perfect.
His rule remained.
Not active.
But real.
For the first time since entering this world—
Ethan Crowe had created something that obeyed him without force.
Not strength.
Not speed.
Authority.
Silent Authority.