Hunter X Hunter : The Boundary

Chapter 19: The Fruit of Effort

The morning light, like water, spilled onto the cold, damp paving stones of Tower City. The streets were empty. Ryan, now twelve years old, stood at the corner, a fifty-kilogram weighted vest pressing down on his shoulders. He began his daily eight-kilometer run.

His pace was as steady as a pendulum. Sweat trickled from his temples. His shoulders burned with accumulated fatigue— but he didn't stop.

Ever since confirming the existence of Nen, he'd understood one thing: simply approaching the threshold was not enough. The ones who truly survived in the Hunter World were extraordinary people themselves before learning Nen.

After his run, he didn't rest. He went to the corner of the yard where two sandbags, one soft and one hard, hung from a wooden beam. He stripped off his shirt and wrapped his hands in straps.

His first punch slammed into the hard bag. Thud. The bag didn't budge, but a tremor ran through his knuckles— a second punch, a third.

After fifty continuous strikes, he paused, adjusted his breathing, and began again. His goal was to punch until his muscles seized, his bones vibrated, and his breath hitched—and to still maintain perfect form through it all.

After a week, his hands were swollen and bruised. He would apply ice for three minutes, then continue.

Finally, his mother couldn't bear it. She slammed a jar of ointment on the dinner table. "If you keep this up, you'll break your fingers," she said, her voice tight with suppressed anger. "You're only twelve. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Ryan looked down at his knuckles, which were already scraped raw. "In a few more years," He said, his voice flat."

"...What?"

"The place I'm going," he said, as if reciting a regulation, "won't care how old I am."

His mother stared at him. "Did—did someone tell you something?"

Ryan looked up, his gaze clear and resolute. "I want to chase the extraordinary, even if it means I'll have to forego some things." He paused. "Instead of collapsing in pain to pursue my goals, it's better to train now."

The room fell silent. His mother looked from his scarred hands to his unwavering eyes. She said nothing more.

After dinner, his father put a hand on his shoulder. "If you want to train, we won't stop you," he said. "But remember one thing. Don't use this to hurt people. Not unless they strike first."

Ryan nodded. "I remember."

He went back outside, wrapped his hands, and faced the sandbag once more. The wind was colder tonight. In his heart, Ryan's belief in himself burned brighter than the moon.

Late that night, he stood before the sandbag, the lines of his shoulders and arms taut. He raised his fist, paused for two seconds, and then let it fall.

BANG!

The sandbag vibrated. His wrist was stable— but this time, the punch carried a faint, subtle pressure, a weight beyond mere physical force.

He closed his eyes. In the moment of that punch, a warm current had surged from his core, up his spine, and into his arm, synchronizing perfectly with the contraction of his muscles. This wasn't just a feeling anymore.

It was a response.

He opened his eyes, took a breath, and punched again. This time, he focused on the aura before he moved, drawing it from his palm to his elbow.

BOOM!

The sandbag kicked up a visible ripple of air. His arm felt hot, his knuckles numb, but he stepped forward and threw another punch. With each strike, the layer of aura grew more stable.

He no longer needed meditation to touch it. He could now channel it through his muscles, his bones, his breath—letting it naturally attach to his actions. This was the first step toward Ren.

He stopped, his breath ragged, his body burning. He knelt on the ground, not from pain, but because in his exhaustion, a new image was forming in his mind.

A weapon— a grey-silver short staff, its surface etched with concave grooves designed to guide airflow into a chamber. In his mind, he gave it a name: Silent Arc.

It was a conceptual Nen ability borne out of his random thoughts. He imagine how it would work. He would channel his aura into the staff, the grooves would compress it, and the end would release it as a conjured projectile. He could shape it into a piercing bolt, a scattered blast, or a ricocheting shot.

It wasn't a refined Nen ability by any means— but Ryan was finally inside, walking toward the world of Nen.