Hunter X Hunter - Reviewers Rage

Many months ago:

In an unknown forest, deep within the heart of nature's embrace, stood a small, unassuming cottage.

The structure was modest, its walls weathered by time and nature's will, yet within, it provided shelter against the relentless grasp of the elements.

Inside, an elderly man sat at a rough-hewn wooden table, his hands steady as he carved through a bundle of fresh herbs with a small, well-worn knife.

His long, flowing white hair and beard moved gently with the wind, strands swaying like the slow dance of ancient wisdom. His robes, pristine yet simple, whispered of a life detached from worldly concerns.

His face, deeply lined with the passage of time, bore the weight of countless years. Yet his eyes, untouched by the frailty of his form, shimmered with an indescribable depth—an abyss of experience, as if he had seen the rise and fall of empires, the birth and death of men, and the silent turning of the world long before the one before him had taken his first breath.

Chirp. Chirp.

The forest sang its familiar tune, a symphony of rustling leaves and the distant calls of unseen creatures.

The old man was accustomed to the rhythm of the wilderness, the ebb and flow of life around him. But in recent days, the delicate balance of the ecosystem had shifted, disturbed by the presence of a single human.

A disturbance was drawing near.

The faint sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the dense woods, growing louder, more urgent, until they reached the threshold of the old man's dwelling.

There was no knock—only the sharp halt of movement, as if the visitor hesitated before crossing an unseen boundary.

Without looking up, the old man set his knife aside, his movements unhurried, unshaken. His fingers gathered the freshly minced herbs, placing them into a porcelain kettle with practiced grace.

"Sit down, boy," the elder commanded, his voice neither harsh nor kind—just steady, like the whisper of flowing water over ancient stones.

The visitor obeyed, stepping cautiously into the space, as if afraid to disturb the weight of the air itself.

The elder sat upon a stool carved from a single tree trunk, its surface smooth with years of use. Before him, a wooden table of dark oak bore the weight of time, its edges slightly worn.

He set the kettle down with reverence, beside two porcelain cups—beautifully crafted, yet worn by decades of daily ritual.

The delicate patterns of white and pink lotus flowers that adorned them had faded, their elegance now subdued by the quiet dignity of age.

Rolling back his sleeves with practiced ease, the old man lifted the kettle and poured a clear, cold liquid into both cups.

At first, it seemed ordinary—just simple water.

Then, without hurry, the old man picked up his cup.

There was no fire. No visible source of heat. Yet, as he held it, steam began to rise.

The cold water warmed in his grasp, its clarity shifting as the herbs inside slowly unfurled, their essence bleeding into the liquid like ink in water.

The elder exhaled softly, allowing the rising steam to curl around his fingers before bringing the cup to his lips.

After a slow, deliberate sip, he raised his gaze to the boy seated before him.

"Tell me," he said, his voice deep, carrying the weight of an ocean's depth. "How does it taste?"

The boy hesitated, gripping the cup tightly, his brows furrowing in contemplation. His breath was uneven, his mind racing, as if searching for meaning within the cool liquid.

The elder watched, his expression unreadable.

"Tea is simple," he continued, his voice steady. "Leaves, water, time. Yet, no two cups are ever the same. The temperature, the steeping, the hands that prepare it—all shape the outcome, much like life itself."

The boy's grip tightened further, his face turning red, as if the answer that he needed were to reveal itself from within the untouched cup, but it was just a cup with no answers.

The elder exhaled softly, setting his own cup down with a quiet clink. His gaze sharpened—not unkind, but piercing, as if peering directly into the boy's soul.

"You struggle because you seek control where none exists," he murmured. "Just as you cannot command the heat of boiling water to cool with mere will, you cannot force life to yield to your desires."

His fingers traced the rim of his cup, slow and thoughtful.

"But," he continued, "just as a skilled hand can redirect the flow of water into a stream, so too can one guide life—not by force, but by understanding its course."

The boy's breath caught. His eyes widened as if, in that instant, something unseen had shifted within him.

The elder studied him for a moment, then slowly extended his hand.

With two fingers, he lightly touched the center of the boy's forehead.

A pulse.

Like the first ripple on a still lake.

For a moment, the world around them hummed—the trees, the wind, the distant rustling of leaves all seemed to fall into the same rhythm, as if the very air acknowledged the elder's will.

The boy's body tensed. A strange sensation coursed through him—not painful, not unpleasant, but alive. His heartbeat quickened, his senses sharpened, and in the next moment—

Hissssss—

Steam rose from his cup.

The water, once cold, had suddenly heated.

The boy gasped, his hands trembling. The warmth seeped into his palms, through his fingers. It hadn't been touched. There was no fire, no heat source. And yet, his tea was now as warm as the elder's.

How?

His breathing grew unsteady as he stared at the cup, then at the elder, searching for answers that refused to come.

The old man pulled his fingers away, his gaze unreadable.

"The world," he said softly, "is not what it seems."

The boy swallowed hard.

"Energy is everywhere," the elder continued, gesturing to the trees, the earth, even the sky. "In the air you breathe, in the roots beneath your feet, in the blood that courses through your veins."

He picked up his own cup again, taking a slow sip.

"Control," he said, "is not about gripping life tightly." His fingers hovered over the boy's cup, his voice a whisper of certainty.

"It is about learning how to let it flow."

The boy, still shaken, stared at his own trembling hands, the warmth of the tea still lingering.

For the first time in his life, he felt something beyond himself—something vast, something unseen, something fundamental.

After a few minutes of silence, the boy gathered his courage to speak. His voice, hesitant but determined, broke through the thick, expectant air.

"How… how can I let it flow?"

The elderly man took another slow sip of his tea, the rising steam curling around his fingers like the ghosts of unspoken truths.

He lowered the cup, the sound of porcelain touching wood echoing softly in the quiet room. His gaze remained unreadable—calm, yet carrying the weight of something far greater than mere words.

"A simple and profound question," he finally said, his voice steady, timeless. "With a simple and profound answer."

The boy furrowed his brows. He was expecting wisdom, but what he got felt like a riddle. Was he being mocked? Or was there something hidden within those words that he failed to grasp?

His irritation flickered, but he suppressed it. He had learned, through these past few days, that reacting emotionally to this old man's words would bring him no closer to understanding.

The elder let the moment stretch before speaking again.

"What have you been doing since you arrived?"

The boy swallowed the warmth of his tea a little too quickly, burning his throat. He coughed lightly before answering. "Ah… I've been training." His gaze lowered as he fidgeted with the cup in his hands.

The old man nodded, his expression unchanged. "And what exactly have you experienced?"

This time, Fang straightened his back, stretched his chest out, and spoke with pride. "My body, Nen, and my Hatsu."

The elder took another slow sip, exhaling softly as if considering something. Then, he let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sound.

"Ho."

It was a simple noise, but Fang immediately felt as if he had been scoffed at.

A few days ago, the boy had arrived at the cottage under the recommendation of none other than Chairman Netero himself.

A Few Days Ago

"Hello. I'm Fang. Chairman Netero said I will be your disciple and learn under you for the next 10 years or so"

The old man barely spared him a glance.

"You will sleep here," he said, pointing to a corner of the small cottage.

His voice was indifferent, as if he had already accepted Fang's presence and dismissed it all in the same breath.

"Be quiet when I'm sleeping. You will hunt once a day for our dinner. If you're not back by sundown, you'll sleep outside."

And with that, he spoke no more.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not for several days.

And he meant every word.

Fang, young and full of expectations, had imagined something different. Perhaps some wisdom imparted immediately, perhaps a trial that would test his will. But reality had been cruelly simple.

That first night, as he struggled to sleep on the hard wooden floor, the discomfort made him roll slightly. The wood creaked.

In the next instant, he was flying through the air.

THUD.

His back hit the cold ground outside.

By the time he looked up, the old man had already closed the door.

Fang lay there, stunned.

The next night, the same thing happened.

If he so much as shifted in his sleep, if his breathing was too loud, if the old man so much as felt that his presence was a disturbance, he would find himself flung outside again.

And when the sun went down, no matter what, the door remained locked.

No exceptions.

Fang quickly learned.

But his struggles were far from over.

Life in this wilderness was harsh.

If he wanted water, he had to run nearly 30 kilometers to the nearest stream.

If he wanted to bathe, he had to travel 50 kilometers to a pond, where dangerous beasts prowled.

Hunger was another battle.

The first time he tried eating wild plants, he learned the hard way that not everything in nature was meant to be consumed. He spent a full night curled in agony, his stomach rebelling against whatever poisonous leaf he had mistakenly ingested.

So, he resorted to hunting.

And he hated it.

Unlike Togiri, who was knowledgeable in a vast array of subjects, Fang had always relied on his instincts and brute strength. He knew how to cook meat—how to enhance flavor with spices, how to prepare a meal worthy of nobility.

But he had never butchered an animal from scratch.

The first time he killed a rabbit, he hesitated for far too long before skinning it. By the time he finally worked up the nerve to finish the process, most of the meat had already gone bad.

The guilt gnawed at him.

Every day, he killed. Every day, he wasted.

Every day, he felt weaker—not physically, but mentally.

The Weight of Time

Despite everything, what frustrated him the most wasn't the brutal survival.

It was time.

Or rather, the lack of time.

His days were spent securing food, securing water, securing the bare necessities. By the time he had completed these tasks, the sun would already be setting, and his body—exhausted from the endless running, hunting, and carrying—had little energy left for proper training.

He could feel himself growing stronger, but at what cost?

How much time was he losing compared to him?

Fang clenched his teeth.

Togiri.

Fang imagined his brother at this very moment, undoubtedly pushing himself to new heights, refining his Nen, sharpening his techniques.

Togiri had always been obsessive. Even back when they were younger, even before the system changed everything, he had always been the one who trained longer, thought deeper, analyzed everything.

While Fang excelled naturally, Togiri clawed his way to strength.

And now, as Fang struggled to find even a few moments to train, he could only picture Togiri racing ahead, widening the gap between them.

It wasn't just frustration.

It was fear.

He wasn't afraid of falling behind.

He was afraid of never catching up.

And that fear was worse than the hunger, worse than the fatigue, worse than the days wasted just trying to live.

Back to the Present

Fang stared at the old man, gripping the cup in his hands tightly.

He had endured all of this. He had fought through it, had survived it. And yet, this man before him sat there, sipping tea as if none of it mattered.

Fang's pride urged him to speak—to prove himself, to show that he had endured, that he deserved to be taught.

But before he could say anything, the old man spoke first.

"And what exactly did you learn?"

The question cut through him like a blade.

For a moment, Fang froze.

Because in truth…

He didn't have an answer.

He had experienced much, but what had he learned?

The elder's gaze was sharp—waiting.

Fang opened his mouth, but the words didn't come.

Because in that moment, he realized the truth.

He had survived.

But he hadn't truly grown.

Not yet.

And the realization burned deeper than anything he had felt before.

"Boy, tell me your thoughts and experiences on what Nen is. Don't hesitate—there are no wrong answers." The old man's voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that made it clear this wasn't a simple question.

Fang sat up straight, meeting his gaze with confidence. "Nen is a technique that allows us to utilize Aura, also known as our life energy." As he spoke, he let his Nen manifest, a controlled flow of energy radiating around his body.

His Aura flared for a moment, imbued with his intent, before he concentrated it into the tea cup before him.

Then, stretching out his fist, his Nen spiked, jagged edges forming around his arm like raw, untamed power taking shape. He placed the cup gently on the table, prepared to further demonstrate his Hatsu—but before he could, the elder raised a single hand.

"I didn't ask for a textbook answer or a demonstration," he interrupted, his voice smooth yet firm. "I asked for your thoughts. Your experiences. What you think Nen is."

Fang's hands clenched into fists. He sat there, holding an imagined sphere between his fingers, his expression darkening.

Something about the old man's words frustrated him. 'Is he testing me? No—he's dismissing me.' It felt like an interrogation rather than a lesson, like he was being toyed with.

He wanted to leave. And yet... he couldn't ignore the question. He felt the urge to answer.

After a deep breath, Fang spoke again, this time slower, choosing his words carefully.

"Nen is... a way for me to protect my loved ones. It's incredible, but in the wrong hands, it's the worst thing to ever exist." He hesitated, his grip tightening around the cup.

"My experiences with it are... complicated. I use it to protect myself and to help others. My brother sees it as nothing but a tool to become the strongest. One friend of mine would probably use it for vengeance. Another? For mischief. And another... to find his father."

A thought crept into his mind, dark and lingering, and the old man must have sensed it.

Fang's killing intent seeped out. Cold. Heavy. Laced with something raw.

"But somebody else I know..." His voice was lower now, tinged with something colder. "He uses it for the thrill of murder."

His eyes lifted from the cup, locking onto the elder's, waiting—searching—for any sign of reaction. A flicker of recognition. A shift in expression. Anything.

Nothing came.

The old man remained still, his face as unmoving as the ancient trees surrounding them, timeless and steadfast, as though he had already heard every answer before.

Then, after a moment of silence, he spoke.

"And what would you do," the elder asked, "if your loved ones were protected forever—without your help? Would you still use Nen?"

The question struck Fang like a spear to the chest. He hadn't considered it before. A world where he wasn't needed? A life where his strength meant nothing?

His mind flashed to his past—to the helplessness he had once felt, the powerlessness that had defined him and the days before he met Togiri.

Then, his expression hardened. "Yes," he said, without hesitation.

The old man nodded slightly. "Ho... and what would stop you from turning into a crazed murderer, like that 'somebody' you mentioned? Or your friend who seeks vengeance?"

Fang stiffened. The elder was watching him carefully now, observing the smallest twitches in his expression, his posture. It was subtle, but Fang could feel it—like being dissected by nothing more than a gaze.

Fang thought about the question. And then, slowly, he answered.

"If that ever happened... I believe my brother would put me on the right path again. And if not..." His hands curled into fists. "Then I hope he'd put a permanent end to it."

For the first time, the old man's lips curled into the faintest hint of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps approval.

"Ho. So you're not foolish enough to believe that such a thing could never happen. And you are no stranger to death."

The elder picked up Fang's half-finished tea and, without a word, spilled it onto the ground beside him.

Fang barely had time to react before something strange happened. His body moved—on its own.

Before he could think, he was standing. His hands reached out, catching the cups as they gently floated toward his palms. "What—?"

The elder raised his hand, grasping the kettle again and pouring another glass for both of them.

Fang sat back down, his mind racing. He had seen no Nen. Even when he instinctively used Gyo to search for it, there had been nothing. Nothing.

And yet, his body had moved. The cups had moved.

His body still felt the weight of the action. His hands still carried the sensation of holding the porcelain. But his mind couldn't process it.

Before he could speak, the elder interrupted his thoughts.

"I discarded my last name a century ago. But you may call me Master Yu."

He gestured toward the newly poured tea.

"Drink. And if you accept me as your master, place your forehead to the floor."

Fang hesitated. Not out of doubt, but because—despite the elder's cryptic nature, his harshness, his arrogance—deep in his heart, he knew.

This was it.

If he walked away now, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

Taking the cup in both hands, Fang drank the cold tea in a single sip.

Then, without another word, he bowed, pressing his forehead to the wooden floor.

"My name is Fang, Master Yu. Please train me. Make me strong enough to control the flow of life."

Silence filled the room.

Then, the old man exhaled softly. "A wise choice, child."

Fang's body tensed. 'Child?' Not Fang? Not even boy? He clenched his fists, frustration flickering behind his eyes.

The old man, of course, noticed.

His voice carried a trace of something almost amused as he added, "You will be sleeping outside tonight."

Fang's eye twitched.

This was going to be a long ten years.