Chapter 1: Rebirth in the Dim Light
When death came, it wasn't the grand spectacle people imagined. There was no life flashing before his eyes, no white light to guide his soul, no benevolent call from a god.
The moment his body ceased to function, Ryan felt his consciousness ripped from its vessel. He didn't even have time to wonder if the last line of code he'd been writing had saved before darkness consumed him. He had no time to think, no strength to struggle. His thoughts shut down, like a machine abruptly unplugged.
But he hadn't truly disappeared.
In the void that followed, a faint sense of self—an awareness of his own existence—was all that remained. He couldn't see or hear, only float in a strange limbo, not truly dead, but not yet reborn.
That was when the light appeared.
It wasn't intense or even bright, but it stood out in the darkness, a beacon pulling him from his aimless drift. The pull was gentle yet irresistible, like a deep ocean tide or the first pulse of a heart before birth.
Then came a suffocating sense of compression.
He felt himself encased in a soft, heavy enclosure. Amniotic fluid, uterus, walls of flesh… the terms surfaced in his mind, but he couldn't control this new body, couldn't even open his eyes. A powerful instinct urged him to break free, but he could only passively endure the squeezing and pushing.
He heard faint, distant sounds: a woman's strained cry, the whir of machinery, and then a wail—a sharp, helpless sound that pierced the air. He realized with a jolt that the cry was his own.
The moment his consciousness reconnected with a body was an utterly alien experience.
Ryan felt the sensation of skin—damp, soft, and hyper-sensitive. Air flooded his lungs, and he coughed violently, a novice at breathing. He couldn't control his vocal cords, couldn't form the words "I'm alive."
His eyelids felt like lead, opening only a fraction. Through a blurry film of tears, he saw a round face, eyes wet with tears and a mouth curved into a smile. A woman held him, her embrace warm and smelling of sweat and milk. Another hand, rough and strong, a man's hand, gently wiped blood and fluid from his face.
He heard voices speaking in an unfamiliar language, yet somehow, the meaning was perfectly clear:
"It's a boy… We have a son."
"He's crying! That's good, he's a strong one."
In that moment, Ryan understood. He had been reincarnated.
More accurately, he had been reborn into an entirely different world. This was no data stream, no dream, but a place that was starkly, tangibly real. The air had temperature. Sounds had depth. His body had weight— and he had been given a second chance.
This new body was incredibly fragile. He couldn't roll over or lift his head; even crying was an uncontrollable reflex. He could only let the young couple swaddle him and rock him gently. Pressed against a warm chest, rising and falling with each breath, he felt a profound sense of security, but he was powerless to respond.
The next few days were a blur.
His lucidity came in flashes, like reflections in shattered glass. He could only hold onto consciousness for a few minutes at a time, otherwise trapped in a heavy skull, his mind suppressed by an infant's developing brain.
He tried to focus, to move his muscles, but his neural pathways were incomplete. He could grasp his mother's finger, but not control the strength. He could hear his father talking to neighbors, but only retain a word or two.
However, Ryan never gave up.
He treated this powerless infancy as a necessary "nesting phase"—his consciousness had to first adapt to and hide within this new vessel.
Weeks later, he achieved his first stable period of lucidity, lasting over ten minutes. He began to map his surroundings: the simple room, the old television in the corner with its peeling frame, the smell of cooking oil that wafted in at dusk. Outside, the low hum of transport vehicles occasionally broke the quiet, punctuated by the faint jingle of a distant tower advertisement.
The true shock, however, came one night.
His father sat on the sofa and turned on the television. During a commercial, a name appeared at the bottom of the screen—a name so familiar it made the blood freeze in his tiny veins:
The Sky Arena.
Ryan's eyes snapped open.
It wasn't an illusion. It was that world.
That night, the images on the television screen hammered at his mind— a colossal tower rose from the ground, its glass walls reflecting the sunset, its spire pointing to the heavens like a spear. An excited commentator announced the "221st Floor Challenge Match" as two figures blurred across the screen, fists and feet whistling through the air. The arena was packed, the atmosphere electric.
The Sky Arena— the proving ground for the world's strongest.
Ryan wasn't struck dumb with shock. Instead, a profound and unusual calm settled over him. His first task had been to identify his new reality, and now he had his answer. The vague, restless unease that had plagued his consciousness vanished, replaced by a single, terrifying certainty.
He had been reborn into the world of Hunter x Hunter.
This meant he faced a world far more complex and dangerous than his last. He couldn't afford a normal childhood. This wasn't a world where everyone could be a hero; hundreds of thousands took the Hunter Exam each year, and only a handful passed. Nen was not a school subject but a deadly secret, a threshold crossed with blood and fire.
He had to start preparing. Now.
His infant body and developing brain were limitations, but they wouldn't stop him from beginning his most basic plan: he had to blend in, observe everything, gather resources, and grow stronger, step by step.
To that end, he deliberately suppressed his apparent intelligence. He stopped staring at the television with an unnervingly mature focus. He learned to chew his food slowly, to smile vacuously. When his mother cooed at him, he would gurgle a vague and sluggish response.
He had to make them believe he was just a normal child.
His parents quickly relaxed. "Ryan isn't a fussy baby, is he? He's so well-behaved," his mother often said.
His father would smile and add, "He's just a bit quiet. Like a little old man sometimes."
This was the highest praise. His disguise was working.
In private, he began training that defied his infant body. He practiced rolling over, fifty times a day, until he could do it effortlessly. He used his small hands to grip the rails of his crib, slowly building his grip and arm strength. When his mother was out of the room, he would pull himself up and try to walk, focusing on rhythm and balance even if he only managed two steps before collapsing.
He knew this training wouldn't make him a prodigy overnight— but that was precisely why every small bit of progress was so vital.
Day by day, he observed, building a mental map of his home from the layout of the furniture and electrical outlets. He listened to broadcasts, slowly matching the shapes of written characters to their spoken sounds. He was, in his own way, building a new cognitive model of the world.
Most importantly—he never stopped thinking.
When does Nen become public knowledge? Is the top of the Sky Arena truly off-limits to non-users? Can a minor register for the Hunter Exam? Are there pre-awakening symptoms for Nen? He compiled a list of questions in his mind, planning to find the answers over the coming years.
He divided his life into a four-phase plan:
Phase One: Physical Development & Cognitive Training (0-5 years)
Phase Two: Information Gathering & Basic Strategy (5-10 years)
Phase Three: Nen Awakening Prep & Practical Combat Trials (10 years to Hunter Exam)
Phase Four: Public Debut, Development of a Nen System, and Entry into the World of Conflict (Engaging with the canon timeline)
This wasn't a fantasy. Ryan knew the world of Hunter x Hunter was unforgiving. Nen wasn't unlocked by sheer willpower. He refused to delude himself with fantasies of greatness based on his foreknowledge. He would earn his strength, one step at a time—from an infant's grasp today to manifesting a conjured weapon in the future.
Every night, his mother would tuck him in and whisper, "You grew a little more today, my baby. Grow up big and strong."
Ryan would close his eyes, his breathing soft and even, offering no reply— but in his heart, the answer was always the same.
I'm already on my way.