The years spanning from age four to six felt like a period of intense foundation-laying, cementing the strange reality of my existence as Kess. Life broadened beyond the fenced yard and the immediate comforts of toddlerhood, bringing expanded routines, social navigation, and the constant, underlying thrum of awareness about the true nature of this world. One of the most significant shifts began shortly after my fourth birthday, when Mom decided it was time for formal lessons in literacy.
She sat me down at the low table, presenting a smooth wooden board and a stick of drawing charcoal. "Time to learn your letters, Kess," she announced, her smile radiating familiar warmth and patience. I leaned forward, a flicker of anticipation running through me. Having confirmed this was the HxH world, I was genuinely curious to see its written form firsthand, wondering if it would match the unique scripts sometimes glimpsed in Anon's manga collection. What would it look like?
Hana drew the first symbol. It was angular, composed of intersecting lines, almost like a stylized knot or a rune. "This sound," she explained, tapping the symbol firmly, "is 'Ka'."
There it is. No shock, no reeling disorientation this time. Instead, a focused intensity locked onto the shape. This was it – the written language of this world. It bore zero resemblance to the Hiragana, Katakana, or Kanji stored in Anon's memory banks. It was entirely alien, yet expected. As Mom continued, drawing the intricate symbols for 'Ki', 'Ku', 'Ke', 'Ko', each one confirmed it: this world had its own unique, complex script, developed independently from Earth's Japanese. Seeing it laid out, character by character, wasn't a revelation of where I was, but a concrete step into learning the rules of this place.
Learning felt like deciphering a fascinating code. The spoken language, identical to Japanese, was my lifeline, the bridge connecting sound to these foreign shapes. "Ke-ssu," Mom sounded out slowly, carefully drawing the two corresponding runes. Then, she demonstrated the sequence for our family name: "Ko-ba-ya-shi."
Kess Kobayashi. Seeing my name rendered in this runic script hammered home my new identity with undeniable finality. First name, then last. This was me now, in this world. My photographic memory, previously an unsettling anomaly, now felt like an indispensable tool. While the internal logic connecting the runes remained opaque, I could burn the image of each symbol and its associated sound into my mind with perfect recall. I practiced copying them, the charcoal feeling rough against the wood, my small hand struggling to replicate the precise angles. Mom often marveled, her eyes wide with gentle pride, at how quickly I seemed to grasp reading, commenting to Dad about my sharp memory. She was unaware it was less innate talent and more a desperate adult mind leveraging an unexpected cognitive enhancement to master a fundamental skill.
"Why 'Kess', Mom?" I asked one afternoon, pausing my careful copying of the runes for Kobayashi. "It sounds... different from other names here."
Hana stopped her sweeping, leaning on the broom handle, that familiar soft, slightly distant expression settling on her face as she recounted the story I now knew by heart. "Your grandmother," she began, her voice gentle. "My mother... she came from across the sea, a long time ago. She had hair like fire, Kess, and eyes like summer leaves, just like yours. She loved the name Kess; said it meant something special where she came from. When you were born, looking so much like the pictures I have of her... it felt right. Like she left a piece of herself for us. It suits you, little one." Her explanation didn't erase the mystery of my origins entirely, but it wove my unusual name and appearance into the fabric of this family's history, grounding me. They weren't just alien artifacts of reincarnation; they were a legacy within this world.
My social sphere cautiously expanded. Playing with other children from the nearby houses remained a challenge. My introverted nature, Anon's enduring legacy, clashed with the boisterous, often bafflingly illogical dynamics of childhood play. I found their games chaotic and their social cues hard to read through the lens of my adult understanding. I gravitated towards quieter activities, sometimes playing near a shy girl named Aiko from the next house over. We rarely spoke much, often just digging in the dirt side-by-side or watching insects, finding a comfortable solace in shared, quiet observation rather than forced interaction. I learned the basics – sharing a rice ball, mimicking laughter at the right moments, filing away mental notes on group dynamics like an anthropologist studying a foreign tribe.
All the while, my secret 'training' continued in stolen moments, driven by the constant, low-level hum of anxiety awareness that I lived in a world where monstrous beasts and super-powered individuals were realities. It was rudimentary, almost laughably so: clumsy push-ups that strained my small arms, sit-ups that were more like awkward rocking motions, balancing drills on uneven ground that often ended in tumbles. I'd sit quietly, trying to meditate as I'd read about, focusing on my breathing, attempting to sense the 'aura' that was the foundation of Nen, though feeling nothing but the beat of my own heart and the breeze on my skin. Progress was glacial, my child's body a constant, frustrating bottleneck. Could I even use Nen eventually? There was no way to know. But the discipline itself felt crucial, a necessary ritual of preparation.
Around the time I turned five, Dad—Kenji—prepared for that trip north he'd spoken of months earlier. Watching him check his sturdy, well-worn boots and pack practical gear into a durable canvas pack, my mind raced with renewed questions. Is the Hunter License tucked deep inside that bag? Will he need it? What dangers lie beyond our quiet valley? The small, valuable card felt like a tangible link to the hidden, dangerous layers of this world. Before leaving, he knelt, placing his large, calloused hands on my small shoulders. "Be good for your Mom, Kess," he said, his gaze serious but warm. "Help her out. I'll be back before you know it."
"Be safe, Dad," I replied, the words feeling inadequate, a tight knot of anxiety coiling in my stomach despite his reassuring presence.
His absence stretched over several weeks, leaving a subtle tension in the house. Mom hummed less, her smiles sometimes seemed a little strained. When he finally returned, walking up the path looking weary, dusty, but blessedly unharmed, the relief that washed through the house was almost a physical presence. Mom's shoulders relaxed, and the knot in my own stomach eased. He brought me back a small, exquisitely carved wooden bird, its details incredibly fine. As I turned it over in my hands, I noted a strange, non-runic symbol etched near its base – intricate, geometric, unlike the writing I was learning. Another small mystery to file away. He spoke little of the journey itself, mentioning only rough weather delaying his return and complaining mildly about bureaucratic hassles at checkpoints, offering no dramatic stories or hints about whether his License was needed or used. If Kenji Kobayashi held secrets about a life as a Hunter, they remained locked tightly behind his quiet demeanor.
By the time I turned six, the foundations of my new existence felt substantially more solid, less like shifting sand. I was Kess Kobayashi, a boy with incongruous red hair and green eyes. I could read and write the unique, runic script of this land. I understood, with chilling, unwavering certainty, that I lived within the framework of the Hunter x Hunter world. My secret training, however rudimentary, was a consistent habit, a small act of agency against the unknown. My father was potentially far more than just a carpenter. The path ahead was shrouded in fog, but the mantra remained clear, echoing in the quiet spaces of my mind: Patience. Learn. Observe. Train. My second chance was undeniably real, and I had to forge myself into someone ready for whatever it might throw my way.