POV: Sullivan Prentiss Morteuxe (Age 11)
Sullivan was no longer the boy whose world ended at the Veil Mountains. Eleven years old, clad in sensible, dirt-colored travel gear, he carried only a single, sturdy backpack, a small personal ledger, and the cold, unshakeable confidence of a genius who had finally accepted his own flaws.
His journey to the secret staging area of the 287th Hunter Exam had been a masterwork of tactical discretion. The Morteuxe estate had provided the initial transport to the nearest major port, but from there, Sullivan handled the rest.
He didn't take the direct route. He chartered three separate ferries, used four different false identification tags, and employed the minor trade routes used by transient fishermen and spice runners, calculating the lowest probability of encountering known Hunter Association surveillance. He wasn't avoiding being caught; he was simply eliminating the variable of being seen by anyone who might compromise his anonymity.
Morteuxe Ledger Addendum 1: Anonymity as Defense.
* Status: Critical.
* Function: Eliminates pre-judgment, forcing opponents to react to the reality of the situation, not the reputation of the name.
The Gathering
The official starting point of the Exam was a nondescript, abandoned cannery on a perpetually gray, fog-shrouded coast.
Inside, the atmosphere was a heavy blend of anticipation and fear. Hundreds of applicants were milling about—a horrifying cross-section of the world's fringe elements. There were giants covered in scars, assassins whose eyes tracked every movement, and swaggering mercenaries who clearly overestimated their own abilities.
Sullivan moved to the wall, finding a secluded corner that offered a clear, full view of the room. He leaned against the rough brick, his expression bored, but his mind was running a thousand calculations per second, categorizing every face, movement, and aura signature he could sense through his rudimentary, untrained Gyo.
He recognized the types immediately:
* The Brutes: All strength, no strategy. Likely to fail on the cognitive phases.
* The Professionals: Disciplined, silent, and deadly. True threats in the later, survival-based stages.
* The Clowns: Overly dramatic, seeking attention. Often surprisingly dangerous, using misdirection as a weapon.
Then, his gaze locked onto an applicant who defied easy categorization.
The Artist of Violence.
The man stood near the center, filing his nails with casual indifference. He was strikingly handsome, dressed in immaculate white robes that seemed to float an inch above the grimy floor. His face held a serene, almost pleasant smile, yet his aura was a profound, suffocating stillness—the stillness of a vacuum, or a primed explosive.
Sullivan felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This man wasn't just dangerous; he was a novel variable. His movements were too graceful, his calm too absolute. He moved like chaos itself—unpredictable and beautiful.
New Categorization: The Absolute Anomaly.
* Rule: Avoid direct engagement. Observe. Catalog behavior only from a safe distance.
He watched as a hulking Brute, fueled by misplaced confidence, tried to shoulder-check the man in white. Without even shifting his posture, the man in white simply moved an inch to the side. The Brute stumbled, then his leg seemed to lock up. He fell, writhing, his eyes bulging as if in unimaginable pain.
"Oops," the man in white murmured, examining his freshly filed nail. "Bad manners."
Sullivan didn't need a medical degree to know the Brute wasn't injured; he was paralyzed by fear. The man in white had radiated pure, condensed killing intent—the Instinct attribute, Sullivan realized, subconsciously recognizing the aura signature—and directed it into a localized, paralyzing shockwave.
Conclusion: This person possesses advanced Nen and is treating this Exam as a playground. He is the greatest variable in the current system.
The First Test
A stout, bean-shaped man in a dark suit, Mr. Satotz, stepped forward—the first examiner. His voice was smooth and perfectly modulated, cutting through the anxiety of the hall.
"The first phase of the 287th Hunter Exam is a simple endurance run. Follow me."
With that, Satotz turned and began walking down a long, impossibly dark tunnel.
The applicants surged forward, a mass of eager aggression. Sullivan, however, took his time. He was not here to prove he was fast; he was here to prove he was smart.
He hung back, conserving energy, allowing the initial rush to expend its adrenaline.
The run began in earnest. Satotz did not slow down. Minutes turned into an hour. The concrete ground gave way to uneven natural stone, and the air grew thick with humidity and the metallic scent of exertion.
The Brutes were already flagging, their breath ragged. The Professionals kept a relentless, measured pace.
Sullivan ran with a detached efficiency. He focused on his breath, regulating it precisely, using the meditative practices Silas had taught him. He was using a rudimentary form of Ten—keeping his aura tight around his body to fend off fatigue, a skill he was only now learning to apply consciously.
He noted the terrain: the tunnel was subtly sloping downward. We're losing altitude. This is not just a run; it's a controlled fall toward a destination.
Suddenly, the run broke into a large, underground cavern—a vast, pitch-black space.
Satotz paused, waiting for the cluster of applicants to catch up.
"The second part of the First Phase," Satotz announced, his voice echoing eerily. "You must cross the Whispering Marsh. It is teeming with creatures that mimic human sounds and use them to lure prey."
A collective gasp went through the crowd. This was where the danger became real.
The Calculated Risk
"The path is a single, narrow bridge of stone hidden by the fog," an elderly applicant warned, his voice shaking. "I've heard the stories. One wrong step and you're pulled into the mire."
Sullivan knew the legends of the Marsh. It was a famous test of Perception—the ability to discern reality from illusion.
As the crowd hesitated, Sullivan made a quiet, decisive move. He didn't rush onto the bridge. Instead, he waited until the man in white, the Absolute Anomaly, made his move.
The man in white, whose name Sullivan had overheard was Hisoka, walked onto the bridge with unnerving confidence, humming a cheerful tune. He wasn't looking for the path; he was simply walking straight.
He isn't following the path. He's using his Nen to create a boundary of security around himself. He trusts his strength to handle whatever he steps on.
It was too risky for Sullivan. He didn't have that kind of overwhelming power yet.
He needed a logical approach. The Examiner, Satotz, was a known entity.
Sullivan focused his gaze on Satotz. Why is he standing there? If the path is truly hidden, how does he ensure the test is fair?
He observed the Examiner's feet. Satotz stood unnaturally still, his balance perfect. But Sullivan noticed the slight, almost imperceptible discoloration of the stone directly beneath the Examiner's shoes. The rock was darker, drier, and more worn.
Hypothesis: The Examiner is standing on the only safe path. The path is not invisible; it's subtly different.
Sullivan did not rely on his shaky, half-formed aura perception. He used his eyes, his training, and his logic.
He stepped onto the Marsh, carefully placing his foot exactly where Satotz's last step would have been.
Then, he heard it: a soft, familiar whisper, like a mother's lullaby. It came from the dense fog twenty feet to his right.
"Sullivan... dear boy... come this way. Mama has a warm blanket for you..."
It was a perfect mimicry of his own mother's voice—a gentle, manipulative lure designed to exploit his single, acknowledged softness: his deep, family-centric core.
He felt an instinctive pull, the sudden desire to step off the cold stone and into the warmth of the sound. His conscious mind seized control.
Lure Detected. Emotional weakness exploited. Calculation Override: Reject. The emotional response is a variable. Trust the data.
He kept his gaze fixed on the subtle difference in the stone, shutting out the desperate, heartbreaking sound of his mother's call. He pressed forward, step after logical step, trusting the physical evidence over the emotional deception.
As he reached the far side, exhausted but successful, Satotz gave him a look that was not approval, but pure, cold professional acknowledgment.
Sullivan had survived the first layer of the Hunter Exam, not through strength or special power, but through the calculating, disciplined arrogance of his mind. He was still the weakest physically, but he was rapidly becoming the most dangerous tactician present.